Salvatore Martingale leaned against the box rail and watched with a critical eye the practice heats going on below. Pegasi flashed in a flurry of rainbow streaks around the oval track, brilliant arcs of color over the short cut grass. He sucked in a slow breath, smoke escaping around the filterless cigarette pinned between his lips. ?Take Starlet out of the second and put in Bellezza.? He said with a flicker of baby blues to the man standing at his side. The rim of his almond green fedora shadowed his gaze.
?But Paulie,? the man beside him began with a start.
?I don?t care about Paulie,? Sal replied. Gripping his smoke between his forefinger and thumb, he exhaled heavily; smoke curling out in a quickly dissipating gray cloud. ?He ain?t got what it takes. Starlet?s a clipped bird out there.? The sole of his two-toned leather spectator scraped against the lowest rail of the box guard.
?Yes, Mister Martingale,? his companion replied, his voice tight with protest.
?If Paulie has a problem, he knows where to find me.? Sal gestured with his cigarette in a stabbing motion toward his office window. A stack of pale ash fell over the rail and scattered; breaking apart over the several story drop to the ground below.
?Yes, Mister Martingale.?
?Then we understand each other.? It was a statement of fact. No one questioned his authority in the Tropicana Sands. Idly, he rolled the cigarette back against his lip for another drag. He knew neither would Paulie. He?d shape up or ship out. That was just the rules of the game. Pushing away from the rail, he unrolled his shirt sleeves; smoothing out the wrinkles in the white starched cotton. He looked at the gold time piece that hung from his green single-breasted waist coat. ?Let Vinnie know I want to see him in my office at three o?clock.?
?Yes, Mister Martingale.? The man answered like a parrot with only one phrase.
That?s right: Yes, Mister Martingale. And don?t you ever forget it, Sal thought to himself with grim satisfaction. He reached for his blazer, letting it dangle over one shoulder on the hook of his finger. ?And tell Porcia to meet me at the Bellerophon for dinner at five sharp.? The man started to walk away, and Sal stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. ?Oh and ah why don?t you go and pick her up something pretty. Get it wrapped up real nice; a brooch or whatever it is that the girls want these days.? The man nodded and Sal released his arm.
?Yes, Mister Martingale. I?ll see what I can do, Mister Martingale.?
Sal relaxed his hand, dropping it back to his side. ?You do that.? Baby blues cut up toward the sky. A few gray clouds rolled on the horizon, but over all it promised to be a good day. It was a good day to be King.
?But Paulie,? the man beside him began with a start.
?I don?t care about Paulie,? Sal replied. Gripping his smoke between his forefinger and thumb, he exhaled heavily; smoke curling out in a quickly dissipating gray cloud. ?He ain?t got what it takes. Starlet?s a clipped bird out there.? The sole of his two-toned leather spectator scraped against the lowest rail of the box guard.
?Yes, Mister Martingale,? his companion replied, his voice tight with protest.
?If Paulie has a problem, he knows where to find me.? Sal gestured with his cigarette in a stabbing motion toward his office window. A stack of pale ash fell over the rail and scattered; breaking apart over the several story drop to the ground below.
?Yes, Mister Martingale.?
?Then we understand each other.? It was a statement of fact. No one questioned his authority in the Tropicana Sands. Idly, he rolled the cigarette back against his lip for another drag. He knew neither would Paulie. He?d shape up or ship out. That was just the rules of the game. Pushing away from the rail, he unrolled his shirt sleeves; smoothing out the wrinkles in the white starched cotton. He looked at the gold time piece that hung from his green single-breasted waist coat. ?Let Vinnie know I want to see him in my office at three o?clock.?
?Yes, Mister Martingale.? The man answered like a parrot with only one phrase.
That?s right: Yes, Mister Martingale. And don?t you ever forget it, Sal thought to himself with grim satisfaction. He reached for his blazer, letting it dangle over one shoulder on the hook of his finger. ?And tell Porcia to meet me at the Bellerophon for dinner at five sharp.? The man started to walk away, and Sal stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. ?Oh and ah why don?t you go and pick her up something pretty. Get it wrapped up real nice; a brooch or whatever it is that the girls want these days.? The man nodded and Sal released his arm.
?Yes, Mister Martingale. I?ll see what I can do, Mister Martingale.?
Sal relaxed his hand, dropping it back to his side. ?You do that.? Baby blues cut up toward the sky. A few gray clouds rolled on the horizon, but over all it promised to be a good day. It was a good day to be King.