Horse Heaven (65 page)

The race was a mile and an eighth, so the gate was at the top of the stretch. He saw the horses go in, he heard the bell clang, he saw the gate open and the horses break. They ran past. Residual was there with them, but it was meaningless. The horses headed into the first turn. Residual had moved up and taken the lead, but it was to no avail. Buddy didn’t think this filly, or any other horse, would ever get a rise out of him again.

But of course he was wrong. As the horses entered the backstretch, it impressed itself upon him that there was something not right about the track, and then, a split-second later, he realized what it was. The gate had not moved, was not moving. It stood stationary across the width of the track, as if it had been built there. Buddy looked away from the horses, and came alive at the same moment everyone in the stands came alive, in time to watch the guy who normally drove the tractor that towed the gate off the track stand up and wave his arms. Right then, the announcer began shouting, “Jockeys! Hold your horses! Jockeys! Stop your horses!” Half the grandstand, half of Buddy’s companions, rose to their feet. The other half pushed themselves back in their chairs. It was a sunny day. The horses kept running. Residual was still in the lead, now by a length and half. They came into the second turn. The announcer was now screaming, “Jockeys! Heads up! Alex! Chris! Stop your horses!”

Stop your hearts, thought Buddy. He glanced at Andrea Melanie. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. Jason Clark Kingston was blanched to the roots of his hair. The horses were bunched and focused, the arrow had left the bow, the bullet had left the barrel of the gun. No turning back now. That was what everyone was thinking.

But no. They were horses, not missiles. Through his binoculars, Buddy saw the filly’s head go up, and then the heads of the others, and then the smooth stream of speed broke up, eddied, spun this way and that, and then there were just individual riders and mounts scattered about the track; the race was over, the danger was past, the thought that something bad might happen was wrong, and nothing was lost except the betting pool.

That night, Buddy knelt beside his bed, his habit, and he gave thanks, full-hearted thanks, not his habit, the way you do when you have seen a possibility that you never want to see again. The fact was, he felt a little saved again. Not inspiringly saved, but a little saved, the way he had felt as a boy when his father said, “I’ll give you one more chance.”

A
T
B
ELMONT
P
ARK
, Epic Steam came to hand very quickly. Yes, in the barn he was surrounded by mares, all of whom were on progesterone and emphatically never in season. Yes, they used a stud chain on him, and whenever Luciano worked on him he was twitched, and Frankie came to Dick and asked him to pay for a big life-insurance policy for the duration, but there was no bolting, no rioting in the starting gate, no attacking other horses. Dick knew that the stewards were watching, and that the starter was
really
watching, but there was nothing the horse could be accused of. Dick was watching, too, watching insatiably. He couldn’t take his eyes off the horse. Every stride entranced him. Privately, Dick thought that he was seeing the return of Ribot or Nearco, both of whom appeared in his pedigree more than once, and both of whom had been unruly in their day. There was no petting the horse or making up to him. But you could watch him all day and never get enough. You had to keep him tired, though, just for safety’s sake. He worked three-quarters, seven-eighths. He galloped or trotted on his days off, and in fact, had no days off. When Herman Newman, having had unauthorized conversation with other owners who had their own opinions, questioned the program, Dick got a little firm with him. “Citation! You know Citation worked a mile! They had to work two horses with him, one at the beginning and one at the end, to keep him sharp! This is your first horse, Mr. Newman, so you don’t realize how remarkable he is, but he could be a legend!” And then Derby Derby Derby, just to keep the guy a little off balance. It was worth not going to Florida, changing his whole mode of operation, to keep the horse at Belmont and Aqueduct, where there was plenty of space, just to watch the animal.

In fact, the colt was working quite nicely, and Dick had him ready for a race. The colt was working so nicely that Dick was tempted to imagine himself as a genius—a person who understands the few simple elements of any process that will propel it forward where always before it has been fatally retarded. And
now that the colt was working so well, a lot of people were looking at him in a new way. His quirks, like viciousness, appeared to have been taken care of. No longer did his unpredictability serve as a disincentive, and Dick knew that Herman Newman was the belle of the ball.

They talked every day. Herman Newman was a nice man, but you had to tell him everything over and over. What was a blinker again? What were rundowns again? Tell me again what Legend is? How do you mean, prophylactic? Arthritis in a three-year-old? Tell me again, is a three-quarters work a minute, eight seconds good? Tell me again, what should I say to this reporter? There were lots of apologies—Herman Newman was always saying, You know, I take this, what is it, ginkgo biloba for my memory, and maybe it is getting worse, but I don’t know. I’ve always liked to be reminded right now of what I already know. It drives my wife crazy. But, you know, you don’t know the same thing today as you did yesterday. Every day, the sun comes up all over again. And so-and-so called me again.

So-and-so. Here was Dick’s deepest worry, the paradox of his existence. Herman Newman could be seduced at any moment. Horse agents called him all the time, French, English, sometimes American. Then he would call Dick for advice. This guy Tommy Ormond called. His buyer was a quiet man, didn’t like his name in the papers. “Japanese,” said Dick.

“The Japanese don’t have any money anymore,” said Herman Newman.

“They do at the top,” said Dick.

“Why won’t he tell me his name?”

“There’s a lot of secrecy in horse racing,” said Dick.

“Tell me again why that is.”

“Because there’s a lot of money at stake, especially on the betting side.”

“Should I sell the horse?”

“Don’t ask me that,” said Dick.

“Who can I ask? I don’t know anyone but you. Tell me again why I shouldn’t sell the horse.”

“Because he’s a great horse. He can win for you and make you a lot of money.”

“Okay.”

And then, later in the day, “Hi, Herman Newman here. This guy called me, Simon St. Melbourne. What is he, Australian?”

“English.”

“He has a buyer.”

“From Hong Kong, I bet. He has Hong Kong connections.”

“There’s still plenty of money in Hong Kong. Some of it’s Chinese, too. You think Beijing is interested in this horse?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Newman.”

And then, “Herman Newman here. This guy Gustave Galopin or something like that called me.”

“Arabs. They haven’t had much of an interest in American racing until lately.”

“Tell me again—”

In fact, there was no reason for the man not to sell the horse. Herman Newman was not a horseman, and seemed uncomfortable in his new role as owner. All over the world, on the other hand, there were deserving men who had spent dozens of years and millions of dollars without ever coming close to a horse like Epic Steam. Why should Herman Newman, a man who couldn’t remember what a blinker was from one day to the next, run a horse like this one, when men who knew horses, who had horses in their blood, who in some cases believed that they had been horses in previous lifetimes, had no chance at him? Ah. Well. Of all the things in the world that were unfair, ownership, that simplest of them, often seemed the unfairest of all.

There was only one reason for Herman Newman to own Epic Steam, and that was that Dick Winterson wanted to train the animal. Of course, if he put him in a good race and the horse won, which Dick was sure he would, then the pressure on Herman Newman to do the right thing would only increase.

E
PIC
S
TEAM
was ready to run. More important, Herman Newman was ready for him to run. “Tell me again why we missed this Count Fleet Stakes? Tell me again why you scratched him, is that the word, from the Whirlaway Stakes? It’s all right with me if he gets shipped somewhere. Whatever it takes. Tell me again why you don’t want to ship him?”

“He’s hard to handle.”

“Didn’t you tell me he seems to have turned over a new leaf?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Don’t you trust him?”

“I’m starting to trust him.”

“Tell me again why you don’t want to put him in a race.”

“I do want to put him in a race. But I want it to be the right race.”

“What would be the right race?”

One that no one in the world was looking at.

“I think maybe the Paumonok Stakes.”

“Have I heard of that race?”

“No. It’s a prep race. If he does well, he can go in a famous race.”

“Okay. Tell me again when they run this race?”

“In a couple of weeks.”

“Should I be there?”

“Yes, you should, Mr. Newman.”

“You just remind me what to wear and do.”

“You’re very game, Mr. Newman.”

“I’ll tell you something. I don’t mind looking like an idiot. I never have. People who are worried about appearances don’t get anywhere. They’re always checking themselves out. That takes a lot of time that, at my age, I don’t have. So I look like an idiot, so what, you know what I mean?”

“I do, sir. The Paumonok Stakes. I will keep you informed.”

“Tell me again what that race is worth?”

“About a hundred thousand dollars to the winner.”

“That’s a nice piece of change.”

“Yes it is, sir.”

I
T WAS ONLY
on the morning of the race that Dick realized that he had never actually run Epic Steam before. He had worked him and read about his previous races and fantasized about every named race there was and obsessed day and night about the horse, but when it came to actually knowing what the horse would do in a race, or, for that matter, in the saddling enclosure, in the test barn, under the stands, out on the track with ten thousand people looking at him and yelling, well, that he didn’t actually know. An oversight of some magnitude.

To Herman Newman, he said, “The horse is well prepared and fit. He’s been training superbly. I think he’s as ready as he’s gonna be.” Whistling in the dark.

To himself, he recited all his own statistics—horses trained, races won, money earned, blah blah blah. But it didn’t matter. Every step out of the barn with this horse was a blindfolded step toward the edge of a cliff. You didn’t know where the drop would be. Actually, the training had been going fine, and for the last two weeks they had even trained the horse with a four-year-old gelding, to accustom him at least a little to the proximity of another horse. The gelding was a big self-confident turf horse, a little on the phlegmatic side. His exercise rider was big and phlegmatic, too, and a couple of times when Epic Steam pinned his ears to bite his partner that guy gave him a cut across the face with his whip to ponder at his leisure. It wasn’t something Dick liked to do, but that, too, worked well enough.

Dick wondered why sometimes all the evidence in the world that everything was fine wasn’t enough to convince you.

Frankie took a different attitude toward the whole thing. He just shrugged and said, “Look, boss, my opinion? Stop making a special deal out of this horse. Put the jockey on him, tell him to run, and leave it at that. You’re giving yourself a heart attack trying to figure this horse out. Bottom line? He’s a fucking horse.”

And so Herman Newman showed up, and so his wife showed up, and she was the sort of wife Dick would never sleep with, which was a relief, and so his sons and their wives showed up, and the same went for them, and it was like showing a vanload of tourists around. One of the sons was in toys, also, and another was a professor of something like medieval Russian history and the third was a rabbi. Yes, a real rabbi, with the hat and the coat and the long curls. Dick had never seen a rabbi at the track before, but he was glad. Maybe, he thought, that was the secret to Herman Newman’s run of luck. He made a point to brush against the rabbi and then touch the horse with that hand, since he didn’t dare invite the rabbi to endanger himself by approaching the horse.

The Newmans stood in a circle around the horse, at a safe distance, contemplating him. What’s more, as they contemplated him, he put aside his busyness for a moment and contemplated them. At this moment, Dick took the opportunity offered and threw the jockey into the saddle. The jockey exchanged a glance with him. The glance said, So far so good, here goes.

Dick shepherded the Newmans through the betting hall and up to his box. It took a while, because the Newmans were amazed by everything they saw. Even Herman, who had been here a couple of dozen times, seemed freshly amazed. By the time everyone was seated, Epic Steam had picked up his pony and was out on the track. The rabbi, who upon perusal looked to be rather young, leaned around his wife and touched Dick’s sleeve. He said, “This equine of ours seems to me to have a rather intransigent quality.”

“You’re not the first to notice that, but I’m surprised you noticed it so quickly.”

“Would this be a good quality in a racehorse?”

“Within certain limits, yes.”

The man pressed his fingers into his beard and regarded the track. He said, “Highly ritualized.”

Dick said, “It’s the same every day, everywhere, all year round.”

“I like that,” said the rabbi. “I might come back.”

“You don’t see too many rabbis at the track.”

“What are those numbers on that display there?”

“Those are the odds. The odds on our horse are three to one. He’s had lots of good races, but he hasn’t raced for a long time, so the bettors like him, but he isn’t the favorite.”

“This is a strange thing for my father to do.”