He moved that way and Ray picked up his drink—but left his change where it was—and followed, walking around the three men he'd bought drinks for. On the way, now that his mind was relieved about the order, he had a sudden thought. Maybe he could leave here with more money than he'd come in with at that. Connolly played the ponies, not regularly but frequently, and they often talked about the races and traded tips or hunches. If he could talk Connolly into making up his mind about something for tomorrow, he could say he was going to see Joe Amico later, which he was, and offer to place the bet. And, of course, keep it to cover himself, as he'd done with Sam the waiter. It could be a nasty wallop if it hit, worse than Sam's bet would be, but tomorrow was another day and it was tonight he was worried about.
But he'd better get business over with first so the other matter would look casual, so when he sat down across from Connolly at the front end of the bar he took out an order blank and spread it open on the bar in front of him, took out his ball point. "Okay, Chuck," he said. "How many Ten Highs?"
He got a good order, better than he'd expected. Ten cases of the bar whisky, a case each of gin and vodka, the equivalent of a couple of mixed cases of Scotch, rye and other brands of bourbon, and some wine. A mixed case of vermouth, half dry and half sweet, and a few odd bottles of cordials and liqueurs. It didn't take long; Connolly always knew exactly what he wanted and the exact quantities and talked almost as fast as Ray could write it down. And Ray had learned long since not to try to increase any of the orders Connolly gave him or to try to sell him anything he didn't ask for.
Connolly was just saying "That's it, Ray," when two more men walked into the bar. Again strangers to Ray; his friends seemed to be staying home in droves this evening. Connolly excused himself to serve them and Ray called after him, "On me, Chuck." That would just about kill the change out of his five and he hoped no other customers would walk in till he could get away.
He took the Racing Form from his pocket, spread it open on the bar in front of him and pretended to be studying it; that would automatically bring conversation into the right channel when Connolly came back.
It did. He was actually studying, not pretending at all, when he heard Connolly's voice. "See anything that looks good?"
He looked up. "Sure, Chuck. Blue Belle in the fifth. That's a filly you've been following, ain't it?"
"Yeah, but she's cost me money doing it, damn her. Hasn't run in the money last five times out. Used to be a good horse, especially on a fast track, but I'm beginning to think she's had her day."
"Hell, Chuck, ten to one they've been holding her back. She was running too well for a while and it shot the hell out of the odds. Now the odds are good again and I figure she's due. Now's the time to win back, and maybe get even more than she owes you."
"Maybe you got something there. I ain't seen a Form today. Lemme see who she's running against."