The Fix

                                                                                     THE FIX          



         It’s funny how your life can turn on the events of one day. On this foggy October morning back in 1972, I was driving to my final exam for a Ph.D. in horse race betting. I’d dropped out of Texas A&M after deciding to become a ‘horseman’, a guy who makes his living betting on the ponies.

          My eyes strained to follow the rough track of ruts through the cedar flats.  Trees, cactus and cows were eerie shapes half-seen through the fog. A pale pink glow to the east, Dawn  was breaking when I pulled up in front of Werner’s century-old limestone farm house. The old man got in the car without a word, grousing softly to himself in Alte Deutch about me being late. I'm fifth generation Kraut myself so I understood just enough German to make out what the old coot was bitchin' about.

         It was probably just race day excitement that made him so windy.  Werner didn't talk much when a grunt would do.  I told him I'd had a little trouble getting the car started, but he just snorted by way of reply.  I glanced over and saw he was "packing"  his "little persuader," a two shot .45 caliber derringer tucked into his boot.  Werner often carried large sums of money and said he liked the comfort of mind the gun gave him.  I doubted whether Werner had the nerve to pull the damn thing on a robber, but it wasn't none of my business.  My 68 T-bird was still grumbling from the early nip in the air as we lurched back up the caliche lane and onto HWY 121 on the way to Otho's Store to pick up Otho Zuehl. 

         Otho's Store was one of those general stores that had been selling "necessaries" and "possibles" since the first Germans settlements in the Texas Hill Country. The hand-planed cypress wood that formed its sides, floors and porch bore the marks of fires, spurs, bullets--and Comanche arrows for all I knew. A tin roof  replaced the original cedar shakes sometime in the late 1800s. The last additions to the store (in the Twenties) were two round red gas pumps sporting glass containers at the top that you filled with gas by a hand pump. They still sat at the side of the old wooden building.  Worked, too.  On the front of the tin-roofed building was a covered porch that edged right up to the pavement of the highway. 

         Before Otho's time the store was called Hendrik's after his grandfather.  Somehow it had missed being called "Wilhelm's" after Otho's father–probably because he died early from cholera or because he was no-account.  Public Opinion in the county was divided on that subject.  Otho's house, inheirited from his grandfather, faced the store from across the highway--just as it had when oxcarts still hauled people and merchandise between Sequin and New Braunfels. This arrangement left a narrow road between the buildings that was dangerous whenever a car came speeding past.  There had been talk by the State Highway Department about moving the buildings and widening the road, but that would have meant taking some of Otho's land, so he got the county historical society ladies to get the place on the National Register of historic buildings and monuments, and that was the last heard of that. Otho doesn’t have much truck with the “damn gummint”, but he’s sly about using it to his advantage when necessary.

         Whether through luck or design, the first Zuehl to settle in the county had picked a section of flat bottomland bordering the Guadalupe River. Land that had been dangerously unprotected from weather, floods or Comanches in the 1840's was now prime real estate.  Otho still ran a few cows and did a little broom-corn farming on the place along with the store, but a lot of the sturdy industrious folk of the county considered him shiftless because of his reputation for rambling ways and gambling. Most of the work (including operating the store) was done by nieces and nephews hoping to be remembered in his will.  Nobody knew how much money Otho had, but it was plain to anyone with a lick of sense that his store didn't make any money.  He simply considered it a convenience store--for his convenience--so he wouldn't run out of necessities like other folks and a way for him to buy wholesale.  In the three predominantly German counties around New Braunfels Otho was famous for being "tight with his money".  Regardless of their opinion of Otho’s character, in that community, to be considered "tight" was a considerable achievement.

          When we got to his store, Otho got up off his usual whittlin' seat on the porch, spit onto a suspiciously damp ant bed and ambled over to my car. Through the open passenger window Werner and I chorused, "Mornin' Otho."

          Otho pushed his old straw hat up from his forehead and looked around as if he was surprised to see the sun.  Nodding, as if to confirm a previous analysis, he looked pointedly at me and said, "Let's go young'un. You're late. We're burnin' daylight."

         " Hell, Otho," I said, " The races don't start 'til one o'clock.  It's only an hour or so drive. We'll still be there before anybody else even gets to the track."

         Otho and Werner looked at each other with a pitying expression on their faces and shook their heads in commiseration.

         "That's the idea, Son," said Otho gently.   

         Without another word he got into the back seat, adjusted his spit can beside him at a convenient spot, leaned his head back, and prepared to take a nap. In the rear view mirror I monitored the location of the spit can on my car seat and prayed the old man didn't get drunk before the ride home.  I never saw Otho without a big chaw of Red Man chewing tobacco tucked into his cheek.

          The only three things Otho was dead serious about was his chaw of tobacco, his money, and horse racing. Or rather, betting on horse racing, because Otho would rather watch grass grow than watch a race without money on it. Betting was his passion and his profession, if the truth be known. You'll notice I didn't say Otho liked gambling on horse races. "Gamblin,"  Otho opined, "is risking money without knowledge. It ain't professional and is jes' damn foolish."  Otho’s philosophy of life sort of paraphrased the church saying about sin and sinners. Otho loved gamblers but hated gambling. Even worse than he hated the "Infernal Revenue Service.”  For the most part he refused to have anything to do with either one.  Otho was a piece of work. 

         Like Werner, Otho was in his 70's, but he was ramrod thin and straight, while Werner tended toward fat.  Both had the clear, innocent blue eyes of choirboys set into their wrinkled and weathered faces.  Many a "mark" at the races had been gulled by those blue eyes and the worn, “hayseed” clothes they wore.  Werner usually affected khaki work pants and shirts along with scuffed Red Wing work boots.  Otho mostly wore jeans, velvet soft, but threadbare from being washed too many times, cowboy shirts with pearl buttons, and beat up cowboy boots.  Both men always wore good quality, though somewhat battered, cowboy hats--straw during Texas summers and felt during winter. A band of white skin on their permanently tanned and weathered foreheads showed where their hats usually rode. You cain't tell a German's wit or his wealth from his clothes. They ain't fancy dressers.

         Excited and nervous in spite of myself, I headed the car toward HWY 46 and Boerne.  I was on my way to the Kendall County fair with two of the best horsemen in Texas.  I'd hung around horse tracks since I was a kid.  At one time I wanted to be a jockey, but I grew too big.  Now I wanted to be a horseman.  Someone who could make a living bettin' the horses by following the action-- from county fair race meetings to private "winner take all" stakes matches.  I hadn't been doing too bad on my own since dropping out of school, but I knew Otho and Werner were the best. I'd watched and tailed around behind them for a couple of  years and gradually made myself useful. After months of quiet approaches, "goferin," placing hidden bets for them, and ultimately outright begging, I was finally being included with Werner and Otho as a junior partner in today's endeavors. This was my first chance to be part of the action with the big boys. I knew they could teach me the finer points of the game. 

         Now, you got to understand this was before parimutuel betting came to Texas.  Betting of any kind was illegal, and there was no State Commission to oversee races at county fairs or the little "brush tracks" out in the boonies. South and east of Austin, you were out of the Bible Belt, and folks took a more relaxed view of things--drinkin', horse racin' and bettin' in particular.  County Sheriffs knew damn well it was their civic duty to look the other way about horse race betting at county fairs if they wanted to get re-elected. Sure, there were judges and stewards for each race meeting to check papers and see the rules were followed, more or less, but they were just local people who were helping out.  As a result, lots of shenanigans went on that most folks didn't know about.  To protect themselves, most of the horse owners bent the rules--some a little, some a lot--to get a little edge. Otho, Werner and I aimed to find out who had the edge today.  And cut ourselves in.

         That's why the old boys wanted to get there early. We needed to get to the "backside" of the fairgrounds among the touts, jockeys, bookies, horse owners, or even the cotton candy sellers if it came to that, to see who might have some information that a "fix" was in.  'Cause in those days, a lot of the races didn't go to the fleetest of hoof, but to the longest odds.  Winners were frequently determined in secret Jockeys' meetings before the race because the jocks would get bets down themselves.  Hell, they had to make a living too. There were stories about jockeys holding back favorites so hard the riders spurs would dig furrows in the track, leaving little roostertails of dust in the air behind their horse.  Horses that had never won a race would suddenly record winning times that approached those of Assault or Man O' War.  The small tracks on the county fair circuit didn't have facilities for drug testing so a lot of "hopping" went on. Then there were jockeys that used "machines"--small electrical devices in their boots, whips, or strapped to their wrists under their silks--that would shock a horse into a lunge that might make the difference at the wire.

          Only the professional racing crowd that went from race meeting to race meeting to bet the horses knew about the illegal stuff that went on.  Information was the key to either going home busted out or in fat city.  That's why visiting on the backside was so important. It paid off if you got the right information.  The average fair-goer at the races never knew why he lost his shirt betting on favorites from tout-sheets that were peddled around the fairgrounds.



                                                                                          ****



         I pushed the T-Bird to its limit, and made it to the Boerne fairgrounds in good time. The sleepy deputy on duty at the gate looked me over suspiciously when I told him I wanted to get in to the backside.  Then he noticed Werner beside me and Otho riding in back.  He bent to the window.

         "Mornin' Otho. Werner. Wondered when you fellas would show up."

         "Mornin' Harold. How's your Mom and them?"

         "Pretty good, Otho. Good as kin be expected, I reckon. Aunt Jane said you and her danced up a storm last Sattidy over to the Bluebonnet Hall. She ast me to call 'n tell her when y'all got here, you know?"

         Even in his seventies, Otho’s reputation as quite a dancer and ladies man was legendary all over the Hill Country and South Texas. Werner was grinning, so I started smiling too, but caught Otho's eye in the rear view mirror and immediately wiped it off my face. 

         "Harrumph. Harold, ya gonna stand there and bullshit, or ya gonna let this boy in to the backside,"  Otho barked.

         "Sure, Otho," Harold said quickly. "Straight on in past them barns. Put 'er wherever you like. I won't say nuthin' to Aunt Jane," wafted on the air as I drove away.

         "Told you," chuckled Werner, "Didn't I tell ya that grass widder thinks she gonna hog-tie ya?"

         "Goddam ever'body thinks they know more about your business than you do." Otho punctuated this comment with an emphatic and accurate spit of Red Man right past my ear and out the window. My admiration knew no bounds.

         Driving through the fairgrounds, Werner and Otho nodded to acquaintances like visiting royalty as we swept by.  I knew I was getting some reappraising second looks myself just by being in their company. I parked the car as near the near the horse sheds as I could get, among the pickups and horse trailers of the owners, handlers, stablemen and other horsemen. We bought race programs for the day’s races from a young Mexican boy passing by.  While Werner and I scanned the programs, Otho got out of the car and said, "Wee..ll now, I guess I'll jest go run my traps," and took off on his own to pick up a few tips.  Otho always had his own secret connections among the horse racing crowd and was damned leery about giving any of them away.

         Werner and I got down to business, spending some time making our preliminary picks from the programs. There's always some bets that are obvious favorites if you know the horses.  Werner and I agreed that Fancy Dancer in the third race was "straight in."

         "Looks like the Fourth is between Jet Flyer and Panama Red. See what Joe Don is laying on them," said Werner.

         "How do you like Hanky Panky in the Fifth?" I asked. "She's got the inside 'n the distance is her best."

         "Yep, she's a good'un, but depends on who's riding her, 'cause she's skittish coming out of the gate. Check that out," he said. "Say now, here's one that'll buy Baby some new shoes. Jackie O. in the Seventh. See if Joe Don will give you 2 to 1 on her and put a hundred on it for me."

         "O. K., I'll getcha' covered," I said as I checked further into the program to the final race.  "Goooooddamm, Werner", I exclaimed. " Look at Easy Dream in the eighth.  That horse could win that race goin' backwards and pullin' a plow."

         "Mebbe so. Mebbe not," said Werner noncommittally. "Better wait an see. Sumpen about that field don' look right," he mused. 

         His lack of interest deflated my enthusiasm. Werner seldom gives my opinions much weight and hates to admit that any of my picks are worth betting on, so I've learned to wait for his opinions first. Mostly we agree  I pushed my Stetson back on my head, bit off a hasty retort, and resolved to stay cool.

         Werner gave me the hundred to put down for him, and I took off for the stands to look for one of the bookies.  For a bookie, laying odds and balancing his “book” is an art form. He sets his own odds based upon his knowledge and experience. He doesn't have a tote board to show where all the money is going and how it changes the odds. A bookie quotes you his odds on a race at that particular time and that bet stands regardless of how he may change the odds later with another bettor or even with you on a later bet when more info comes in to him.

         Betting with a bookie is another art form because you can haggle with him for the best odds. All bettors don’t get the same odds. Depending upon his "take" of you as a knowledgeable bettor, the bookie will offer you odds that he figures he can cover based upon the size of your bet.          That's how I came to be useful for Otho and Werner. Their experience and reputation preceded them.  They'd been around the tracks for so long that when they tried to get down a sizeable bet, the bookies immediately figured that they knew something, or the fix was in, and lowered the odds. The odds they got were always shorter than the odds given to me. So Otho and Werner used my boyish looks and inexperience to get better odds for their bets, while I got the benefit of their knowledge and contacts to help build my bankroll.  To them betting was serious business best played close to the vest. To me it was a lot of fun and excitement with the added benefit of a money payoff. So I hustled off toward the grandstands where the bookies hung out.

         It was too early for a beer, so I bought a coke and checked around for Joe Don Bendele. Several bookies followed the county fair circuits, but Joe Don was by far the classiest.  He drove a big black Lincoln Town Car, wore $1,000 alligator boots and a $500 Silver Beaver Stetson. Joe Don was in his mid thirties, stood about six feet four and was still built like a tight end. He'd played with the Oilers until he got blindsided and busted his knee up. With his good looks, crooked smile, and slicked-back wavy black hair, Joe Don sort of reminded you of what Elvis might have looked like, if he'd taken up weightlifting instead of the guitar.  Joe Don always had a "primo" lady traveling with him, wearing designer western outfits and lots of jewelry, though to be honest, he seldom paid them any mind. At the tracks, Joe Don was all business. Many a time I'd watched him win or lose thousands of dollars on a single race without any visible emotion. Smooooooth.

         At the other end of the scale was Alex Macias. Alex dressed straight out of K-Mart and thought he set a fashion statement. He played the "dumb chicano" role with bettors, but was dumb as a fox.  He was slick with numbers, and you had to watch him sometimes toward the end of a meeting because if he was down some money, he might "forget" your bet. Alex gave the impression of someone you wouldn't want to mess with in case there was a dispute over a bet.  He hung with a rough crowd and was reputed to have ties with an underworld character from San Antonio named Sam "Bunny" Morris. I never bet with Alex if I could help it, but it was useful sometimes to get his "line" from him to help you decide your bet.

         My favorite bookie was Johnny "Bones" Harris.  Bones was a rail thin country boy from down around Karnes City who made anorexia seem like a desirable lifestyle.  You look in the dictionary under "Skinny" and there'll be a picture of Bones Harris.  We were close in age and came from small country towns, so we got along good and partied some after the races.  Bones had curly blond hair, blue eyes, and an "Aw Shucks" manner that always got him the pick of the litter of the local belles at every race. All the girls hung around him so much that when you wanted to find him, you'd look for a crowd of girls and there he'd be. Bones always seemed to have the sweetest odds.  Maybe it was because he was newer to the biz, or maybe he just didn't have the best connections to the backside, but if Joe Don was giving two to one and Alex was laying five to three, I could usually get three to one from "Bones".  His ranching family had oil money, so it wasn't as much of a business to him. Bones just liked the action and the "rep" of being a "High Roller" or "Player" around the circuit.  Didn't hurt him with the chicks, neither.

         To be perfectly honest, like Bones,  I liked the fun and excitement more than the money.  I enjoyed the thrill of living on the edge of disaster with each race.  I also enjoyed the attentions of those beautiful long-legged fillies with the painted-on jeans that I could sometimes maneuver out of Bones' orbit. They loved the excitement more than I did, and sometimes I'd let them into my play to help me.  I'd mark their programs and send them off to make bets for me.  Bones and Alex were suckers for a cute little thing batting her big eyes at them.  They might get five to one odds on a horse that I couldn't get three to one on.  Of course, Joe Don was too smart for that. His odds never wavered; he was strictly business.  I'd give the girls a tip off the winnings, but they really didn't care about the money as much as the thrill of betting and having a good time when we won.  Sometimes, if I knew the owner or trainer of a winning horse, I'd take girls into the winner's circle to get them into the Winner's Circle picture. There ain’t a girl in a hundred that will pass up a chance to get her picture taken for the local paper.  Must be something in the genes--or jeans.

         It damn sure helped me get a lot of them jeans off.

         I found Joe Don standing next to the beer booth under the grandstand as usual. That spot  was like his office. I was just shopping around for some odds on our picks, but I bet on Coco Bill in the first and Fancy Sis in the sixth to cover myself. Joe Don laid me four to one on both for forty dollars. He gave me some odds on our main picks that I figured to use as a starting point, if I could ever find Bones. I thanked Joe Don, and he tipped his hat and turned to the next bettor as I left.

         As I worked my way over to the livestock judging pens,  looking for Bones and his gaggle of girls, I was still thinking hard about that eighth race. I couldn't see any horse that could stay with Easy Dream. It was only a six horse race, and four of them were dogs.  Maybe Werner was right. There was something too easy about it.

         Sure enough, I found Bones surrounded by four little honeys, while he sat on the hood of his Firebird drinking a Lone Star long neck. 

         "Hey, Bones, what's happenin'?"

         "Nothin' much. Girls, this here outlaw is Ross Kampmann from over to New Braunfels.  Ross, this is Jeanie, Lee Ann, Dorcas, and–scuse me, Darlin'--I didn't get your name?"

         "Myrtle, but everybody calls me Sis," said the girl with a blush that rivaled the red of her hair. She had enough freckles to look tanned. Cute figure though.

         "Well, Ross and me'll call you Darlin 'cause that's just what you are, Sis," said Bones as he put another heart onto his stringer.  "You gals shoo on off now.  Me and Ross got to talk some biz.  I'll catch y'all later."  The girls mock-pouted a little and went off giggling toward the grandstand. Hot damn!

          "Whatchew thinkin' about doin' on these bangtails, Ross?" Bones said with a slow grin as he eased himself down off the hood.  Here we go, I thought. God damn, I loved arguing horses and odds.

         We dickered for a while, and I bet twenty on Panama Red in the fourth at two to one and another forty on Hanky Panky in the fifth, even up. I got to the eighth race and baited the hook.

         "What odds you got on Easy Dream, Bones?  I hear he's got a sore leg this week."

         "Shit, Ross, quit pissin' on my leg. You know that horse is sound.  But since you're runnin' scared, I'll give ya' three to one."

         "Hell, I cain't bullshit you a penny, Bones.  Ya' see right through me every time.  Mark me down for two hundred.  Since he's sound."  I grinned when his mouth dropped open because I hadn't been able to keep the triumphant tone out of my voice.

         "TWO HUNNERT!  Guess I stepped in it on that one," he said and smiled wryly.

         I just grinned and walked away. I thought I had a hell of a bet.  It was getting toward noon, and the sun was getting hotter, so I grabbed a beer from a vendor and went to find Otho and Werner. As I suspected, they were back at the car in a deep discussion. Since they pooled their money, they also pooled their information. I told Werner I’d got his bet down with mine and filled them in on my bets.  All but Easy Dream in the eighth. I wanted them to ask about it first, and then savor their reaction of shocked approval. Three to one on Easy Dream was a coup.

         "Sounds like you're doin' pretty good, Kid, but what odds did ya' get on Easy Dream?" said Otho while spitting a stream of Red Man onto a fire ant bed. First time I ever felt sorry for fire ants. Poor bastards.

         "Joe Don is giving three to two," I said, and they nodded wisely, "But I got three to one with Bones."

         "Damn. That's kinda high. There must be a sleeper in there we don't know about.  Whadya think, Werner?"  Otho was always the most cautious of the two since he had been a trainer himself way back and knew all the tricks firsthand.

         Werner turned to me and punctuated his words with a fat forefinger in my chest, "Kid, you always got to watch for the second and third best horse in the race. All it takes is a fifty dollar speedball shot to make a $1,500 claimer think he's a $20,000 stake horse."

         He was right of course. As usual. Without a testing facility at the track, the horses could be "hopped" with no one the wiser.  We all agreed to try to get some better information on the eighth race and meet in front of the grandstand at the finish line before the horses went off.

         Werner and Otho got most of their information from the owners and trainers.  I mostly got mine from the jockeys.  Jockeys usually knew if there was a fix in.  I had a natural “in” with them because many were about my age, liked to party after the races, and to bullshit about racing.  Plus, they could always use someone to get a discrete bet down for them.  I admired the hell out of those little guys.  No way was I going to get on a horse that was hopped out of its head. Much less ride him out of an iron chute at full speed with a bunch of other crazy horses and riders.  That's like riding a powder keg while smoking. They had guts-- no brains maybe--but lots of guts.

         I eased around shed row looking for any jockey I knew who I might hit up for some straight info.  Suddenly I saw Pedro Leal standing in the shadows of an empty horse stall and signalling for me to come over.  From the expression on his face I knew what he wanted to tell me was urgent.

         "Que' paso', Pete?  How they hangin'."

         "Bueno, Ross. How you been?"  His eyes scanned the area shiftily as though he didn't want us to be seen talking. I knew something was up because Pete is normally a happy go lucky guy until he gets in the saddle.  Then he's as mean as a centipede with athlete's foot.

         "Everything's copasetic, Pete, but I kinda get the feeling you got somethin' on your mind.  Whatcha' got for me?"

         "Ross, I need you to do something for me and keep it under your hat, entiendes?"  I nodded, and he continued, "If I can get out of the saddling paddock in the eighth without no trouble, then put this fifty on Blue Monday for me."  He reached into his silks, fished out a greasy fifty, and handed it to me.

         "Blue Monday!  Sheeee...it, you got to be smokin' that wacky tabaccy again.  I can outrun Blue Monday myself, Pete."

         "You prolly can, but you can' outrun Triple Deck."

         "Triple Deck ain't runnin' today," I scoffed.

         "He is--if I can get out of the paddock with heem."  It suddenly dawned on me that Blue Monday and Triple Deck were out of the same sire and dam. They were both big bay geldings and looked alike although Blue Monday was several years older.

         "But what about the identification tatoo inside his lip?" I exclaimed. "How're ya' goin' to get past..."

         "...The vet's inspection?" Pete finished. I nodded quickly."Don' worry. By the last race old Doc Hansen ees usually pretty dam' drunk.  If the vet don' look at hees lip too close, he won' know the difference." 

         "You may be right about that, Pete, but even assumin' you get Triple Deck in, you still got to beat Easy Dream."

         "No problema, Ross.  Bobby Wilkerson ees riding heem and has got that under control. He know how not to win and he gonna hol' the Dream back." 

         Goddam, the perfect fix. Somebody was going to a lot of trouble. There had to be big money on this.

         "Shit. Bobby may not be able to hold that big gelding back," I said, still protesting feebly, but with rising excitement at the lucrative position this new information was putting me into.

         "He don' hold heem, better he fall off, 'cause I'm tellin' you, Bunny Morris has put thees fix in, amigo."  Pete smiled angelically. Uh-Oh, Sam Morris.

         "Well, you can count on me, Pete. I'll be watching you in the paddock," I said as I pocketed his money and moved away.

         Bunny Morris owned both Triple Deck and Blue Monday.  Morris was a big time police "character" from San Antonio.  He was in the drug business, loan sharking, booking, illegal gambling and ran whores, but he’d only been busted once--for running a crooked poker game that fleeced some of his legit businessmen "friends."  Alex Macias's booking operation was a front for Morris.  Bunny was reputedly a big player at the tables in Vegas, and the word was out on the street that he owed a lot of money to the casinos out there.  Fixing the race by switching the horses was a desperate ploy, but sounded like something Bunny Morris would dream up. It fit what I knew of him. It all sounded right and tight. 

         I needed to find to find Otho and Werner quick and give them this scoop I had discovered.  This time I’d have the hammer, the primo information.  But I was late. The bugle for the first race was already starting its call, and I was supposed to meet them at the finish line. I threw away my beer and started to run to the sound of the bugle.

         The first race was over by the time I got there, but the dust the horses had kicked up was still drifting over the crowd standing between the grandstand and the track fence.  I spotted Otho and Werner and edged my way through the throng.  Werner had his fist clinched in a victory salute as the track announcer gave the results of the photo finish.

         Otho was commiserating with an old "mark" who was accompanied by a very young lady who didn't appear to be his daughter. He pocketed some bills from their side bet into his shirt pocket and said. "Better luck next time, pardner, it was damn sure a close one. You can win it back next race. I'll be around here somewhere." Abruptly he turned to me, "So, did you get on that two horse, Katy Flyer, Kid?" said Otho gruffly.  Damn, I had bet Coco Bill.

         "Nope. Had Coco Bill."  Werner and Otho exchanged looks and grinned. I got ready for a lecture.

         "If you'd been around, we could of got you onto the Flyer. Otho talked to the trainer, and he said he'd been havin' some great times in practice at this distance," Werner said smugly.

         "Well, I been out scoutin' for some dope on the eighth like we agreed," I said and paused for emphasis, "Bunny Morris has got the fix in for sure."  That got their attention. Without a word Otho gestured for me to follow him away from the crowd and strode into the walkway leading under the stands. Dust motes floated in golden streaks of sunlight that filtered through the metal structure as Otho drew me further under the stands.

         "Whaddja hear, Ross," said Otho quietly, motioning me closer and putting an arm around my shoulder. Werner moved right up.

         "Sam Morris is switching Triple Deck for Blue Monday," I said while lowering my voice to make sure no one outside of our little circle could hear.

         "Bullshit, that's pure-dee bullshit," blurted Werner. "They still got to beat Easy Dream, and Triple Deck can't do it at this or no distance known to God or man!"

         "Let the boy finish, Werner. You're always in such a hurry to get your two cents in, but ya' can't learn nothin' with your mouth flappin'."  Otho winked at me encouraginly. "Go on, Ross."           "Yeah, I know the Dream can beat Triple Deck," I agreed and whispered, "but here's the kicker.  I also heard they also got the fix in to have Bobby Wilkerson pull him."

         "Damn. There goes our money," said Werner.

         "I know. Mine too.  I think we better get on Triple Deck. I mean Blue Moon," I said. "Double up and catch up."

         "Okay, kid. Good work. Let me and Werner take it from here. How much you got on Easy Dream?"  I told him about the two hundred dollar bet with Bones.  "Whoooee, you're gettin to be a regular high-roller, aintcha' Sport?"  Otho grinned and his leathery old face wrinkled up and displayed a lifetime roadmap of good humor.

         "Shit, look where it got me," I grimaced and slipped away into the crowd. I went to get a beer. I'd earned it.

         The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. I ran into the girls I'd met with Bones earlier.  Lee Ann was with Bones, so I took up with Jeanie.  We had a few beers, flirted a little, and watched the races together.  I let Jeanie in on a few of my picks, and she bet five bucks on them out of her own money.  I was sure hoping they'd be in the money, so I could have a time with her at the dance that night.  Sure enough, we won the next four races for small amounts, and she was jumping up and down and kissing me like we'd broke the bank in Las Vegas. I skipped the sixth.  Otho always said "You ain't got to dance every dance, just 'cause you're there."  That's why most people can't win at the track.  They want to bet on all the races.

         The seventh was all Jackie O. She threw a good race and won by a two lengths. I'd followed that mare's campaign since she was a maiden.  She always gave an honest effort and won if she was matched right and didn't get bumped off the pace.  I took Jeanie down to the Winner's Circle and introduced her to Jackie O's owner, "Whataguy" Hrncir.  "Whataguy" told her "whataguy" I was, winked at me, and let Jeannie get into the winner's photo. I knew this was going to be a great day for me. For everything except my bankroll. That still needed some work. I had to get back to biz.

         I left Jeannie with her friends and went over to the beer booth under the grandstand that was Joe Don's office. Needed to collect my winnings from the bets I had with him.  My net was one hundred and twenty. "Say, Joe Don. What ya' got on Blue Monday?"

         "I got him at four to one."  Joe Don was always so damned conservative.  The real Blue Monday could hardly get out of his own way, much less win a race. The odds ought to be a lot longer unless Joe Don suspected something was up too.

         "Well, I'll give it some thought and may take a little of that later."  He nodded impassively.

         I tried to spot Werner and Otho.  I hadn't seen either of them near the finish line for quite a while, although I had been so busy with Jeannie that I probably could have been right next to them and not known it.  Still, the eighth was coming up fast, and I wanted to know what they had decided to do.  I wanted their input on how and where to bet the fix, but it was time for me to go to the paddock and watch out for Pete on the fake Blue Monday.

         All the horses but Blue Monday were already at the paddock when I got there.  Standing alongside the fence were Sam Morris, Alex Macias, and a couple of tough looking hombres that went everywhere with Sam Morris.  I remembered then that Alex Macias' booking operation was financed by Sam Morris.  If the fix was in for Blue Monday, Alex would be sure to know, and his odds would reflect it. I'd check with Alex. Then I'd get with Otho and Werner before the race. If I could find them. Seemed to me that I was doing all the damn work in this partnership.  Where were the old bastards when there was serious work to be done? 

         Easy Dream was the Two horse and was prancing around at the end of reins held by Bobby Wilkerson.  Wilkerson looked like he’d eaten a green persimmon, but if he had any idea of backing out on the deal, the two goons with Morris were there to remind him of what could happen to a welsher.  The big gelding was snorting and alert.  The rest of the horses looked like plow horses beside him. 

         Finally, "Last Call" boomed out of the announcer's loud speakers to call Blue Monday to the paddock.  When he appeared from behind shed row, high-stepping across the track, escorted by his groom, I was sure everyone would knock off that this wasn't the Blue Monday we all knew and loved.  As they saddled him up, he caracoled around the paddock like he was hopped.  When the vet reached for his lip to check his I.D. tatoo, Pete gave the horse a little spur to the belly. The bay reared up and pawed with his forefeet.  The vet stepped away as the groom and Pete played at calming the horse down.  The Doc reached out again, and the horse lunged forward, thanks to an unseen twitch to his flanks by Pete with his crop.  That was enough for Doc Hansen. He wasn't going to get hurt by a crazy jughead at the last race of the day. He simply waved his hand in disgust and gave the signal for "Riders Up".  The bugler played, the riders mounted their horses headed out onto the track for the post parade.  Pete looked at me as he passed and gave an almost imperceptible nod. The fix was in.

         I moved over to Alex and caught his eye over Bunny Morris' shoulder.  "Say, Alex, sorry to bother you, but what you got on that bay, Blue Monday?"  Sam Morris jerked around and gave me a stare with eyes that had the flat blank look of a shark circling its prey.  I hoped I hadn't given my play away. "I mean," I gulped,  "Ordinarily I wouldn't give him any play, but he looks pretty frisky today," I stammered.  Goddamit, had I said too much?  Morris was glowering, and his men were closing in to see what was going on.  I guess Morris didn't want any attention called to the situation, because he waved them back and nodded to Alex as though to give him permission to lay my bet.

         "I only got him at two to one today, but you could prolly get some better odds from your buddy, Bones," Alex said with a sneer of derision.  He and Morris looked at one another and smiled nastily.  I realized suddenly that if Morris was going to win big on this race then Bones and Joe Don were going to be hit hard. Morris would have to make his bets with my friends. This horseman game was beginning to lose a little of its charm. 

         "Thanks, I guess I will see what he's giving," I said as I  backed away from the two conspirators.  I needed to find Otho quick and Bones as well.  I moved through the crowd looking for either of my two partners.  As luck would have it, I ran into Bones first.  He was in back of the grandstand, and I hurried over. As I walked up to him, I realized with a sick feeling in my stomach that the guy talking with him was one of Morris' men.

         "...on Blue Monday are twenty to one.  How much you want to bet?" said Bones amiably as I got close.  While I tried frantically to catch his attention, the hood pulled out a wad from his pocket and counted out ten hundred dollar bills into Bones' hand.  I was too late. Bones looked shocked. He knew he'd been screwed.

         "After the race, I'll be here to pick up my winnings.  You better be here, buddy," the hood said.  Bones paled a little, but he had faded some big bets before on worse propositions. Or so he thought.  I started to blurt out something foolish, but the hood glared at me, and I thought better of it.  I thought, Bones, ol' buddy, I tried, but I'm afraid you're in deep, deep, shit.  There was nothing I could do--now that he'd made the bet. Bones, like most bookies, would never welsh on a bet, even if he found out later that the race was fixed. It was one of the hazards of the game.

         "Well, Ross, what's your pleasure. Everything's open but Blue Monday. I'm taking him off the board after that last bet."

         "Don't blame you. Guess I'll just go get me a beer," I said and walked away with Bones looking at me with a perplexed expression on his face. Maybe he suspected something was going down. There was no sense is trying to explain about the fix then.  He might get a crazy notion to start something with Morris' bunch.

         I still hadn't found Otho to tell him about everything that was afoot, and I needed to get down on Blue Monday for myself and Pete.  I decided Otho was on his own. If he wasn't interested enough to make his presence known, then I'd just have to go my own way on this one.  But I was determined to get back at Morris for his plot to screw Bones. Of course, I ignored the fact that I planned to make a windfall profit off of my own guilty knowledge of the fix.  I went looking for Alex Macias.

         He was still over by the paddock, but Morris had gone, and he was alone.  I approached him with more confidence than I felt inside.  I was pretty sure that he wouldn't refuse to take a bet on Morris' horse.  It was going to look bad enough if Blue Monday won.  They wouldn't want any other circumstantial evidence about the fix bandied about. People had been known to get killed in Texas over shit like this, if it became known.

         "Say, Alex," I began, "I couldn't get a bet down with Bones. Some guy put "one large" on Blue Monday, and Bones wouldn't take any more on that horse. But if somebody likes him that much, I'm gonna climb on board the caboose."  I smiled ingratiatingly.

         "Sure, Kid,"  Alex said,  "Whatever you wan' at two to one."  The sonuvabitch Morris was so tight he still had Alex giving unbelievably low odds--if it were really Blue Monday.

         "Great. I want two hundred and fifty."  That shook him up and got his attention.  I'd never bet that much with him in a whole day, much less on one race.  He looked at me with a new respect, or maybe it was the dawning realization that I knew something.  I whirled around and ran for the grandstands and the big race.  As I passed the restrooms, Otho came out the door, laughing, with another old coot that I didn't know. Otho stopped, paid off a side bet, and shook hands with his buddy who creaked out of sight up into the grandstand. Otho spotted me, spit some Red Man on a hapless horny toad, and sauntered over to where I was standing.  He looked like he was having fun. Old bastard ought to be put out to pasture, I thought.

         When he got close, I hissed at him, "Where the hell you been, Otho?  We had serious business here on this race, and you weren't around to talk or do jack shit about it."

         "Well now, Ross," he said mildly, "I guess I just didn't know how good that information that you got was."  He looked abashed.  Maybe I'd come on too strong. "Reckon you must've wanted us to bet the farm on Blue Monday, huh?  And I reckon you did."  He eyed me shrewdly.

         "Damn right. I got enough down to get me out clear from that bet on Easy dream and make a little to boot."

         "Figured you would. But this damned thing sounded like there was too much goin' on.  Werner and I thought it'd be too chancy, and you know you ain't got to ..."

         "Dance every dance." I finished for him. " I know, I know. Listen, I got a lot to tell you about this race, but it can wait 'til the ride back home. Let's get us a good spot to see the finish line." 

         Thinking about all I discovered on my own about this fix, it came to me that maybe Otho was getting past it, and I felt a sudden burst of pity for the old man. I took his arm and guided him into the grandstand to watch the eighth race. This was a mile race, and I wanted to get up high, near the judge's booth, to get a better view of the whole race course.

         I got an adrenaline rush of anticipation. I felt higher than Blue Monday/Triple Deck. When they loaded up the gates my heart beat faster. We waited for the horses to quiet down and come to attention--the flag went up--and they were out of the gate and flying down the home straight.. 

         The announcer gave Black Hole first call. He was in the One hole by the rail and got a good start. He's a pretty good three year old. It occurred to me that I missed a pretty good bet in all the excitement over the fix. I should have bet Black Hole to place. I was learning; wouldn't make that mistake the next time. The other horses also broke clean, all but Easy Dream. Bobby never spurred Dream out of the chute. He spotted them all two jumps and was dead last as the pack flew past the stands and into the first turn. Off the turn and into the back straight was a dogfight with "Blue Monday" taking the lead from Black Hole. Easy Dream was moving up, even with Bobby Wilkerson standing up and leaning back in the stirrups. That damn Dream was still in it; the horse had a lot of heart. The pack bunched up again at the far turn, but "Blue Monday" was in the lead.  Black Hole was holding on for dear life to second place on the rail.  Coming off the last turn, Pete really put ol' Triple Deck (pardon me, Blue Monday) into high gear. Pete was batting and fanning with his quirt, and the bay gelding stretched out for the final furlong. When Blue Monday crossed the finish line, he was five lengths ahead of Black Hole and cruising with Pete sitting the saddle like he was in a rocking chair. I raised my hands to the heavens and yelled "Thank ya Lord" as loud as I could.

         I looked over at Otho. He had a quirky smile on his face, but didn't say anything. I didn't care. This was my moment. It wasn't just the money; it was the first time I had come up with the inside dope for a nice score. I would savor this moment for a long time. I was striding down the grandstands steps on my way to find Alex when the loudspeakers on the judges booth boomed, "Ladies and Gentlemen, there has been a foul called on the Six horse, Blue Monday. The judges are reviewing it now."

          Well that was a crock of shit because I knew they didn't have a video camera at this fair or any videotape to review. I hadn't seen any foul either, though if one had occurred, it must have been when they were all bunched up. For sure, Triple Deck-Blue Monday had been in front by himself for most of the race

         As I looked up at the windows of the judges booth,  the loudspeakers boomed out again, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the judges have disqualified the Six horse, Blue Monday, for a foul and the winner is the One horse, Black Hole. Black Hole your winner.  That concludes this race meeting. We hope you've enjoyed it and that we'll see you next year." 

          I had a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. There was one possibility I hadn't thought about.

          If you can't fix the horses, fix the judges.

          The door to the judges booth opened and the old coot that I had seen with Otho--seen Otho paying him money and shaking his hand--came out of the booth, waved at Otho and walked away.  Otho patted me on the shoulder, "See you back at the car, Son."  I watched him go down the grandstand steps and lose himself in the scattering spectators.

         I stood up there for quite a while, watching the crowd as it filed out. I didn't feel like talking much to anybody right then.  I spotted Bones and the girls laughing about some fool thing down by the finish line. Jeanie looked up expectantly and waved, but I just waved back, and they went out of sight toward the carnival rides.  Bunny Morris and his two bodyguards were down by the finish line arguing with the judge who was flanked by Sheriff Hitzfelter and his deputy, Harold.  Bunny wasn't going to win that argument. Not in Kendall County.

         When I finally got to the parking lot, Otho came over to me, and took my arm, urging me toward the car.  We didn't speak. Nearby, Joe Don was putting his lady into his Lincoln.  He gave Otho a small smile and touched his hat brim, as if in salute.  Werner was already there, drinkin' a beer when we got to the T-Bird.

         "Did ya' make any money, today, Kid?" Werner blurted.

         "Well, I was doin' all right until the last race. Then I blew four-fifty.  Ya got another beer?"  He tossed me one.

         "Damn, Kid, how'd ya' manage to do that?"  Werner grinned, obviously wanting to know how badly I’d screwed up so he could laugh.

         "I lost two hundred on Easy Dream and two-fifty more on "Blue Monday" is how.  But then I guess y'all must be down on the last race too?"  It was a snide, rhetorical question.

         "Why, Hell, no.  Otho and me were on Black Hole. Had two hundred on him for each of us with that damn Mexican Alex at fifteen to one. I caught him tryin' to sneak out to his car without payin' off too, but I was watchin' out for that.  Good thing I had my little persuader with me.” He pulled out his derringer.”  Sumbitch paid up, by God, but he was a crybaby about it."

         I looked at Werner with new respect.

         "Why, I tell ya' these damn race meetings are gettin' to be fulla crooks."  Werner said and burst into laughter as he pulled out a big roll of bills and handed me my share. 

         Otho started laughing with Werner and before long I did too.

         "Let's go, Son. It's been a long and tryin' day," said Otho.

                It purely had.