“Let me just show you a couple of things,” he said to her. He pointed at the far left column, and looked at her to see if she was listening, which she was. She looked up at him, nodded, then looked down at the sheet again.
“First,” he said, “I want to know how a horse has done over the course of the past few races. So for example, I can look here and see that this horse last raced in April. That’s this column here. Then I see how he finished. That’s in this column here. Okay, it’s a three. That means he finished third. And the little half number next to that three tells you how far back he was. This says ‘one,’ so he was only back by one length. That’s not so bad, actually. And in fact, if you look way over here to the right, you can get a couple of words describing how he finished. This says ‘wide, hung’—meaning that he swung around too wide at the turn, but he hung in there until the end. He didn’t give up.”
He looked at her and watched as she pushed the hair back out of her face. Her neck was a little bit sweaty, and he saw that some small bits of her dark hair were sticking there. He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair there, move it away from her neck.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m listening. I’m following you.”
He nodded and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Well, let’s see. There’s one other thing that’s good to know.”
He paused for a second, thinking about how much to say. He wanted to impress her, show her how much he knew, but he didn’t want to overdo it, either. He took a quick glance over at Hal, and saw that he was talking to Ludwig and Jenny—boring the shit out of them, most likely. But that was their problem, not his.
“Okay,” he said, pointing to another part of the sheet. “If you look at this column, you can see how long his previous races have been. This might be useful. If he’s done well in short races, but not in longer ones, you need to know that, right? Maybe he’s a sprinter, so you might hesitate before betting on him for a longer race. My horse, for example, Temperature’s Rising, isn’t a great sprinter. I don’t put him in shorter races, and if I did, he probably wouldn’t do well.”
At the mention of Temperature’s Rising, Miriam looked at Martin and smiled. She crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a sort of sidelong glance—it was a little playful, Martin thought.
“Did you come up with that name, or did someone else?”
Martin laughed, and realized as he did that he was blushing. He didn’t know why, though. Why would a question like that make him blush? He let go of the sheet, finally, dropped it on her lap, and sat up a little straighter in his seat.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t name him. I got him when he was almost two years old, and he’d already been named.” He wanted to say something more, be witty, but he was a little tongue-tied.
“Well, it’s a great name,” she said. “And he’s a really good horse, right? I mean, that’s why he’s in the championship race. What are his odds for today? Should I be betting on him?” She was still smiling. Despite himself, he started to calm down.
Martin shrugged, trying to adopt the same posture of indifference he’d had with Ted Reasoner a little while ago. “He’s listed in the book at five-to-two,” he said. “We’ll see what happens as it gets closer to race time. The odds on the board out there are keyed to bets placed. So if a lot of people bet against him, the odds go up.”
“But that would be good, right?” she said.
“That’s right,” Martin said, more comfortable now. “It would actually be really good . . . because he’s going to win.”
He hadn’t planned to say that, had just blurted it out. But when he saw her momentary surprise—she started back just a bit, opening her eyes a little wide and grinning—he felt as if he’d said the right thing.
He took a quick glance around at the others in their group. Ludwig was hurrying off toward the betting windows—maybe to escape from Hal. Jenny and Hal were sitting together now, talking, but Martin saw Hal give a quick glance over toward him and Miriam. Or he thought he did, anyway. It was a look that said he was bored talking to Jenny. No surprise there—she was probably yakking at him about some film she’d seen recently, or maybe about her intention to apply to graduate school at Stanford (good luck). But it was also, Martin felt, a wary sort of look, one that suggested he wanted to keep an eye on things.
Huh, Martin thought. You can’t be jealous unless you think you’ve got a reason to be jealous.
A few seconds later Ludwig grabbed Martin and pulled him out of his seat to talk with him about something, and then before he knew it an hour had gone by. By then they’d all had too much to drink, especially in the heat of the late afternoon. They’d finished off the gin Ludwig had brought in his cooler, but they were still drinking draft beers. And it wasn’t just Ludwig and Jenny. They were all starting to slur a little, talk too loud, Hal and Miriam included. Some of the people in the seats around them were giving them the look, but he didn’t care. They were all moving around, talking, laughing, running up to place a couple of bets, running back to the seats. No one seemed to win anything. Miriam teased him when she placed a bet and lost—punched him in the arm, even.
Some time went by, and he looked over and saw Miriam and Hal sitting together, laughing, his arm draped around her shoulders, across the back of the seat she was in. They were sharing some sort of joke. Or that’s what it looked like. For a panicked second Martin thought they might have been talking about him.
“Is this guy a knucklehead, or what?” she’d ask. “I can’t believe we live near him. He really does think he’s something special. You should’ve heard him with that stupid Racing Form. He was acting like it was rocket science, for Christ’s sake.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Hal would say in response. “The guy’s a total loser—really just a big sham. He’s fucking broke, you know. I heard it from a friend of mine at Wells Fargo. He came begging for a loan, and they told him to take a hike. All of this with the horses is just made-up money—credit. He’s a walking house of cards.”
Martin took a deep breath and counseled himself to calm down. Who knew what they were talking about? Maybe something to do with one of their kids. It was impossible to say (though he was tempted to march over there and find out. What the fuck are you two talking about? he’d ask. This is my day, you know).
One thing was certain, though, and that was that they were actually pretty close. They were friends, even. He thought for a moment about Linda. Sure, they were married, and yes, they loved each other. But were they close? Good friends? On some days his answer to that question would be an automatic yes. But on other days, and especially in the past year or two, he wasn’t so sure. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he was friends—close friends, that is—with anyone anymore. He suddenly wished she were here to watch the race with him, and share this moment. Jesus, he thought. It wasn’t too late for them, was it? He wasn’t sure.
Finally, Martin heard the announcement for the eleventh race—the one he’d been waiting for. “The horses are on the track.”
He watched through his binoculars as the horses walked out onto the raked dirt of the track for the post parade. The horses were actually right down in front of them, pretty easy to see, but he liked to use the binoculars anyway. He could tell they were excited; their heads bobbed up and down, straining at their bits. The jockeys were perched on top of them, guiding them, but mainly just working to keep them calm. Martin saw Temperature’s Rising right away: his number and eyeshades were sky blue, and Sanchez was wearing a checkered shirt in matching blue. That was one of Val’s touches. He hated it, he said, when the jockey and the horse didn’t match (which was ironic, in that Val’s own clothes routinely clashed).
Martin felt a hand on his shoulder—a woman’s hand—and he thought for an ecstatic second that it was Miriam’s. But when he brought his binoculars down from his eyes, he saw that Miriam was standing in the row in front of him and that it was Jenny who was standing next to him. A second ago he had seen her over with
Ludwig, two rows down. But now she was next to him, her hand on his shoulder.
“Which one is Temperature’s Rising?” she asked.
“Right there,” Martin said. “In the light blue. The sky blue. Number six.” She was leaning against him a little bit, her left breast pressing into his side, and he resisted the urge to take a half step away from her.
In front of him, Miriam was shading her eyes with her right hand and looking out at the horses. “Oh, wow,” she said, with a quick half glance back at Martin. “Look at that. He’s really something. He’s taller than the other horses, isn’t he?”
Martin felt a quick jolt of pleasure run through him. As far as he was concerned, the horse had just paid for himself.
He thought about moving away from Jenny entirely, getting her hand off his shoulder and making it clear he didn’t like it when she touched him. But instead he slipped the leather strap of his binoculars from around his neck and handed them to her.
“You can see better with these,” he said. “I need them for the race, but go ahead and check him out.”
“Okay, wow, great,” she said. “Thanks.”
He put his right arm around her shoulders, and guided the binoculars with his left hand.
“See that horse in the red right there?” he asked her, pointing out toward the track with his left hand. “Number eight? That’s the horse we’ve gotta worry about. Champagne Taste. He’s a lot like Temperature’s Rising: a late breaker. He’ll be hanging back until the last turn. It’s gonna be the two of them coming down the stretch.”
Jenny nodded, and Martin could tell that she was pleased to be on the receiving end of these details. But he really wasn’t talking to Jenny at all. It was the old trick of pretending to talk to one person while in fact directing your words to someone else—the person you actually cared about and were interested in. He wanted Miriam to see how comfortable he was with women, and to be impressed by his ability to plan the race down to the last detail (though of course he hadn’t planned anything—it was all Val’s doing).
Ludwig came up to Martin on his left and patted him on the back. “So what do you think?” he asked.
“We’ll see in a minute,” Martin said.
They watched the horses being guided into the starting gates. Champagne Taste reared up, and the handlers had to walk him around in a quick circle to try to calm him down. Martin took this as a good sign. Let him get rattled, burn up some energy. He could see Alex Cordero—a good jockey—patting his neck, trying to calm him down.
Then the bell sounded and the horses exploded out of the gates in a flash of colors and dust. Right away a group of five horses surged to the lead, with several others, including Temperature’s Rising and Champagne Taste, sliding off of the main group and locking in behind them. They looked relaxed, as if they were just out for a morning gallop. They moved through the first turn, the clubhouse turn, at cruising speed, letting the lead pack do the work.
Overhead the announcer narrated the progress of the race, and the crowd began to come alive.
“Go, you fucking horse,” he heard someone yell. “Run! Run!”
“Come on, now!” Ludwig shouted. “Time to kick it in gear! Make your move!”
He heard Miriam and Jenny yelling as well—yelling and screaming and jumping up and down.
Martin knew that Ludwig was wrong, that it wasn’t time yet to make a move. Not quite. And as he followed the horses around the track through his binoculars, he could tell that both Sanchez and Cordero knew this as well. Temperature’s Rising and Champagne Taste were basically side by side, each running three or maybe even four lengths behind the lead pack of five horses, and each gliding along, still looking relaxed. But that front group was starting to stretch out, with two horses falling off the pace just a bit.
Temperature’s Rising was maintaining a nice long stride, which was exactly what Val had wanted. He looked like he could do that all day long. Champagne Taste looked good, too. Comfortable. It was going to be close.
As they came around the final turn, both Temperature’s Rising and Champagne Taste started to move up on the horses in front of them. They picked off the two fading horses right away, moving around them on the outside. Temperature’s Rising was on the inside of Champagne Taste. They were still side by side, and it was as if the other two horses were standing still, all of a sudden. Five seconds later they were past another horse that had begun to fade. The two lead horses put up a fight for another hundred yards or so, but with about three hundred yards to go it was only Temperature’s Rising and Champagne Taste. They were neck and neck. Both jockeys were working their whips on the horses’ flanks, and both horses were running flat-out now. No more gliding. You could tell that each horse really wanted to win.
The din of the crowd was really something—much louder than during the earlier races. Martin himself wasn’t yelling. He might shout at the horses in a race he’d bet on, especially if it wasn’t anything very serious. But it was different when it was his own horse. Then, he tended to keep it all in, holding his body tight and clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. And that’s what he was doing now as he watched Temperature’s Rising lean into the final stretch.
“Come on, baby. Come on,” he muttered through his clenched teeth. It was almost like he was whispering to himself. “Push, push,” he said. Pleaded. He really wanted this.
Their seats were right in front of the big black-and-white checkered pole that marked the finish line, and so he had a near-perfect view of Temperature’s Rising as he surged forward at the last second, stretching his long neck and bobbing his head—it was just enough, Martin thought. I think it was just enough. I think he did it.
And that’s how the announcer called it. “Temperature’s Rising, by a nose,” he said.
And then everyone was pounding him on the back, and Ludwig barreled into him for a big hug. Jenny and Miriam hugged him in turn (Miriam’s hug an awkward, over-the-seat hug), and Hal shook his hand (another steel-guy handshake) and slapped him on the shoulder with his other hand. They were all shouting and whooping and laughing.
A minute later they were hustling down the steps toward the winner’s circle. It was all bodies and noise, and as Martin looked around he saw people looking at them—at him—as they moved along. He felt for a precious minute or two like a celebrity. Or not like a celebrity so much as someone you envied, and who made you wonder what it would be like to be that person. He’d always been on the other side of that feeling, the one looking on as someone managed the big win, dated the best-looking woman, made the most money. But now—today—it was him, Martin Anderson, and he allowed himself to give over to the moment, to feel the intense pleasure of winning.
He met Val at the gate just outside the winner’s circle. He was all smiles, flashing his bad teeth. He crushed Martin’s hand in his big trainer’s paw. “I told you so!” he yelled, over and over again.
Martin’s plan had been to have his whole group join him in the winner’s circle for the photo. It would be fun. Plus, this way, Miriam would be in the photo. But when he saw Val he knew he needed to stick to the basic etiquette of owners, trainers, and jockeys only (and maybe the owner’s family). It was obnoxious to bring a big group into the little area where they took the picture. People did it, but it was considered crass, and he knew it would piss off Val (though maybe if he got a look at Miriam he’d understand).
Standing there waiting for the photographer to arrange them in front of the horse and jockey, Martin felt a little dazed. He was giddy, but the drinking and the excitement and the heat had worn him out. He was holding a silver championship cup someone had handed to him. Later, he’d get a check for the purse in the race, probably about two thousand dollars.
He scanned the crowd outside the gated area, looking for his little group, and as he did he made eye contact with Miriam. She must have been thirty or forty feet away, but her eyes were so intense that it was like she was standing right in front of him. She was standing betw
een Ludwig and Jenny, and she was looking right at Martin, smiling. Her expression was hard to read.
Then the flash went off, and he realized that he hadn’t been looking at the camera. At first he was irritated—why was the guy in such a rush? But then he realized that later, when he looked at the developed and then framed photo up on his living room wall, he would know that he’d been looking at Miriam when the camera clicked, and that she’d been looking back at him. And that, he knew, would make the picture special in a secret sort of way.
THREE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He sensed that something was wrong the minute he walked through the door. It was about 9:00 p.m., maybe a little later. He’d gone out for drinks and dinner (in that order) after the race with Val, Ludwig, Jenny, and a couple of others from Val’s stable. Some Italian place out in Pleasanton that Val went to pretty regularly. It wasn’t bad, but it was no Vanessi’s. Hal and Miriam had begged off, but Martin was so excited he didn’t even mind. In fact, he was glad to have a break. Being around her for so long had worn him out.
So it was pretty early when he got home, all things considered. And he was eager to show the big silver cup to Linda and the kids, have them ooh and aah.
He pushed the door open and announced “I’m home!”
“Hello?” he yelled. “Is anyone here?”
He walked into the kitchen and saw a note on the counter top. He saw right away that it was written by Sarah, rather than Linda. What the hell? Standing there reading it, he realized that he hadn’t seen the car in the carport. Were they out buying champagne for him?
“We went to spend the night with Aunt Sharon,” it said. Below that, it said, “We took Arrow with us.” Below that, it said, “Hope you won!”
And then, further down, scrawled in purple felt-tip pen, Peter had written, “Go Temperature’s Risin’!”
Martin smiled to himself. He pictured Peter standing there writing the note: insisting on a quick addition to what Sarah had written, and knowing (probably) that it was “Rising” and not “Risin’,” and that his dad would get the little joke.
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