life I live gives me enough grit and hard times to make my music real.
Moms Mahood doesn’t mind. Moms runs the rooming house where I live. It’s not much. I got the only room with a small balcony overlooking the backyard, and I sit out there and play on evenings I’m not booked. All Moms cares about is if I have the rent come the end of the week. I’ve been late a few times, but I’m always good for it.
I’m twenty-three years old. I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t own a car. But I can play a guitar that’ll shuck the husk right off a cob of corn from fifty feet away. I’m going to be a bluesman. They’re gonna say my name right along with John Lee Hooker and Howlin’ Wolf and Stevie Ray Vaughan. That’s my dream.
I’m going to win big money at the track too. That’s my other dream. Because there’s always a sure thing hiding in the numbers on the racing form. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I just choose to believe it.
CHAPTER TWO
S o there’s this filly running in the third race named Ocean’s Folly. I keep staring from my race form to the tote board. I can’t believe my luck. No one is putting any money on this horse, and her odds are sitting at thirty to one. That’s a sixty-dollar payout on a two-dollar bet. When I check the numbers, I get excited. She’s only run a few times, and from the looks of things, she’s what a casual fan would call a “flier and die-er.” In three of her four races she’s run at the front, then fallen off coming around the last turn. But she has great early speed.
Now she’s in a race with veteran horses, and not one of them is a nag. All of them have speed. The race is a mile long, and she’s placed in the fifth position coming out of the gate. It gives her lots of room to move. According to the tote board, everyone seems to be choosing the favorite, a big roan gelding called Majestic Image. He’s won three races over the last year at this same level of competition.
But what I see in the numbers is a young, fast horse trained for this distance. You could almost write off Ocean’s Folly’s first few races as training runs. She’s just run to build up her familiarity with the distance. No other horse can match her for pure blazing speed out of the gate. As I scan each of her races, I see that she’s been stretching that speed out. Now I see that the trainer and the jockey will let her have her head in the back stretch, and it’ll be up to the field to try and catch her.
I’m so excited that my legs are bouncing up and down. The tote board numbers don’t change on her. I have twelve dollars in tip money left after paying admission, buying a racing form and a program. Even if I only bet ten bucks, that’s over three hundred dollars if she wins. I can’t believe my luck.
“Got a hot one, do you?”
I look up, and there’s a big, beefy white guy looking at me and smiling. He’s got one leg crossed over the other and one arm across the back of the seat. The ring on his finger has to be worth a few grand. He’s dressed to kill in a white linen suit and designer shoes.
“Nah,” I say. “Not really. This one’s pretty set with Majestic Image.”
He nods. “Hard to go against his record. There’s no cabbage in the action though. Odds are too low. Who do you like?”
“No one really.”
“That’s not what your legs say.” He gives me a level look that I have to turn away from. His eyes are piercing. He stands and moves to sit beside me and offers his hand. “Win Hardy,” he says.
“Win?” I ask.
“Short for Winslow. Never took much to that. Win feels better.”
“Cree,” I say, shaking his hand. “Cree Thunderboy.”
He laughs. “Now that’s a handle and a half. So who do you like, Mr. Thunderboy?”
“Maybe the nine horse. The odds are long, but in this kinda race you have to go that way to make anything.”
“You always bet to win?”
“Don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” he says and smiles. His teeth are
Moms Mahood doesn’t mind. Moms runs the rooming house where I live. It’s not much. I got the only room with a small balcony overlooking the backyard, and I sit out there and play on evenings I’m not booked. All Moms cares about is if I have the rent come the end of the week. I’ve been late a few times, but I’m always good for it.
I’m twenty-three years old. I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t own a car. But I can play a guitar that’ll shuck the husk right off a cob of corn from fifty feet away. I’m going to be a bluesman. They’re gonna say my name right along with John Lee Hooker and Howlin’ Wolf and Stevie Ray Vaughan. That’s my dream.
I’m going to win big money at the track too. That’s my other dream. Because there’s always a sure thing hiding in the numbers on the racing form. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I just choose to believe it.
CHAPTER TWO
S o there’s this filly running in the third race named Ocean’s Folly. I keep staring from my race form to the tote board. I can’t believe my luck. No one is putting any money on this horse, and her odds are sitting at thirty to one. That’s a sixty-dollar payout on a two-dollar bet. When I check the numbers, I get excited. She’s only run a few times, and from the looks of things, she’s what a casual fan would call a “flier and die-er.” In three of her four races she’s run at the front, then fallen off coming around the last turn. But she has great early speed.
Now she’s in a race with veteran horses, and not one of them is a nag. All of them have speed. The race is a mile long, and she’s placed in the fifth position coming out of the gate. It gives her lots of room to move. According to the tote board, everyone seems to be choosing the favorite, a big roan gelding called Majestic Image. He’s won three races over the last year at this same level of competition.
But what I see in the numbers is a young, fast horse trained for this distance. You could almost write off Ocean’s Folly’s first few races as training runs. She’s just run to build up her familiarity with the distance. No other horse can match her for pure blazing speed out of the gate. As I scan each of her races, I see that she’s been stretching that speed out. Now I see that the trainer and the jockey will let her have her head in the back stretch, and it’ll be up to the field to try and catch her.
I’m so excited that my legs are bouncing up and down. The tote board numbers don’t change on her. I have twelve dollars in tip money left after paying admission, buying a racing form and a program. Even if I only bet ten bucks, that’s over three hundred dollars if she wins. I can’t believe my luck.
“Got a hot one, do you?”
I look up, and there’s a big, beefy white guy looking at me and smiling. He’s got one leg crossed over the other and one arm across the back of the seat. The ring on his finger has to be worth a few grand. He’s dressed to kill in a white linen suit and designer shoes.
“Nah,” I say. “Not really. This one’s pretty set with Majestic Image.”
He nods. “Hard to go against his record. There’s no cabbage in the action though. Odds are too low. Who do you like?”
“No one really.”
“That’s not what your legs say.” He gives me a level look that I have to turn away from. His eyes are piercing. He stands and moves to sit beside me and offers his hand. “Win Hardy,” he says.
“Win?” I ask.
“Short for Winslow. Never took much to that. Win feels better.”
“Cree,” I say, shaking his hand. “Cree Thunderboy.”
He laughs. “Now that’s a handle and a half. So who do you like, Mr. Thunderboy?”
“Maybe the nine horse. The odds are long, but in this kinda race you have to go that way to make anything.”
“You always bet to win?”
“Don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” he says and smiles. His teeth are
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