Alice Fantastic Read Free Page B

give Clayton a cursory introduction to reading horses’ past performances. I was leaning in close, my finger tracing one of the horse’s running lines, when Clayton kissed my ear.
    â€œI love you, Alice,” he said.
    â€œJesus, Clayton. What the fuck?”
    He looked like a kicked puppy.
    â€œI brought you here because I thought it’d be a nice way to spend our last day together but, fuck me, why do you have to get ridiculous?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t want it to end. You’re all I’ve got.”
    â€œYou don’t have me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œClayton, there’s no future. No más,” I said.
    â€œNo who?”
    â€œNo más,” I repeated. “No more. Spanish.”
    â€œAre you Spanish?”
    â€œNo, Clayton, I’m not Spanish. Shit, will you let me fucking work?”
    â€œEverything okay over here?”
    I looked up and saw Vito looming over the table. Vito is a stocky, hairy man who is some kind of low-level mob or mob wannabe who owns a few cheap horses. He fancies himself a gifted horseplayer but is, I’m sure, one of the many who flat out lies about his profits.
    â€œEverything’s fine,” I said, scowling at Vito. Much as Clayton was pissing me off, it wasn’t any of Vito’s business. But that’s the thing with these Vito-type guys at the track, what with my being a presentable woman under the age of eighty, a real rarity at Aqueduct—these guys get all protective of me. It might have been vaguely heartwarming if Vito wasn’t so smarmy.
    Vito furrowed his monobrow. He was sweating profusely even though it was cool inside the restaurant.
    â€œI’m Vito,” he said, aggressively extending his hand to Clayton, “and you are … ?”
    â€œClayton,” said my soon-to-be-ex-paramour, tentatively shaking Vito’s pudgy, oily paw.
    â€œWe all look out for Alice around here,” Vito said.
    Go fuck yourself, Vito, I thought, but didn’t say. There might be a time when I needed Vito for something.
    â€œOh,” said Clayton, confused, “that’s good. I look out for her too.”
    Vito narrowed his already small eyes, looked from me to Clayton and back, then turned on his heels.
    â€œSee ya, Vito,” I said as the tub of a man headed out of the restaurant, presumably going down to the paddock-viewing area to volubly express his opinions about the contestants in the first race.
    A few races passed. I made a nice little score on a mare shipping in from Philadelphia Park. She was trained by an obscure woman trainer, ridden by some obscure apprentice jockey, and had only ever raced at Philadelphia Park, so in spite of a nice batch of past performances, she was being ignored on the tote board and went off at 14-1. I had $200 on her to win and wheeled her on top of all the logical horses in an exacta. I made out nicely and that put me slightly at ease and reduced some of the Clayton-induced aggravation that had gotten so severe I hadn’t been able to eat my omelet and had started fantasizing about asking Vito to take Clayton out. Not Take Him Out take him out, I didn’t want the guy dead or anything, but just put a scare into him. Only that would have entailed asking a favor of Vito and I had no interest in establishing that kind of dynamic with that kind of guy.
    The fifth race came and I watched with interest to see how the colt Arthur liked fared. The Todd Pletcher—trained colt Arthur hated, who did in fact go off at 1-9, broke alertly from the six hole and tucked nicely just off the pace that was being set by a longshot with early speed. Gang of Seven, the horse Arthur liked, was at the back of the pack, biding his time. With a quarter of a mile to go, Gang of Seven started making his move four wide, picking off his opponents until he was within spitting distance of the Pletcher horse. Gang of Seven and the Pletcher trainee dueled to the