The only good Lawyer

European aristocrats. If I was reading the stats correctly, the dogs ranged in weight by five pounds to either side of seventy, which seemed heavy to me, given how emaciated they looked.
    “Under two minutes to post time. Under two for the seventh.”
    The crowd in the viewing area watched the oval track, even though I didn’t see anything going on out there. Mainly male and mostly white, there was a smattering of black and Asian faces, usually in small groups. None of the African-Americans was Grover Gant, though.
    I drifted to the betting counter^ overhearing the short, one-sided conversations.
    “Two dollars to win on number Four.”
    “Gimme a ten-dollar Quiniela on Two and Seven.”
    “Five bucks to show on the Six dog.”
    As I stood near the counter, one of the employees behind it, wearing a white, placket-collared shirt, said, “You want to place a wager?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Good,” he replied. “Don’t get in the habit, believe me. Look around the room, see what you’re in for, you do.”
    I did look around the room, but still no Grover Gant. People smoking like chimneys mingled with others slumping in chairs or shuffling on canes, crutches, and even a few four-footed walkers. Behind me, a guy named “Richie” and a woman named “Jayme” discovered they owned houses just blocks from each other.
    I saw three middle-aged black men, standing near a pillar. Two wore Houston Rockets ball caps, all looked to be in good shape.
    The P.A. announced, “The greyhounds are entering the starting box. It’s post time.”
    As I approached the black guys, one said to the other, “That’s what I heard.”
    “It all come back on Rashid, playing in that thirty-five-and-over league like he was.”
    “I know, man, but you ain’t that bad yourself.”
    “The hell I ain’t. Doctor says I got to have his operation, too.”
    “What operation is that?”
    “The one like Rashid have in his knee.”
    To the closest guy, I said, “Excuse me,” just as the P.A. chimed in with, “There goes Swifty!”
    The black guy held up his hand. “After the race run out, man.”
    I watched with him as eight or ten dogs tried in vain to catch a white, mechanical rabbit on a horizontal bar. The bar was attached to a motorized cart that rolled on narrow-gauge metal rails around the inside edge of the track itself. The race was all over in thirty seconds or so.
    “Damn that number Five,” said the man I’d spoken to. “You could time that pig with a sundial.” Turning to me, “Now, what you be wanting?”
    “I was wondering if you’d seen Grover Gant.”
    “Grover?” said the other.
    “His mother told me he’d be here.”
    “Oh, he here, all right,” the first guy gesturing with a pari-mutuel ticket toward the track. “It ain’t snowing or shit, Grover like to stand by the puppies at the rail, talk to them.”
    “Dummy-ass think it help him,” said the other.
    As the people standing outside made their way toward us, I could spot Gant near the fence. “Appreciate it.”
    The first man let the ticket flutter from his hand to the floor. “While you out there, ask Grover will he tell that Five dog to please take himself a dump before the next time he racing.”
    “I’ll do that,” I said, moving against the crowd and toward the track.
    Outside, the sun shone brightly from the west as a commuter train lumbered north on the far side of the grounds. Grover Gant was doodling with a red Flair pen on his racing form as a white guy spoke to him.
    The P.A. voice said, “We have a field of juveniles for the next race. Open the floodgates for the first pup, a clear favorite in the eighth. Post time in eleven minutes.”
    As I drew close enough to hear the white guy, he was saying, “Fuck, that’s four races in a row without a payoff.”
    Gant never looked up from his program. “So, what are you gonna do?”
    “I don’t know, Grover, but I’m sick of these goddamn skinny greyhounds. You ever hear of any place races dalmatians?”
    “Dalmatians?” Now Gant did look up. “Why the fuck would anybody race dalmatians?”
    “I don’t know. They just look... healthier, I guess.”
    When Gant shook his head and went back to his form, the white guy moved off. I waited until he was thirty feet away before saying, “Nice day to be out in the air.”
    “Hey, man.” Gant shifted his feet to face me. “Taking my advice, right?”
    “Your advice.”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Gant swept his hand toward the