Improving the Bookies

I had never been to a horse race before since they're illegal in my state. So when a fellow I know claimed he had a really golden buy in both the first and the ninth at Suffolk, I jumped at the chance to tag along. You've got to understand, this guy is no professional tout. Mike has practically worked his way through school helping long-shot jockeys boot 'cm across with controlled body English. Besides, it was opening day; you know, sort of like Ascot or Churchill Drowns only with chinos and beer.

My date claimed to know practically nothing, except that she used to go every year to the Derby (she said Darby and spoke like a Southerner because she comes from Virginia). Everyone calls her Casey, which is a nickname, I suppose, since that's no first name for a girl.

Waiting around, before the first race, we saw the horses walking over to the track. Mike looked at them real close and made some marks I didn't understand on his form sheet. This form sheet business is pretty funny, and I didn't understand the either, because it's in English but doesn't seem to say much of anything.

Well, Mike said that he liked "Teddy's Imp," but that I should back "Musical Lady" to place, because the odds were better for a small wager. Casey just looked at the animals, then smiled.

"Ah think that Debmode is a pretty hoses," she said, "Just look at her. Now isn't that pretty! Ah guess two dollars wouldn't do any harm to her nose." Debmode paid over eight dollars, followed by two outside long shots.

And that's nearly the way it went all afternoon. Not that she always won. Once, when she picked "Scipio," I followed her advice and we both lost when the animal ran second. But by the ninth she had five winners and "Scipio" for a second. Mike was busy over the form sheet, trying to climb out of a ten dollar hole, while I, who had taken the right advice all at the wrong times, had pretty much given up.

"Omm Paul's going to romp with this one," Mike claimed. "It's practically a boat race. every form sheet has Omm Paul out front all the way. He's The Clocker's. Delight you know: dollars and more dollars. This one is my Get Even Special for the afternoon."

"Well," said Casey, "Ah just can't say. He does look good, but Ah don't believe he's got the breeding for it all the way. Now Silent Mirth seems in space, and the odds are just up for a show bet."

"Say, Casey," I threw in, "do you suppose your horse could pull a second? The price would be even nicer, and it sure would be fine to break even."

"Oh, Ah don't truly know a thing about it, an 'Mike's probably right after all, but that Silent Mirth appears awfully pretty."

We left to place the bets, and by the time I returned with two show stubs on Casey's choice, she had bought a fifty dollar chunk of Omm Paul's nose. The horses left the gate well, and Mike was right; his animal was good--good enough to cop an easy second.

But the winner was not Silent Mirth as you would expect because it happens to Donald O'Connor in the best movies. No, a 12-1 beast, well-named "Outland," pulled ahead in the stretch and finished strong. Casey was awfully sorry about Mike's mistake, and because she had talked me into another wasted two-bill.

"Ah'm just terrible at the races," she explained. "It's geography troubles, Ah guess-absolutely cannot puzzle out these Yankee hoses and riders."