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He got to know every horse owner, every trainer, every jockey, every stable boy at every race track.He built a network of “inside” people who could tell him things you wouldn’t find in the daily reports or the Daily Racing Form.And of course the creepy ethnic dude named Alkewe who looked as though he might rape you via Tinder message if possible.
Then there were the old freaks like 52 year old Bob pictured in an old man polo with his four kids on his lawn in Connecticut.
Your shows were only being half watched, your friends' bitching was being ignored, and the only thing you cared about was clicking that little X or heart button.
You were officially an addict and shit started to get weird.
) he knew my dad; they marketed a horse betting “system” together back in the 50s.
I spent the next several months meeting him for coffee every morning at Starbucks in Boca talking about business, horses, gangsters …and broads, and just getting to know him.