BARCELONA LOOKED AT me. “What did you do, wise guy?”
“Who ... me? Why, I didn’t do anything that you did not start—except that maybe I was a little more generous.”
“Spiel!” he snarled.
“Why, shucks, Joseph. All I did was to slip good old Gimpy Gordon a tip.”
“How much?”
“Just a lousy little thousand dollar bill.”
“A grand! For what, wise guy?”
“Why, just for telling me what horses you picked for the Derby.”
Barcelona looked at the odds on his horses. Flying Heels had passed even money and was heading for a one-to-two odds-on. The other platers were following accordingly.
“And what did you tell Gimpy, Wilson?”
“You tell him, Gimp,” I said.
“Why, Wilson just said that we should ride along with you, Mr. Barcelona, because you are such a nice guy that everybody works awfully hard to
