***

Copyright Walter LeCroy 2007

That Zorro Guy 

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players,

They have their exits and entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

--Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act III, Sc. 7, Line 139

  Over the years, I have had many hobbies, some of which did not last long, but one that has entertained me as far back as I can remember is "people watching." I can see a story in every person I meet, no matter how humble or haughty.

  One of my favorite locales for people watching in the 1960s was the intersection of Chihuahua and San Francisco Streets in El Paso, Texas. The intersection was a popular hangout for soldiers, veterans and others. Chihuahua Street ran only as far north as San Francisco, which ran east and west.  On the southwest corner of the intersection, stood the Armed Forces YMCA and USO, usually called just the "Y." On the ground floor of the Y, there were game rooms, a gymnasium, a restaurant and a television lounge. In the basement there was a dorm where a soldier could crash on an Army cot for 50 cents, play handball or do his laundry. On the upper two stories of the Y one could rent a private room for about three dollars.

  Due east, and across the street from the Y was the Greyhound bus station, which, fromed the southeast corner of Chihuahua and San Francisco.  in the nortwest corner of the building was one of those the Post House restaurants, now gone the way of the famous Harvey Houses of the train passenger terminals.

  Above the Greyhound Station, was the west sing of the Knox Hotel a two-story building on top of the Grehound Terminal.  The west wing had apparently been annexed to the main Knox Hotel building from a different hotel years before.  The main Knox Hotel was a five-story building immediately east of the Greyhound Terminal.  

  Two blocks south of the Greyhound terminal was the Continental bus terminal, and two blocks west of the Greyhound Terminal was the Union Train Depot, once a very busy place with reportedly dozens of passenger trains stopping there every day.  By 1967, the period of this story, it had been reduced to only one, the Amtrak.

North of the Greyhound terminal, running east and west, was  San Francisco Street. The northernmost block of Chihuahua Street ended at the intersection with San Francisco. Lining the north side of San Francisco Street was an adobe wall that lined the north side of the street. The far east end of the wall with a small gap where only a pedestrian could enter or exit the Southern Pacific freight yards. The gap, apparently for  the use of railroad train and maintenance crews, was only a short distance west of the east end of a long, underground train tunnel that ran under El Paso’s downtown skyscrapers.

  East of where the adobe wall ended, across the street from the Greyhound terminal, there were a barbershop and several cheap rooming houses.

  Needless to say, the "stage setting" discribed above afforded a "people watcher" some interesting characters.   Some of the "actors" emerged from the train tunnels and the freight yards, and showed up at the Post House, or checked into one of the flophouses in the vicinoty, or panhandled inside, or around, the lobby of the bus terminal. Others slept in hobo jungles alongside the railroad tracks on the north side of the wall, or inside the tunnel, within the recessed crevasses that housed large electric junction boxes.  The two bus terminals and the train terminals themselves sometimes functioned as stage entrances for many characters who came and went as turbulently as the west Texas wind that came roaring through the famous Pass of the North, only a mile west of the intersection.

  At both restaurants of the intersection, the "Y" and the Greyohound, transients, soldiers, veterans and policemen could enjoy cheap meals and exchange stories over cups of coffee and flirt with the waitresses. There were other small, less frequented cafés along the south side of San Francisco Street, east of the Greyhound terminal, and more low-budget hotels. 

  The most interesting people I met around the terminals were usually not criminals—just people playing their roles on the exciting stage of life. I was forced to "hang out" in the transportation terminals due to frequent job assignments. Normally, it would be a boring job for a plain clothes border guard like me, if his only interest in people was their nationality.

  One of the more intriguing characters in my repository of memories was a young man who used to haunt the Greyhound Bus terminal in El Paso. I doubt that anyone else who knew him that winter and spring of 1967 still remembers him, but to me, he is still as vivid as an excellent painting to an artist.

  For the sake of this account, I’ll call him "Tim the Greyhound Gunslinger." It derived from his manner of dress, consisting of western-style black pants and a black, flat-brimmed, felt hat. His shirt was western-style, white, and adorned with a bolo tie with a tooled leather slide. He had dark hair, green eyes, and his height was elevated to about five-feet-ten with the aid of his black, Wellington boots. He was about twenty-two years old, energetic, and hailed from some obscure small town in the Midwest.

  Tim apparently did not carry a weapon as his garb might suggest. He told me that since his discharge from the Army at nearby Fort Bliss, he had taken a job as a private investigator. Since I saw him so frequently, I assumed he was rooming either at the YMCA across the street, or at the Knox Hotel, upstairs from the passenger lounge of the Greyhound terminal. He was enthused about his job and never missed an opportunity to approach lawmen and talk shop, but he avoided details of his personal life. Tim evoked natural sympathy from veterans like me who remembered our own joy upon returning to civilian life and finding a civilian job. Like Tim, I had become fascinated with El Paso and the border during that stage of my life, and had decided to stay.

  I thought it a little odd that a private investigator would spend so much time around the bus station, but I didn’t want to appear too interested in Tim and spoil a chance to get to know him better. I didn’t challenge anything he told me, but, by nature, I am skeptical about some stories I cannot immediately verify. He did not elaborate on his mission, and that was understandable for a private investigator doing undercover work. I shrugged off my skepticism by concluding that he was perhaps investigating employee theft at the bus station, or shadowing a suspected unfaithful spouse for a client of his company. I did, however, harbor some nagging doubts about his manner of dress. Undercover investigators normally try to blend in with the crowd, not stick out like a shark in a goldfish pond.

  For the time being, I figured that I had nothing to lose by giving Tim the benefit of all doubts. The bus terminal was indeed a good place to be unfaithful if a spouse were looking to pick up strange company of the opposite sex, since the Knox Hotel was directly over the terminal, and the Post House restaurant, another popular place of rendezvous, along with the Grehound Terminal, was under the Knox Hotel.  Its transitory nature sometimes made the hotel a convenient place for trysts between locals as well as a scene of ephemeral romances between travelers. Hotel guests were oblivious to the fact that soldiers could sit in the lobby of the Y watching television and glance 45 degrees upward to see through the window curtains of the Knox that were much more sheer than the temporary bedmates realized. Soldiers could thereby gather a few interesting weekend stories to share with their comrades back in the barracks.

  As time went by, I got to know the "Greyhound Gunslinger" a little better. I had considered advising Tim to get a job in law enforcement, until one day in an idle moment between my outgoing bus inspections, he sidled up to me to make conversation. The dialogue shifted toward salaries of lawmen. At that time border guards were paid very poorly in comparison to modern times, and did not have a very lucrative retirement plan. I told him how much a border guard earned and he quickly told me he earned twice as much. So much for the idea of suggesting he become a cop. Naturally, I felt a tinge of jealousy, and envied this young upstart, ten years my junior. He had a position that paid more than mine, not to mention a glamorous job where he was apparently his own boss with plenty of freedom and leisure time. In spite of Tim’s boast of how great his personal salary was, my suspicions of the young, private investigator did not quickly abate.

** *

  One rainy day when El Paso’s early-spring, golden poppies graced the easter slopes of the Franklin Mountains, the redolence of love pervaded the air. Unlike most climates, rainy weather in that desert city seems to buoy spirits, and that of my new acquaintance was no exception. I was standing, leaning against the east wall of the passenger lobby, reading the morning paper, trying to look inconspicuous, when Tim came up to me. Beads of rainwater rolled off his black hat onto the tiled, lobby floor, and there was an ebullient dance in his eyes as he pulled a small piece of paper from his billfold and unfolded it.

  "Look what one of the girls where I work gave me," he said. He held a small piece of paper so I could read it, but did not invite me to take it into my hands. Written on the paper was a single line:

  "I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you."

  "That’s nice," I said. "It seems like I’ve seen that line somewhere before."

  For a fleeting moment his brow lowered and his eyes flashed indignation. He gave his head a couple of quick lateral jerks and snapped, "No. She wrote it just for me."

  I defiantly racked my brain for a moment, then remembered where I had seen the line of poetry. I decided to play along and not burst his bubble and tell him that a contemporary poet named Roy Croft wrote the poem that contained that line. It was actually from a wedding poem that had recently become quite popular with the flower children. I smiled inwardly, thinking of the hoots and jeers he’d have harvested if he’d pulled out that poem and shown it to his comrades in the Army barracks. Indulgence in such situations is a trait of mine, born not necessarily of patience, but of curiosity and the discretion necessary to fully appreciate and enjoy the actors on the world’s enormous stage. I thought that when this plot fully unfolds, here might lie the foundation for an interesting story or anecdote that I could store in the recesses of my memory in case events someday make me want to share it.

  That single line of Tim’s girlfriend’s poetry tended to enlighten me more about him. …Not only for what you are…. Some young lady had fallen hard for this guy. He was handsome in a curious sort of way, but if the girl had been my daughter, I’d have warned her that there was something awry in Tim’s façade of a happy-go-lucky life. Even decent girls sometimes throw caution to the wind before certain types of characters. After all, Clyde Barrow had captivated Bonnie Parker, who otherwise might have become a famous poet.

  A few days later, I was taking a coffee break at the Post House lunch counter with a senior partner I’ll call Fred. Just as we were taking the last swallows from our cups, Tim slid onto a vacant stool to my immediate left. I decided it was a good time to press him for more information about his job while appearing to make idle conversation. "How’s the investigator business going?" I asked.

  He looked at me askance as if to ask, "Why should anyone doubt?" He shrugged, nodded rapidly and said, "It’s Good." From his shirt pocket he pulled out a folded, green piece of paper and said, "This is today’s assignment." It was a carbon copy of a form that had several blocks of information on it including an address and a short paragraph of instructions. I did not have time to read all the blocks before he pulled it back, re-folded it and replaced it in his shirt pocket. My partner and I had to leave the Greyhound terminal to check a train at the Union Depot, and while Tim was ordering a piece of apple pie and coffee, I excused myself.

  Fred and I were walking toward our car, which was angle-parked on the opposite side of Chihuahua Street, in front of the Y, and he began to chuckle. He said, "Is that guy for real?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "That assignment that Zorro showed you. I’ve seen those green forms before."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. I immediately recognized that it was issued by a credit bureau, a branch for which my wife briefly worked. Those assignments usually are something like finding out who is driving what car—for insurance companies."

  "Go on. Why do they care?"

  "Well, parents often insure cars in their own names, then turn the car over to a son or daughter under age 25. Insurance rates are often prohibitive for families of modest means when there is an unmarried driver in the family under age 25. And of course they’re interested in non-licensed drivers."

  "Of course."

  "Yeah, and the wages for birddogs who are assigned to find out such information are a joke. They paid my wife about a buck-fifty per assignment. If she worked hard, she might earn six bucks in a good day, but getting the required information sometimes might require staking out a house where driver fraud is suspected. In such a case, the whole day could be spent on a single assignment, earning my wife the net sum of $1.50. On the other hand, it was an easy job, and they even accepted hearsay evidence, if that was all you could get. However, their cases are not for court proceedings. Sometimes, if a bird-dog discovers possible criminal fraud, the credit bureau tells the insurance company and they turn the information over to a professional insurance investigator. Those guys earn twice as much as you and I."

  "Twice as much, huh?" That phrase sounded familiar. "Is it possible to work one’s way up from a bird-dog to an insurance investigator?"

  "Not a chance. I have a friend I used to work with on the Dallas PD, who now is an insurance investigator. He says insurance investigators are usually ex-cops who have also worked a few years in the insurance business."

  As Fred backed the car out of the parking place, he added, "To make a long story short, the compensation for bird-dogging was so little that my wife and I decided it wasn’t worth the effort."

***

  The month of May arrived, and after a few weeks of assignments that had taken me away from the transportation terminals, I was back again. I soon became aware that I had not seen Tim for a spell. I was assigned to the graveyard shift where there were very few unusual characters to entertain me while people watching. In fact, I was as likely to run into fellow raconteurs who loved to tell their own stories—rather than live out their fantasies as Tim did.

  For example, the first night on the graveyard shift, at 3 a.m., I had to check an incoming bus from Mexico at the Continental station. Most of the passengers’ final destination was El Paso—except for one. She was a Puerto Rican woman, apparently in her mid thirties. I had checked her papers when she got off the bus, and she had told me she had a two-hour layover in El Paso while en route to Los Angeles. After the incoming passengers had picked up their baggage and left, the station fell silent again. I headed for the Continental restaurant for coffee.

  The Puerto Rican lady soon entered the restaurant, sat down on a stool at the counter near mine, and ordered coffee. She looked very tired, but fatigue is commonplace for travelers coming from Mexico where there are sometimes great distances between terminals. She nodded shyly at me, indicating that she wanted to engage in conversation.

  I nodded back, smiled and asked her how her trip to Mexico had been. A wry smile came over her face while she mixed cream and sugar with her coffee. She repeated my question in declarative form, "How was my trip…" She brushed her black hair back from her face, rolled her eyes, sighed and said, "Where should I start…I’ve just had the saddest experience of my life." She was blinking back tears.

  "I remember you’re from Puerto Rico," I said, gently. "Do you travel in Mexico much?"

  She shook her head. "No. I went there to look up an old friend I used to work with in a garment factory in Los Angeles. Her name is Lisa. She lived in Leon, Guanajuato."

  I nodded. "That’s pretty deep into the interior of Mexico. It was kind of you to go see her."

  She took a deep breath, hesitated briefly, and continued. "We worked together for nearly ten years in the same factory. She got her legal papers about four months ago and went back to Mexico to see her mother and family. She had not seen them in nearly ten years."

  "I see. She must have missed her family terribly, I mean, unable to go to Mexico without being able to return to L.A."

  She shook her head slowly, not to disagree, but to demonstrate her frustration. She hesitated again, holding her cup of coffee in both hands, staring across the counter toward the coffee maker. She sipped the coffee, shook her head slowly and said, "It rained all the time I was there. Homeless people came from the countryside to sleep in the doorways of the shops in Leon. Puerto Rico is poor, but nothing like Leon, Guanajuato."

  I nodded, but I was also thinking of the drudgery of working in a Los Angeles garment factory, better known as a "sweat shop." Making good, loyal friends was one of the few compensations for the long hours and menial work.

  The Puerto Rican lady continued, "The reason I went was because Lisa had not returned to her job in Los Angeles as she had planned. She only had a two-week vacation—her first two-week vacation ever. I had her address, so I wrote a letter, but I didn’t get an answer. I decided to go see about her."

  "Did you have any trouble finding her?"

  She shook her head. "I found the address all right and met her mother. Her mother lived alone, was old and in poor health." She reached for a napkin and dabbed at her left eye. "She told me that Lisa had died two months earlier with cholera."

  The impact of her words awakened me more than the strong coffee, which suddenly tasted bitter. "I’m so sorry to hear that." I placed my coffee cup on the counter.

  She signed heavily, stared into space behind the counter for a moment, and said, "It’s kind of you to say that." She took another deep breath and added, "I have never been so happy to be back in the United States—but I am going to miss Lisa very much." She looked downward, as if saying a silent prayer.

  I could think of nothing comforting to say, so I excused myself. "I have to go check a bus at Greyhound. You be careful on your trip back to L.A."

  She looked up at me with a brief, painful smile. "I’m sorry to bother you with my troubles. Thanks for listening." she said.

  "It was no bother at all," I replied, knowing that her story was one I’d remember for a long time. For an instant I thought of introducing myself, but decided it was useless. Like so many other people I had met in bus stations, I knew we’d likely never meet again.

  I walked out the west door of the lobby, thinking that the Puerto Rican lady was sort of like the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s famous poem. She needed to tell her story to someone—anyone—and I was perhaps the first suitable listener she’d met on her way back from Mexico. Many travelers have tales that are interesting enough to make a graveyard shift go faster, but the Puerto Rican lady’s left me feeling funereal as I walked past the old San Antonio Hotel, headed for the other terminal. I sometimes wonder why perfect strangers tell me stories that are sometimes very personal and tragic—but most of the time I’m glad that they do. Right now, however, my emotional tank was running on empty as I crossed San Antonio Street, headed for Greyhound.

  My mental faculties were numbed by the Puerto Rican's story, and I was not quite prepared for what I saw when I came in the west door of the Greyhound terminal. There in the lobby, sleeping upright, but slumped down on a passenger seat, was Tim. He was bareheaded, his black hair disheveled, but he still wore his black suit, though it was now badly wrinkled and soiled. On the bench beside him was an olive-colored AWOL bag like soldiers from White Sands Missile Range often carry while on weekend liberty in El Paso. I wondered how long he’d been using the terminal as a sleeping place.

  Near the north side of the passenger waiting area there was a shoeshine stand operated by a lanky, black gentleman in his seventies, named Steve. What little hair he had left was solid white. He was a good people watcher in his own right, and was often a good source of information. He was highly intelligent and explained that his body’s circadian rhythm had been reset by the dark pulse of working over thirty years on the graveyard shift at a nearby smelter. He had thus become a nighthawk, a day sleeper and had surrendered the day shift of his shoeshine stand to a younger man who liked to have free nights. Most septuagenarians develop their own philosophical outlook on life based mostly upon their life’s experiences and astute observations of the human condition, and Steve was no exception. He had good pensions from the smelter and social security and no longer needed to work, but being a people watcher, he was following the course advised by the famous philosopher and novelist, Jean-Paul Sartre: Engageé—stay connected.

  The bus drivers had left open a door leading to the passenger loading area, and the whine of an idling bus’ engines flowed into the waiting area. I climbed up into the seat of Steve’s shoeshine stand and placed my shoes on the footrests. While Steve was brushing the dust off my shoes, I nodded toward Tim and asked him if he knew the fellow. Steve glanced over his shoulder at Tim, then shook his head. "Not personally."

  I said, "He once told me he was a private investigator—and makes twice as much money as I do."

  Steve chuckled and went about applying polish to my shoes. Shaking his head slowly, he said, "I’ve seen him hanging around the station a lot lately, that's all."

  I explained, "I haven’t had bus station duty in a couple of weeks, so I’ve lost track of who hangs out here."

  Steve glanced back at Tim again, to reassure himself as to where he was. Tim might have been in earshot of our conversation were it not for the drone of the bus engines. He continued, "I don’t know him, but I know his type. Sooner or later he’ll get money by knocking someone in the head. I’ll bet you right now he can’t show you two dollars."

  Steve knew a great deal about non-passengers who sleep on passenger benches and could usually size them up pretty well. His cynicism was not without warrant. Criminals hang around the bus stations of any big city. Pickpockets routinely ride buses on late night runs between nearby cities, taking advantage of sleeping victims. Grifters palm off engagement rings made of cheap alloys onto young, naïve GIs fresh out of boot camp that, somehow, had not yet received their "Dear John" letters from the girls they left back home. Although Steve’s perception of Tim was interesting, I could not see Tim being, or becoming, a violent criminal. I had not even seen signs that he drank, much less signs that he would be bold enough to mug somebody.

  From my perch atop the shoeshine stand, I saw Tim awaken, stretch, and with bloodshot eyes, look over his shoulder, straight toward Steve and me, as if he had heard us talking. He frowned, supposedly from the discomfort of sleeping on a passenger bench, and stared blankly at us for an instant. He did not smile or show any sign of recognizing me. The left side of his face was streaked red with finger marks where he’d rested his head, and he looked as if he had not shaved in a day or two. He changed positions in the seat, shifted the weight of his head to his right hand, and again propped his head with his elbow, which rested on one of two aluminum armrests that demarcated a single seat. The armrests discouraged anyone from lying down on the seats and getting too comfortable.

  That night was the last time I would ever see Tim. A few days later, I asked Steve if Tim had been around the terminal.

  Steve shook his head. "No. That morning you were asking me whether I knew him was the last time I saw him. Right at daybreak, I was taking a coffee break in a booth near the window of the Post House and he came out of the station onto Chihuahua Street, turned north, crossed San Francisco Street, and went through the gap in the wall, into the freight yards."

  "The freight yards, huh?"

  "Yeah, and he was still wearin’ the same old wrinkled, black clothes and luggin’ that AWOL bag."

  Today, the Greyhound terminal is gone as well as the entire intersection of Chihuahua and San Francisco Streets. A huge convention and civic center has replaced the locale. There is now a single, consolidated, bus terminal that stands where the Continental terminal used to be. Not gone are the memories, however. I often think about Tim, and wonder what became of him and the girl who wrote him the love note. I will always lament not having an opportunity to hear her tell about her romance with Tim. Unfortunately, I must be satisfied with what my imagination provides. I would expect her to reaffirm what her love note had already evinced: that everyone loves a Don Quixote.

  Tim’s fantasy was a great ride while it lasted; but without dupes or spending money and without an illusion he could share with anyone else, the fantasy had evaporated. When I had seen him sleeping on the passenger seat, he must have recognized me, but there was no sign of humiliation or embarrassment—only a look of annoyance when he saw me looking at him. If he had smiled and greeted me, and come up with a plausible explanation for sleeping in the bus station, I could have sympathized. Maybe I would have even advanced him a few bucks for meals or maybe enough money for a couple nights’ lodging in a nearby flop house until his next payday. However his blank stare told me I was no longer of any use to him, for he must now know that I was never his dupe.

  Tim’s act in El Paso was over, and he had exited the stage through the gap in the wall, on his way to a new stage. If I were a hobo, and had seen him cutting out for parts unknown, I’d have grabbed my own AWOL bag and followed him—just out of curiosity.

The End

**************************************************

 NO HORSE LEFT BEHIND

By

Walter LeCroy

  While awaiting the first race of the day, Jockey Pepe Rodriguez lay down on a locker room bench to rest his eyes before the race. He was especially tired today because he’d sat up all night with a baby that had the colic. He promptly dozed off and began dreaming about how much he’d like to win the next race and take home a big rider’s fee to his wife, Laura.

  The track trumpeter sounded the call to post for the first race of the day at the Border Bend race track, and the horses came onto the track. All horses walked leisurely through the post parade, then drifted toward the north end of the track, and meandered around the final turn where some jockeys kicked their mounts into a sauntering gallop to warm them up. Jake Marrow kicked Equal Equine, into a saunter, and close behind him, his fellow jockey and friend, Tommy Forcet, warmed up Four Score, A little further behind them, yet in earshot, was their friend, jockey Pepe Rodriguez, atop Glazed View.

  By the time they reached the far side of the final turn, Tommy and Pepe caught up with Jake. The bright, spring sun bathed the racetrack with afternoon sunlight that enhanced the colorful scene. The slender, athletically built jockeys looked sharp in their fresh, clean racing silks that shimmered in the bright sun.

  "Well, we have the two best horses," said Tommy to Jake. "It looks like a two way race between me and you, with the rest fighting it out for third place. Our horses will go this one-mile breezing."

  "I’m not so sure about that," challenged Pepe.

  "Truthfully, I’m not so sure either, Pepe," said Jake.

  "What do you mean?" asked Pepe. "My horse is just as good as those you guys are riding."

  "I meant Im not so sure for a different reason." Jake’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as if he were riding the longest shot in the race.

  Tommy parroted Pepe’s question: "Yeah—What do you mean, Jake?"

  "Well, Tommy, your horse and mine have superior breeding, the best times for this race, and our horses have earned, by far, the most money this racing season."

  Jake added, "Right—and good trainers and proper schooling also come into the equation, but…"

  "Mine has the best jockey," injected Pepe.

  Jake’s brow remained furrowed. "Be all that as it may, guys, this racing card is a pilot program to introduce a new and more fair and balanced method of handicapping."

  "How could they make it more fair?" queried Tommy. "Your horse and mine are carrying a hundred and twenty-two pounds for this race. Pepe’s is carrying one-twenty. None of the other eight horses in the race are carrying more than a hundred and fourteen. But we’ll still beat ‘em all easily. It’s in the horses’ breeding and class, I tell you. Trust me, old friend, this is going to be a race between you, Pepe, and me. Tell you what. The two of us that loses to the third, has to take him and his significant other out to dinner tonight."

  "I’ll take part of that action," said Pepe.

  "Done," said Jake. "But if none of us three finishes first, the bet is off. OK?"

  "Fair enough," said Tommy.

  "Fair enough," said Pepe.

  Jake added, "We’d better work our way over toward the starting gate. Post time is in three minutes."

  When they returned in front of the grandstand and approached the starting gate, Tommy said, "Hey, look at the tote board, Jake! "We’re both even money in this race."

  "Yeah—and Pepe is three to one. The fourth choice is six to one."

  "Well, the race is run on the track and not the tote board," said Pepe.

  In a few moments the horses were circling behind the starting gate, and the head gate man gave the word to load up, left to right. Jake and Tommy’s horses were placed into the number 5 and 6 postpositions, respectively, next to each other. Pepe’s horse was loaded into post 7. As he steadied his mount in the gate, Tommy looked around at the other horses and jockeys in the starting gate and said, "Jake, other than Pepe’s mount, I don’t see any thing except second rate nags. I don’t even understand why our horses’ owners put these horses in this race. I don’t think they’ll get a good workout."

  "We’ll see," said Jake.

  Tommy pulled his goggles down over his eyes and said, "You’re a worry wart, Jake, old pal. It’s easy money—ten percent of the horses’ earnings—enjoy the ride, Jake."

  The starting gate crew got the horses settled, and the gate bell rang loudly. The starting gates flung open with a cacophonous crash. As expected, Tommy and Jake’s horses took the early lead and the two experienced jockeys worked their horses close to the rail to save ground. By the time they reached the first turn, they had a two-link lead over Pepe’s horse, now running third. Tommy pulled up even with Jake and as their horses ran stride for stride, he said, "A piece of cake! Didn’t’ I tell you Jake?"

  Just then a pilot car with long barricade wings normally used for lining up horses in harness races pulled out of a gap in the outside rail near the first turn, onto the track, fifty yards ahead of Jake and Tommy. "What the hell is this?" asked Tommy.

  "Part of the new handicapping system I told you about. We have to pull up to the barricade and hold out horses there until the other ones catch up."

  "That’s insanity," said Tommy.

  When all horses were once again even, the pilot car folded the barricade wings and accelerated. As Tommy had predicted, his and Jake’s horses quickly went to the front of the field again. Pepe regained third position, hugging the rail.

  "Well, crazy it is," said Tommy, "But it still won’t keep the best horses from winning."

  "We’ll see," said Jake.

  As they headed down the backstretch, the jockeys clucked their horses onward into the homestretch. After the final turn, another pilot car with a barricade pulled out into the center of the track and spread the wings of the barricade, forcing the leaders to check. "Incredible!" shouted Tommy to Jake as they steadied their horses behind the barricade. "We’re only an eighth of a mile from the finish line and they’re holding us up again. We can still win, though."

  All the horses were soon racing evenly behind the barricade. However, the barricade wings did not fold up. In fact, the pilot vehicle slowed more, continuing to hold all horses to a slower pace. The barricade stayed down and all horses crossed the finish line evenly. All ten horses went to the winner’s circle and had their photo taken. The purse was divided evenly among the ten horses. All bettors’ tickets returned the amount of money the bettors had paid for the ticket, plus the minimum payout of ten cents.

  Irate fans fell into line at the cashiers’ counters, shouting, murmuring and protesting. An outside bettor’s window stretched all the way back to the rail guarding the scales station where Pepe stood in line holding his saddle for the end-of-race weigh-in. The line at the pay window was about three times as long as it would have ordinarily been. He listened to the fans’ strident complaints. Unlike all races before, every bettor in this race was a "winner," but their pari-mutuel payoff profit was a dismal dime. "How long do we have to put up with this horse manure?" asked a lanky young man standing on the opposite side of the rail from Pepe, waiting to cash his ticket.

  A white-haired, elderly man behind him, wearing a beat-up, gray fedora hat and eyeglasses with thick lens, said, "It looks like it’s here to stay. It worked as they planned."

  "It did?" said the young man. "Why in Hell would they plan such a finish?"

  "It’s the Government’s idea."

  "The Government’s?"

  "That’s right. A civic organization complained to Congress that some handicappers are far more experienced and better at interpreting the Daily Racing Form. They claimed that the handicapping-challenged lose more money than their better-educated and more experienced counterparts. So congress introduced the new racing regulations and the President agreed that it was in line with his personal philosophy about equal opportunity. This new handicapping system is called the No Horse Left Behind policy."

  Back in the jockey’s locker room, Jake and Tommy joined the other jockeys’ chorus of complaints.

  Pepe pulled off his shirt and slammed it against a wall. He grumbled, "Man, I’m going back to ride in Mexico again."

  Jake said, "That sounds cool, Pepe. Maybe I’ll join you."

  In a few moments the track announcer blared that all the rest of the races on the card had been canceled because all the bettors had left the track.

  Pepe sat down on a bench, pulled off a riding boot, and as if to add a punctuation mark to his feelings, banged the heel against the floor. "Man, I want to be where they have winners—and losers. Ya can’t have winners if you don’t have losers."

* * *

  Pepe was awakened with a shaking from fellow jockey, Jake Morrow. "Hey Pepe, wake up! It’s time to report to the paddock!"

  Groggily, Pepe sat up on the bench, rubbing his eyes. He looked up at Jake who carried his whip under his armpit, grinning broadly. Jake, laughing heartily, asked, "Hey Pepe, what the hell were you dreamin’ about?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were talkin’ in your sleep."

  Buttoning his silks, Pepe asked,   "What did I say?"

  "It was weird," said Jake, still laughing. "You said something like: ‘Ya can’t have a winner if you don’t have losers’"

The End