The din of cheering aristocrats and bums coupled with echoing clops of hooves against track exploded in my ears. Alcoholic scents reeked in the air and the hot sun was only lessened by the occasional breeze that would blow through the box. As the first horse of many crossed the finish line, the sound only increased as money was snatched from hands and said hands were put onto faces in defeat.
A trip to the sheepshead races wasn't the most common of research endeavors, but frankly, I wasn't complaining. It certainly beat out any monotonous day that I would've been spending in the library.
I stood from my seat, setting my briefcase down on top of it so no one would sit in my place. The shouting faded from my ears as I neared the bar. Fortunately, the bar was beneath an awning, sheltered from the heat along with the betting table, which was situated beside it.
"Whadaya need?" asked the bartender, a tall, robust man who only dawned hair in the form of a small stubble on his reddish skin.
"Just water, please," I replied. The man let out a knowing chuckle as he filled the mug and handed it to me.
"I hear that. With all this heat, I feel bad for all the boneheads who asked for beer and wine. They are going to feel that tonight," he admitted. I began to laugh at his joke, but just then, I heard something hard slam against the table next to me.
I turned to see the most curious of boys at the betting table, his hand clutched around assorted coins that he had put on the sturdy wooden surface. He wore all kinds of plaid–an interesting fashion choice: a primarily blue and white button up shirt with thin black intercrossing lines, greenish-yellow pants with thin black lines of their own, and a thickly lined vest of black and cream with the occasional blue or red streak running across it horizontally or vertically respectively.
His pants were tucked into black and red harlequin knee socks which had been bunched down to halfway up his shins and he completed his apparel with common brown boots. You could just barely see his suspenders where his vest swished in the light wind. The strangest thing about him was that he looked my age.
He was covered in dirt and a gray cap sat atop his curly blonde hair.
A newsboy, I thought.
"Eighty cents on numbah forty-three," he said, taking the cigar out of his mouth, a heavy accent to his voice. I knew full well that the newsboys spent about fifty cents for the normal run of papers from reading about the strike, so this boy was spending over a day's worth.
"Well aren't you confident?" I threw his way. Yes, I was taken aback by his bet, but I wasn't about to let him know that. He turned his head to me, and, for a moment, he didn't say anything, he just looked at me. It was nothing more than a split second of a pause, but I noticed it. Breaking away, he smiled a grin of perfectly straight and white teeth.
"I gots a good feeling about that one," he replied with a certain, intriguing glint in his eye.
"Do you now?" I asked, taking a step closer to him and setting my water down. He straightened himself, lengthening himself just enough to need to look down to meet my eyes.
"Yes, I do. How 'bout yous? Anything striking ya fancy?"
I laughed, making complete and total eye contact with him.
"As a matter of fact, yes, there is."
"Then what's stopping yous from bettin'?"
I pressed my tongue to the inside of my bottom lip and looked to the man sitting at the betting table. Luckily, I knew him well from when my father would take me here as a child.
