The big man looked up a second time and folded rows of pink sausages complacently. "So you want to be a Jockey, eh?"
Malloy thinned his lips and licked the insides of them, making a snap judgment. "Not really. I don't have a Rider, and I want what help the Jockeys can give me. I'm not particularly anxious to acquire introverted slang and a shaved head, but if that goes along with the help...." He spread his hands eloquently.
"So you don't think you have a Rider?"
Malloy didn't know how to answer that. "I don't think I have a Rider," he repeated without inflection.
"I don't think I have a Rider, either—only I know I do," the fat man said.
Malloy stood up elaborately. "You dirty steed."
"Oh, sit down, Malloy, sit down. I'm a Jockey like the rest of you. There's only one difference. I know I'm sick. I've got a Rider and all its powers, but I could no more use them than an acrophobe could climb a ladder up the Empire State to get at a naked princess sitting on a bag of gold."
Malloy eased back down onto the chair and shook his head slowly. "That would be a hell of a way to be."
The big man slammed down two hams made out of fists. "You are exactly the same way, sonny boy! Only you don't know any better."
Malloy swallowed. The man known as the Commissioner might be right at that. "Have it your way," Malloy said. "But I sure think I don't have a Rider."