That skinny-assed tout Billy Blaines was sitting on the fence, taking his bets in plain sight despite legal prohibitions.  You couldn’t lay bet anywhere in Texas.  Couldn’t buy liquor on Sundays either.  But that was OK because most folks were too hung over from Saturday night to even give that a thought. 

On this particular Sunday, the quarter horses were running at the Downs, and that meant the locals would be dawdlin’ in and climbing to the top of the bleachers, their boots thudding on the metal stairs. 

A Sunday race meant the Baptists and the Pentecostals would be at church; the day meant praising, fried chicken dinner and more praising.  They could never get too much praising. 

The rest of them — the Presbyterians and the hell-bent — came to watch the race if they didn’t have nothing else to do, stopping first to leave their howdy’s with Billy, and maybe a buck or two.  Big shot ranchers peeled off $100 bills; they liked the risk and they liked to crow.

It wasn’t a race without Billy on the fence in his tight black jeans and striped shirt with metal snaps and a faded-to-pewter hat with silver studs shading his watery eyes.  It gave folks a sense of security to see Billy there.  

He was like a monument; solid, predictable.  Like the kind you saw in front of the red brick courthouse in Fort Worth.  He assured everyone that life as they knew it had not changed.  Would not change.

The sun would blaze and sear their necks.  The muscular quarter horses would pound past them in a dust.  The whoops and hollers would ignite their smile.  Today Billy would keep their money, tomorrow they would bale the hay, Tuesday their Hereford would drop a calf.