Bullet Work Read Online Free PDF Page B

onto the back of a wild animal.
    TP was as smooth as they came. He wore a
crisp, clean polo shirt over khaki slacks. As a former jockey, he
was just over five feet tall, with dark hair parted down the middle
and a matching black moustache.
    “How’s your boy going to do in here, Teep?”
Dan asked. TP represented Emilio Juarillo, and he had a mount on
the one horse, Vindicate.
    “I’ll be happy if he hits the board. New
rider like Emilio has to ride a bunch of dogs and work his butt off
in the mornings to get any of these guys to give him rides.
Emilio’s a natural-born rider, tough as a bucket of nails, but has
no personality. Needs to keep up with his English lessons,
too.”
    TP found many young riders in Peru and the
Dominican Republic. He’d sponsor their immigration in exchange for
a long-term contract as their agent. He’d done well with a few
riders and had the perfect pitchman’s demeanor with trainers to get
his guys rides.
    Lennie leaned forward and looked to the left
to see the horses nearing the post. “Got anything working here?”
Meaning—did Dan have a bet?
    “Yeah, I put the one, three, four together
and bet the four across.”
    TP smiled and nodded, acknowledging that Dan
had action on his rider.
    Milton quickly looked at his program, then
the tote board. “The four? Hollering Hal? What do you know, Morgan?
Is the fix in?”
    “No, the fix isn’t in. I’m just taking a
flier.”
    “Interesting,” said Lennie, scanning his
sheets. “Hollering Hal’s got some back speed. Been off for awhile.
Second back off a layoff. Stretching out to a mile and a teenie off
a six. Looks to be in a little too tough for my money.”
    “What do you think?” Dan asked Lennie.
    “Well, unfortunately, I’m with Magic Milt on
the favorite, Jasper June. He ran a solid Z pattern last time out.
And against these types, his Beyer’s are strong. The pace will be
to his advantage. He might draw off and win by daylight. Hoping to
keep him above 5-2,” Lennie said, looking up quickly to check the
tote board in the infield, “but he’s starting to get pounded at the
windows.”
    True to his Ph.D., Lennie was a pure numbers
guy, relying on Beyer speed ratings, Ragozin numbers, and pace
figures.
    The “figs,” as they were known, were
mechanical calculations of prior performance. They were a means to
put math to perceived talent. Many of the figs were available in
the public racing program and commercial racing forms. Others were
purchased by subscription. Lennie absorbed numbers like a Hoover
ate dust bunnies. He could calculate percentages and implied odds
with blinding speed and ease.
    “C’mon, Dan,” Milton said as he took a bite
of his hotdog. “Hollering Hal is 18-1. What do you know?”
    Milton was suspicious of anything and
everything. He was convinced that a fixed race would come by and he
would be left out. To compensate, he looked for strange angles or
reasons to support long shots, in the bizarre hope that his
interpretation would somehow match up with the inside job.
    Aside from horseracing, Milt’s favorite hobby
was eating, and, on days like today, he was able to engage in both
activities at once.
    Milt was the classic “before” picture for
famous weight-loss programs. Bones and muscle surrounded by a thick
layer of fat and flab. The “after” picture would never be taken. He
wore dress pants that hadn’t been pressed in the current decade and
a crumpled white dress shirt, adorned with a tie that bore the
stains of spilled mustard, barbeque sauce, and anything else that
didn’t quite make it all the way to Milt’s mouth.
    Magic Milt worked as an insurance agent.
Actually, he inherited the family business, but his devotion to
food and horses meant it was just a matter of time before he broke
the place. He was content living his life, and the future, for
Milt, meant the next race on the card.
    Maj was a lifetime hunch player, and, if he
didn’t have an angle to play, he took the