…I had a little cash that Big Bertha had kept as a tribute to bygone times. Back then I paid a visit to the summer house of the corporate lawyer Saunders. But his safe held nothing but papers. I took only some junk—maybe a couple hundred’s worth. Funny to say: a few paintings, the table silver, and a crystal vase. It felt shameful to leave empty-handed. I hauled it all to Big Bertha’s dive. Kept only the vase for myself. I’d been eyeing a vessel for flowers for a long time. And for nothing. Big Bertha’s a pro at her trade, and I got burned over that damn vase when the detectives broke in. Stupid—caught like a plucked chicken, all because of good taste. But no point raking over the past. I needed to do something now to set myself straight; something more substantial than flipping burgers at McDonald’s—the line I’d fed my parole officer.

The hole parole dumped me in held no interest for someone of my inclinations and lifestyle. The only thing that redeemed it, as I learned while making the rounds of local bars, was cockroach racing.

The shabby little room I rent is crawling with the things. But deep down I’m a professional, so I wanted to approach the task responsibly. There are two pet shops in the area. Naturally, the one that intrigued me was the one rumored to sell racing cockroaches.

It looks like a typical pet shop: piles of pet food, toys and doghouses, cages with rabbits and hamsters, fish tanks, and a smiling clerk.

“Can I help you with anything?”

I put on an indifferent face.

“Sure. I want to buy a couple of racing cockroaches.”

Worry creases his forehead.

“You do realize cockroach racing is illegal?”

Live and learn.

I parry. “Well… of course!” I wander around, inspecting things with a knowing air.

“You’re a zoologist?” He’s probing.

“Something like that.” Right—found the zoologist.

“I’m glad we understand each other.” The wrinkles smooth out; the smile returns. “Of course, we have a wide selection of racing cockroaches. Which subclass interests you: sleeper roach, light brown, dark brown, Oriental?”

“Quite a range,” I think, but don’t show ignorance.

“Don’t you have the common American subspecies?”

“You mean Periplaneta americana? Certainly. Come here—look.”

He leads me to a glass-covered incubator. Each compartment teems with creatures—some bigger, some smaller, each nastier than the last.

“Can their speed be tested?” The clerk looks puzzled, as if I spoke ancient Chinese.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“I mean… can we test how fast they run?”

“No, sir, for two reasons. First, as you well know, the law prohibits cockroach racing.”

I nod gravely.

“Second”—he pauses to show this is his main objection—“cockroaches don’t run for the love of art, sir. They run because they’re hungry and smell food on the far side of the track. And we… we do not starve them. Starving animals—yes, even cockroaches,” he adds, reacting to my grin, “is cruel.”

“Besides, we sell animals and naturally avoid any danger to their health.”

“But how long do you have to starve them?”

“That you must determine yourself. They need to be hungry enough to run, but not so weakened that they can’t run fast.”

I thought: Just like slaves on a plantation. Aloud I said:

“Roughly?”

“I don’t know. It’s very individual for each person—I mean, each cockroach—and depends on which subclass your, uh, runner belongs to.”

“Which subclass is the fastest?”

“I simply don’t know,” he shrugs; the straight look in his eyes tells me he’s sincere.

“Could you at least recommend a specialist who knows about cockroach racing characteristics? From a scientific standpoint, of course.” I add this as he starts to look suspicious again.

“There is one man, I’ve heard. But…”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t know his name. People call him ‘Cockroach.’”

“Cockroach? What a coincidence!” I grin. “Where can I find this specialist?”

“Not sure exactly, but they say he’s always hanging around bars.”

I make the rounds, talk to bartenders. Everyone seems to have just seen him. Finally I catch up with him at the Wild Horse.

Cockroach has greasy hair tied in a braid, a receding hairline, a crooked red nose, bags under his eyes, and a dirty little beard. Luckily he’s sober—no one’s offered him a drink yet—which is why he migrates from bar to bar. They say he dispenses valuable information after the third shot; after the eighth he turns slobbery-sentimental and launches into his unhappy love for the local hooker, “Sissy.”

I sit beside him, call him a good guy, ask his name, offer a drink. By the third shot of bourbon I test the waters.

“Listen, Bobby,”—that’s what he calls himself—“you probably get that I’m not here to talk sports and politics.”

He nods.

“You’re here about cockroaches, right?”

I nod.

“Good.” He lifts his shot and examines it in the light. The liquid is brown, like a cockroach’s back. “You seem like a decent guy. I’ll tell you what you need to know… Races happen every Sunday in the pet shop basement. Start at ten p.m. About twenty heats a night. Ever been to the races?” I nod. He tosses back the rest and I signal the bartender to refill him.

“No breed restrictions. You can use any specimen, bought or found.”

“Which breed would you recommend?”

“Usually I say buy the biggest, liveliest one. But you’re a good guy, so here’s the truth—don’t buy from the shop.”

“Then what do you recommend?” I wave for another refill.

“Buy a chunk of pork, leave it in a glass jar in a corner. I guarantee in an hour it’ll be full of roaches.”

I figured in my case breadcrumbs would do.

“But which one should I choose? Bartender, another shot for my friend!” I had to shout; he was busy at the other end.

“That’s up to you. You’ll have to stage competitions and pick a champion.”

“How do I stage competitions?”

“Buy training tracks at the same shop.”

“You mean they sell them?”

“I’m sure.”

“I got the impression he’s an animal lover and all that.”

“Don’t worry. They’re all like that. Hypocrites and liars. Oh, old man, Bobby knows a thing or two about lying. Let me tell you a story. I had a fling with a cutie named Sissy…”

The moment he says her name, I know I shouldn’t buy him any more drinks.

I do exactly what he advised. I buy racing tracks—a scaled-down version—and a stopwatch. I sprinkle cake crumbs into a big jar and catch a whole bunch of roaches. It takes a couple of weeks to choose the fastest and then test optimal starvation time. I try everything from two to four days, but don’t dare go longer for fear he’ll die—and there’s no need. The best results come after twenty-four hours. He smells the crumbs on the far side of the track, and when I lift the barrier, he runs like the wind.

The basement is dimly lit by a lamp hanging over twelve plastic tracks about fifteen feet long. I close my eyes and count to twenty, letting them adjust to the low light. Most people sit around the tracks waiting. A small group crowds a fat man in a baseball cap. He exchanges brief words with each person and makes notes in a notebook. The bookie. I move closer and wait my turn.

“Are you entering or just betting?”

I show him the jar with the roach.

“Five dollars to enter. Next heat in eight minutes. How much are you betting?”

“Five.” I hand him a crumpled bill.

“Name?”

“Mine?”

“No,” he shakes his head irritably. “The runner’s name.”

I hesitate a second and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Magnificent.”

“Fine.” He writes. “Magnificent, lane five, second heat. Go to the marker.”

The marker lifts heavy magnifying goggles onto his forehead. His eyes look tired and red in a round, sweaty face. “Lane five?” I nod and extend the jar.

He puts the goggles back on, grabs Magnificent with a quick, confident, seemingly rough motion, and paints his back with a tiny brush.

“Hey, be careful!” I can’t help calling out.

He just shakes his head and keeps painting. When he’s done and puts Magnificent back, a starting number is visible on my boy’s (or girl’s) wing.

“Take him to the starting booth. That one.” He points to a man in a plaid shirt.

I watch anxiously as the man lowers Magnificent into the booth behind the barrier. My boy scurries aimlessly at first, then stops at the barrier. His antennae twitch—he’s smelled the crumbs on the other side. I sigh and go to my seat.

I look around. Everyone’s faces are glued to the track—half-lit, half-bent, like big insects.

Is this us? I think. We’re tempted with crumbs and we’re ready to run. But where—to, who knows.

The bell rings and the barrier lifts. Shouts and whistles erupt. Most of the twelve get stuck at the start; only three bolt forward. Among them, number five—my Magnificent. I tremble with excitement.

Magnificent streaks ahead. Antennae flutter like flags in the wind. He leaves the others “in the dust,” figuratively speaking. The crowd roars as my champion crosses the finish. The bookie grimly counts out the winnings—fifteen bucks net. Not much, but enough to start.

I take Magnificent back to the jar. “Good job, buddy—you’re my lucky charm! A couple more heats and we’re golden.” And I remember my uncle’s pet shop in the Bronx, where I fed hamsters as a kid. Yeah… instead of that—table silver, paintings, and that vase that got me nabbed. There were good times, though, when Sam and I… Oh right—that’s who I need to reconnect with!

“Hey, pal, can I use the phone?” I try to sound friendly. I leave the jar with Magnificent in my room, out of the clerk’s sight.

He lifts his nose from the newspaper—headlines screaming about the stock market crash and Roosevelt’s promises—and looks at me with utter contempt, as they say, “from the height of a horse’s ass.”

“Another bum?” he grunts, scratching gray stubble. “Nickel up front, no more than five minutes. Long-distance? Two nickels.”

I slip him a dime; it sinks into his fleshy palm. He nods at the phone in the lobby corner—old, battered, handset on a hook, dial creaking lazily. I lift the receiver and ask the operator to connect me to Reno, Nevada. “Sam ‘The Shark’ Harris, Silver Dollar Bar on Virginia Street.” The operator—a girl with a tired voice—mumbles about waiting; a minute later there’s crackle, then familiar hoarse laughter.

“Danny the Slick? Damn me, alive?” Sam booms. “Thought Hoover sucked you into his dump like the rest of us. And here you are—out of the joint and straight to Nevada?”

I grin, pressing the receiver closer— the clerk eyes me sideways, pretending to read.

“Close, Sammy. I’m stuck in a hole where even cockroaches are faster than trains. Remember how we hung around my uncle’s pet shop in the Bronx? Well, I’ve gotten into cockroach racing. Don’t laugh—my Magnificent just won fifteen bucks. A couple more heats and I’ll have enough to roll into Reno.”

Sam snorts, but curiosity leaks through—he always loved gambling stories.

“Cockroach racing? You serious, Slick? In these times everyone’s fighting for crumbs and you’re training roaches? That’s your style. And your Magnificent—golden antennae or what? Come on over. Casinos still spin here despite the Depression. My bar’s hanging by a thread, but with a partner like you we could cook up something new for tourists. Bets on cockroaches as a show. Entry fee—fifty bucks, and you’re in.”

I nod, heart pounding like when Magnificent scraped his legs before the barrier.

“Deal, pal. I’ll win a bit more and hop a freight. Magnificent in my pocket. Don’t let me down.”

“Won’t,” he laughs. “I’ll be waiting, Slick.”

I hang up. The clerk drills me with his eyes. This isn’t running for crumbs, I stick my tongue out at him in my head.

The next weekend I’m back in the basement with Magnificent—feed him exactly a day before the race, by the book. We win three more times, doubling the bets each time. The crowd starts recognizing “number five,” the bookie gives me sideways looks but pays. I bank ninety dollars—enough for food and Sam’s stake. I catch a freight and hit the road.

Before leaving, I move Magnificent into a small box with crumbs and air holes, checking on him every couple of hours. At first he moves, chews crumbs, but on the second day he goes still. When I open the box at a roadside motel, he lies motionless—antennae frozen, legs tucked, shell dulled. Maybe the heat, maybe the jostling, maybe his roach lifespan just ended. Tears well up. “You pulled me out of the shit, buddy, and I couldn’t protect you.” I bury him under a motel cactus like a fool. Then I move on.

In Reno Sam greets me with a grin. “Slick, finally done chasing crumbs? Where’s your champion?” I tell him about the death on the road. My throat tightens. He claps my shoulder. “Then he did his job. Now it’s your turn.”

We open the “Cockroach Track”—a show for the public, with prizes. Legal, licensed entertainment. Not a pet shop, but close. I even name the first show after my champion—“The Magnificent Run.” And no detectives at the door. For the first time in years I’m not running for crumbs, but for something bigger—with the memory of a little champion who changed everything.