The jockey drew up the left corner of his mouth in a stiff jeer. His eyes lowered to the food spread out on the table, but instantly he looked up again. Before the rich man was a fish casserole, baked in a cream sauce and garnished with parsley. Sylvester had ordered eggs Benedict. There was asparagus, fresh buttered corn, and a side dish of wet black olives. A plate of French-fried potatoes was in the corner of the table before the jockey. He didnt look at the food again, but kept his pinched eyes on the center piece of full-blown lavender roses. "I dont suppose you remember a certain person by the name of McGuire," he said.
"Oh, the jockey," said the rich man. He was facing the wall and he half turned his head to look behind him. "Ask him over."
"Sure enough, Bitsy," said Sylvester. "What makes you act like this? You hear from the kid today?"
Sylvester clucked his tongue and shook his head. "I realize how you feel."
"Yeah. They were particular friends," Sylvester said. "You would always find him up in Bitsys hotel room. They would be playing rummy or else lying on the floor reading the sports page together."
"Honestly," begged Sylvester. "You got to behave reasonable."
"It was what happened in Miami," said Simmons.
"Why dont I go up to my god-damn room and walk around and write some letters and go to bed like a good boy? Why dont I just --" He pushed his chair back and got up. "Oh, foo," he said. "Foo to you. I want a drink."
The jockey didnt answer. He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket and snapped it open. Inside were a few cigarettes and a tiny gold penknife. He used the knife to cut a cigarette in half. When he had lighted his smoke he held up his hand to a waiter passing by the table. "Kentucky bourbon, please."
&99lib.netquot;I wouldnt know," said the rich man. "It may very well be so."
THE JOCKEY came to the doorway of the dining room, then after a moment stepped to one side and stood motionless, with his back to the wall. The room was crowded, as this was the third day of the season and all the hotels in the town were full. In the dining room bouquets of August roses scattered their petals on the white table linen and from the adjoining bar came a warm, drunken wash of voices. The jockey waited with his back to the wall and scrutinized the room with pinched, crêpy eyes. He examined the room until at last his eyes reached a table in a corner diagonally across from him, at which three men were sitting. As he watched, the jockey raised his chin and tilted his head back to one side, his dwarfed body grew rigid, and his hands stiffened so that the fingers curled inward like gray claws. Tense against the wall of the dining room, he watched and waited in this way.
Sylvester put his knife and fork down carefully on his plate. The rich man shifted his position, turning sidewise in his chair and crossing his legs. He was dressed in twill riding pants, unpolished boots, and a shabby brown jacket -- this was his outfit day and night in the racing season, although he was never seen on a horse. Simmons went on with his dinner.
His prim voice had risen higher and there was about it the sharp whine of hysteria.
"Reasonable! Reasonable!" The jockeys gray face quivered, then set in a mean, frozen grin. He shook the table so that the plates rattled, and for a moment it seemed that he would push it over. But suddenly he stopped. His hand reached out toward the plate nearest to him and deliberately he put a few of the French-fried potatoes in his mouth. He chewed slowly, his upper lip raised, then he turned and spat out the pulpy mouthful on the smooth red carpet which covered the floor. "Libertines," he said, and 九_九_藏_书_网his voice was thin and broken. He rolled the word in his mouth, as though it had a flavor and a substance that gratified him. "You libertines," he said again, and turned and walked with his rigid swagger out of the dining room.
"Had dinner?" Sylvester asked.
"They claim that in August Saratoga is the wealthiest town per capita in the world." Sylvester turned to the rich man. "What do you think?"
"Well," said the jockey. "Doesnt somebody want me to pass them something? Or maybe perhaps you desire to re-order. Another hunk of beefsteak, gentlemen, or --"
"All I can say is its your funeral," said Sylvester. "You know what it does to you. You know well enough."
Sylvester turned to the rich man. "If he eats a lamb chop, you can see the shape of it in his stomach a hour afterward. He cant sweat things out of him any more. Hes a hundred and twelve and a half. Hes gained three pounds since we left Miami."
"Well, I wouldnt call him that exactly," said Sylvester. "Ive known him a long time. He was O.K. until about six months ago. But if he goes on like this, I cant see him lasting another year. I just cant."
"Now, listen, Kid," said Sylvester.
Simmons cut into his beefsteak. He held his fork prongs downward on the plate and carefully piled on mushrooms with the blade of his knife. "Hes crazy," he repeated. "He gives me the creeps."
"Please," said Sylvester. "Be reasonable. Why dont you go on upstairs?"
"Yes, why dont I?" the jockey said.
"A jockey shouldnt drink," said the rich man.
It was Sylvester who first saw the jockey. He looked away quickly, put down his whiskey glass, and nervously mashed the tip of his red nose with his thumb. "Its Bitsy Barlow," he said. "Standing over there across the room. Just watching us."
"The food donwww.99lib.nett satisfy him like it used to and he cant sweat it out. If he eats a lamb chop, you can watch it tooching out in his stomach and it dont go down."
"I received a letter," the jockey said. "The certain person we were speaking about was taken out from the cast on Wednesday. One leg is two inches shorter than the other one. Thats all."
"Some people might call it that." The jockeys voice was high, bitter, clear.
"What?" asked the rich man.
Sylvester glanced across the room at the jockey and wet the corner of his mouth with his red, fleshy tongue. "A accident. A kid got hurt on the track. Broke a leg and a hip. He was a particular pal of Bitsys. A Irish kid. Not a bad rider, either."
The three men at the corner table were a trainer, a bookie, and a rich man. The trainer was Sylvester -- a large, loosely built fellow with a flushed nose and slow blue eyes. The bookie was Simmons. The rich man was the owner of a horse named Seltzer, which the jockey had ridden that afternoon. The three of them drank whiskey with soda, and a white-coated waiter had just brought on the main course of the dinner.
"Like a spot of seltzer water?" asked Sylvester. "Or something like that?"
"Dont Kid me."
The trainer and the bookie had finished eating, but there was food left on the serving dishes before their plates. The rich man dipped his buttery fingers in his water glass and wiped them with his napkin.
"Be reasonable. You know you got to behave reasonable."
"God no," Sylvester said.
"Well, those things happen," said the rich man.
"Thats a pity," said the rich man.
"Do you?" The jockey was looking at the dishes on the table. His gaze passed from the fish casserole to the corn, and finally fixed on the plate of fried potatoes. His face tightened and quickly he looked up again. A rose shattered and he picked up one of the petals, 99lib.netbruised it between his thumb and forefinger, and put it in his mouth.
He was wearing a suit of green Chinese silk that evening, tailored precisely and the size of a costume outfit for a child. The shirt was yellow, the tie striped with pastel colors. He had no hat with him and wore his hair brushed down in a stiff, wet bang on his forehead. His face was drawn, ageless, and gray. There were shadowed hollows at his temples and his mouth was set in a wiry smile. After a time he was aware that he had been seen by one of the three men he had been watching. But the jockey did not nod; he only raised his chin still higher and hooked the thumb of his tense hand in the pocket of his coat.
All the tables in the dining room were occupied. There was a party at the banquet table in the center, and green-white August moths had found their way in from the night and fluttered about the clear candle flames. Two girls wearing flannel slacks and blazers walked arm in arm across the room into the bar. From the main street outside came the echoes of holiday hysteria.
"Now, listen," said Sylvester.
"Hes crazy," Simmons said. The bookies voice was flat and without inflection. He had the face of a born gambler, carefully adjusted, the expression a permanent deadlock between fear and greed.
He walked back to the dining room and to the table at which the three men were sitting, but he did not sit down. "No, I wouldnt presume to think your memory is that extensive," he said. He was so small that the edge of the table top reached almost to his belt, and when he gripped the corner with his wiry hands he didnt have to stoop. "No, youre too busy gobbling up dinners in dining rooms. You"re too --"
The waiter brought the whiskey, and the jockey sat fondling the glass with his small, strong, callused hands. On his wrist was a gold link bracelet that clinked against the table edge. After turning the glass between his palms, the jock九九藏书网ey suddenly drank the whiskey neat in two hard swallows. He set down the glass sharply. "No, I dont suppose your memory is that long and extensive," he said.
The jockey had left the wall and was approaching the table in the corner. He walked with a prim strut, swinging out his legs in a half-circle with each step, his heels biting smartly into the red velvet carpet on the floor. On the way over he brushed against the elbow of a fat woman in white satin at the banquet table; he stepped back and bowed with dandified courtesy, his eyes quite closed. When he had crossed the room he drew up a chair and sat at a corner of the table, between Sylvester and the rich man, without a nod of greeting or a change in his set, gray face.
Daintily, Simmons wiped his greasy mouth with the tip of his forefinger. "How about Hollywood? And Wall Street --"
"Wait," said Sylvester. "Hes decided to come over here."
Sylvester shrugged one of his loose, heavy shoulders. The rich man sopped up some water that had been spilled on the tablecloth, and they didnt speak until the waiter came to clear away.
The jockey crossed the dining room and went into the bar. He ordered a Manhattan, and Sylvester watched him stand with his heels pressed tight together, his body hard as a lead soldiers, holding his little finger out from the cocktail glass and sipping the drink slowly.
The jockey finished his Manhattan. He swallowed, crushed the cherry in the bottom of the glass with his thumb, then pushed the glass away from him. The two girls in blazers were standing at his left, their faces turned toward each other, and at the other end of the bar two touts had started an argument about which was the highest mountain in the world. Everyone was with somebody else; there was no other person drinking alone that night. The jockey paid with a brand-new fifty-dollar bill and didnt count the change.
