Sunday Night at the Races

By Richard Segal

A series of violent assaults during a politically charged year brings Jay into play, albeit not as he would have planned or predicted. Hes a detective by occupation, and his hobby isyou guessed itkeeping tabs on violent assaults occurring outside his jurisdiction. He is brought together with Andrew, a.k.a. Bomfi, an Australian freshly arrived on American shores by way of London, which makes him more of an unknown quantity than he would like but less of an enigma than appears at first glance. Both have to navigate around teenage appsters expecting hockey-stick growth for their start-ups within the year. Jay cant do his part alone and therefore calls on his old boss Fran, who has since retired but still cooking up a storm.

All is not what it seems. On a parallel-skew track, the Philosopher is in the process of relocating to New York, having defeated all his demons, including a true addiction to chocolate chip cookies. As for the narrator, his only addictions are Irish banjos and view-only horse races on Sunday nights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546280729

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

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© 2017 Richard Segal. All rights reserved.

Sunday Night at the Races, by Richard Segal, is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, and actual events, organizations or locations, are intended purely to provide context or reference points. All remaining characters, places, names, incidents, dialogue and opinions are wholly fictional and their resemblance, if any, to real life counterparts is entirely coincidental. No inferences or assumptions about any personal opinions should be drawn from the material enclosed herein, and no such representations should be made.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/10/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8066-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8072-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

The Main Event, The Mort, The Tort, Der Tode

The Hotel Oxymoron

Sunday Night At The Races

Scotty

The Ceremonial Cruise

Co Gen

Galileo …

The Philosopher’s Revenge

Canoe Trip

Be Careful What You Wish For

… Figaro

The Rumor

See Ya On Wednesday Morning

The Pince Nez

Joker, Joker 19

Don’t Call Me Jp

The Fiscus

In The Name Of The Rose, Not In My Name, In The Name Of The Mother

Channel 7 Covers It Live

Hieronymus And Eleanora

Get Off My Cloud, Get Off My Case

Bang Galore

Hoe Down

Knock Knock

Don Iosco

Drive Time

The Morning Star

I’m Really Going To Enjoy Today

Apologize Before It’s Too Late

Fluffy Is Missing

Manifestation Of A Date

Money, It’s A Hit

The Algonquins

Puns On The Run

Dark Pools, Dark Matter

Probably Just Go To Bunker

Did You Have An Accident’s That’s Not Your Fault?

The Return Of The Chief

The Detonator

Might Just Change My Life

Your Connection Was Interrupted

A Mexican Way’ve

The Collective Anxiety Of Others

The Flourist

Isn’t The Technology Wonderful?

Protected Disclosures

Home Truths, Home Rule, Home Run

Previously by Richard Segal

The Russian Economy

Crash, Burn, Hurricane

Trilogy Year

Hitting the Tenspot

Nectar of the Lavender

Cookbook for a New Europe

The Great Art Deco Chase

Three Days in July

Return of the Drama Prince

The Victory Walk

Richard’s Eleven

The Day the Muses Died

Uneasy Riding

Surfing the Urban Wave

Polo in the Snow

Birch

Parrot and the Rooster

Summer of ‘16

To true friends and fa

mily

All remaining errors are my own

I confessed, but I wasn’t sorry, for this was the post-apocalyptic world.

A throng was gathering in a small town in the Mid-east, light-headed over its victory in a recent special election, presupposing erroneously that it would share in the spoils. Nevertheless, the arena was filling and the warm-up act was about to begin.

Greetings, earthlings, he opened, as if this was a joke, as if the joke was genuine. However, the real world has converged with the virtual, in which the virtual is, real that is. I suppose you wonder why I called you here today, he continued, trying to sound like a carnival barker with gravitas. This town is not far physically from the Amish country of the proverbial, but it’s a world away. In one, the modern conveniences of cheap electronics and big box shops compete with knowing VJs for attention spans of the vox-pop, in another horse drawn caddies rumble along for the viewing pleasure of intrusive cameramen and a national audience, the 19th Century covered live for the 21st.

They are not so different, though. In one, residents congregate on the small s Sabbath to hear their preacher-man orate, assure them they’ve been wicked to complete their cycle of guilt, in another they vegetate in front of Ultra HD screens, glued to mindless conversations about nothing in particular. Whatchu gonna do today? Dunno, whatcha bout you? Dunno either. Looks like it might rain here yonder, dontcha think?

Somehow, somewhere, to many, it is compelling. To those in camera view, the differentiation between acting and day to day life has disappeared, there is only one spectrum, the rest of their lives will be the Truman Show and if by-standers should stumble across them during their daily routine, they would begin to speculate if they’ve become part of the entertainment landscape, whether they too are in the fishbowl, for fleeting or permanent moments, and whether this is now their life. Am I human extra, or an actor with destiny? Or, is this a case of ‘what’s not to like, fish-face?’

It’s the realm of Sky Kids, in which long term surveillance of television numbs minds and live and let live, but that works both ways, in alternative act worlds, in which surveil becomes a verb, but gift remains a noun. The responsibility of government is to keep my taxes low and stay out of my hair: this will be my spoil. Such observations were echoed by Alan Cumming, evil genius of Sky Kids I, but he also conceded to prove a point: I’m just a dumb Scot, what do I know. He wasn’t. Stop press. Meanwhile, the catchy tune ‘I need a dollar dollar, dollar’s what I need’ played in the background.

The festive friend proceeds with his shtick, warming up the brains so they can be numbed some more, because this is what the people crave, this is what they seek, this is what they need, not a dollar, that’s what they need to lose. It’s a hundred years ago with a new cast and a new theme. We laugh now about the archetype of traveling salesmen peddling patent medicines, just before he swaps apparel and moves on again, but he’s doing this to us again, because this is what we yearn for. It’s not the snake oil salesmen who tricks us, we trick ourselves and all that is required is a medium, someone who is pliable himself. Step right up, hurry hurry.

Time for silence, please, the yowler continues and please give it up for Mr. Jeremiah, who has come to us all the way from the big Kansas Silly!

Not everyone was fooled and the sagest person in the room was the seven year old Lenny, who felt uneasy with the atmosphere of the theatrics. It is often said that the energy of a crowd is more than the sum of the parts, and it can adopt a personality far dissimilar to the folks within. A collective and heartful gasp if it senses a tragic event is about to unfold, a baying to attack and for revenge if it senses one of the spectators has been robbed, or worse, wronged, and with no mercy. It will gang up on an individual and stamp on her to the death if brainwashed by a charismatic talisman: look, a harmless waif, she has done nothing untoward. In spite of this, she is a waif and therefore we must all gang up upon her. Yeah, yeah, yah yah ya ya let’s beat her up! This is why we must never permit the mob to rule, it has a personality distinct from those enclosed, it has an energy that goes beyond and can be creamed into cottage cheese by any man behind any curtain.

‘I need a dollar dollar, dollah’s what I need,’ persisted in the background.

I don’t like this, young Lenny repeated to his parents, as he glanced slyly across the way to friends with their parents, more readily dumbed to the impending recitation. They didn’t seem to mind, for they were in tune with the goodies for kiddies, or nibbles that the barker’s sidecars and ladies had laid out that afternoon. Snack food, salty and sweet, enough to bribe them to join their parents, when they would rather be at home, playing with their siblings, playing computer games or watching TV, even practicing their music lessons, anything but sitting with these crammed spectators in the creaking lecture house in their special-occasion best, awkward, anything but this. However, they were bribed by the woofer, with eats equal measure salt, sugar, fat and carbonation, and quite a spread for the young and young at heart; they were receptive to the message.

Lenny, though, wasn’t biting and he wanted out, at any cost.

Can we go home now? he asked. Can I go home now? I have homework to do.

How will you get there? his mother asked. The nice mister ... has come all the way from far away to speak to us tonight. You have to stay and listen, it will be good for you.

Lenny felt like crying at the realization of no escape. It was going to be horrible. He didn’t belong in this world, especially one defined by this town where an assemblage could be egged into fury by platefuls of grub from the chain store Cadet Giacometti. I don’t like it here, he wailed. I really don’t.

Look, she continued, those cheese crackers, they are your favorite.

She was dead-on, they were his favorite, but he was chowing them under duress because he was starved and too young to understand the notion of a hunger strike or protest fast. It wasn’t like his mother to let him substitute proper 6:30 pm supper for his favorite cheesy crackers, this must be a special occasion, he reasoned to himself as he glanced down at the ration in his small hands, the crumbs that were partly on his fingers and partly on the front of his blazer. He would make a special effort for his mother and father, he reasoned to himself, and struggle through to the end, even if this evening was bad, even if this evening was awful, worse than Sunday School. It would be over eventually, he rationalized, and then he could go back home and finish the assignments that were hanging over him. He closed the circle of snacks in his young hands and licked the salt from his fingers, hoping no one was watching.

At that moment, though, the carnie con stepped it up a notch and began wailing himself. He was the main event, there would be no special guest, he was the orator in spite of.

Listen here ye and listen up, listen up now, he screamed loudly. Look at your hands, feel the crumbs around your smackers, wipe them off clean now! he screamed, as if at Lenny personally. That Cadet Giaco that you so admire, that you think is Italian, imported from Italy, like so much of your heritage, just like your grandma and pa, transplanted from Sicily, he is a fake. He is not Italian, like you, he is German! Send the German back, send the Germans back! Send the ‘raut home, tell them to go home! Repeat after me! Send the ‘raut home!

The horde erupted and complied. Send the ‘rauts home! it too screeched in unison. Send the ‘rauts home!

The emcee was careful, for he had studied his maps and done his homework. This town was situated in borderline America, where cultures shift abruptly, from Italian-American to German. Twenty miles to the north or west and a majority of the families would be of German ancestry. Were it several hundred miles to the north east, towards the great Merrimac Valley, they might share a common enemy, the Big Fat Greek Greek, but in these environs there’s hardly a dolmades bar around.

If you draw an American heritage map, you would uncover that the great center is majority German-American, more Schultz and Schmidt than Smith and Kelly. The common assumption is that the United States is predominately English or Irish, but it is not they who dominate. There may be more ethnic Germans in the United States than in the historical motherland. Moreover, if you overlay these legacy states with the dyed in the wool so-called red states, you’ll notice a surprising overlap, or is it a surprise? If you omit the expanses of the Reagan Democrats and wait awhile until the demographics have given true and full advantage to the Hispanics and East Asians, among others, then the overlap will be even more complete. However, the once and former swing Democrats will be in the clear minority and no longer able to call any shots. Until then, though, carnival barkers will whip crowds into frenzies, in both this Italian-American and proximate German communities.

How will he incite his new crowds, urging the Italian-Americans to go home at sessions of predominantly the German-Americans, sessions catered ironically by The Veck, as Italian-American as they come. Will he orate in language incrementally more abrasive, through irritated speech along the lines of the madwoman across the water, for whom ***m would be a term of endearment? Not merely any run of the mill politically correct subliminal hate speech, but rather true subliminal hate speech. If you think you’re a citizen of the world, she argued, you’re a citizen of nowhere. Yet, she was the wrong one not the wronged one, because everyone knows she was nowhere and she was ultimately defined by her truisms, slogans and platitudes. She couldn’t even do xenophobia right and look at her now.

This ensuing auditorium was full as well, but as opposed to the Italian-American version with a notable surfeit of youngsters, this one was heavily populated by high school age children, with corridors of big goons wearing sweatshirts and stomping around as though the place belonged to them. Isn’t it funny how some towns populate and repopulate in cycles, such that four or five years in a row the cohorts will excel in combat sports such as football, after which a downside streak will set forth and the varsity teams will be also rans, the students choosing more cerebral or outdoors pursuits? It doesn’t have enough diversity or a large enough pool to draw from to foster stability. If a town is lucky, it will meander through. If it is unlucky, it will be unable to recover from a negative cycle and depopulation will take root and become a downward spiral, forcing soul-searching mergers with neighboring districts. Nevertheless, in this town during the peak of the phase at least, its high school and auditorium were filled with self-confident teenage BMOCs.

In this second exhibition, the parade-ground attraction was a woman, but she with her own other ideas. As her lecture came to a close, it could only be labelled a lecture, she changed her tune and fell into another act, a second act. She was no longer the woman spewing criticism of the silent majority in the political center, the normal and the unopinionated, she was no longer judgmental and catty and aligned with the imprint of the mob, but I’ll grant her this, she was chatty. How the tide changes.

She spoke to the individuals in the front row first of all, and how she was speaking: Uh huh, a huh. Well a honey hon hons, have I got something a tell you, I don’t know how I kept this juicy gos gossip to myaself for such a long hour. I got to tell you that the doors and windows are all closed and shut and this room has been filled through the vents with Legionnaires Diseeease. You yall are gonna catch Legionaries Disease. That’s right Legionnaires Disease, she repeated in case someone in the front rows didn’t hear her accurately and acutely the first or second time.

What about you? someone in the second row asked. Won’t you catch it? Is this a suicide mission? Are you the suicide squad?

Well honey hon hons, she repeated again for good measure, I’m not SHTOOpid! I have taken the antiDOTE, so I must will have to love you an’ leave you, be cuz it doesn’t have a longest shelf life. You yall wouldn’t want me to catch it too, not when I could be goin’ back to the warehouse to fetch some antidote for those of you deserve it.

"You didn’t bring some for the rest of us?" the lady beside him in the second row asked.

Well do I look like I have 300 capsules in my pocket? I’m not even wearing pockets, with which she reached with outstretched arms and gazed ahead vacantly without meaning it, to the despair of the entire audience. There are 300 of you in this room if there are 20. I may have enough capsules in the warehouse for a good half of you.

At that moment, the spectators froze like headless chickens in headlights. Half might carry on as normal but half would fall ill. Would the gathered listeners be greedy or selfish, that was the question. Suddenly, though, another couple in the second row virtually vaulted the patrons beyond them in their chairs and rushed the stage, to offer themselves as sacrificial lambs or to be first in line, it would soon become clear.

If I pay a little extra, can I be first? a husky white collar aspirant asked, or one of the first? He hedged himself, although the intent was clear. He might as well have mimicked, ‘My name’s Brian, and my wife’s is too.’

Well these medicines aren’t cheap, she indicated, "and it wouldn’t be judicious for me to solicit money from you or anyone."

No, you won’t be, he countered, I insist you take it, take my cash, with which he began to withdraw his wallet.

Well how much you got? she asked.

How about a hundred? he offered, in an attempt to bargain.

A hundred? she questioned, appearing to act incredulous. "What is this, Ancient Greece? This money isn’t going to last you very far if you don’t get an antidote."

OK, OK, he agreed, and began to hand over more money.

You only carry one wallet? she asked, and this question caused him to turn slightly downcast and red.

I’m giving you all I got, he pleaded. Should I call someone bring over some more?

Phone a friend? I like it. I was just joshing with you. Step aside, sir, who’s next? Next? I can help the next person, she continued, trying to sound like a courteous young person behind a cash register at a chain store retail outlet.

Well what do I do with your money, she asked the ensuing appellant, a late 30s lady who in today’s modern world might be labelled a stout woman. As if her minor dilemma was more pressing than the fate of the entirety of the onlookers, which collectively wished it had safety masks in back pockets, except it would be too late. "I told you I am wearing no pockets, but I do have a pocketbook. However, it is just full of material and pamphlets about the cause we so believe in, which is the plight of the poor (muffle, muffle) who wants (muffle, muffle) on a plate and who secretly watches (muffle, muffle). I know, I’ll grab one of these garbage bags from the kitchen. Better yet, who wants to fetch one for me? Times a wasting, though, I wouldn’t want to count the half life of an antidote on any given Monday."

In unison, a mother and father in the back row tapped the shoulder of their hulking 17 year old son to ‘fetch’