Monkey King

“Why?”

‘“Cause that’s where all the worst serial murderers are pe

“What?”

“The electric chair.”

“I thought they didn’t use that anymore.”

“They do in Florida.”

How did she even know things like that?

“So how much money you bring, Niece?” My uncle’s jovial tone brought me back into the present.

“Not much. I’m living on a shoestring, Uncle Richard. I haven’t worked since January.”

“Your luck will change. Don’t worry.” On the worry my uncle started to cough, until he was hacking away like he did mornings in the bathroom. He whipped out a handkerchief, hawked, and spat. It turned my stomach and I tried not to let him see.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, fine. Okay, make a left here on Gandy Boulevard and go two blocks and you see a parking lot.”

You couldn’t miss it, it was so enormous, with DERBY LANE in ten-foot-tall letters over the main entrance. Fortunately the lot wasn’t very full, so I didn’t have to pull any fancy parking stunts. As we got out of the car I could hear a band playing and a loudspeaker a

As we walked toward the entrance he nudged me. “You like this tie?” he asked, holding it out for my inspection. It was unfashionably wide and had tiny brightly colored parrot heads on a black background.

“That’s Daddy’s.” Now I knew why it had bothered me. Ma and I had picked it out for his birthday and I remembered the last time I’d seen him wear it, at the eighth grade Christmas play where my sister had been the Mado

“I wear it for you, Niece. Plus, it happens to be my lucky tie.”

I wondered what Daddy would have thought about this, whether anything of his could ever bring luck to anyone. I wondered what he would have thought of Uncle Richard and me going to the greyhound track. I myself was afraid I’d hate the track, I didn’t know why I was there, except I was bored and humoring Uncle Richard. I was afraid the dogs would make me sad.

My uncle paid for the dollar apiece tokens to get us through the turnstiles, bought a program, and then led me through the infield over to a building he called the benching area, where the dogs were pe

The dogs were barking, the a

Uncle Richard placed several bets, talking and flinging down bills so fast that I had no idea what he was doing. “Tenth race, quiniela box,” I heard him say. Then he turned to me. “Okay. You pick a race, pick a number. We make it simple, your first time. You pick which one to win, place, or show. You know what that means?”

“Yes.”

I made my choice by name: Khartoum (named for a famous horse, I knew), Hotsplit, Greyghost the Fourth, and Shady Lady, a long shot in the seventh race, ridiculously long, twenty-five to one. Those were my kind of odds. I bet all my dogs to win and handed over thirty dollars in all. My uncle bought a plastic glass of beer and we went to lean against the fence. Across from us the odds flickered on the big board and a brass band played “The Girl from Ipanema.” In the center of the track was a carefully styled oasis, complete with pond and playing fountain. The whole scene wavered in the blazing, unforgiving sava

Uncle Richard sipped his beer and pulled out his cigarettes and we smoked and waited.

I studied the program. “SHADY LADY, number 7 Green and White. Night Shade—Lady Godiva. Rl Erly-Crwdd 1st Tn. Weaknd in Stretch. Sought Rl 1st—Bmpd. Led Briefly—Weaknd.” My uncle was watching the odds flip with the calm concentration of someone who could do intricate calculations in his head. A snowy egret wafted onto the oasis and stood, as if posing in the brilliant green by the fountain, then took off as the band began playing a march. The dogs were being led out.

Saddled by their colors, muzzled, they paraded before us from right to left to the starting gates, in order of number. They each had distinctive strides, held their heads differently. I saw right away that Number 6, tan and husky but with an extremely narrow pelvis, straining at the leash, was going to win. I told my uncle.

“You wa

“No, I’m just telling you, I’m positive he’s going to win.”

At some signal the dogs were crammed one by one into the starting gates and the handlers, dressed identically in white polo shirts, khaki shorts, and ru

Number 6, the robust tan I’d picked at the last moment but not bet on, won.

“Huh,” Uncle Richard said. He’d thrown his ticket to the ground in disgust the instant the dogs came in. “Well,” he said to me. “You were right. You should have changed your bet.”

My dog for the next race, Hotsplit, was scratched. “You could get your money back right now,” my uncle urged, poking me, but I didn’t want to bother. Again we watched the dogs parade by. “This time it’s Number One,” I said. Number 1 was jet black and although far from the largest had a confident step I liked.

“Okay, okay, you go put money on,” said Uncle Richard.

“Nope. I just want to watch.”

Number 1 came in an easy first. “Bad race,” my uncle muttered.

“Why was it bad?”

“Dirty. You see that first turn, that one big white dog, you see how he goes sideways like that, cheats all the others, not fair.”