spent.
A certain number of them, anyway. It wasn't something you could lean on too hard. She'd only gone overboard once at this meet, and that had been a mistake. Rather, she'd done it to cover a mistake.
It had happened almost three weeks ago, right after Roy had gone into the hospital. Perhaps that was how it had come about, she'd had her mind on him instead of her job. But, anyway, a real dog had come in at a hundred-and-forty for two. And she didn't have a dime down on him.
She'd been too frightened and worried to sleep that night. She'd been even more frightened the next day when the papers hinted at heavy off-track betting on the nag. As an expensive but necessary precaution, she'd sent five thousand dollars of her own money back to Baltimore-her pretended winnings on the horse. And apparently that had taken the heat off of her, for she'd had no word from Bobo. But days passed before she was resting easy.
For a while, she was even carrying a gun when she went to the bathroom.
She stood at the bar, sipping a rum and cola, looking at the milling crowd with something approaching disgust. Where did they come from? she thought wearily. Why did they buck a stupid racket like this? Many of them were downright shabby. Some of them even had children with them.
Mothers with kids… Men in cheap sport-shirts and baggy slacks… Grandmothers with cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
Gaah! It was enough to turn a person's stomach.
She turned away from them, shifting wearily from foot to foot. She was wearing a sports outfit; a simple but expensive ensemble of fawn-colored slacks, blouse, and jacket, with flat-heeled buckskin oxfords. Everything was cool and lightweight, the most comfortable things she could put on. But nothing could compensate for her hours of standing.
As the fifth and sixth races dragged by, as she moved back and forth from the betting and pay-off windows, the struggle between her growing tiredness and the never-ending need to be alert almost reached a stalemate. It was hard to think of anything but sitting down, of resting for at least a few minutes. It was impossible to think about it. Need and necessity fought with one another, pulling her this way and that, tugging her forward and holding her back; adding unbearably to the burden she already carried.
There were seats in the grandstand, of course, but those were for yokels. By the time she got into the stands, she would be due at the windows. The effort of going back and forth would take more from her than it gave. As for the clubhouse, with its comfortable chairs and pleasant cocktail lounge, well, naturally, that was out. There was too much money floating around, too much heavy betting. The treasury boys loved the place.
She set down her cup of coffee-her third in the last hour-and trudged away toward the mutuel windows. The seventh race, the next to the last, was coming up. It always drew some of the day's heaviest play, and the yokels were rushing to buy tickets. As Lilly pushed her way through them, a sardonic thought suddenly struck her. And despite her weariness, she almost laughed out loud.
Now, isn 't this something? she thought. Twenty-five years getting out of the mob, and I'm right back in it. Hell, I've never even been away!
She collected a couple of bets on the seventh, disposing of the money as she hurried toward the parking lot. There was nothing in the last race that couldn't be missed. By beating it out now, before the crowd swarmed down from the stands, she could avoid the last-minute traffic jam.
Her car was parked back near the gate, in a space as near to it as a big tip would buy. A convertible, it was a very good car but by no means the most expensive. Not even faintly flashy. Its one distinctive feature was something that couldn't be seen. A secret trunk compartment containing one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in cash.
As she approached the car now and saw the man standing beside it, Lilly wondered whether she'd
A certain number of them, anyway. It wasn't something you could lean on too hard. She'd only gone overboard once at this meet, and that had been a mistake. Rather, she'd done it to cover a mistake.
It had happened almost three weeks ago, right after Roy had gone into the hospital. Perhaps that was how it had come about, she'd had her mind on him instead of her job. But, anyway, a real dog had come in at a hundred-and-forty for two. And she didn't have a dime down on him.
She'd been too frightened and worried to sleep that night. She'd been even more frightened the next day when the papers hinted at heavy off-track betting on the nag. As an expensive but necessary precaution, she'd sent five thousand dollars of her own money back to Baltimore-her pretended winnings on the horse. And apparently that had taken the heat off of her, for she'd had no word from Bobo. But days passed before she was resting easy.
For a while, she was even carrying a gun when she went to the bathroom.
She stood at the bar, sipping a rum and cola, looking at the milling crowd with something approaching disgust. Where did they come from? she thought wearily. Why did they buck a stupid racket like this? Many of them were downright shabby. Some of them even had children with them.
Mothers with kids… Men in cheap sport-shirts and baggy slacks… Grandmothers with cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
Gaah! It was enough to turn a person's stomach.
She turned away from them, shifting wearily from foot to foot. She was wearing a sports outfit; a simple but expensive ensemble of fawn-colored slacks, blouse, and jacket, with flat-heeled buckskin oxfords. Everything was cool and lightweight, the most comfortable things she could put on. But nothing could compensate for her hours of standing.
As the fifth and sixth races dragged by, as she moved back and forth from the betting and pay-off windows, the struggle between her growing tiredness and the never-ending need to be alert almost reached a stalemate. It was hard to think of anything but sitting down, of resting for at least a few minutes. It was impossible to think about it. Need and necessity fought with one another, pulling her this way and that, tugging her forward and holding her back; adding unbearably to the burden she already carried.
There were seats in the grandstand, of course, but those were for yokels. By the time she got into the stands, she would be due at the windows. The effort of going back and forth would take more from her than it gave. As for the clubhouse, with its comfortable chairs and pleasant cocktail lounge, well, naturally, that was out. There was too much money floating around, too much heavy betting. The treasury boys loved the place.
She set down her cup of coffee-her third in the last hour-and trudged away toward the mutuel windows. The seventh race, the next to the last, was coming up. It always drew some of the day's heaviest play, and the yokels were rushing to buy tickets. As Lilly pushed her way through them, a sardonic thought suddenly struck her. And despite her weariness, she almost laughed out loud.
Now, isn 't this something? she thought. Twenty-five years getting out of the mob, and I'm right back in it. Hell, I've never even been away!
She collected a couple of bets on the seventh, disposing of the money as she hurried toward the parking lot. There was nothing in the last race that couldn't be missed. By beating it out now, before the crowd swarmed down from the stands, she could avoid the last-minute traffic jam.
Her car was parked back near the gate, in a space as near to it as a big tip would buy. A convertible, it was a very good car but by no means the most expensive. Not even faintly flashy. Its one distinctive feature was something that couldn't be seen. A secret trunk compartment containing one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in cash.
As she approached the car now and saw the man standing beside it, Lilly wondered whether she'd
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