“What’s the score?” he asked in his typical fashion. “I see somebody else cashed in his chips by your place the other night. What’s the morning line on whether or not you’ll nail the killer? I’ll take five-to-one. It’s money in the bank.” Judith was accustomed to Uncle Al’s sporting attitude. “How come,” she asked, “you’re not at the track today?” “Bunch of nickel nags running,” Uncle Al replied. “No big stakes races on a Wednesday. Maidens, claiming, glue-factory futures. Why? You want a tip? I’ve got one for tomorrow in the sixth. Little Juice, probably going off at eight-to-one.” “No, thanks, Uncle Al,” Judith said. “I’m calling about an old pal of yours, Johnny Agra. Is he still…around?” “Johnny Agra,” Uncle Al said in a musing tone. “No, Johnny’s long gone. After his restaurant folded years ago, I heard he died or moved out of town. L.A., maybe. Same thing, as far as I’m concerned. Wasn’t he married to Joe’s ex at one time?”
