One After Another

            Mario Bozzela followed her for the third consecutive day.

            About a month ago he noticed her standing alongside the rail at mid-stretch, arms resting on the fence with a racing program firmly gripped in her right hand and a pen in her left, obviously making notes on today’s entries.  Her head bounced around constantly, up and down, side-to-side, like a bobble-head doll.  It took a few minutes of observation for him to discover tiny earphones hiding behind her hair.  The portable CD player attached to her jeans should have given him a hint but he was too busy ogling a face that reminded him of Meg Ryan.  Her short thick blonde hair sealed the resemblance.   His heart danced the boogie-woogie before finding a new rhythm.

            During the week she showed up around three.  On weekends she was trackside about an hour before the first race.  She was always alone and never talked to, or acknowledged, anyone.  Before each race she visited the paddock, rain or shine.  He watched her observe the horses, admiring her focus. 

Problem was she had become a distraction.

Never, ever get distracted.

The first day he saw her, he lost money.

Yesterday, he lost money.  Not a good sign. 

Mario was an investor in horses.  He bet, but he didn’t gamble.  His Uncle Geno taught him well, beginning at age eight.  Tutored him on the principles of negative analysis, what didn’t happen.  The lessons applied to training as well as racing strategy and jockey decisions.  At thirty-five, Mario had given up seventy-thou a year as a bean counter to become a track regular.  Along the way, his girlfriend of ten years decided to seek a boyfriend with a little more stability.  She could no longer handle the ups and downs of mutuel tickets.  What she didn’t realize was that Mario had a lot more ups than downs.  Most excluded the IRS.

So here he was, distracted again, standing four people behind her in line to place a bet at the fifty-dollar window.  He leaned and stretched his neck, trying to decipher what horse she was playing.  She didn’t bet every race, a sure sign she wasn’t at the track for entertainment. 

As she walked away she shot him a knowing glance.  He offered up his best smile.  It didn’t take.  She turned and hurried to the elevator.  He followed at a distance.  She made another bet, then hustled from the grandstand to the clubhouse side and made two more bets, at different windows.  He had seen this happen daily and it nagged at his brain.  She headed toward the grandstand again to the beat of her music as he hid behind a pole and stooped to tie his penny loafers.  He didn’t notice but she had caught sight of his blunder, and chuckled.  He hustled to the fifty-dollar window and asked the seller which horse she had bet.  The guy shot him a quizzical look before saying she had bet several tickets on the seven to show.  He glanced at the board, 6-5.  Probably pay the minimum, $2.10.  Okay, he figured she had bet two hundred and would get a five percent return of ten dollars, if the horse came in first, second or third.  He didn’t bet.  Not at those odds. 

The seven won by three lengths, easily and paid $2.10 to show just as he had predicted.

This is when the situation became more interesting.  She cashed her tickets at four different windows.  Not the same windows where she had placed her bets.

Same thing happened two more times that day and it had happened every day.  Drove his ass crazy.

He couldn’t decide if his interest in her was a result of her looks or her eccentric form of placing and cashing bets.

He slammed his hand against his temple and called himself a few descriptive names not listed in Webster’s.  How could he be so stupid as to allow a female to distract him from his job?

He decided to follow her home.