“Hello, handsome,” I said, patting him on the muzzle.
He dipped his great head and greeted me with a gentle nicker. I produced the Cheerios, and he made short work of the snack, practically swallowing the paper bag along with the cereal. I praised him and continued petting his nose and cheek. He seemed to like that almost as much as the Cheerios. We stood there for five minutes, discussing the pleasant weather, the odious neighboring horses, and his recent workouts. I asked if he’d like something different to eat next time I visited. He stared at me with his right eye and blinked.
A voice startled me from behind. “Don’t bring him any food.” It was Carl Boehringer, hands on his hips, cigarette between his lips. “He’s on a strict diet. A handful of Cheerios is okay, but nothing more.”
“I didn’t think anyone was listening,” I said, surely blushing at my silly conversation with a horse.
“Did he give you a good tip?”
“I’m afraid the conversation was mostly one-sided.”
Carl joined me at the Dutch door and reached out to pat Purgatorio’s neck. The horse eyed him as if he knew him. He remained calm, almost indifferent to Carl, but he didn’t shy away. After a moment, Tory turned back to me and resumed his companionable stance, head next to mine, putting me between him and Carl. Then he uttered a deep sigh.
“He likes you,” said Carl.
“I’ve been visiting him lately. And not for tips.”
“Maybe Lou will sell him to you.”
I must have looked terrified because he told me to take it easy. “I’m only kidding. He’s not for sale.” He reflected for another short moment. “Not yet, at least.”
“So Lou intends to get rid of him?”
“You know how it is in racing. These four-legged beauties eat a lot of hay. They cost a small fortune to stable.”
I stroked the horse’s long muzzle and fretted in silence over his future.
“He’s getting fitted for a hood tomorrow,” said Carl. “The trainer thinks that might help.”
“Tell Lou not to sell him without contacting me first.”
He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“A little girl wants to buy him too.”
“Little girl?”
“Ruby. Just a ten-year-old kid. Daughter of the farmer who sells hay to Harlequin Stables. Guy by the name of Pete Brouwer. He can’t afford him,” he said, referring to the horse. “And neither can you. He may not sell for what Lou paid for him, but he’s worth a couple of grand at least.”
I gazed into Purgatorio’s big right eye again. He nickered once more, almost a whisper this time. Standing there, immobile, head thrust through the Dutch door, he looked like some kind of equine statue.
“You remember last week you were wondering about Johnny?” asked Carl. I nodded. “Well, I heard something interesting about him the other day.”
“Yes?”
“I told you there was rumors about gamblers some time ago.”
“And?”
“And it looks like there was something to those rumors. Turns out he was mixed up in a fixed race at Hagerstown down in Maryland.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“The guy who told me knows.”
“Was his name Bruce by any chance?”
Carl nearly swallowed his cigarette whole. “Yeah,” he stammered. “As a matter of fact, it was. Bruce Robertson.”
Robertson? That nearly rang a bell. Pretty close to Robinson, but not quite. Could Johnny Dornan have written the name down wrong in his newspaper? I realized that Carl was one of the few people I hadn’t asked about Robinson. I remedied that oversight immediately.
“No. I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said. “But how do you know Bruce?”
“Work sometimes takes me to the other side of the tracks.”
“You should be careful. You don’t want to mess with guys like him.”
I hadn’t, in fact, messed with Bruce Robertson. I’d never even clapped eyes on him. I’d only heard his name from Jimmy Burgh.
“What else did he tell you?” I asked.
“That Johnny was named as the jockey who threw a race. He was riding the favorite, but managed to finish third behind a couple of dogs.”
“Did Bruce happen to mention any other names involved in the fix?”
“A guy name Hodges. Mack Hodges. A small-time owner. Used to own trotters. Never had a flat runner that could finish in the money. Unless he cheated, according to Bruce.”
“Where’s this Mack Hodges today?”
“I don’t know. Probably still down in Maryland running fifteen-year-old nags at county fair races.”
Just what I needed. Another mysterious name I couldn’t pin on anyone.
“Anyone else?”
“Not that he mentioned.”
“And what happened to Johnny Dornan?”
“Johnny Sprague, you mean. His name was mud, so he changed it. He was banned from Maryland racing, and he disappeared.”
“Until last year when Lou found him at Aqueduct?”
“Not exactly,” said Carl with a wicked grin. He took one last puff of his cigarette. I was sure he wasn’t supposed to be smoking near the horse barns. He stubbed it out thoroughly against the stable wall. “Our Johnny boy had to find other work after he got the heave-ho. He tramped up and down the Eastern Seaboard searching for riding work, but none of the big tracks would let him through the gate. The county fair circuit is a short season and doesn’t pay much. He landed with a breeder in Florida for a while, exercising horses, mucking out stalls. That kind of thing.”
“Sounds like good honest toil. Not very lucrative, though.”
“And then the breeder got wind of Hagerstown, and Johnny was out on his duff again. That was seven years ago.”
“So what happened next? What did Johnny Dornan do for six years before sneaking his way into Aqueduct last year?”
Carl glanced to his left and his right as if to make sure no one was listening. He leaned in and said in a gleeful half whisper, “He changed his name to Dornan. Couldn’t find any work as Johnny Sprague. And he finally landed a job as a rodeo clown for six years.” A snorting laugh escaped his nose. Then a second and a third. He stood up straight and laughed properly. “The arrogant little bastard was a rodeo clown,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t heard or understood the first time.
“Why would Bruce tell you all this?”
“Information has value only so long as someone wants to keep it under wraps. Johnny’s dead, so what good is it to Bruce now?”
I reached Fadge’s box in the clubhouse as the horses were being loaded into the starting gate for the Travers Stakes.
“You’re all out of breath,” he said. “Was that you I saw running last in the fifth race?”
“If I lost, you must have bet on me.”
He grinned. It was one of those cat-that-ate-the-canary smiles.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked. “How did you do in the last race?”
Now the smile disappeared, replaced by what I could only describe as a guilty expression.
“You lost, didn’t you? A lot.”
“Actually, I won.” He paused. “A lot. BF’s Favorite. He was a long shot. Paid thirty-one bucks to win. I had him five times.”
“Then why were you looking like you’d sold the family cow for a handful of beans?”
He squirmed in his seat, and I pressed him some more. Finally he came clean.
“It’s just that I never seem to win when you’re with me.”
I laughed. “So I’m a jinx?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked. “You know, to change your luck?”
“Come on, El. I’m sure you’re not a jinx. It’s a coincidence.”
I pouted for a minute or two, and then Fadge said he’d treat me to that dinner he’d been promising.
“I can’t tonight,” I reminded him. “I’m
covering the fundraiser at the casino.”
“Then tomorrow.”
“Am I going to have the pleasure of Bill and Zeke’s company this time?”
He promised it would just be the two of us. And a nice place, too. I gave in.
“You can’t stay mad at me,” he said.
“Don’t bet on it. You’ll lose.”
“Where were you anyway?”
“Visiting a friend in the stables.”
“That horse across the street again?”
I nodded, then asked if he’d ever heard of an owner named Mack Hodges. He hadn’t.
“So who do you like in this race?”
His eyes narrowed, a sure sign that he was focused and serious. The only other times I’d seen that look in his eyes were when he was discussing what he wanted to eat. “I’ve been doing my homework on this race since the meet began. It’s going to be Ridan or Jaipur, I’m sure. Everyone knows that, of course. Those two are the class of the race. Even with the extra weight they’re carrying.”
“More weight than the others?” I asked. “That hardly seems fair.”
He showed me the program and explained that it was intended to make the race more competitive. “See, Jaipur and Ridan are carrying a hundred and twenty-six pounds each.”
“Plus the jockey,” I added, feeling smart.
He gaped at me with his hyper-thyroid eyes. “No. That includes the jockey.”
I wanted to ask how much the jockeys weighed, but decided to keep my mouth shut and listen instead.
“The other horses here are all carrying less. One fourteen, one fourteen, one twenty, and so on.”
“So which one did you bet on?”
“I’m sitting this one out,” he said.
“Wait a minute. Is this because I’m a jinx and you don’t want to lose?”
“Come on, El.”
“But you’ve been handicapping this race for three weeks.”
“I can’t come up with an approach that would win me anything. Look at the odds,” he said, indicating the tote board in the infield below. “Jaipur is three to two, and Ridan is five to two. Even if I bet a hundred on one of them, the payoff isn’t worth the risk. And place and show would only pay pennies.”
“You’re sure no other horse will win?”
He shook his head. “I don’t see it. So I’m going to sit back and enjoy it.”
“I feel like betting on this one,” I said. “It’s the biggest race of the season, after all. I want to participate.”
“There’s no time to go place a bet now. They’re loading the last two horses into the starting gate.”
“Then bet with me. I’ll take that Jaipur horse. You take the other one.”
“All right. Two dollars to win?”
“Deal.”
We shook hands and turned our attention to the track. The bell rang.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Seven horses bolted out of the gate as one, but after a few strides, two broke clear of the pack.
“What number is Jaipur?” I asked, standing on my tiptoes to see.
“Three. And mine is number two. That’s them in the lead.”
“My horse is wearing a hood,” I said, remembering what Carl Boehringer had told me about Purgatorio. Maybe that was a good sign.
The field rumbled past the clubhouse and the winner’s circle, with Fadge’s Ridan a half-length ahead of my Jaipur. The others were easily three or four lengths farther back. I jumped up and down to see better as the pack rounded the first turn.
“Our horses are still in front,” I said. “It looks as if they’re even.”
“Ridan’s about a neck ahead.”
The track announcer called the order over the loudspeaker. Ridan and Jaipur maintained their lead over the rest of the field, and were head and head with each other at the half mile. Nothing changed on the backstretch. Now I could see the pitched battle for first straight on. I grabbed Fadge’s arm and squeezed a mite too enthusiastically. He wrestled free and said to take it easy.
“Sorry. This is exciting. I got carried away.”
Ridan and Jaipur streaked down the backstretch at a furious clip, holding a strong lead over the rest of the field. They seemed to move as one, and if not for the asynchronous bobbing of their heads, I would have thought there was only one horse leading the way.
Approaching the home turn, Jaipur nosed ahead of Ridan, and the field inched closer to the two leaders. At the top of the homestretch, the entire crowd rose to its feet and roared, and I felt the collective temperature, emotions, and energy swell. The two leaders ran neck and neck, holding off the pack as they coursed toward the wire. Ridan pushed ahead again, with a horse named Military Plume charging hard in third for the final quarter mile. But as the field stormed past our position, Jaipur found some new speed. I doubted he had enough ground left to catch Ridan before the finish. At the sixteenth pole, Ridan maintained his lead by a head. Jaipur rallied one last time, and the two horses were even, the lead changing with each stride and alternating lunge of the head. I froze. Everything went quiet. I was moved by the beauty and courage of the two champions, dueling side by side for more than a mile already, and never more than a neck separating them. I clutched my race program, crumpling it in my white-gloved hands, and beat it against Fadge’s arm. Then the crowd’s roar returned, surging into a deafening din in my ear as the two favorites neared the wire. Ridan and Jaipur, having led from the very start, thundered across the finish line together, leaving clumps of flying earth and the rest of the field in their wake. I couldn’t say which had crossed first. Neither could anyone else.
“Photo finish,” said Fadge. “We’ll have to wait a minute to find out who won.”
The spectators milled about, buzzing and smiling and chatting in edgy anticipation of the verdict. I spotted Freddie in his box, staring a hole into the tote board in the infield. His blonde friend was nowhere in sight. I turned back to Fadge, whose gaze was fixed on the tote board as well.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
“Waiting for the stewards’ decision,” he said.
“Why are you so worried about the outcome? You didn’t even place a bet. Just two dollars with me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told you. I’ve got a bundle riding on Ridan for the win.”
“You dirty liar,” I said just as the entire clubhouse erupted into a chorus of competing cheers and groans. Fadge was among the groaners.
He dropped a packet of betting slips to the floor, turned on his heel, and opened the Racing Form.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Jaipur,” he said and nothing more.
He was already immersed in the study of the next race. If he was upset at having lost out by less than a nose, I couldn’t see it in his expression. Maybe this was a job for him, after all. No room for emotion or could-have-beens.
Since I had no intention of betting again—I had won the only two wagers I’d placed to date, after all—I wasn’t interested in the Racing Form. I chanced a quick peek over at Freddie’s box instead. He and his friends were backslapping and smiling, which I took as a sign that they had bet on Jaipur or were still high from the excitement of the race. Even I had to admit it had been a thrilling duel.
Not far off, Jaipur was being led by a groom to the winner’s circle. He knew he’d won; you could see it in his gait. His hood had been removed, and he looked like a proper Thoroughbred again, not some kind of warhorse in protective armor. A magnificent stallion, he danced lightly, his dark bay coat shimmering in the late-afternoon sun as he savored his victory march back to the judge’s stand. His jockey was still perched in the saddle. Fadge told me later that his name was Bill Shoemaker, who’d already won two Kentucky Derbies and three Belmont Stakes, including the one two months before aboard the very same Jaipur. Lips stretched into a broad grin full of teeth, Shoemaker sat atop the thousand-pound champion and waved to the cheering throng. Once in the winner’s circle, he reached down to s
hake hands with some important-looking men, and then he slid off Jaipur’s back and set about unfastening the saddle. The groom helped pile the entire kit into Shoemaker’s arms, and the jockey stepped through a gate for the post-race weigh-in. A minute or so later, the crowd roared again. I asked Fadge why, and he indicated the tote board in the infield. He said the result was now official.
“Good,” I said. “Now pay up. You owe me two bucks.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills that would choke . . . well, a horse. After peeling off the two most crumpled notes he could find, he handed them over. I complained about the condition of the ones, and he told me I was lucky he didn’t have two hundred pennies handy. And with that, he returned to his paper.
By the time I left the track for the Friar Tuck Motel, Fadge was still up $130 for the day. Not too bad, considering he’d taken a bath on the sixth race, having lost eighty on Ridan. I thanked him for the wonderful afternoon, straightened his cravat, and told him I’d see him sometime the next day. He was fully absorbed in his Racing Form and barely noticed.
My favorite motel clerk, Margaret, showed me to my room, a serviceable if dingy affair with air-conditioning, where I showered and dressed carefully. I knew everyone was going to look fabulous, particularly Freddie’s blonde friend, and I didn’t want to let down the team. I sat before the mirror, applying more makeup than I normally wore, and, with twenty minutes to spare, slipped into my green gown and sat before the air conditioner to cool off.
I used the free time to phone Norma Geary. She was still at the paper, digging into Johnny Dornan’s checkered past. I shared the information Carl Boehringer had provided.
“Forget about the other place,” I said. “Narrow your search to stories involving a track called Hagerstown in Maryland. Johnny Dornan was implicated in some kind of race fixing there. Probably nine years ago.”
“That’s a help,” she said over the line. “Everything’s closed now. I’ll try in the morning, but tomorrow’s Sunday. I might have more luck Monday.”
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