Free Shadow Roll by Ki Longfellow

on the back of their horses.  Slaves began the style of riding crouched over and high on a horse’s withers, and maybe they’d get a cut of their winnings and maybe they wouldn’t.  Some of ‘em got so famous they were still names today: Isaac Murphy and Jimmy Winkfield and Willie Simms.  But then the white kids noticed how good some of the black kids had it, so horned in on the action until every single black was cut out of the game.  That was years ago.
    What I really knew about was you might have a ticket on the one horse that came in first.  Or the one that placed, which meant came in second.  Or more often—a lot more often—you had a ticket that got tossed over your shoulder as you headed to the window for another hopeless bet.  Come to think, I knew a great deal more than that about the sport.  I knew about the trainers and the horses and the jocks and the races.
    If I learned about the racetrack itself, I’d have the game covered.
    Which is why I asked the question I now asked.  “Some of the types?  How can ‘types’ hire security?”
    Paul laughed.  “By some of the types, I included some of the types in the management category.”
    I’d been through one hell of a war.  The scams that went on had once surprised and shocked me.  You’d think I’d be beyond that kind of reaction.  “You’re telling me even management cheats their patrons?”
    “I’m telling you even the owners of a track get involved.  Not all, not all by any means, but a few.  I’m telling you that Saratoga ain’t immune.  Although it’s cleaner than most.”
    “So Goose got chosen because he’s dumb?”
    “Hell no!  You have to be more than dumb to work security for these guys.  You have to be greedy as well.  And before you get the wrong idea, just like all the owners ain’t in it, all management ain’t in it either.  And not every guy working as security is in their pocket.  Like most things, it gets tricky to know who’s what and how’s that.”
    I sat in my seat for awhile, looking out at the trees and the little houses I’d never see the insides of and the farms where I’d never feed a chicken or milk a goat and just generally felt glum.  “Great,” I finally said.
    “Great?”
    “So who hired me?  The good guys or the bad guys?”
    “Beats me.  A good guy can be a bad guy on any given day, and a bad guy can turn good on you when you least expect it.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome.  And now let me ask you one.”
    “Shoot.”
    “What are you doing up here?  I know it’s not about the little scams always going on.”
    “Dead jocks.”
    “You’re kidding.  Me and everybody I know knows they’re accidents.”
    “Everybody?”
    Paul turned to give me one of his Clark Gable grins as we cruised into town and were passing all these swell American houses with their swell American front yards as we steered for Case Street.  “Well, some of the jockeys aren’t so sure, but you can’t blame a jock for a little worry.  Not when it’s them doing the dying.  But I tell my guys, and any of the others’ll listen, bad luck always comes in threes.”
    “You believe that?”
    “Of course not.  But I do think three poor kids got into three stupid scrapes and I wish it hadn’t happened to a single one of ‘em, but there you go, these things happen.”
    I nodded.  He could be right.  It’s certainly what the track officials wanted to hear.  And I was pretty sure that’s what I’d be telling them.  But still.  Three?  Plus, there was something about the way Paul pronounced the word “scrapes” that made me wonder if he was also wondering, or if he was doing what everyone else was doing: humming along to Cole Porter’s It Was Just One of Those Things .
    “Any one of them yours?”
    He turned away when I asked him this.  So I wouldn’t see the pain in his eyes?  So I wouldn’t see the relief?
    “God willing, no.  And God willing not one of mine’ll ever go