by Feliz Faber
“You mean the horse was doped?” Will cut in, unable to hold his interest at bay any longer. “Are you saying Ni—Frenchy had his horse doped?”
“I’d rather put my pennies on Carrick, or maybe the horse’s owners,” Sampson said. “From where I sit, looks as if it was about a shitload of dough. Kohler doesn’t come quite clear about that matter, though—something about insurance. Seemed the horse was worth more dead than alive. Kohler didn’t get paid, apparently—that’s why he was so pissed—but he couldn’t exactly blow the whistle on anyone, as he was too deep in it himself.”
“But how could such a thing have gone undetected?” Will was no expert when it came to doping, but he’d heard and read enough during his earlier research. “Don’t they have all kinds of tests for doping?”
Another chuckle hissed through the line. “Oh yeah, but to find something, you gotta look for it first, don’t you? Which nobody could be bothered to do, from the look of it. Can’t beat a well-greased palm to keep something on the hush-hush, I say, given how the hearing with the stewards was over in a matter of hours rather than the days it should’ve taken. Case dismissed, end of story. Wouldn’t’ve been the first time.”
“But that’s….” Will frowned. “Those are some heavy allegations you’re making here. You can’t prove that though, can you? And Nic… he’d have to have been a willing part in such a cover-up, wouldn’t he? Actually, Louis too. Why would they do something like this? They would’ve known the consequences, wouldn’t they?”
Sampson gave a thoughtful hum. “Well, I don’t know why they’d take the blame. Perhaps they had to. Who’d know? If a horse runs a bad race, people always blame the jockey, and the trainer’s next in line. Or perhaps I was right in the first place after all. Anyhow, someone made it look good enough that people bought it, including an old pro like myself. Though if I could prove any of it, I’d hold a Pulitzer now, bet your ass.” He paused, humming again. “There’s got to be some kind of protocol from the hearing, but it’s likely not public. Takes all kinds of legal jumping through hoops to look at stuff like that. Believe me, I’ve tried more than once on other cases and never achieved anything.”
Something clicked in Will’s head. “Legal, I could do. Or rather, I know someone who could.”
“That’s the spirit, sonny. So, you want Kohler’s notes, then? Junior didn’t mind me borrowing a handful of journals, and I made a stack of copies.”
“That’d be….” Will had to clear his throat in order to rein in his excitement. “I certainly would.”
“It’s quite a lot of paper to fax, though. I’d rather mail it to you. Right away, if you give me your address,” Sampson said, sounding pleased with himself.
“That’d be pointless. I’ll likely be home before it gets here.” Will thought fast. He’d have loved to take a look at Sampson’s find as soon as possible, but even if he managed to talk Sampson into faxing the papers, he couldn’t very well ask to use La Thillaye’s fax machine for something that was obviously such a touchy matter with his hosts. A public fax? He wouldn’t know where to find one around here, much less in a hurry.
He’d had things stolen from his mailbox at home more than once. The editorial office was out, too; more important things had been misplaced there, and if the material really was what Sampson suggested, Will didn’t want it near a bunch of nosy journalists.
There was only one remaining option.
He’d have run this by Francis at some point either way, Will told himself as he read Francis’s office address to Sampson. It wasn’t as if, at this point, Will could do much with Sampson’s find besides satisfy his own curiosity. After all, he wasn’t supposed to write about the race. Though, who knew, if Francis would be willing and able to use Kohler’s notes as a lever to gain access to the hearing protocol…. There had to be something here; Will could feel it in his bones, and his investigative mind longed to explore further.
“Make it a certified express delivery,” Will said. “And make sure you include your expenses, please. I’ll see to it you’ll be refunded.”
“Don’t have to, sonny, though I sure appreciate it. Give me a call sometime, will you? Let me know what came of it.”
“I will, Mr. Sampson,” Will said, meaning it this time.
Next, Will dialed Francis’s cell but got dumped into voice mail. What had he expected? He left a brief message, only asking to get in touch. After that he called the editorial office and sat through ten minutes of pissed-off Trevor until he could get his boss to put him through to Sarah from Editing. They were really two of a kind, Sampson and Trevor, Will thought after he ended the call.
Nine
AFTER placing his napkin next to his empty plate, Will leaned back with a sigh. Mme. Kim had made good on her promise; her Blanquette de Saint Jacques, fresh scallops in Calvados and white wine, had been a dream. But when Nic waved a wine bottle at him, Will declined, asking for coffee instead. He planned to actually watch the gallop at Le Touques tomorrow, and more wine now would only give him a harder time being up with the lark—not to mention crazy horse people—come morning. Been there, done that, thank you very much.
Like the previous evening, they took their drinks to the den and Will got out his recorder. Unlike yesterday, though, the mood was relaxed from the beginning, as it had been all evening. Will rejoiced in the steady banter Louis kept up, laced by the occasional dry remark from Nic. Over the meal, his hosts shared horseracing anecdotes and Will reciprocated with some juicy bits of his own, mostly centered around Trevor’s flashes of genius. But listening to Louis was far more interesting. He’d been all over the world, ridden in Melbourne, Hong Kong, and even one season in Tokyo as one of the twenty foreign jockeys the Japanese jockey club allowed during any given year. And time and time again, Europe. Newmarket, Baden-Baden, Vienna, Rome, Paris—he still took races abroad on occasion, though not anywhere near as often as he used to, since he’d been La Thillaye’s stable jockey for the last five years.
“Is this customary for jockeys, traveling this much?” Will asked, and Louis shrugged.
“Only if they so choose. I was lucky enough to catch the eye of some international contacts early in my career, so it worked for me.” He cast Nic a brief smile. “Didn’t hurt that I had a good agent.”
Nic made a dismissive gesture. “It’s like any other profession,” he said. “There’s always someone who knows someone who’s heard about an occasion or another.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Louis said. “You still got to know whether to grab or pass.” He turned to Will. “Some horses just aren’t winner material, no matter their pedigrees. Others only need a little encouragement to go from also-ran to sure bet. The trick is guessing which will be which.”
“Like you did with the horse Francis’s father owned. He told me about it,” Will said, eliciting a wry grin from Louis.
“Well yes, but that was sheer luck. Back then, I was a bit desperate—I’d have ridden a donkey, had someone offered me money to do so. But Nic is far better at picking my rides than I ever was.” He grinned. “He’d make me ride some nameless nonwinner that I’d end up finishing with lengths ahead of the field. Or I’d get all worked up about being offered some blue-blooded rising star, and he’d warn me off, saying I’d make a fool out of myself on that horse. He was always right.”
Nic huffed. “Good thing you finally saw that, wasn’t it?”
By then, Will was attuned enough to their habit of conversing silently that he all but waited for it, drawing some kind of odd comfort from seeing them share a glance and a private smile. “Did you always travel together?” he asked. After another brief silent exchange, Louis answered.
“We did, though we could rarely be open about being a couple. That’s what you’re asking, right?”
“Well, yes. But that must’ve been difficult, wasn’t it? From what I understand, you’ve been together ever since… you met again in the States, am I right? If you don’t mind me asking.”
&n
bsp; “Since before that race, actually,” Louis said, his lips twitching. “Don’t worry, I won’t throw another temper tantrum over you mentioning it. As much as I dislike this particular memory, it brought me back together with Nic, so something good came of it.” His expression turned thoughtful. “When we first met… it was like a flash of lightning between us back then. Brutal and violently hot and over before we ever knew what hit us. It was too huge for either of us; we could never have lasted, I know that now. But meeting again—it was the second chance I’d have never dared hope for, given that it was mostly my fault we broke off back then….”
“Tcheu, Louis,” Nic cut in, waving him off. “Don’t take all the blame.” He turned to Will. “As he said, we were too immature… no, that’s the wrong expression, how do I put it… selfish?”
“Full of ourselves,” Louis suggested, and Nic nodded.
“Yes, that’s it. I was scared out of my wits that anybody could find out about me…. You see, it’s all about bigger, stronger, faster—horseracing, I mean—and being gay, to me, was a weakness I didn’t want anyone to know about. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t as if I lived like a monk. If you know where to look and how to ask, and as long as you know how to be discreet about it…. There was never a shortage of willing partners to me. I thought I had the hang of it. Until I met Louis, who shoved it right in my face—and into anybody else’s, at that—and apparently got away with it effortlessly. And I was so goddamn attracted to him….” He paused, visibly reining himself in, and Louis reached out to touch his thigh.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Will thought, hoping to God his little recorder did its job. Because wasn’t this what he’d come for, what Trevor would want him to bring home—the drama, the emotion, the story behind the story? However, hearing Nic’s calm voice become rough with emotion, seeing how he took a big gulp from his wine glass, apparently struggling for self-control, sent a bout of shame through Will for thinking about his story right now. The moment was already over anyway, as Louis easily took over.
“When I first came here, I suppose I couldn’t have passed for straight even if I tried,” he said, gently patting Nic’s thigh. “I didn’t see a reason to, anyway. My grandmother hadn’t minded, even encouraged me to be true to myself. And as for me, anybody else who took offense could go fuck himself. My great-uncle must’ve figured me out at first view, but he chose to ignore it.”
“Seriously?” Will asked. “How so? Didn’t you say he wanted you to continue the lineage?” This question had actually bothered him already, but he’d forgotten about it. Apparently, these two were really good at deceiving someone.
Louis cast a quick, rueful smile at Nic. “Well, yes, but I was young, and I don’t think he took me seriously. Boys will be boys and all that, see? As for him, I could fuck whoever I liked, as long as I eventually settled down with a proper French girl and produced proper little Desmins. French ones, you understand. My grandmother’s choice of partner had left a stain on the lineage, one he expected me to atone for.”
Will raised his eyebrows. “What about Nic, then? Are you saying he didn’t actually mind you two being together?”
“Ah, yes, that was when the trouble started.” Louis sighed. “I think when he learned about us, it occurred to him that the settling down with a girl and making babies actually might not happen for me.” He threw another glance at Nic, seeking reassurance, or so it seemed. Nic answered with a minute nod, and Louis continued. “He was so furious. But after he’d already paraded me around as his Little Lord Fauntleroy, he couldn’t very well throw me out. The scandal, you understand? This was why Nic got the dirty end. However, I can’t help thinking it must’ve been my fault after all.”
“I see,” Will said. He didn’t think Louis withheld anything on purpose, and yet he had a funny feeling that this wasn’t the entire story either. He would’ve tried to probe deeper, but Nic cut in.
“I could’ve stood up against him, but instead I chose to run. Water under the bridge, mon cœur. Let it go.” He squeezed Louis’s hand.
The moment felt too private for Will to insist, but he made a mental note to revisit this matter later.
For now, he changed the subject. “If the horse-racing business is as homophobic as Nic said, I still can’t see how you could be out like this, Louis. No offense,” Will added quickly, noting another frown on Nic’s face out of the corner of his eye.
“None taken,” Louis said easily. “Actually, I only realized that my sexuality was a hazard to my career when I came to the States.”
It was Will’s turn to frown, and Louis held up his hands in defense, chuckling. “No, Will, this isn’t about the Americans-hate-gays stereotype. It was just, without my great-uncle’s name to protect me, homophobia hit me full force and cost me ride after ride. Some trainers even would dismiss me sight unseen on the bare rumor that I might be gay.” He shook his head. “Call me naïve, but when I first met Nic, I really couldn’t understand why he’d make his homosexuality such a big secret. Believe me, I found out the hard way that he’d been right.” With a side-glance to Nic, he added, “Again, damn you.”
“And again, it’s a good thing you finally admit it.”
Nic extended an arm across the back of the couch, resting his hand close to Louis’s shoulder.
“Me, I did always hide that I was gay,” he said. “I still do, as you’ve likely realized. Though nowadays, I don’t care as much as I used to.”
“I hear you. Still, threatening to sue someone for outing you sounds like an awful lot of caring to me.” Will raised an eyebrow, smiling to take the sting out of his words.
Nic acknowledged him with an unapologetic nod. “There’s that, and you’re right, of course. But recently I’ve caught myself wondering time and again how it might feel if I weren’t forced to constantly look over my shoulder. It’s getting harder to keep up appearances anyway, what with us running La Thillaye together and all. At times, I find myself tired of trying.”
Louis took a deep breath but didn’t say anything. His face remained blank. After a moment, Will asked, “Are you talking about what happened today at the racetrack? That guy, he called Louis your catamite, didn’t he?”
“Joviel?” Nic laughed. “Pretty much, though Joviel revels in being contrary on principle.”
“He’s an asshole,” Louis stated cheerfully. “He used to be a little clerk back in my great-uncle’s day, one of those who groveled before him and called me names behind his back. He knows about me and suspects about us”—he gestured between himself and Nic—“but he’d never come right out and say something that could fall back on him. It’s like Nic said, around here too many people knew me back then, and most of them have guessed at the true nature of our relationship by now. Anyway, it’s not the locals we need to worry about. People around here, they tend to be generally quite open-minded, what with all the celebrity traffic we have in Deauville. No, our concern is the owners, the ones who send us horses to train, and to some extent the other trainers who give me rides.”
Will wrinkled his brow. “Sounds an awful lot like don’t ask, don’t tell to me.”
“That’s about it,” Nic said. “Unfortunately, some of the biggest players in the business are also the most conservative of traditionalists. Now picture a gay jockey’s agent, trying to place his gay jockey boyfriend with one of them old school boys.”
“If you put it like that….” Will couldn’t help a grimace at the thought, and Nic snorted a humorless laugh.
“There. Same goes for gay horse trainers, bloodstock agents, racetrack officials, you name it. As you said, gay men are pretty much nonexistent in horseracing. Not because there weren’t any, mind you. But if you want to be taken seriously in the business, you better keep this little private detail about yourself private.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Louis nod slowly.
“I see,” he said again, and he did now. The look of resignation on the jockey’s face made his heart heavy and let th
e words that crowded his tongue tumble out without censure. “I can’t even begin to imagine living like this, always lying about who I love.”
The statement hung between them, reverberating in a silence that stung like shards of china after the proverbial bull laid waste to the shop. Will watched them exchange one of their silent glances, his ears heating. Biting his tongue, he dropped his gaze.
There on the coffee table, the voice recorder was still whirring softly. It seemed like an intrusion all of a sudden, and Will leaned in to shut off the device.
“Lucky you.” Nic’s soft voice brought Will’s head up again. The longing he saw written all over the weathered face almost broke his heart, and he swallowed hard, at a loss for words.
As if on cue, a telephone started ringing somewhere in the depths of the silent house.
Nic stood, frowning as he considered his wristwatch. “Now who’s that?” he said as he headed out of the room, leaving Louis and Will alone.
Louis folded his arms, regarding Will thoughtfully. “You’re really something else, Mr. William Yeats,” he said.
Still busy processing what had just happened, Will turned the voice recorder over and over in his hands. “I… I guess I was out of line,” he started. “Don’t know what…. I’m sorry.”
Louis cocked his head. “I wonder—” he began, then cut himself short. “Don’t be. I haven’t heard Nic open up to someone like he just did to you in years.”
Realizing that he was fiddling again, Will placed the recorder back on the table. “Is this a good or a bad thing?” he asked.