Alice Fantastic Read Free Page A

it’s nice,” Clayton lied as we emerged from the little tunnel under the train tracks.
    The structure looks like the set for a 1970s zombie movie, with its faded pastels tinged with that ubiquitous New York City gray and airplanes headed for JFK flying so low you’re sure they’re going to land on a horse.
    â€œWe’ll go up to the restaurant, have some omelets,” I told Clayton once we were inside the clubhouse. “The coffee sucks but the omelets are fine.”
    â€œOkay,” said Clayton.
    We rode the escalator to the top and, at the big glass doors to the Equestris Restaurant, Manny, the maître d’, greeted me and gave us a table with a great view of the finish line.
    Then Clayton started in with the questions. He’d never been a big question guy, wasn’t a very verbal guy period, but suddenly he wanted to know the history of Aqueduct and my history with Aqueduct and what else I’d ever done for a living and what my family thought of my being a professional gambler, etc.
    â€œI told you, I have to work. No twenty questions. Here’s a Racing Form,” I said, handing him the extra copy I’d printed out, “now study that and let me think.”
    The poor guy stared at the Form but obviously had no idea how to read it. Sometimes I forget that people don’t know these things. It seems like I always knew, what with coming here when I was a kid when Cousin Jeremy still lived in Queens and babysat me on days when my father was off on a construction job. I’d been betting since the age of nine and had been reasonably crafty about money management and risk-taking since day one. I had turned a profit that first day when Jeremy had placed bets for me, and though I’d had plenty of painful streaks since, the vertiginous highs still outnumbered the lows. I scraped by. I’d briefly had a job as a substitute high school teacher after graduating from Hunter College but I found it achingly dull. So I gambled. Not many people last more than a few years doing it for a living but I have. Mostly because the thought of doing anything else is unbearable. I would feel like a citizen.
    I was just about to take pity on Clayton and show him how to read the Form when Arthur appeared and sat down at one of the extra chairs at our table.
    â€œYou see this piece of shit Pletcher’s running in the fifth race?” Arthur wanted to know. Arthur, who weighs 125 pounds tops, isn’t one for pleasantries. He had no interest in being introduced to Clayton and probably hadn’t even noticed I was with someone. He just wanted confirmation that the Todd Pletcher—trained colt in the fifth race was a piece of shit in spite of having cost 2.4 million at the Keeneland yearling sale.
    â€œYeah,” I said, nodding gravely. “He’ll be 1-9.”
    â€œHe’s a flea,” said Arthur.
    â€œYeah. Well. I wouldn’t throw him out on a Pick 6 ticket.”
    â€œI’m throwing him out.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œHe hasn’t faced shit and he’s never gone two turns. And there’s that nice little horse of Nick’s that’s a closer.”
    â€œRight,” I said.
    â€œI’m using Nick’s horse. Singling him.”
    â€œI wouldn’t throw out the Pletcher horse.”
    â€œFuck him,” said Arthur, getting up and storming off to the other end of the place where I saw him take a seat with some guys from the Daily Racing Form.
    â€œFriend of yours?” asked Clayton.
    I nodded. “Arthur. He’s a good guy.”
    â€œHe is?”
    â€œSure.”
    I could tell Clayton wanted to go somewhere with that one. Wanted to ask why I thought some strange little guy who just sat down and started cursing out horses was a good guy. Another reason Clayton had to be gotten rid of.
    One of the waiters came and took our omelet order. Since I’d mapped out most of my bets, I took ten minutes to