Thorns

by Feliz Faber

  His English had a vaguely European flatness; even Louis sounded more American than him, Will thought as they shook hands. “William Yeats,” he said, not offering further details. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  The other man cocked his head. He was considerably shorter than Will, but somehow still managed to look down his nose at him. “Say, aren’t you the journalist who’s currently visiting at La Thillaye? I heard you were doing a story about Louis’s brief spell in the States. How remarkable!”

  “I’m afraid you’re not quite right, sir,” Will said, unsure what to make of this inquiry. “I’m a reporter, yes, but I’m doing a portrait about both Mr. Meerow and Mr. Pithiviers. How’d you know about that?”

  “Word gets around.” Collins winked at him. “A portrait sounds even more interesting. Are you with a turf magazine, Mr. Yeats?”

  Definitely an inquiry, albeit a very polite one. But two could play that game. “No, we’re more like People magazine. Human interest behind the sport, you see?” He put on his best winsome smile. “Actually, I was wondering…. Louis told me how much your example influenced his career. Would you be so kind as to grant me an interview? If your time allows, that is.”

  “Oh, it’d be my pleasure, Mr. Yeats.” Collins’s face lit up in a cunning smirk that made the back of Will’s neck prickle, though he kept smiling. “Let’s see.” The former jockey tapped a finger to his nose. “I’m put up at the Royal Barrière hotel. Their restaurant is very good. Why don’t you meet me there for dinner, let’s say at seven thirty, day after tomorrow?”

  He’d expected a polite rejection, so Collins’s invitation surprised Will. Still, he hurried to agree. “Sure, Mr. Collins, and thank you very much.”

  “That’s settled, then,” Collins said. “You know, I’m—”

  A commotion on the other side of the paddock interrupted him.

  “What’s going on there?” Will asked, already heading to where Nic and Louis were arguing with a thin man in a suit. The loud voices had obviously spooked the horse; he pranced and turned, giving Louis a hard time keeping him with all four hooves on the ground.

  “This is Monsieur Joviel, he’s a steward here.” Collins deftly worked his cane to keep up with Will. “A racetrack official. Let’s see… ah, yes, of course.” They had reached the group by now, but none of the combatants deigned them a look.

  Collins translated for Will. “Louis wants to take Minuit back to the track, but there seems to be a problem.” At Will’s questioning look, the former jockey explained. “The horse had a major scare today. He needs a positive experience right now so he won’t form negative associations with the track and refuse to go out there again.”

  “So why won’t Mr. Joviel let him?” Will asked, as the refusal was clearly written all over the official’s face. Collins listened for a moment.

  “Morning gallop is over by ten. Which was—” He considered his watch. “—five minutes ago. Now it’s maintenance’s turn.”

  “But there are still horses out there,” Will said, pointing. Collins just shrugged.

  Taking it all in—Nic’s angry gesturing, the stubborn set of Joviel’s jaw, the agitated horse, the furious flash in Louis’s eyes—Will made a quick decision. Hoping for all he was worth that Le Touques’s officials spoke English, he put up his sunniest smile, held out his hand, and got right into the man’s pinched face. “Ah, Mr. Joviel, so glad I’ve found you! I’ve been told you’re just the man I need to talk to.” Flashing his press pass, he added, “William Yeats, The Flag, Los Angeles. It’s a pleasure.”

  Joviel automatically took Will’s hand, only to drop it a moment later like he’d touched filth. If his face drew any tighter, his nose might come out the back of his skull. Yet, to Will’s tremendous relief, he responded in English. “Press? I don’t have time for the press right now.”

  “But yes, I’m sure you do,” Will dashed on with all the clueless, self-evident cocksureness he could muster. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s been a most dangerous incident here only a few minutes ago. I’m sure it’s in your own best interest to have my readers know that they needn’t be concerned about the safety of their precious horses on this particular racetrack, don’t you think?”

  Now he had Joviel’s full attention. “There was no danger. We had the situation under control,” he said, but Will could see a shade of red slowly creeping up from under his crisp shirt collar.

  “Oh? Have I been misinformed about this racetrack’s failure to control your seagull problem?” He jerked his chin at Minuit. “Wasn’t it this horse that was scared so badly it almost ran on the main road? What an awful thought, isn’t it?”

  The red had reached Joviel’s ears by now. Treacherous complexion, tell me about it, Will thought with vague amusement. Joviel said, “That was an act of nature! Nobody can control seagulls.”

  “See? Now you’ve said it yourself,” Nic butted in, not acknowledging Will with so much as a glance. “An act of nature! Ten minutes, Joviel, that’s all we’re asking for. Surely you can make an exception once.”

  Joviel jerked around, his face almost purple now. “If your giton can’t ride, put a man on your horse, Pithiviers! The track is closed after ten.”

  “How interesting, Mr. Joviel.” Will made sure he wore a slightly puzzled expression as he gestured between Nic and the riders who were still on the track. “You close the track to these gentlemen, but others are still allowed to use it after hours? My readers will be eager to learn what it takes to receive such privileges. Would you care to elaborate?”

  For a moment, Will expected to see steam coming out of Joviel’s ears as he obviously realized he’d hurled his insult at Nic in English. In front of a journalist, no less, and a particularly obnoxious one at that. Then the racetrack official pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, giving a dismissive wave with his free hand. He said something that Will supposed was the French equivalent of “go ahead already,” because Louis rode off immediately. Nic cast Will a glance, his lips curling ever-so-slightly at the corners, then he took off after Louis with long strides.

  Joviel turned to Will. “What did you say was your name?”

  “William Yeats, sir. The Flag, Los Angeles.”

  “Give me your press card.” Joviel studied the small plastic square for long moments before handing it back. “I don’t know your journal,” he said, the pinch of disapproval back in his face full force. “I’ll investigate about you. Make an appointment next time; I don’t appreciate being ambushed like this.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Will said. It didn’t hurt to look properly chastised, did it? With a last, disgusted huff, Joviel turned on his heel and sailed off.

  Only after his thin, ramrod-straight back had disappeared into one of the buildings did Will allow himself to deflate. “Well played, Yeats,” Collins said, startling him. He’d almost forgotten about the former jockey, who now looked at him with a small, unreadable smile on his face. “I’m really looking forward to our… appointment. Don’t forget, Thursday at seven thirty.”

  “I’ll be there, sir,” Will assured him. Collins gave him a parting wink and left, heading for the racetrack. A moment later, Will almost buckled under the force of a pounding blow to his back.

  “Nom d’une pipe!” Claude shouted, beaming. “Joviel, how you kick his balls! C’est dans la poche, Monsieur Yeats, thank you!” He said more, but Will couldn’t understand him and barely listened, as he was so busy catching his breath and dodging more of the burly groom’s happiness. Back at the barn, Claude wasted no time to spread the word, and Will immediately found himself surrounded by smiling people who all attempted to pat his shoulders and back. Eventually, he fled into the solitude of the barn’s office.

  He wasn’t alone for long. Louis came in first and immediately caught him in an embrace. “You’re something else,” he whispered before Will felt lips left, right, left on his cheeks. He was pretty sure European traditions didn’t require a kiss full on the mouth, though. Louis dre
w back with a smile and a wink.

  Nic wasn’t as demonstrative, probably because he had the vet in tow, but he smiled ear-to-ear and shook Will’s hand firmly. The vet, introduced to Will as Gustave Oriel, hadn’t caught on to anything, and so the matter was laid to rest as the conversation turned to Minuit instead.

  Over lunch, though, Will’s stunt was the talk of the day again, and apparently, it had taken his popularity among La Thillaye’s staff up into the stratosphere. Thirteen people around the big table smiled at him, Mme. Kim promised him a special treat for dinner, and even old Jean-Yves acknowledged him with a nod. Embarrassed at all the attention, Will was glad when the conversation turned to other things after a while. Pleasantly full with Mme. Kim’s beef stew, green salad, and crisp baguette, Will sat back, taking the opportunity to memorize names and faces.

  He hadn’t gotten all of them, but time might help that. For now, he’d make do with the permanent staff. First, there were Claude Estur and Mme. Kim, who he only now learned were a married couple. Jockey apprentice Arlette was unmistakably their daughter, a stunning mix of her mother’s Asian features and slight build with her father’s wild red hair. There was a short, stocky, dark-haired guy named Paul; the blond beanpole named Rémy he’d met earlier this morning; and Jean-Yves, who stood out because he was half a century older than most of the others. According to Nic, Jean-Yves had already been here in Georges Desmin’s time, and he’d been living in the warped former groundskeeper’s house for more than twenty years now.

  Paul, Rémy, and the Estur family lived in staff houses on the compound, too. The others, part-time grooms and working students, came at six and left at four.

  With the meal finished, Mme. Kim cleared the table—refusing Will’s offer to help with a stern look and an indulging click of her tongue—and the paperwork came out again. Everybody fell silent as Nic laid out training plans for the afternoon and matched horses and riders. Louis translated along for Will, but most of the technicalities went over his head anyway.

  Unfortunately, the afternoon didn’t hold much for Will. He followed the grooms around for a while but soon got bored with watching just another horse being saddled, ridden, and put away again. It turned out that, except for Claude, none of the grooms spoke more than a few words of English. Will’s French was too basic for any kind of conversation despite the all-around friendly smiles and polite tries. Louis did his best to include Will, but he was busy overseeing the training and riding himself. Nic had disappeared to his office, announcing he’d be on the phone for the foreseeable future. A couple of hours into the afternoon, Will decided he’d had enough of freezing his ass off while standing about ankle-deep in mud and horse manure.

  Secretly glad for the excuse to get out of the lousy weather without looking like a wimp, Will retreated to his room with a pot of coffee—courtesy of Mme. Kim—put the earplugs of his voice recorder in, and started transcribing yesterday’s recordings.

  Eight

  WILL leaned back with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. Outside, the bustle of horses and humans was dying down now with dusk coming in, and the gloom of his laptop screen wore on his eyes in the darkening room.

  Clicking the desk lamp on, Will sighed and rolled his neck to work the cricks out, then leafed through the notepad he kept next to his computer screen out of habit. While the material he’d collected so far would get his article well underway, the way everybody kept tiptoeing around that long-ago Derby race kept nagging at the back of his mind. Even Collins had made a reference to it this morning, however veiled.

  Anyway, Collins. There was something strange about that man, but Will couldn’t put his finger on it. A certain feeling of not quite right, like he was looking at him in a cloudy mirror. Collins trying to make Louis and Nic pay for a dead horse bothered him. They’d named him a friend, but friends didn’t act greedy like that, did they? Nor had Collins offered any assistance to them today, nor had they acknowledged him with so much as a nod, as far as Will could tell. And yet Collins seemed well informed about their affairs, including Will’s visit.

  Curiosity and hunches were the marks of his trade, weren’t they? There might be a story in there, or at least a few questions Will could ask his hosts tonight.

  Collins had been a champion jockey, and after his career, had done well for himself with his fashion label. Google should once again be Will’s best research assistant.

  His room didn’t have landline Internet access, but his cell would do as a modem. When he took it from the charger where he’d left it last night and fired it up, the small screen woke to a “missed call” icon.

  Opening the list, Will found he’d actually missed not one, but four calls. Sampson, Sampson, Editorial Office, Sampson again. And there was a voice mail from Trevor.

  “Yeats, you airhead! What good is an international plan if you end up not answering your calls? Damn it, Sarah from Editing has some questions about that piece of yours that’s due tomorrow—get her her answers or it’s out, got me? And there’s some hick calling here all the time for you ’cause he apparently can’t get hold of you. He’s starting to piss me off, cupcake, so take him out of my hair already, will you? And Yeats—” A pregnant pause followed; Will could hear his boss take a breath. “—will you kindly notify your redneck buddy that I’m not your fucking secretary?” The last two words were considerably louder than the rest, and the call clicked off rather abruptly. Will winced even as he snickered at the thought of Trevor butting heads with Sampson. It brought the picture of two old billy goats into his mind. At times, Trevor delighted in exaggerating the affected drawl that came so easily to him, particularly when speaking to someone he’d pegged a bigot of some kind. However, to steal Trevor’s expression, Will’s boss might have found he’d caught a Tartar here.

  Ten minutes later Will didn’t think his mental picture quite as funny anymore, having been subjected to Sampson’s ranting about Californians in general and the Flag’s staff in particular for a good portion of that time—especially about the sort who answered calls while a certain someone had absconded to France, of all places.

  “Me being in France means that this is a long-distance call, Mr. Sampson,” Will said with carefully restrained impatience when Sampson paused to take a breath. “If you had a point in asking me to call you, you might want to get to it now.”

  “Pshaw, you’re on expenses anyway,” Sampson grumbled. “I’m not sorry if it’s out of the pocket of that —”

  “Sampson!” Will cut him short, half-amused despite himself. The old reporter broke off on a cough.

  “Yeah. Right, sonny. Listen, thing is that….” He coughed again. “Hrrm, what I’m meaning to say is, hrrm, I might have been off the mark with them pair of fff… hrm, fellows back then.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  More hemming and hawing followed, and a slurping sound, before Sampson went on. “Those… guys. Frenchy and his jockey buddy. There’s a possibility…. Could be they haven’t been as deep in it as I thought they were, after all. Hrm.”

  Will frowned, unable to make head or tail of what sounded like Sampson working up to some kind of confession, and after a moment the gravelly voice on the other side went on. “Do I need to spell it for you, sonny? What I’m meaning to say is, this old hack fucked up ’cause it was two of your sort, and that pisses me off. Happy now?”

  “You mean your article? Are you saying you think you might’ve been biased about Meerow and Pithiviers because you reckoned they were gay?”

  Sampson groaned. “Smart boy. Just rub my nose in it, will you?”

  “I won’t, Mr. Sampson,” Will said softly. To admit a mistake was one thing. Owning up to prejudiced reporting—a major sin in Will’s book, as well in most other serious journalist’s he knew—that was huge and deserved his professional respect. “Thanks for telling me. I appreciate it.”

  “Hum,” Sampson replied, and the line fell silent but for another slurp. Will waited patiently. He had a hunch he needed to let the other ma
n proceed in his own time.

  “Well, listen,” Sampson eventually said, sounding more like himself once again. “Your call the other day put a bug in my ear that wouldn’t stop humming…. You see, I’m seventy-nine, and I sure don’t mind being retired, but it’s getting old sometimes, twiddling my thumbs with only Jim here for company—” Ice cubes clicked against glass. “—now that the wife’s passed away, it’s been three years last November….”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Will said, and Sampson cleared his throat.

  “Thanks. Well, where was I?”

  “Bug in your ear?”

  Will’s prompt elicited a whistling old-man’s chuckle. “Yeah, that. See, I’d overheard Frenchy singing his nag’s praise, so I backed him for a win—might’ve overdone it a tad, considering the ticking-down the missus gave me when she found out….”

  Will took a breath to steer the old man gently back to track once again, but Sampson was already getting there.

  “Anyway, when that fleabag croaked, I got really hopping mad at that frog and set out to dig up some shit to throw at him—until I got muzzled by my chief editor, may he rot in hell. See, he’d had it in for me for a while then, and me getting stuck in that matter was just me handing him the bullet he shot me with. After that, all he’d give me were pony club jumps and dog shows until I’d had it, and I quit. So.”

  “So, what did you find?” Will demanded, trying to unravel Sampson’s spaghetti-syndrome talking.

  “Didn’t I say? Ah, well.” Paper rustled, and then finally Sampson got to the point. “I’d all but forgotten about talking to Carrick’s vet back then, guy named Kohler. He was really pissed at something he didn’t want to come clear about. He’s gone now and his practice, too, but his son’s still around, so I went over the other day for a chat on the off-chance he’d know something. Turned out Kohler senior kept annual journals of his work, and Junior didn’t mind letting me have a look at Daddy’s stuff that’s cluttering his garage. That’s how I found out that Brian’s Melody had been full to the gills with stuff that has too many capital letters to be legal. Well, most of it was medical gibberish, anyway, but with some juicy bits of venting thrown in, too.”