The door hadn’t opened in seven days. The foil letters—an ostentatious facade to this disheveled abode—peeled, flaking away from the reeded glass like the petals of lilies in late spring. Water dripped into a tin bucket, the slow staccato rapping out gunshots. I hammered the “U” key on the typewriter in time. No paper, no ribbon, just the rhythmic patter of a smoke-swirled, scotch-soaked soliloquy.

That last case rattled me: the empty house, the thumping…the cardboard cutout with horse ears. It was all too much for my frail mind. I needed to get away. I needed to find something to calm these frayed nerves. Something fast.

So, I threw on my trench coat, adjusted my hat, and walked into the early morning downpour. To the horse track. Surely nothing that could taint the soul happens there.

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