'you're A Great Handicapper, Foto.' 'thank You.' 'but Sometimes You Screw Up.'

"If you bet fast, you can't last," says Foto. "The worst thing is to get broke and have to stay home." That is shattering to an R.T.C., the ultimate in bad luck. It's far better to get beat by Sarah Fox than to be confined to quarters. The R.T.C. loves the horses and hates the horses; loves the tracks and hates the tracks; loves himself and hates himself. "There are so many ways to lose," laments Foto.

Indeed, every R.T.C. knows deep down that he probably won't win, but he finds excitement in waiting to see just how he will lose. A classic example of the variety that racing offers the R.T.C. occurred at Atlantic City some years ago when a horse named Nautigal got command down the backstretch on the turf course. According to the Daily Racing Form chart of the race, Nautigal "was still clear turning into the stretch and, when roused with the whip, went through the inner hedge, unseated his rider and went into the lake." Foto once lost a winning bet when his horse was disqualified for biting another during the race. And, he says, five times in a row at Timonium in 1946 he had the winning horse only to have all five horses disqualified. "The agony these tracks put you through," he groans. Fellow R.T.C. Aaron King says of Foto, "If they stopped racing, he would die. He's more interested in horses than women, and he's damn interested in women." Lewis readily admits that his love of the track cost him his wife, though, to his mind, it was not necessarily a bad deal.

Foto, whose real name is Ferdinand, got his nickname years ago because of his ability to pick the winning horse in photo finishes. Then, when somebody would say one horse won and Foto knew it was the other, he would negotiate a small wager. "They call me Foto," he says, "because I know all the angles." He won't let his name be spelled "Photo" because "that sounds like I take pictures at weddings."

The other day at Bowie, Foto was in heaven when the fourth race produced a photo finish. "Dead even!" screamed Foto. "Dead heat. If you think I ain't good, watch this. It will be the difference of the dirt under my nail. If it's not called a dead heat, No. 1 wins. You'll need a magnifying glass." Indeed, the No. 1 horse won, and by the dirt under Foto's fingernail. He chortled and bragged. "Everybody in the place is hollering that No. 2 won. Not me. You heard me say No. 1." In truth, nobody had hollered that No. 2 had won. But, also in truth, nobody, save Foto, had seemed sure who had won. "Never wrong," he boasted.

It is that sort of claim that makes Foto so wonderful. His favorite words are never, always, nobody, everybody. There is hardly an indefinite word in his vocabulary. Nor is he in the least reluctant to say something with ironclad certainty and then reverse himself when a race is over. "Look at this horse in the second," says Foto. "If he don't bolt, he wins." He didn't bolt, he lost. "Told you so," says Foto. Before another race, he says, "When it's over, they'll put up 6-2. Just watch." It's over; they put up 2-6. Says Foto, "See, just what I told you." Mere facts have little to do with Foto's perception of life. Foto is never wrong. It's just that the horses, because of some demon force, don't do right.

"You're a great handicapper, Foto," says Aaron King.

"Thank you."

"But," says King, "sometimes you screw up."

Would of, could of, should of and might of are the only conditional words in a Race Track Character's lexicon. Foto looks over the entries and complains, "This race is a disgrace to the track. I'm not even gonna bet. Wanna bet I don't bet?" He bets, wins $64 and is elated. "See, I told you I knew what I was doing. I knew he could win. But why didn't I bet more?" By the time he leaves the track late in the afternoon, Foto has salvaged $3 in winnings. He's delighted. "I'm a winner," he says. "If you win $3 or $3,000, you're a winner. How many people leaving this track can say that?"

And so Foto moves on to his place of employment. He is a doorman at the Villa Nova Show Bar on Baltimore's Block. The Block is the city's attempt to isolate every vice known to man and woman in one small area. The police attitude is that if nobody gets killed on the Block, the evening is a success.