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Never Sell the Horses Short
Odd Lot
October 18, 1971
At least that was the attitude of a bettor who set out to prove he could make (?) more money playing the ponies at Aqueduct than a stockbroker could gambling on Wall Street
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October 18, 1971

Never Sell The Horses Short

At least that was the attitude of a bettor who set out to prove he could make (?) more money playing the ponies at Aqueduct than a stockbroker could gambling on Wall Street

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FIRST RACE—The Annual Summer Rally Handicap, $2,000 added; aging maidens; those without Dun & Bradstreet's allowed 6 lbs. Won, just in the nick of time. Pace, desultory.

P.P. Ltr

Starters

Weight

Str

Fin

1—A

Odd Lot

114

1[2]

1[6]

1[1nk]

1[3]

2—B

Mysterious Mr. Margin

120?

2

2

2

2

ODD LOT broke on top, opened up a long lead down the backstretch, withstood a stout challenge in the final turn, and despite sloppy handling, maintained his advantage. He collapsed two steps past the finish line and was humanely destroyed. MYSTERIOUS MR. MARGIN raced greenly early, rallied and found his best stride at the � pole and then hung.

I walked down the long hall and entered the large office nervously. They were waiting for me. They ended a conversation abruptly—too abruptly—as I was ushered through the door. I knew they had been discussing me. The big boss grunted, leaned back in his chair and nodded for me to take the seat directly across from him.

I didn't ask any questions and tried not to look frightened as he stared at me, wordlessly, punctuating the silence only with the rapping of a long, thin cane on the floor. I could tell the girl was looking at me, too, sizing me up from the side. I recognized her and was not surprised that the big boss had included her in this caper. She was tall and leggy, leaning up against the window, twisting a Venetian blind cord felinely.

The man raised himself from his seat and strode across the room, turning at last and jabbing the cane in my direction. "We have a job for you," he said. I nodded. I had done business with them before and knew better than to be inquisitive. "It's a special kind of an assignment," he went on, adjusting his waistband at a spot where, I mused, a man might conceal a small pistol, were he so inclined. "There could be a lot of money in it for you," he said.

"How much?" I asked.

"Depends." He punched the floor with the stick.

"Depends on what kind of a job you do," the girl said, and she yanked the cord, pulling a knot out of it and holding it taut in her hands. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed, and over the girl's shoulder, out the window, I could see a hawk moving in large circles in the darkening sky.

"All right," I said, and immediately I heard the door close quietly behind me. There was no turning back.

The big boss sat down and the girl tossed a folder on his desk. He flipped it open with the tip of his cane and pointed at the top sheet. "There's a new money game in town," he said, "and we want to get in on it."

"I'm your man," I said.

"It's no pushover," the girl said. "It won't be easy."

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