Chapter Twenty-ThreeCLARA’S HOUSE,
March 17, 1929
“Hey, Toots. Let’s head down to T-Town tomorrow,” Harry said, folding his Times closed.
“Why this weekend?” Clara said, taking a bite of her morning grapefruit.
“It’s the Coffroth Handicap! Biggest race day of the year, that’s what!”
The Tijuana hotels were all booked up, but Harry knew a guy who knew a guy, so he slipped him a few bills and got us a spot at the U.S. Grant Hotel in San Diego.
“The guy who owns this place?” Harry said as we checked into our adjoining rooms. “Frienda mine. Hangs out with me ’n’ Joe. Name’s Baron Long. Made of money.” That was the highest compliment Harry could pay anyone, and what he most aspired to.
After we arrived, Clara and Harry went out to dinner at Tom’s Tea Tavern, but I was tuckered out after
