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came sauntering out, a drink in each hand. He sat down across from me.
    “Didn’t want to run short,” he said, nodding at his drinks.
    “You know,” I informed him, “they sell that stuff in a lot of places.
    You ought to stock up.”
    “Forget that…look, Belane, I’m here to talk turkey.”
    He drained the drink in his right hand, smashed the glass against the wall. He’d learned that from me.
    “Look, Belane, I’m here to start us both on the road to easy glory.”
    “Sure,” I said, “let’s hear it.”
    “Loco Mike. Ran the other day. Speed like a leper’s tongue on a virgin tit—ran the first quarter in 21.0. Came blazing into the stretch with a 5 length lead, 20 thousand dollar claimers, only got beat by a length and a half. Now he’s dropping down against 15 thousand claimers. Rabbit like that, at 6 furlongs. All they’ll see is his asshole.
    The Racing Form has him listed at 15 to 1! A steal! I’m cutting you in on the action, good buddy!”
    “Why cut me in? Why don’t you take all the action?”
    He drained his other drink. Then looked around. Raised his glass.
    “Hold it!” I said. “You smash that glass and you’re going to have two assholes.”
    “Huh?”
    “Think about it.”
    The mailman quietly set his glass down.
    “Got any more to drink?”
    “You know it. Pour me one too.”
    He walked into the kitchen. I felt myself gradually losing my patience.
    Then he came out, handed a drink to me.
    “Hold it,” I said, “I’ll take your drink.”
    “How come?”
    “It’s stronger.”
    He handed me the other drink, then sat down.
    “Now like I said, mailbag, why cut me in?”
    “Well, ha,” he said.
    “Yes, go on…”
    “I’m a little short of green. Got nothing to put down. But after we score I can pay you from the profits.”
    “I don’t like the sound of that.”
    “Look, Belane, I just need a little scratch.”
    “How much?”
    “20 bucks.”
    “That’s a hell of a lot of money.”
    “10 bucks.”
    “10 fucking bucks?”
    “O.k., 5 bucks.”
    “What?”
    “2 bucks.”
    “Drag your sack out of here!”
    He drained his drink and stood up. I finished mine.
    He just stood there.
    He said, “How come all these grapefruits are on the floor?”
    “Because I like them like that.”
    I got up and moved toward him.
    “Time to go, fellow.”
    “Time to go, huh? I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready!”
    The drinks had made him bold. That happens.
    I slammed my fist into his gut. I had on my brass knuckles. Damn near went right through him.
    He dropped.
    I walked over and scooped up some broken glass from the floor.
    Then I came back, opened his mouth and dropped the glass in there.
    Then I rubbed his cheeks around and slapped him up a bit. His lips turned redder.
    Then I went about my business of drinking. I suppose about 45 minutes passed and the mailman began to move. He rolled over, spit out a shard of glass and began crawling toward the door. He looked pitiful. He crawled right up to the door. I opened it and he crawled out and down toward his apartment. I’d have to watch him in the future.
    I closed the door.
    I sat down and found half a dead cigar in the ashtray. I lit it up, took a drag, gagged. Tried it again. Not too bad.
    I felt introspective.
    I decided not to do any more that day.
    Life wore a man out, wore a man thin.
    Tomorrow would be a better day.

14
    The next day I was back at Red’s bookstore. I was on the Celine case again. The racetrack was closed and it was a cloudy day. Red was marking up the prices on some rare items.
    “How about Musso’s?” he asked.
    “I can’t, Red. I seem to be eating all the time. Look at me.”
    I pulled back my coat. My gut was pushing out through my shirt.
    A button had popped off.
    “You better get that fat sucked out. You’ll have a heart attack.
    They suck the fat out through a tube. You can put it in a jar and look at it, it’ll remind you to lay off the jelly donuts.”
    “I’ll think about