Free Alice Fantastic by Maggie Estep Page A

sense of pride, but it does exist.
    I buried myself in work. I took out two years’ worth of notebooks to find the speed figures I had made for some of the horses who hadn’t been running at Aqueduct recently. I went online to watch race replays.
    I passed the rest of the evening trying to lose myself in horses as represented by a series of numbers. I’d go for ten minute stretches of complete immersion, then my stomach would knot and I would think of the injured dog from the park or Clayton’s face.
    At some point, Abe called to tell me that Clayton was being arrested for manslaughter. There was evidence. A footprint.
    My stomach knotted once more. “Shit,” I said.
    â€œSorry, Alice. Bail will be set tomorrow. He’ll spend the night in jail.”
    â€œShit,” I repeated.
    â€œAlice?” Abe said.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYou know I’m not the advice type, but …”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œNah. None of my business. Good night. Try to get some sleep.”
    â€œRight,” I said.
    I popped a sleeping pill and drank some Scotch. Put a disc of Bach toccatas on the stereo. The music helped. I realized I’d listened to very little Bach since Clayton had moved in. He was not a Bach type of guy. He didn’t complain, but I could sense that the music didn’t compute for him and this upset me. So I hardly ever played it.
    I managed some sleep around 1 a.m., Candy curled near my feet.
    The sky over Aqueduct was the color of dead television. Or maybe it was me. I plodded up the escalator to the second, third, and then fourth floor. Entered the restaurant through the big glass doors. Offered Manny, the maître d’, an anemic smile.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Miss Hunter?”
    â€œBad week, Manny.”
    â€œSorry to hear it. We’ve got a good omelet on the menu today.”
    â€œThanks, Manny. I’m meeting Arthur.”
    â€œRight over there.” He motioned to a table where I saw Arthur, hunched over his notebooks.
    I slinked into a seat across from him.
    â€œHey, Alice,” he said without looking up.
    â€œHi, Arthur.”
    He must have sensed something in my tone because he tore himself away from his notebook, glanced up at me, and did a double take.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?”
    â€œDo I look wrong?”
    â€œAlice, you look like shit.”
    â€œDammit,” I said, “I never hit the Pick 6 when I look like shit.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Arthur squinted at me. “What’s the matter with you?” He gestured at me like I was covered in sores.
    I told him that I was waiting for Clayton to be sprung from jail. That I had spent the morning getting the 50K in bail money after the judge had thankfully reduced the bail from the initial 100K. It was the money I’d squirreled away from my last Pick 6 hit, the money that was meant for a cabin in the woods where, from time to time, Candy and I could go hole up doing nothing, just taking in the air.
    â€œMaybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” Arthur said, dead serious. “Your heart isn’t in it.”
    â€œMy heart is always in handicapping, Arthur. In fact, that’s the only place it is. Besides, this kind of thing focuses me.”
    â€œDisaster and drama?”
    â€œExactly. The worse things are going for me in the outside world, the better I can concentrate on horse flesh.”
    Big Arthur didn’t look convinced. Our wagering strategy was very serious business.
    â€œReally,” I said, “I’m fine.”
    â€œYeah,” he replied slowly, “okay. Let’s do it.”
    My looking like shit didn’t seem to be affecting me adversely. Arthur and I made it through the first four legs of the Pick 6 and were holding our breath during the eighth race, with the 2–1 favorite we hadn’t used in the lead all the way around the track. With just an eighth of a mile to go, the horse we needed, a