Pinto Dispatch: LIMA, PERU

10 May 2006

LIMA, Peru

Lima is forever covered in a haze. At night, you may
mistake it for a mist. In the morning, you may think
it's a coastal fog. But the vista from the Hippodromo
de Monterrico on a cloudless afternoon breaks down all
illusions: It's smog, and it's not going anywhere.

Against this lovely backdrop, with the horses in the
foreground parading before the sixth race, I met
George. He asked me what my "gusto" was, and I told
him the ocho on looks alone. Then he told me very
confidentially, rising on his toes, and even saying it
in English so I'd be sure to understand, "Two." "What
kind of hot tip is this?" I thought. Two was the
favorite. And, by George, he, and everyone else, was
right. The two horse won. After the race, he bumped
into me to gloat. "Mucho dinero?" I asked him. But
he didn't acknowledge this.

Before I left him to go look at the horses in the
seventh race, he impressed upon me that it was going
to be the nine this time. I didn't even need to look.
It was going to be the nine. Nine, nine, nine. I
went to the parade ring anyway, but George stuck with
me. The nine didn't look so great to me though. He
was grey and weak. I didn't know how to break it to
George. So I sneaked off to the betting window
without a word. I gave the teller my preference, the
seis. "No," I heard the voice right beside me, "Nine!
Nine!" George again. Finally I asked him, if he was
so big on the nine, where was his hot ticket? "No
tengo," he responded with a shrug. Gambling by proxy
is not a bad gig if you can find the right sucker.
And the nine ran sixth.