Bullet Work Read Online Free PDF

college, he just handicapped for a living. He had rented a
house near the Pentagon with four other guys from college, but
rather than take a job painting houses or working on a construction
crew as he’d done in the past, Dan just went to the track—every
day.
    That summer taught him more about money
management than any college accounting course. He also learned the
complete ins and outs of racetrack operations and the dynamics of
preparing horses to compete. It was a master’s degree in
handicapping. Dan didn’t win every day. Anyone who told you he did
was a liar, but Dan won enough to pay his rent and other minimalist
living expenses. It was total freedom, and he relished every
minute.
    Dan inhaled deeply and absorbed the
excitement in the air as he walked the mezzanine level. The
reserved box seats were suspended below him. At one time these had
been the high ticket seats, but now dark-paneled luxury boxes were
housed inside the exclusive clubhouse one level up. Dan preferred
the box seats because the people were real. He also told himself
the view was better from this position, just over the apron at the
track level.
    He spotted who he was looking for in one of
the front row boxes just beyond the finish line. He walked over two
aisles and skipped down the steps to the three men sitting in the
box.
    “Gimme a winner,” Dan said.
    Lennie Davis looked up from his form. “Hey,
Danny boy.” Lennie was a longtime handicapper and close friend. He
had a doctorate in mathematics and no visible means of support. He
played the ponies, but successfully enough to stay with it.
    Eyeglasses hung on the tip of Lennie’s nose,
allowing him to read his computer printouts and see the racetrack
and odds board with total efficiency. His gray hair was receding,
but he made up for it by letting it grow in the back. The long
strands were pinned together by a rubber band, and the silver locks
extended about a foot down his back. The ponytail matched his
rail-thin physique. He wore a flowered Hawaiian shirt over
camouflage cargo pants. “Sit down, Danny boy.”
    The box was four beige folding chairs on a
concrete slab, confined on three sides by green painted railing.
The open side allowed access to the steps leading up to the
mezzanine or down, via a separate staircase to the track’s apron.
It was nothing like the luxury boxes in the clubhouse, devoid of
all glamour and prestige.
    But for Lennie and his entourage, it was
home. It was a haven for serious handicappers amid the chaos of the
casual bettors who milled about the grandstand in hopes of finding
the lock of the day. Dan sidestepped Lennie and took the chair next
to him.
    “Who do you like in here?” Dan asked.
    Milton Childers piped up from the chair in
front of Dan. “Bunch of fuckin’ stiffs. They’ll probably all
lose.”
    “I take it you got the favorite?” Dan said.
Lennie and the fourth man in the box, TP Boudreaux, laughed
hard.
    “’Course he has the favorite,” TP said.
“Whenever he has no clue—which is most of the time—he bets the
favorite. Just like usual.”
    Milton grunted and said, “Who’s up today, me
or you, Boudreaux?”
    Dan reached forward and shook TP’s hand. TP
was a jock agent, which, for the right kind of guy, was a license
to steal. TP was that kind of guy.
    A jock agent represented jockeys the way
talent agents represented actors. He worked with trainers to get
his riders on the best horses and working for the best barns.
    There were two critical skills for a jock
agent. First, find and sign great new talent and, second, do
whatever it takes to get your guy on the best horse and riding
“first call” for the best barns. Agents made ten percent of the
jockey’s fee, which was ten percent of the purse won, plus a
nominal mount fee on losing rides.
    Ten percent of ten percent wasn’t much at
first glance, but the jock agent could fill a race card with his
riders, take home a consistent paycheck, and never risk life or
limb hanging