The day of the Pre-season races the Fly by Night Grill put out a lavish brunch buffet for the owners of the stables entered in the races. Two long tables had been set out before the Tropicana Sands Owner's Box, some of the best seats in the house, set in one of the various towers surrounding the main arena.

One table was filled with exotic fruits and baked goods, all light and fanciful, from the sliced starfruit, to the cinnamon buns shaped into pegasi. The second table held a series of warming trays with cooked meats and light fluffy egg dishes. A good selection of beverages were laid out, everything from Mimosas to bottles of fresh cool milk and fruit juice.

All the stable owners had been invited to attend, and bring their families and friends. It looked to be a wonderful event to kick off the day with.

Sal watched as a few of the servers from the Fly by Night moved between tables, stirring and refreshing, rearranging tirelessly to keep the buffet display both appetizing and visually appealing. It was an important event, and he knew they had to put their best foot forward. The Guys Upstairs liked it when then owners were happy. When they were happy, so was Sal. He was uncomplicated that way.

Rolling his cigarette across his lips, he took one last drag before he flicked the butt to the ground; extinguishing it with a sharp twist of a two-toned spectator. Jaded baby blues cut to his time piece. The owners, he know, should be arriving at any time. That fact was reinforced by the drifting voices that echoed against the heavy stonework of the Arena. Popping his shoulders, he brushed his hands lightly down the sleeves of his dove blue blazer. A casual smile painted across his lips. His steps confident, he moved away from the fringe and approached the dining area proper.

Lights, Camera, Action.
It was showtime.

Sal maintained his smile as he navigated around a few chairs, and engaged the loose collection of owners that watched the pegasi fly through their paces. Hands were clasped with the men and his hat tipped with a lift of his dove blue fedora to the ladies. He let his charm shine through with small talk about the weather and bandied over odds and possible favorites for any given heat. It was a slow circuit, but he eventually did his duty and hit every table?one of the last being the one where Mrs. Falconne and Ms. Oak had chosen to make themselves comfortable.

?Morning Ladies,? he replied as he lifted his hat and held it casually at chest level reveling slicked back dark auburn hair. ?Mrs. Falconne,? Sal nodded to each woman in turn, ?Ms. Oak.? He let his attention drift up toward the sky and the wispy clouds propelled over head by the faint breeze. ?Fine day for a race,? he observed, feeling like a broken record.

Amthy looked up from Dominick and smiled warmly. The expression made the corners of her eyes crinkle. ?Mister Martingale!? She gushed in greeting as her own gaze refocused on the endless blue above them. ?So it does appear,? Amthy said as she tipped her frilly parasol toward the Tropicana Sands? manager. ?Where?s Porcia?? The Nymph?s head angled inquisitively to the side, searching for the man?s blonde-haired lady friend.

Sal?s brows knitted briefly before his expression smoothed. ?She had a previous engagement, but I?m sure she?ll be here for the regular races.?

??m sorry tha? she couldn? make it.? Amthy?s expression turned crescent-fallen. ?Please, do tell her I did miss seeing her.?

?I?ll do that.? Sal gave the green-haired girl a once over. ?You don?t have a drink yet?? When Amthy shook her head, he laughed. ?Let?s see if we can?t fix that.? One baby blue dropped into a wink as he motioned for one of the hovering wait staff to approach. Resting his hand on the man?s shoulder, Sal fit his fedora back onto his head. ?See this lovely lady gets something to wet her whistle with.?

?Yes, Mister Martingale.?

?Ladies,? Sal said addressing the women again with a nod of his head.

?Mister Martingale,? Amthy gave a bubbling laugh and inclined her head in return as Sal departed.

Moving away from the women and the children that accompanied them, Salvatore Martingale retreated back to the railing. Gripping the guard, he watched his knuckles first turn pink then white. Everything appeared to be going like clockwork. Now if he could only keep it that way.