I would have paid money to see you and my man Bill on the track? Even if he is a Giants fan.
I find Bill Baber at the horse races. He’s tanned, chilled, and in no mood for bullshit. He’s won a fistful from the 1.15 and he looks full of beans about his chances for the 1.45.
But that’s when he spots me. The swig of red wine sprays out his mouth along with a dozen or so cusses, and he pushes through the crowd to get away.
I lock onto his slim frame as he bobs between the masses. A woman makes way, a man raises his beer bottles high to avoid spillage. Bill’s a bull, rampant down this Spanish street of a crowd, and some bloated man in an oversized red cap is horned over by my man’s double-fisted getaway.
I’m not far behind, just need to keep sight of him. He ducks left, dodges right, and … damn, he charges onto the track. It’s 1.44 and thirty-five seconds…
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