by Maggie Estep
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, getting out of the truck.
She fired off a series of questions about why didn’t I have the proper stickers for my vehicle and what was I doing there. I explained how she’d waved me and Attila in just a couple hours earlier, but she wasn’t buying it. She made radio contact with other security people and pretty soon there was a big to-do and they had to summon Henry Meyer to vouch for me.
At first, the trainer looked at me blankly. Then recognition dawned.
“Oh, Attila’s friend. Right. What were you doing with him anyway?”
“Just hanging around,” I said, wanting very much to tell him the truth, but not doing it. “Attila was showing me what’s what. I’m thinking of getting into a syndicate, buy into a horse or two.”
“Huh,” Henry grunted, like this was one of the worst ideas he’d heard all day. “Yeah,” he said, turning to the three security officers now collected there, “he’s one of my riders’ friends. It’s okay.”
The chubby brunette officer looked resentful. This was probably as close as she’d ever come to having a reason to shoot someone and I’d rained on her parade. My kind of girl.
I got back in the truck and drove off through the bowels of Queens and home to my other kind of girl. My wife. She was actually home. And, I have to say, she nearly gave me a heart attack.
“Baby, where you been all morning?” she purred, surprising the hell out of me for even noticing I hadn’t been around—and compounding that surprise by seeming glad to see me.
She was wearing her spandex workout pants and a little tank top distended by her glorious tits. I guess I stared at her with my jaw hanging open.
“What’s the matter, Sal?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” I said.
And then, she started fumbling with my pants, right there in the living room.
“Where’s Jake?” I said, not wanting to emotionally scar the kid with the vision of his mom blowing his dad in the living room.
“Play date. All afternoon, baby.” She’d undone my belt and pulled my jeans over my ass and I already had a hard-on that could have drilled a hole in the ceiling.
And then my wife blew me. I came in about thirty seconds.
“Hair-trigger response,” she said, touching me with pride. “How long I gotta wait?” she asked, pulling her spandex leggings down just below her large pale ass.
“Apparently not very long,” I said, entering her first with my fingers, then with my quickly rejuvenated hard-on.
“I want another baby,” she said then, bucking her hips into me.
This was something of a shock. A few months earlier, she hadn’t wanted me inside her. Now she really wanted me inside her. Women. Go figure. Another fucking kid though? Jake was my life and that seemed like enough. Plus, erratic as Karen was, I was pretty sure she wasn’t gonna stick with me that much longer. Then it would be two kids growing up with jerk parents taking out their bitterness on them.
“You went off the pill?” I said, just like that, as we stood unceremoniously fucking in the living room.
“Yes,” she said with a thrust of her hips.
“No way, Karen,” I said, abruptly pulling out of her, causing her to whine like a dying lawn mower, “not the way you’re erratic. I don’t want two kids growing up with divorced parents.”
Usually I didn’t speak my mind with her quite this frankly. I had in the very beginning. When I’d met her, she’d been starting over after being a high-priced call girl supporting her coke habit. The first time she walked into my home group of AA, every guy in the room pretty much instantly wanted her. And I instantly wanted to kill those guys. I felt possessive of Karen before I’d even talked to her. And, to try and do things right with her, I’d been completely honest about everything. But a lot had changed in eight years.
She wheeled around, face red with anger, her workout pants still down around her hips, exposing her bush.
“What the hell are you talking about, Sal?”
“Don’t take it like that, baby,” I said. “Come on, I’ll get a condom.”
This infuriated her even more. She pulled her pants back up and stormed upstairs, leaving me there in the living room, with my dick literally hanging out. Maybe my diplomacy skills left a little to be desired.
I didn’t know what to do. So I pulled my pants back up, got my keys, and went out.
I got in the truck, started the engine and the Beethoven. Ruby was on me to expand my repertoire and listen to some Bach and maybe Shostakovich but I hadn’t gotten there yet. I liked Tchaikovsky, but when I’d told this to Ruby, she had scowled and, the next time I’d seen her, she’d given me five new CDs. Bach, Handel, some moody Russians, and some guy named Schoenberg. An opera no less. I wasn’t ready for that. Or was I? Right then I needed some serious mood alteration. I riffled through the glove box until I found the Schoenberg disc. I stared at it for a minute. Moses und Aron it was called. Ruby had told me how Mr. Schoenberg had only used one A in Aron because otherwise the title would have had thirteen letters and he didn’t want to bring bad luck on his opera. I took Beethoven out and put in Mr. Schoenberg. Full volume even though I had no idea what I was in for. The music came. A low rumble of male voices. It was pretty strange sounding but not bad strange. I put the truck into drive and pulled ahead.
For about ten minutes I succeeded in not thinking. Not about Karen, not about Ruby’s damn jockey. I just drove and listened to that crazy, dark music. Then I found I’d pulled up outside of Johnny’s candy store on Havemeyer Street.
I turned Mr. Schoenberg down. Very gently so as not to offend. I’d gotten that way with classical music. If I had to stop it before listening to the whole thing, I turned it down in tiny increments so as not to shock myself or offend the spirit of the dead guy who’d composed it. I suppose a coupla the CDs Ruby had told me to buy were by guys who were actually still alive. But Mr. Schoenberg had died fifty something years ago.
I stared at the bright yellow-and-red entrance to Johnny’s. The place had been in the Del Tredici family since the turn of the century. At one point though, Johnny’s dad had gone under and rented it to some Dominicans who turned it into a bodega, painting it that red and yellow that is apparently in the bylaws of some Bodega Decoration Code. Eventually, Johnny had gotten on his feet enough financially to take the place back over and restore it to a candy store—bookie in the back—but he’d never gotten around to painting it and it was now a crumbling yellow and red. He’d put up a green awning that said JOHNNY’S CANDY and someone, maybe his kid Nicky, had pointed out that the shop was now flying Rastafarian colors. But it’s not like any Jamaican guys were mistaking it for a social club. Everyone within a twenty-block radius knew non-Italians weren’t gonna get a warm reception there. Unless they were dropping a few thousand on a long shot at Aqueduct.
I got out of the truck and went inside. Johnny’s daughter Nan was sitting there, smoking and reading People magazine. On the counters around her were big old-fashioned glass containers full of colorful candies. The candy aspect of the store didn’t do booming business considering that the neighborhood, which had been predominantly Spanish for a few decades, was now infested with white hipsters who mostly steered clear of candy—coming in only occasionally to soak in the quaint factor.
Nan’s cigarette was propped between her lips and a good two inches of ash threatened to fall on her huge belly. Girl was eight months pregnant. I’d once made the mistake of mentioning to Karen that Nan was knocked up and smoking and Karen had stormed in there and given Nan a piece of her mind—along with photos she’d downloaded off the Internet depicting birth defects in kids whose mothers had smoked. As a result, I’d been persona non grata at Johnny’s for a couple of months and Karen had been permanently banned from the place.
“Hey, girl,” I nodded at Nan. She looked up from her magazine and scowled. She was a cute kid actually, a petite brunette with blue eyes. She’d just turned twenty and was apparently already starting on he
r mama’s path of popping out a kid every other year. This was her second—the first, Mimi, currently asleep in a stroller behind the counter, had come out just fine, no birth defects in spite of the smoking.
“Pop’s in the back, Sal,” Nan said, going back to her magazine. She was still scowling—now with something to really scowl about considering her ash had fallen onto her stretchy pink top.
I went to the side of the counter and through the little door, down the hall and to the back room. Johnny was on the phone, as was his son, Nicky. A third guy whose name I couldn’t remember, some kind of cousin, was staring at the TV that was broadcasting the OTB channel. Normally, this time of day, the channel would have been broadcasting Aqueduct, but with the Big A being closed, they had some Gulfstream Park races showing.
“Howya doin’, Sal?” the cousin said.
“Good. What’s up?” I said.
“Nothing at Aqueduct today. Fuckin’ snow.”
“Ehh, watch your mouth, Fulvio,” Johnny said, having just hung up from taking a bet. Johnny was Catholic. We all were, but Johnny’s Catholicism adhered to a peculiar moral code that said being a bookie and hitting the sauce were okay but no cursing or birth control. “Sal, howya doin’?” he asked me.
“Good,” I nodded.
“Where ya been?” he asked, though he knew damned well his daughter hadn’t let me set foot in the place for three months.
“Busy,” I said, playing his little game.
“You remember Fulvio, right?” Johnny wanted to know.
I nodded again. No wonder I hadn’t remembered the guy’s name. What the hell kind of name was Fulvio? I knew the kid had been born in Naples. His folks had come over when he was little so I didn’t think he even spoke Italian anymore but he had a seriously Italian name.
The phone rang and Johnny got it.
Nicky had hung up from his call now.
“Hey, Sal, howya doin’?”
I was getting a little sick of telling them how I was doing, but unless someone else came in the room I wouldn’t have to answer the question again after this.
“Good, Nicky, how’s by you?”
“Took a bath on the second at Gulfstream.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Yeah,” the kid shrugged.
Nicky was a good-looking kid. One thing you could say for Johnny and his missus, at least six of their eleven kids were good-looking.
“Who’s Velasquez riding at Gulfstream today?” I asked, figuring since I’d somehow ended up here, I must have had a bet on my mind.
“He’s on a maiden filly in the next race. I can give you twenty to one on her.”
“Yeah? Who’s the filly?”
“First-time starter. Dunno. But she’s by Hennesy,” he said, uttering the sire’s name with reverence.
“Yeah, that and two dollars will get her on the subway.”
“Yeah, could be,” Nicky said. “Two hundred large at Keeneland yearling sale though, and she’s got John Ward training her.”
“Uh,” I grunted. I liked the trainer’s record and Velasquez, the jockey, was a monster. I didn’t put a whole lot of stock in yearlings costing too much though. Didn’t mean they could run. I was the kind of guy who rooted for underdog, inexpensive horses. I’d almost had to kill myself when Funny Cide had lost the Belmont Stakes. Like everyone, I’d been hoping for him to stick it to those regally bred million-dollar colts one more time. It hadn’t been his day though and a blue-blooded horse won.
“You want it or not?” Nicky said, getting a little impatient with me.
“Sure. Twenty to win,” I said.
A few minutes later, I watched Velasquez shoot the filly out to the front of the pack and stay there until two lengths from the finish line when a 35-1 filly caught her.
I felt a little depressed but not too bad and, since I wasn’t sure why I’d come here in the first place, I decided it might be time to get on with my day.
“I guess I’m gonna get going,” I said to Johnny.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “You need a drink, Sal?”
“No thanks, Johnny,” I said, feeling a little aggravated since, after ten years in AA—I had actually told Johnny about it—he still offered me drinks every chance he got.
“You got any more bets to place?” he said.
“I dunno. What’s on at Aqueduct tomorrow? I hear they’re opening up again.”
“Yeah. Ain’t much to like. My uncle Davide got one of his in a race,” Johnny shrugged. Johnny was loyal to his uncle and this loyalty extended to his touting the uncle’s racehorses. Uncle Davide is, from what I gather, pretty high up in what’s left of the mob in these parts, but the guy does not have an eye for horses at all. I’ve never seen anyone pick out bum-luck horses with more consistency than Davide. I don’t think he’s ever had a horse run in the money, never mind win a race.
“Yeah? How’s Davide doing?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s fine,” Johnny shrugged. “There’s a decent allowance colt in the fourth tomorrow,” he added, brightening, “Oat Bran Blues. Good horse. But he’s got that apprentice Attila Johnson in the irons and I heard something about the kid holding his mounts back for a little extra payday. Probably why he’ll go off at twenty to one or so.”
Bingo. This is why I was here.
“Yeah, I heard that apprentice ain’t crooked anymore.”
“Oh yeah?” Johnny suddenly looked more interested in me than he’d been in a number of decades.
“Yeah. I know someone who knows him.”
“And what, the kid admitted he was fudging?”
“He ain’t a kid actually. I think the guy’s in his thirties or something,” I said, choosing not to answer the question as it might involve me in a way I didn’t care to be involved.
Johnny looked at me blankly. I got up to leave, wondering if he was gonna press the issue.
“Come on, Sal, tell me what you heard.”
“I just heard he wants to win,” I said, and then I went out, nodding at Nan, who was smoking another one by now.
I got in the truck. Put Mr. Schoenberg back on. Thought about Karen. Wondered what might befall me if I went home. I couldn’t figure it out. I put the music up a few more notches. Decided I might actually like opera.
ATTILA JOHNSON
10.
The Blind Eye
Eventually, the chaos over the masked rider passed and I went ahead and walked a half-dozen horses for trainers I knew—including Arnie Gaines, the trainer Ruby had walked hots for nine months back. I stopped by Henry Meyer’s barn again to talk to him about how he wanted me riding Oat Bran Blues, the big floppy-eared bay I was riding in the fourth race the next day.
I stuck my head in his office and saw Henry’s wife, Violet, sitting in Henry’s chair, her feet up on the desk. She was frowning in concentration as she studied tomorrow’s Form.
“Ms. Kravitz,” I greeted the lady.
In spite of having married into one of the most misogynistic professions going, Violet Kravitz held on tight to her maiden name and the appellation of Ms.—even though, back when Ava and I were still attempting something, Ava had proudly come in one day waving a New York Times essay by a saucy young woman who was dead set against Ms. and insisted on being called Miss.
“Attila,” Violet said, looking at me over the top of her spectacles. “What exactly happened on the track this morning?”
My stomach knotted. I wondered if she’d heard rumors about me and suspected this morning’s mayhem had had something to do with me. I hoped not. I respected and was fond of both Henry and Violet and would never do anything to interfere with one of their horses.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” I said.
“You keep out of harm’s way, all right, young man?” Violet’s blue eyes had grown wide. She was so guileless. It made me feel soiled in contrast.
I nodded.
“You’re going to do right by Muley tomorrow, yes?” Violet asked.
Oat Bran Blues was k
nown as Muley around the barn. His right ear was stunted and flopped to one side like a mule’s—a result of having explored a bees’ nest as a foal. He’d been stung mercilessly and the ear had given up on growing. At seventeen hands, Muley was a big horse, but the tiny flopping ear gave him a clownish appearance that he always seemed to be compensating for by being spooky and difficult under tack.
“I’ll try to keep out of Muley’s way, ma’am,” I told Violet.
She laughed at this. Women love the way I always defer to the horse, though it isn’t something I do to curry favor. Early on in my career I’d been taught well by an old claimer named Justa Bob. Nothing fazed Justa Bob. He was just a racehorse. Just a claimer. But wise. All I had to do was lightly hold his mouth in my hands as he methodically took care of business. He would stand quietly in the gate, break perfectly, then settle in a few horses wide, calculating exactly how much effort was required to pick off the horses in front of him. He would switch leads without being asked, giving himself an extra gear and, with less than a furlong to go, he’d bring himself up to the leading horse’s shoulder. Two strides shy of the wire, he would surge just enough to get his nose in front. The plain, brown gelding showed me how races were won.
They weren’t all like that though. You had your first-time starters and your crazies who were wound so tightly they’d become uncoordinated and fall on their faces if you didn’t tell them how to put one hoof in front of the other. The ones I loved best though let me know what they wanted and I gladly obliged.
“Don’t ma’am me, Attila, I don’t want to feel like I’m eighty please.”
“Sorry, Violet.” I grinned at her, feeling a wave of fondness for this eccentric and gentle woman.
She then went on to show me, with much disgust, the Racing Form handicappers’ notes on Oat Bran Blues. The comments weren’t favorable. About the horse or his rider. It angered me.
“Don’t look like that, dear,” Violet said. “I wouldn’t let Henry continue to put you on our horses if I didn’t believe in you.”
I felt myself flushing.