Bullet Work (10 page)

“Puts these trainers in a tough spot,” said
Dan. “They charge over a hundred bucks a day per horse for
training, so the twenty bucks a week seems fairly cheap, but with
payroll, feed, rent, and upkeep, there isn’t much margin there.
Some of the guys are turning to the owners to pay the fee. Others
are afraid to mention it to their owners.”

Lennie pulled his glasses down off his head
and onto his nose. He picked up his stack of sheets and began
studying. “It’s a universal truth, you know. There are two things
that account for ninety-nine percent of all corruption and criminal
activity.”

“Two things, huh? What are they?”

“The first is money.” Lennie glanced up at
the tote board. “The second is people.”

They sat in silence, each studying their
racing forms and materials. Five minutes to post, Dan spoke up.
“Who you like in here?”

Lennie let out a long breath and gazed at the
tote board. “Think I’m going to try Oliver’s mare here.”

“The seven? Chesterton?”

“Yeah, she’s dropping down in class. Had a
good tightener last time out. Put Dagens up on her. This is also a
horse for a course.”

“Saw that,” Dan said.

“Hit the board in all four outs last year,
winning two,” said Lennie.

“What’s not to like?”

They climbed the stairs to the mezzanine to
bet and had just returned to the seats when Dean Horn called them
all in line.

Chesterton broke well along with Party Tyme,
the two, and Ricky Rover, the three. That trio led the field by two
lengths as they entered the far turn.

“Just what I was afraid of,” said Lennie.

Dan turned to look at Lennie, then back to
the race.

“…
coming out of the turn
its Ricky Rover by a head…Party Thyme and Chesterton challenging on
the outside…two back to Angler’s Angle, followed by Tipper Terry,
Envelope, and Penny Vane…Bisconti Road trails…down the stretch they
come, and it’s Party Thyme by half a length, Chesterton on the
outside, and Ricky Rover on the rail…”

“She’s in the death,” said Lennie.

“In the what?”

“In the death, the death seat.”

The crowd stood and cheered as the two horses
approached the wire. Party Thyme held sway and won by half a
length. Chesterton ran second.

“What did you say about? What was it? Death?”
Dan asked.

“It’s called being in the death or in the
death seat.”

“Never heard of it.”

“When you’ve got a known frontrunner but
another speed horse is inside, you’re in the death seat.” Dan just
stared. “The outside horse has to travel farther than the inside
horse—just math,” said Lennie. “But when the pace is hot and your
need-to-lead horse is outside a legitimate frontrunner, you’re in
the death seat.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a stalking
position, just outside the leader.”

“Depends on the pace. If you win, you were
stalking. If you lose, you were in the death seat.”

Chapter 18

The filly stood nearly still. She
looked out into the darkness beyond the stable lights and shifted
her weight slightly. Her coat twitched nervously, as if shoeing off
flies. Beth kept her calm, and she busily worked through her
tasks.

“That’s right, girl: You are the real deal.”
Beth tenderly combed and cut the filly’s mane.

“I trimmed your tail off in a block. That
always looks best, and after I finish your mane, honey, I’m going
to brush you down again.”

Aly Dancer’s head nodded up and down, and she
snorted in approval.

“You moved so well on the track today. You
handled your lessons at the starting gate just great. First time
can be kinda scary, huh. Sometimes those guys can be hard-headed,
but you were just great.”

She hummed a tune while she swept the trimmed
hair from Aly Dancer’s mane. “You and me girl, we’re gonna stick
together. Yes, indeed.” She began brushing her hind quarters with
the wooden hand brush. Beth stopped and gestured with the brush.
“You know what, girl? Not only are you the fastest filly on the
grounds, but damn, you’re good looking too.” She laughed and went
back to brushing down the filly. Crouched on her haunches, she
methodically stroked the lower part of Aly Dancer’s leg.

“I’ll tell you what—”

Before she could finish, Aly Dancer shifted
backward, startled by movement ahead of her. Beth fell onto her
backside. From the corner of her eye she spotted a head in the
stall doorway.

“Hey, how’s my girl?” Jim Dagens said.

“What the—”

Dagens gave her a toothy grin. His face was
framed by brown hair cut into a mullet, as if he hadn’t heard the
80s were over. “I’m talking to the filly,” he said, patting the
filly on the nose and glancing toward Beth. “But if you want to be
my girl, I’ll see if I can squeeze you in.”

“Get the hell out of here,” Beth said. She
scrambled to her knees and barrel rolled at his legs. She tumbled
under the webbing into the path in front of the stall.

The jockey nimbly sidestepped her and leaned
back against the stall with his arms crossed. As an athlete and
tireless workout freak, Dagens had the body of a power lifter,
though as a jockey, his physique was contained in a travel-sized
package. His cockiness wasn’t similarly confined. A receptacle
hadn’t been designed that was big enough for his ego.

Beth shot to her feet, crouched forward. “Get
outta here. You got no business being here.”

Dagens cocked his head and made a pouty face.
“We going to wrestle?” He chuckled. “I bet you’re pretty good on
top.”

She threw the brush at him, but he ducked,
and it caromed off the stall wall.

“Beat it, loser,” she said. “You got no
reason to be here, ’specially this time of night.”

“What are you going to do? Kick my ass?” He
said, sneering at her.

“She don’t need to.” The words came from a
voice behind Beth. She spun around, and Jorge crept forward. He
held a steel-tonged rake like a baseball batter. Admittedly, a
110-pound cleanup hitter, but one with the business end of the rake
facing Dagens. Jorge stepped closer and raised the rake, preparing
to strike.

The palms of Dagens hands slowly pushed
forward, and he backed away. “Hey, easy, Pancho Villa. Don’t need
to get your panties all in a bunch. We were just having a
conversation.”

“Get off the property,” Beth said, pointing
emphatically. “Get.”

“Hey, dial it down, guys,” Dagens said,
laughing and continuing to back away. “I’m just checking out the
filly. I hear she’s a good one.”

“Move along,” said Jorge.

Dagens stopped and smiled. “You tell big boss
man that if he wants the best out of that filly, he’ll put Dagens
up on her.

“Fat chance, pinhead,” Beth said. “Move
it.”

Dagens turned and walked out of the stable,
disappearing into the darkness. Beth turned back. “Thanks,
Jorge.”

“What the hell he doing?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I don’t like
it. Don’t like it one bit. I’m going to have Mr. Gilmore take it up
with the stews.” She stared in the direction Dagens left. “Jocks
shouldn’t be out roaming the backside this time of night. And with
the guys attacking horses, what’s he thinking?”

Jorge rested the rake on his shoulder and
shook his head. “I’ll be in the office,” he said. Beth nodded
slowly.

She slipped back under the webbing and put
her arms around Aly Dancer’s neck. “Nothing bad’s going to happen
to you, girl. Okay? I promise you. Nothing.”

Chapter 19

Aside from the competition between
barns on a backside, there was also a supply-and-demand
relationship for other services. Veterinarian services were no
exception. A backside typically was home to four or five different
vet companies. Many were one-man shops, and they hustled for
business like a jock agent. Some had developed longstanding
relationships with established barns. Others positioned themselves
in second place, ready to jump at a new account if a relationship
changed.

Vets had a few rules to live by. First, they
did nothing that could put their license at risk. Their ability to
earn a living was dependent upon a license in good standing with
the State. So they kept good records and were subject to oversight
by the track, the medical board, and the state thoroughbred
licensing commission.

The other rule was keeping client receipts
current. Trainers on a bad streak got slow in payment. Nobody
wanted to be the vet of record when a stable went bust, so vets had
to be glib and persistent about being paid. If they weren’t, the
system would take advantage of them. Folks who were taken advantage
of in this world went broke.

Dr. Vic Dancett moved slowly but efficiently.
His actions bore the precision formed by a lifetime of exercising
an abundance of caution. He was tall and straight, like a walking
pool cue, with shocks of white hair and a puffy white moustache. He
did nothing quickly, but he did everything correctly. Vic was
sixty-five and had worked the backside for nearly forty years, the
last thirty as a licensed vet.

Dancett had seen it all. Every kind of
ailment a horse could suffer, every kind of racing injury, stress
fracture, and infection, every kind of bad luck, hard knock, and
tough break. Roaming the backside of a racetrack was all he ever
wanted. He lost his wife to breast cancer two decades before.
Dancett’s life was animals and the backside community. It was his
family. Yes, Dancett had seen it all—or at least he thought he
had.

The hours were brutal, but most vets worked
in the game because they loved it. They lived to see young horses
develop, and they challenged themselves to solve problems that
helped horses get better. More than occasionally, they cashed a
ticket or two based upon things they could see that the public
couldn’t. The betting public rarely looked at the animals in a race
before they broke out of the starting gate. Their analysis solely
focused on the history of their performance, like they were
machines and the race was simply comparing different machines.

Horses were far from machines. They performed
based upon physical conditions. Little in a racing form told one
about current physical condition, but vets knew physical condition
firsthand. Sometimes it helped cash a bet.

The day typically started at 5 a.m. with
rounds, consults, and preparations for morning works. On race days
the afternoons were filled with examinations of returning warriors
and administration of medication before and after racing. As with
medical doctors of the human world, the stress of competition
created nicks, injuries, and assorted stress in equine athletes.
Vets who wanted to keep their book full were available until the
evening for advice and therapy. Then they would get up the next day
and do it all over again.

Over the years bans had been implemented over
the use of race-day medication. Most were pain relievers or
blockers to dull the sensation of pain in the course of a race.
Horses who couldn’t feel the pain would over-perform, leading to
breakdowns and career-ending injuries.

Even small injuries that kept an animal from
racing cost everyone money, and no one wanted to pay for an athlete
who couldn’t perform, so there was always tension to push the
envelope to get animals to the track.

The best trainers were patient with small
injuries because they maintained high winning percentages. Trainers
lower down on the list needed numbers. They needed runners, so any
advantage was sought, sometimes to the detriment of the
competitors.

One race-day medication available and legal
in nearly every state was Lasix. During heavy physical exertion,
the capillaries in a horse’s lungs could explode. This resulted in
blood seeping into the lungs. A horse with blood in its lungs
couldn’t run fast. At times the bloody discharge would fly out of
the nostrils, covering the jockey and the horse itself. Obviously
that wasn’t the image the thoroughbred set liked to foster. As with
the human world, the industry’s answer was chemical.

Lasix was a powerful diuretic, which if given
to a “known bleeder” would reduce the body fluids in the animal and
prevent bursting capillaries in the lungs. Unlike most medications,
the name Lasix had no connection to the chemical makeup of the
substance. Lasix was a term coined because the effect of the
diuretic lasted six hours, hence Lasix. It was common knowledge
that Lasix could improve a horse’s performance, and sometimes the
improvement could be dramatic. Many handicappers looked for
first-time Lasix runners because history has shown a horse could
improve five to six lengths over its pre-Lasix performance.

By regulation, the tracks and information
services had access to race-day medication information, and that
was shared with the betting public. Lasix made horses lighter
because of the water weight loss, and since there shouldn’t be
excess fluid in their lungs, they ran faster.

To be prescribed Lasix, the horse had to be
examined by a vet who scoped the lungs following a race or workout.
If evidence of bleeding was present, the horse could go on the
Lasix list and be treated on race day. The actual degree of
bleeding, or presence at all, was a subjective determination made
by the vet. If the vet said there was blood, the horse could get
Lasix. End of discussion. Once on Lasix, the saying went, always on
Lasix. As long as the horse ran in jurisdictions that allowed
Lasix, it would race with the substance.

To hit the optimal time zone for
administration of Lasix, a vet would travel from barn to barn on a
schedule to allow several hours for the Lasix to kick in. If the
vet’s clients had horses running throughout a race card, he would
time his visits to the barns to administer the medication. Then he
would check off the horses as the day progressed. Giving the
medication too late or too early could have adverse effects, so
vets operated on a strict schedule.