Going to the Dogs

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Mark Pearce

Going to the Dogs

 

 

Late at night I was driving through south Florida, looking for a place to stop for a few hours’ sleep. My destination was Key Largo. From there, I would head on to Key West to see Hemingway’s home. This was the final leg of one of my cross-country trips. My play had closed in New York and I was headed home, but taking the long route. I had come down the eastern coast from Kitty Hawk, where I had viewed the Wright Brothers’ Memorial. The next few days would bring me across the southern coast to New Orleans, then northward home to Texas. But this night I was just looking for a place to sleep.
  I spotted a dive motel with fake palm trees and a small courtyard. The office lights were on, as well as the “vacancy” sign. I checked in and got my key.
  The courtyard had a couple of wrought iron tables and a scattering of metal chairs, all painted green. Although it was two o’clock in the morning, there were a couple of guys sitting at one of the tables. They had settled in with beer bottles and coffee, and asked if I’d like to join them. I pulled up one of the chairs and sat down.
  Larry was wiry and dark, and had a fierce intensity about him. Tom was lanky and blond, with a relaxed, easy attitude.
  “We’ professional dog track gamblers,” Tom said, his chin resting on his chest, a proud smile on his face.
  “That’s right,” Larry insisted. “We’re professionals.” He went to their motel room and brought me a pile of . . .
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