Hooligans (47 page)

“Just a friend,” I said. “We all need them, you know.” I left him sitting in his vast, sterile office,

wiping the thin line of sweat off his upper lip.

As I left the bank, a frenetic little man with sparse black hair and hyperactive eyes scurried past me,

hugging his briefcase to his side. Lou Cohen, making his daily deposit. Death didn‟t change anything

in Doomstown.

56

Driving out to the track, I kept thinking that it seemed like an awfully festive thing to be doing after

the events of the morning. For the first time in years I felt connected to someone else‟s pain. I could

feel DeeDee‟s, like psychic agony, but there was little I could do about it.

A cloud as dark as Tony‟s future followed me most of the way to the track, then obliterated the sun

arid dumped half an inch of rain in about thirty seconds. it was one of those quick, drenching summer

showers that come and go quickly, but
it
made a mess of the traffic at the racetrack gate and made me

a few minutes late arriving.

Callahan was waiting at the back gate, with his customary flower decorating a tan silk suit and his cap

cocked jauntily over one eye. Here was a man who dressed for the occasion.

“What‟s the latest body count?” he asked dryly as we headed for the grandstand.

“I‟ve lost count,” I said, not wishing to get into the Tony Lukatis thing. “What‟s happening today?”

“Disaway‟s going to win,” he said matter-of-factly. “Little storm drenched the track down just

enough.”

“Will it bring down his odds?” I asked.

“Doubt it. Hasn‟t shown anything his last two times at bat. Players don‟t trust him.”

“Are you going to put some money on him?” I asked.

“Never bet the ponies,” he said. “Rather give my money away.”

The stadium and grounds were exquisite. The grandstand, with its gabled roof and tall cupolas at the

corners, was Old South to the core. It could have been a hundred and fifty years old. Callahan led me

on a quick walk through the premises.

The place was jammed. The parking lot was almost full and people were milling about the betting

windows, worrying over their racing forms, studying the electronic totalizator boards, which showed

Disaway paying $33.05 to win, almost fifteen to one.

“He has to beat Ixnay,” said Callahan. Ixnay was the favorite, paying only $3.40 to win. “The eight

horse,” he continued. “Two horse, Johnny‟s Girl, is favored to place. Then it‟s nip and tuck among the

field.”

We went from the betting rooms to the paddock. Disaway and the rest of the horses in the first race

were on display. He was showing good temper, standing with his legs slightly apart, his nostrils

flared, checking out the crowd. Judging on looks, I would have had my money on Disaway. The other

horses in the first race didn‟t look like they could carry his feed bag.

“Good-looking horse,” said Callahan. “Too bad he‟s got such tender feet.”

“Who‟s riding him today?” I asked.

“Scoot Impastato‟s up,” Callahan said.

“I thought he was through with „Thibideau,” I said.

“Who knows,” Callahan answered vaguely. “Maybe he needed a ride.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked. “He seemed so dead against him the other day.”

Callahan looked at me like I had just spit on his shoe.

“How would I know? Why do you do what you do? Why do jockeys jock? Hell, they get fifty bucks a

ride, a piece of the purse if they win. Rainy days, when the track‟s muddy, it‟s easy for a horse to go

down doing forty miles an hour. Jock can get trampled to death.”

“You mean like today,” I said.

“Not too bad out there now,” Callahan said. “Sun‟ll cook off most of the standing water. When it‟s

real muddy, shit I‟ll tell you, racing in the mud is one piss-poor way to make fifty bucks. But it‟s a

ride, what they do. Thibideau probably said, „I‟m sorry, kid, here‟s an extra fifty,‟ old Magic Hands is

up. Kid knows the horse, Thibideau wants a winner. He made peace.”

After the paddock we went to the top tier and he walked me through the private club section, a posh

series of tiered rooms protected from wind, rain, and sun by tinted glass, with royal-blue velveteen

sofas, low-cut mahogany tables for drinks and snacks, and TV monitors to provide close-ups of the

race for the privileged. Red-jacketed waiters, all of whom seemed to be elderly black men, solemnly

served refreshments. The place seemed to brag of its elegance, a fact I mentioned to Callahan.

“The sport of kings,” he said. “These are the aristocrats. Owners, breeders, money people. All part of

it, all part of the show.”

From the elite of the club we went down among the commoners at the rail. The crowd was already

four deep. Callahan, I learned, had a box in the club section, courtesy of the track, but he preferred to

be as close to the horses as he could get.

“Like to feel „em go by,” he said, adjusting his field glasses, checking out the infield, then the gate.

“When betting starts, we can get next to the wood.”

He handed me a program and I checked out the charts. There was a list of the stewards, headed by

Harry Raines, and some track information that surprised me. According to the program, taxes took

fourteen percent of the pari-mutnel‟s first ten million, eight percent of the next ten mill, six percent on

the next fifty, and five percent on everything over that. Obviously the state was getting fat, a fact

which certainly vindicated Raines.

The infield was as impressive as the stadium. A large pond with a fountain in the centre had attracted

herons and other water birds to it. Gardens surrounded the pond and there was a granite obelisk at one

end.

“What‟s that?” I asked, pointing to the large marker.

“Remember me telling you about Just about at chow the other morning?”

“You mean the ugly horse?”

Callahan nodded. “First big winner to come off this track. Ran his first heat here, ran here most of the

next season. First two years he won forty-two races. Ugly as he was, he was so good he once got a

standing ovation for coming in second. The crowd figured he‟d been racing so much he was tired. Just

before the season ended last year, he got trapped against the rail going into the far turn, tried to break

out, bumped another kid, went down. They had to destroy him, so the board of stewards decided to

bury him out there.”

At exactly ten minutes before post time a horseman in a red cutaway and a black hunter‟s cap led the

horses out onto the dirt, parading them around the track and in front of the stands. There was a ripple

of applause, now and then, and a lot of chitchat among the horseplayers as the Thoroughbreds went

by. Disaway was acting a little frisky, jogging sideways and shaking his head.

Callahan was right about the railbirds. Ten minutes before the first race, half of the crowd around us

seemed to rush off en masse, waiting until the last minute to get their bets down. We moved up

against the rail and across from the finish line, a perfect position.

The odds on Disaway changed very little, as Callahan had predicted. Five minutes before post time

they dropped from $33.05 to $26.20, still a hefty long shot as far as the bettors were concerned.

As they started putting the horses in the gate, Callahan gave me the binoculars.

“Watch Disaway, the four horse. He‟s acting up a little but I don‟t think he‟s nervous. Anxious to run.

Looks good, lots of energy.”

I could see him jogging sideways and throwing his head about as the handler tried to lead him into the

chute. Magic Hands was leaning over his shoulder, talking into his ear. A moment later the horse

settled down and strolled into the gate.

I turned around and appraised the clubhouse with the glasses. Raines was in the centre box, alone,

looking stern, like Patton leading his tanks into combat.

“There‟s Raines,” I said, “centre stage.”

Callahan gave him an unsolicited compliment. “Raines is a tough administrator. Built a rep for the

track; well run, clean, profitable.”

“Aren‟t they all?” I suggested.

“Hah! I got out of college,” said Callahan, “got a job working for the vet at a little track. Florida.

Assistant track doctor. Track was dirty. Shit, they switched blood samples, dosed horses.. . crazy. Saw

two horses die that summer, one with heaves. Terrible. Pony just lies down, gags for air. Like

watching him suffocate, only takes hours. Don‟t want to kill him because you keep hoping he‟ll turn

around, make it. I decided to make a stink how bad it was. Got me fired. Told me I‟d never work at a

racetrack again. So I became a cop, went back, cleaned their tank. Heads up, they‟re coming out.”

I gave him back his glasses just as the bell rang. I could see the horses charging out of the stalls, a blur

of horseflesh and wild colours; mauve, pink, orange, bright blues and greens seemed to blend together

in a streak of colour, then the line began to stretch out as the field moved for position. The crowd was

already going so crazy as the eight horses pounded toward the first turn, I couldn‟t hear the announcer

giving the positions.

“How‟s he doing?” I yelled, unable to make one horse from the other on the backstretch.

“Off the rail and fourth going into the turn,” Callahan yelled. “Got a bad break coming out of the

gate... making tip for it. . . Scoot‟s laying it on.. . on the outside now, moving into third. Scoot isn‟t

letting him out full yet. . . passing the three-quarter post. . . Scoot still holding him back. . . running

him to win, all right. Not gonna let him out until the stretch. . . there he goes into third place. . . he‟s

moving for the inside now.

I could see the horses clearly as they came around the clubhouse turn. Disaway was running hard,

challenging the two horse, Johnny‟s Girl. I could feel the excitement of the crowd as they started

down the last five hundred yards.

Callahan continued his running commentary.

“He‟s on the rail now... pushing for second. He‟s a nose out of second place now. . . and Scoot‟s

letting him out! Look at that horse go! Damn, does he like that mud.

Disaway nosed past the two horse and challenged the leader. I could feel the thunder of their hoofs as

they stormed toward the finish line, the jockeys‟ livid colours splattered with mud.

Callahan‟s voice began to rise as he, too, was caught up in the excitement of the finish.

“Disaway‟s going for it. They‟re neck and neck coming down the stretch, and there he goes, he‟s

pulling away, he‟s got the lead by a head and romping.”

Suddenly Callahan stopped for a second, and then he cried out, “Jesus!”

As they approached the wire, Disaway suddenly swerved away from the rail and headed diagonally

across the track, his left front leg dangling crazily as he made the erratic move. The two horse behind

him tried to cut inside but it was too late. They collided, hard, neck on neck. Disaway was thrown

back toward the rail as the two horse went down, chin into dirt, rolling over its hapless jockey.

Disaway was totally out of control and Impastato was trying vainly to keep him on his feet, but the

three horse was charging for the wire and they hit with a sickening thud. Scoot Impastato was vaulted

from the saddle, spinning end over end into the rail, followed immediately by Disaway. The rail

shattered and Disaway, Impastato, the three horse and jockey, and the horse behind it all went down

in a horrifying jumble of legs and torsos and racing colours and mud.

The crowd shrieked in horror.

Then, just as suddenly, it was deathly still.

From the infield I heard a voice cry out, “Get him off me, please get him off me!”

One of the horses was trying to get up, its legs scrambling in the dirt.

One of the three jocks was on his knees, clawing at his safety helmet.

The two horse and rider were as still as death in mid-track.

Sirens. An ambulance. People running across the infield.

The place was chaotic.

“Let‟s get the hell over there,” Callahan said, and we jumped the rail and headed for the infield.

57

It was a bizarre sight: Disaway was spread out on an enormous metal table, three legs askew, his head

dangling awkwardly over one side, his bulging eyes terrified in death, his foreleg split wide open and

its muscles and tendons clamped back, revealing the shattered bone. The vet, whose name was

Shuster and who was younger than I had pictured him, a short man in his mid-thirties who had lost

most of his hair, was leaning over the leg with a magnifying glass, and Callahan, dressed in a white

gown, was leaning right along with him. Both gowns were amply bloodstained. I walked to within

three or four feet and watched and listened, keeping my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open.

So far, two horses were dead, a third might have to be destroyed, and two jockeys were in the

hospital, Scoot Impastato with a fractured skull and a broken leg.

“I‟ve never seen a break quite this bad,” Shuster was saying.

“The other horses could‟ve done some damage when they ran over him,” Callahan answered.

“1 think not. The pastern bone broke inward here... and here. No chips or other evidence of impact.

This is what interests me. See? Right here and then down here, at the bottom of the break.”

Callahan leaned closer and nodded.

“Yeah. Maybe it splintered when the bone broke.”

“Maybe..

Shuster took a pair of micrometers and leaned back over the carcass.