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gunmetal city sky.
    Down below thousands swarmed into office buildings, scurrying along from every direction. Mooney stared down at the scene impassively. He had a sudden image of himself hoisting forty pounds of cement above his head, holding it out above the ledge—then letting go. Just letting go. Looking down on all that avid, lurching bug life, he could understand that. He well knew the feeling of contempt. He could see why.

5
    “… and at the post in starting position number five, Honor Bound. In six, Dynaflow. At seven, Alternative, ridden by Velasquez, out of Darbyshire. Eight, Dogdays …”
    Standing amid the excited press at the rail, Frank Mooney ran the stump of his pencil up and down the columns of the Racing Form. Periodically he’d glance up at the tote board to check odds against the PP’s of horses he’d been following. As usual, he’d had no compunction whatever about using his shield to get himself down directly on the field with the press and the big spenders.
    As racing days went this one was perfect—bright, clear skies, and though it was cool, in the mid-fifties, Mooney was already sweating profusely. The Sunday capacity crowds at Aqueduct had turned the stands behind him into a crazy quilt of undulating color. Gaudy pennants on the roof of the stands snapped briskly in the gusty breeze and the jockeys and horses in the post parade caparisoned in their flashing silks made the heart leap with excitement.
    Mooney had been there since early morning. He’d come out around 10:00 a.m. to walk through the paddocks, talk to the grooms and watch the workouts. More than anything, he loved the morning prowls before the race—the big bays and chestnuts browsing in the spanking white paddocks, the grooms and trainers moving through the stables, the profoundly satisfying smell of sawdust, leather and manure.
    Well into the fourth race now, Mooney had made no score. Moreover, he had dropped several hundred dollars and had also missed by a hair the quinella, paying $52.40. The winning horse he’d picked, Piston, performed precisely as he’d expected. His second choice, a filly, Ball Point, a 3-to-l odds-on favorite to finish in the money, had been brilliant for ninety-five percent of the run, then limped across in fifth position, as if she simply could not bear being that good.
    If Mooney was sweating in fifty-degree weather, he had good reason to. He’d already dropped three hundred dollars. The fifth race was a $3500 maiden claiming race, full of horses so bad and so cheap their trainers were not afraid to lose them. Scouring the past performance charts in the Form, Mooney’s eye had fastened on a three-year-old gelding called Indicator. Superficially, his record was dismal. Always a bad sign, he’d been running route races on a regular basis, and his last six times out he’d not run any better than fifth while competing with the dogs of horsedom. His trainer, however, was E. Y. Caldecott, who’d had an estimable record with maiden horses, and Indicator’s last two times out he had done something completely out of character. He had broken slowly and rallied strongly, passing six horses and making up nine lengths in the last quarter mile. This was over six furlongs and that appeared to be Indicator’s optimum distance. He would expire going an inch farther.
    Indicator’s recent running lines indicated that Caldecott was transforming the gelding into a strong stretch runner, particularly at six furlongs. The fifth race happened to be posted at six furlongs and the fact that the horse was blinkered and wearing mud caulks spoke tellingly of the trainer’s game plan.
    Mooney knew this track to be plaster hard, particularly during April when the ground was not yet entirely thawed, therefore, heavily biased toward stretch runners and outside post positions.
    The bandages on Indicator’s forelegs, however, gave Mooney pause. Bandaged forelegs on a hard track had negative implications, such as injury.