Mohawk

enough to know it wouldn’t win him any points with Mather Grouse. “How would you handle it?”
    “I would report the infraction to the umpire.”
    Price smiled. “And that would stop your leg bleeding?”
    “Perhaps not,” Mather Grouse said. “But you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you played honorably.”
    Price’s grin broadened a little. “I never thought of it that way.”
    Anne smiled too. She suddenly realized she was very fond of Price. In fact, she might even be in love.

35
    As usual, Dallas stopped at the OTB on his way to work, just long enough to pick up the sheets and see what was going on. The hard core were already there, milling around, scratching their three-day beards, looking for a sign. Several said hello and asked Dallas what was happening. He had no idea, and believing him, they asked who the hell did. The track, Dallas told them. The track had a pretty good idea what was going on. Untemeyer, the bookie, came in, caught the end of the conversation and smiled.
    “Meyer here knows how to beat the track,” Dallas said.
    “Go soak your head,” Untemeyer said. “Younger the Outlaw. I’m going to have you raided one of these days. I got connections.”
    “You also got thirty million dollars in quarters buried someplace. How about letting somebody else make a buck or two. You gotta have it all?”
    “I don’t get shit anymore, now that it’s all taxed and legal,” the old bookie said. “Younger the Outlaw.”
    He tried to duck away, but Dallas was too quick. Catching him by the elbow, Dallas held up the man’s hand so that the ring on Untemeyer’s stubby finger caught the light. “When you die, I’ll be waiting rightaround the corner with a hacksaw,” said Dallas, making a ripping sound in the back of his throat. Untemeyer was tired of the old joke, but the other men, who’d seen the routine just as many times, still enjoyed it.
    “I’ll swallow the goddam thing,” Untemeyer growled, “before I let you get your hands on it.”
    “I’d get it anyway,” Dallas smiled. “You ever gut a trout?”
    “You probably would, you bastard.” He gestured toward the door.
    Dallas and the bookie stepped outside, where Untemeyer had to puff harder on his cigar to effectively foul the air. Even in the hottest weather, Dallas had never seen him when he wasn’t wearing a baggy suit, usually black alpaca, with a slightly yellowed white shirt and black tie.
    “You were married to that Grouse girl for a while, right?
    Dallas nodded. “So?”
    “So nothing,” said Untemeyer. “See her much?”
    “I bet I haven’t run into her three times in the last five years. Last year, at my kid’s high school graduation, was the last time.”
    “The old lady still alive?”
    “Her mother? You couldn’t kill her with a hammer. What is this—you thinking about getting hitched again?”
    “Take off.”
    “Not a bad idea, Meyer.”
    “Get moving.”
    “You’re never too old.”
    “Like hell. I’m too old. You too, prob’ly.”
    “Too smart, you mean.”
    “In a hundred years, maybe.”
    “Take care, Meyer.”
    “Sure thing.”
    “And take care of that ring.”
    When Dallas closed the door behind him, the telephone was ringing. It was Benny D., his former boss, wanting to put a yard and a half down on a horse running at Santa Anita. Dallas found the horse and whistled. “I’ll have to check.”
    “What?” said Benny D.
    “What, your ass. You know what.”
    “What?”
    “The son-of-bitch’ll go off twenty to one. That’s a lot of action.”
    “You booking horses or not?”
    “I’ll get back to you.”
    Dallas tossed his coat in the corner and turned on the television. The room was big, once the offices of a closed-down department store, and it looked bare with just the sofa and television, and a black phone sitting on the stray kitchen chair. There was a good view from the curtainless window—the length of Main Street from the Four Corners all the way up to Fourth, and from the third floor Dallas could even see Myrtle Park. This was pretty much the same view he had from his high-school apartment, which was only three doors down before the wrecker got it.
    Benny D. must be on to something. He was a regular, popping for four or five bets a day. The double always. A race here and there, the triple. He was pretty sharp, too, but he usually bet five or ten, usually at Belmont. Only twice before had he popped for a hundred. Both times at the California track.