this guy
he’s got a crazy eye
and he’s brown
a dark brown from the sun
the Hollywood and Western sun
the racetrack sun
he sees me and he says,
“hey, Hawley’s leaving town
for a week. he messes up
my handicapping. now
I’ve got a chance.”
he’s grinning, he means it:
with Hawley out of town
he’s going to move toward
that castle in the Hollywood Hills;
dancing girls
six German Shepherds
a drawbridge,
ten year old
wine.
Sam the Whorehouse Man
walks up and I tell Sam that
I am clearing $150 a day
at the track.
“I work right off the
toteboard,” I tell him.
“I need a girl,” he tells me,
“who can belt-buckle a guy
without coming out with all
this Christian moral bullshit
afterwards.”
“Hawley’s leaving town,”
I tell Sam.
“where’s the Shoe?”
he asks.
“back east,” says an old man
who’s standing there.
he has a white plastic shield
over his left eye
with little holes
punched into it.
“that leaves it all to Pinky,”
says dark brown.
we all stand looking at each
other.
then
a silent signal given
we turn away
and start walking, each
in a different direction:
north south east west.
we know something.