Looie Stitches and the Race Ace

dirty, faded sign above the entryway proclaimed to passers-by that behind the doors a tailor plied his trade. No promises, no proclamations, the only guarantee even hinted at was the presence of someone who could alter that which needed altering. The inside of the little shop was dingy, lit only by a few low wattage bulbs tethered to the ceiling by frayed wires. The fact that the shop was located in a canyon of skyscrapers blocking most of the sunlight added to its dinginess.

Inside, slumped over a sewing machine, sat the proprietor, one Lewis Lapierre, garment maker. He was a small, unspectacular man, the kind that could lose himself in a crowd, even if the crowd consisted of two souls. His hair was mousy brown, thinning, with a patch of bald resting precariously on the back of his head. His rheumy eyes were circles of faded blue located behind a thin veil of water, all protected by thick lenses encased in inexpensive horn-rimmed frames. He had a prodigiously bulbous nose, discolored, veined, suggestive of a chronic imbiber. His thin lips turned down at the corners, long ago drained of smiles.

A small bell, so arranged that it would ring should a person open the door, rang. The little tailor peered up from his work at the sound. Framed in the inadequate light stood a tall, thin person, obviously male. He was dressed in striped pants, a day-glo orange shirt and checked jacket. The tall man ventured a smile.

"Hi�ya Stitches," he said.

The tailor tensed, the muscles along his jaw-line rippled, features twisted into a look of deep distrust; caution.

"What, besides a particularly ill wind, blows you into my establishment?" the tailor asked.

"What kind of a greeting is that," the tall man asked, "one friend to another?"

"Friend? With a friend like you I do not need enemies."

The tall man stepped into the shop and closed the door behind him. "I am the bearer of good news," he said. "I have got us a winner."

The little tailor raised one of his bushy eyebrows, also mousy brown. "Us? Now we are partners? The last man with whom you become a partner wasn�t left with enough money to declare bankruptcy. If you do not mind I think I decline your offer."

The tall man rolled his eyes heavenward and placed a hand over his heart. " Do you never forget anything? It is not my fault the horse broke his leg. It was a freak accident."

"The horse of which you make mention tripped while being led out of his stall," said the tailor.

"A most unfortunate accident."

"Turns out the nag is nearly blind," the tailor said as he walked from behind the counter to stand face to face with his visitor. "Look, Toutie, just what is it to which I owe such an honor as a visit from you?"

The tall man leaned over and whispered, "I got it on good authority that this horse�"

"What horse?" the tailor�s face clouded again.

"His name is Race Ace."

"Who�s the authority?"

"His trainer."

The tailor shook his head in disbelief. "I am not listening," he mumbled to himself. "He is not in my shop and I am speaking to space."

"He does a mile and an eighth in two flat in practice," the man called Toutie said using a matter of fact tone.

The tailor, Stitches, blinked. "If he is this fast, how come nobody hears of him?"

"He is going to run in his first race."

"How old is he?"

"Five."

"I have two words for you, Toutie. Im-possible! How come he has lived that many years and is only now running in his first race?"

"Maybe they cannot catch him till last Tuesday. How in hell should I know? All I can tell you is that he is off in the fifth at Belmont tomorrow. And, he goes off at forty to one. Be at the track and bring cash."

The day was clear, the sky a cloudless blue, and the sun unmerciful. Looie Stitches knew how difficult the day was going to be, but the lure of a "sure thing" was too insistent to ignore. He came for one race and told himself that after it was run, so, too, would he, straight back to his little shop. He�d almost forgotten what it was like to spend a day at the races. Looie was a reformed "track face". When younger, he followed the ponies with a passion akin to fanaticism. It cost him his wife, family, home and his first business. He reformed, almost, until now.

Looie paid his entry and passed through the gate to the inside. Instantly the heady rush of the racing scene flooded his memory. He could become re-hooked with no difficulty whatever. Panic filled his mind and he turned to leave when Toutie spotted him and shouted his name. In an instant he was surrounded by past acquaintances, hangers on, and touts of various degrees of proficiencies lead by the most proficient of them all, Frederick Baumgartner.

Known as Froggie B to the legions of the track and Toutie to a few close associates and friends, the man was legend. Tall, lanky, handsome in a dissipated way, with a quick wit, and a mouth that never stopped, he cut quite a figure. As a tout he had a reputation to uphold and would stop at nothing to help his prospects wind up as he - dead broke! The lengths he went to in his effort to entice suckers to lay off on his picks (and lay a sawbuck for him, too) was the stuff of a million stories. His easy smile, two day stubble, and unmistakable attire set him apart. He collared Looie.

"Nice to see you," he crooned. "Couldn�t resist, hunh?"

Looie glared at Toutie. "I hate you so bad I do it in installments, it should last longer,"

"Hey stitches, who you gonna� bet in the next?" a little man asked.

"I do not give it much thought yet," Looie answered.

"Crucible looks good," a voice suggested.

"You nuts?" another put in. "That nag got no chance. He even starts from a kneeling position."

"Yeah," another voice added. "Last race when he crosses the finish line his jock is wearing pajamas." Stitches grabbed Toutie�s arm and dragged him out of earshot of the crowd. "Put a "C" on the nag�s nose. I will be where I used to hold court, at the rail."

Stitches watched as the horses paraded up and down the track, paying strict attention to the Race Ace. It was a magnificent beast, tall, sleek, rust with black mane and tail, and four white socks. Its nostrils flared and he snorted as he passed by Looie. He shook his head and pranced on, step sure and springy.

Looie Stitches had two strange habits, neither of which were evident unless he became overly excited, then they appeared together, becoming more obvious the more excited the man became. First, he would begin to blow (whoof, whoof), then stutter. The more excited, the faster the blow, the more pronounced the stutter.

Toutie came up beside Looie Stitches, a ticket clutched in his hand. He waved it under Looie�s nose, then winked. The horses were fed into the starting gate. The escape doors were closed, then bells rang and the race was on.

Looie and Toutie watched as the "Ace" erupted from the gate, establishing a three length lead. They shouted as the beast entered the first turn ahead five lengths. On the back stretch Race Ace extended his stride and the lead grew to ten lengths. The voice of Looie Stitches could be heard above the roar of the crowd, "g-go, horsie (whoof, whoof) g-goooo!

The Ace hit the far turn flying, the hair on his black tail streaming, caught in the slipstream of his speed, twenty lengths in front. Stitches blew and pleaded, whoofed and stuttered.

Race Ace never came out of the turn. He cruised to the clubhouse rail, sat down and watched as the rest of the field caught up with, then passed him on their way to the finish. Looie Stitches stared dumbfounded at the horse, then Toutie.

"D-did�ja see?" He pointed at the still seated horse. "H-he all b-but held out his hoof to guide the other nags to the finish (whoof, whoof). Looie Stitches turned on his heels and stormed from the park.

Rain fell in torrents making the dingy interior of the tailor shop even dingier. Looie sat slumped at his machine, altering what appeared to be a reject worn by a denizen of a circus sideshow. The doorbell rang and a timorous voice ventured "Looie?"

Looie Stitches leaped from his seat, his arm extended, index finger pointing. "Don�t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out," he managed through clenched teeth.

"I�m really sorry," the timorous voice persisted. "I didn�t know the nag had that flaw.�

"I hate you," Looie managed. "Even when I like you I hate you." Again he pointed. "Out! Please!"

"Gimme a chance, Looie. Let me make amends. Look, the trainer says to me like this. He thinks he has got the problem licked. I even see the nag go round the turns without a hitch."

Looie�s anger abated. "Why do you choose to haunt me like you do? Better you should go play the flute for a deaf cobra."

"He goes off at eighty to one," Toutie said.

Looie Stitches had gained control. "That banger is going through a non-entity crisis."

Toutie had his hooks in. "You remember how fast he was till that trip to the rail?" he crooned.

Looie remembered and smiled at the recollection. "Eighty to one?"

"That�s the number."

It rained so long and hard, the track was a sea of mud, but that was no deterrent to the trackies. The very second Looie walked through the entry gate he was attacked by a sea of needful faces bearing requests for names; of horses.

"I have got no names," he told the crowd.

"You gotta help me Looie," a voice pleaded. "Last time I come to the track I got faith and hope. I go home needing charity."

"Do not listen to his story," said another voice. "He only plays for laughs."

"Yeah," said the first, "and last week I laugh away the rent."

"Why do you not try Fanny�s Flesh in the sixth?" asks another voice.

"Cheez, do not place a wager on that nag," a falsetto voice joined the conversation. "He is so old his trainer has to dunk his hay."

"Yeah. His jock wanted to fly out of the gate, take the lead, and hold it throughout the race," someone said.

"Why did he not do this?" another in the crowd asked.

"He does not wish to leave his horse behind," answered the first voice.

Looie threaded his way through the group, grabbed Toutie by the sleeve and the pair made their way to the rail. Toutie showed Looie some tickets. The bet was made.

Again after a parade of the contesting thoroughbreds, Race Ace in the lead head held high, they were enclosed in the starting gate. The alarm pronounced the opening of the gate and they were off. From the start, Race Ace took the front, his long legs propelling him to a six length lead at the turn. Coming out of the turn he was twelve lengths up and along the back-stretch he goosed it, kicking in his after-burners.

Looie went into orbit. (Whoof, whoof), g-go you f-fleabag. Make up for the l-last time. (Whoof).

Into the far turn, legs churning, hugging the rail went the Ace. Looie�s fingers involuntarily crossed. "S-stay on the I-inside you�" (whoof, whoof). The Ace held the inside rail and entered the homestretch, legs pumping in rhythm to the roar of the crowd, lather flying off in his wake.

"H-he�s going to d-do it. He is going to finish,� (whoof, whoof) Looie roared, emphasizing his joy with a hearty thump on Toutie�s back.

It was at that instant, as if Race Ace had heard the remark above the roar of 50,000 fanatical trackies, decided he was finished, and that decision made, veered across the track and came to a stop at the clubhouse rail to watch the rest of the field catch up, pass, and finish. Race Ace turned his head, seemed to catch Looie�s eye, expelled a huge burst of air, nickered, and headed toward the paddock. Looie Stitches face contorted with an unbridled rage. He couldn�t speak; could barely breathe. He glared at Toutie, then stalked out of the park.

It was a month before Toutie had the courage to visit Looie again. Looie looked up for the briefest of moments, then down at his work. His eyes never left the garment he was altering.

"You are not in this shop. Go away," he said to the garment.

Toutie ventured a pleasantry that fell on deaf ears. "I do not suppose you would be interested in hearing what the trainer does to correct the Ace�s problem?"

Looie spoke to the garment on the platform of his sewing machine. "The last bangtail on which you tout me runs so slow his jock keeps a diary of the trip. When they reach the finish line they are both arrested for loitering. Now you unearth, I can not guess from where, this Race Ace."

"I ain�t made no money on this nag, neither," Toutie protested. "We both got to get even."

Looie Stitches still glared at the garment. "When does he run again?"

"Next Tuesday."

"What odds?"

"200 to one!"

"(Whoof, whoof.)"

"This makes three times in one year," an observant track face noted. "Perhaps he has descended from the wagon."

"This is not an unlikely perhapsability," said another.

"His is the act of large stupidity," a grave voice opined.

"It ain�t no act," yet another observed.

"Oh, go home," falsetto voice said, "your cage is clean."

"He must have a horse running. There can be no other reason for him to appear. I bet he has a winner lined up."

"Nah. The only winners at the track are the jocks and liars," a rail philosopher pontificated.

"I have you to know I win just last week," falsetto voice said.

"You do not even show up last week," another regular noted.

"Bingo! I win by not losing."

"I would like to say something nice about you," the regular said, "but nothing comes to mind."

Falsetto voice made a gesture. "I would say to you eat your heart out, but you probably shatter your teeth if you try."

Toutie left the group and joined Stitches, handing over several tickets. "If the horse comes in we are in the chips."

"If he does not," Stitches said, "I swear I never set feet inside a track ever again."

Again the parade of contestants, again the closing of the rear doors, again the ringing of bells, and they were off. Race Ace was a blur out of the gate and by the first turn was ten lengths in front. Emerging from the turn he led by fifteen, then along the backstretch he opened up. Going into the far turn his lead was at thirty and growing. He never broke stride as he came round the turn. His head was high, breath strong, tail held slightly high, black hair streaming, the lead growing.

"O Lord," Looie stuttered, (Whoof, whoof) "please don�t let him go wide."

And God listened. Race Ace held to the rail as he emerged from the far turn, 40 lengths ahead.

"P-please Lord, (whoof, whoof) l-let him run straight?"

And God listened. The Ace flew past Looie and Toutie, still on the inside rail, still opening a greater lead. He was in sight of the finish line. The rest of the field was nowhere to be seen. Looie and Toutie held each other and danced their delight.

And God has a sense of humor. Race Ace ground to a halt less than a hair from the finish, walked to the outside rail by the clubhouse, sat and watched as the rest of the field finally crossed the line. They finished! Race Ace didn�t. God roared with laughter.

The trainer of Race Ace held his head low as he led the horse back to the paddock area. He was stopped by a small, non-descript man with bulbous nose and rheumy eyes.

"You are the trainer of this horse?" the man stammered.

"Yes, I�m sorry to say, I am."

"You can not keep him from going to the outside rail?"

"You noticed that, I take it?"

"I think I have an answer to your problem," the little man stuttered.

"I�ll listen to anything," the trainer said. "Everything I try has failed. What do you suggest?"

"You put a small lead pellet (whoof, whoof) inside his left ear," Looie Stitches managed to get out.

The trainer thought about that a moment, then his face brightened. "I get it," he said. "The pellet would act as a weight causing Race Ace to hold his head at an angle. That would cause him to drift left and hold on to the rail till he finishes, right?"

Looie Stitches nodded.

"Wonderful idea," the trainer enthused. "How do you suggest I insert the pellet?"

The weeks of frustration and disappointment ruptured Looie�s safety valve. His face contorted. He waved his arms and tried to say the words but they wouldn�t come. He turned and began to stalk away, stopped, turned back to the trainer, and pointed at the horse.

"W-with a P-pistol!"

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