“Are these blood pressure pills?”
Ben shrugged.
“They look like the kind my mother used to take.” She dusted them off, handed them to him, and leaned down to get the last one. “I didn’t know you had high blood pressure.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, avoided eye contact, and walked out. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
Dawn lay down on the cot and stared up at the ceiling. There were cloudy cobwebs in each corner, the largest one in the area closest to the bridles and saddle rack. Her stomach ached and growled. Perhaps it would feel better if she turned onto her side. First her left. It didn’t help. Then her right. But always facing the door. Always. She did this instinctively, her head at the top and then the bottom.
Her stomach rumbled again and she sighed. Blood pressure pills? Even though Ben said it was nothing, she wondered. Worried. Age for the most part had been kind to Ben, his gray hair more silver than white, and still thick. And he appeared healthy and strong, though slightly bent at the waist. His hands were large and callused, his shoulders thick and wide.
She smiled to herself. He certainly was healthier than she was at the moment. Besides, a lot of people take blood pressure pills. It’s nothing, just like he said.
Ben was doing some thinking too as he walked up to the racetrack, thinking about Meg, and thinking about Dawn. Meg couldn’t have children, and always felt she’d let him down because of it. Even now, years after her death, he ached at the idea of her ever letting him down. She would’ve given him a daughter just like Dawn if she could’ve. Just like her. And sons too.
Tom handed Beau over to Dawn when they reached the paddock entrance, and joined the other ponies assembled out on the track by the winner’s circle, to wait.
Dawn called out Beau’s name to the paddock judge as she led him past, a role-call formality which hardly seemed necessary in Beau’s case, since almost everyone recognized him on sight. Not only was his massive size a trademark, a tower of brand-new-penny shine and classic veins standing out under thin skin...he had an air about him, a presence, one that seemed to say, “Well, here I am. Now try and outrun me.”
Dawn circled the paddock area twice before Ben motioned her in. Relax,” he said, teasing her for this do-or-die expression she always sported right about now. “We’re going to win in hand. Give the maintenance crew a rest.”
Dawn laughed self-consciously, then glanced at the level of spectators above, who were hanging over the railing looking for tips on which horse to bet. Maybe the one that kept tossing its head. Or perhaps the one that acted the rankest. The one kicking or rearing. Or the one standing the quietest. Any little sign. Anything. Dawn even heard a spectator once telling the person next to him that if you watch how high a horse holds its tail, you’ll know.
At the time Dawn just shook her head, but even now, as ridiculous as it seemed to watch for such signals, it made about as much sense to her as reading a racing form. Especially since Ben told her it wasn’t so much what a form showed that was important, but what it didn’t show. It’s complicated, he explained, and summed it up by saying, “You have to be able to read between the lines.”
A large bay horse being saddled in the stall next to them started acting up, easily dragging its poor groom around. Pettibons King, a ship-in from Chicago, was being saddled at a walk and would rear and throw his weight up against the valet at the slightest hesitation. Here and there were stern commands. The number five horse, a small but flashy chestnut, danced around the paddock obediently, and if horses could smile, with a smile on his face.
Dawn’s stomach grumbled.
Beau stood still to be tacked, frozen in a statue-like stance, his muscles quivering as the saddle cloth was laid across his back. The saddle pad and saddle were next, and the girth passed underneath. Beau’s eyes widened, his quivering escalating into trembling as he stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed. The overgirth was put in place and Ben reached down to thread it through the buckle, pulling it hard and tight and then passing the leather back for the valet to tuck in securely.
The paddock judge approached, smiling first at Ben, and cringing as he took hold of Beau’s upper lip to check his tattoo. Beau kicked out. It was something you could always count on. The sound as he connected with the wall resonated like a cannon blast.
Miguel, in scarlet and gray silks, was the last rider out of the jocks’ room, which was another thing you could always count on. He walked over slowly, adjusting the Velcro on his sleeves as he looked around the paddock, and nodded to Dawn and then Ben as he came nearer.
Ben drew him close. “Let him break on his own. Don’t hustle him.”
Miguel nodded as he wound the reins, and pulled back on them to tighten the all-important rider’s knot.
“There’s some early speed in the race, but don’t let the pace fool you. Stay close.”
The paddock judge called, “Riders up!” And the jockeys were legged-up in order of their starting positions, and led out onto the track.
As soon as Dawn handed Beau and Miguel over to Tom, she headed for the ladies room. At the two-minute-to-post warning, she walked down to the rail and jumped up onto the fence support, her favorite spot to watch a race. Ben came down right after that to join her.
Since the race was a flat mile, the starting gate was directly in front of them. The tote board changed as the horses approached the gate, making Pettibons King even money and Beau three to one. Ben explained once to Dawn how for big races, even the most faithful will bet the ship-in. Popular opinion being, that if they were willing to travel, they must think they can win it.
Ben liked the odds.
The last horse to be loaded balked, backing up and ducking numerous attempts by the gate crew to get him in, while the others became restless. “No boss! No boss!” different jockeys yelled. “Not yet boss!” Pettibons King reared, his rider jumping up onto the side of the gate before mounting again. Two of the gate crew got behind the last horse, clasping their hands together to push and shove. At one point, they practically lifted the horse off his hind legs, before finally getting him loaded.
“No boss! No boss!”
“No boss!”
“No! No!”
Then silence, time seemingly suspended as the latch sprung. The bell rang. “And they’re off!”
Beau broke well and laid third through the first turn, dropping down on the rail when it opened up, two or three lengths off the lead. Pettibons King was out in front, covering the first half mile in forty-five seconds flat. Still laying third down the backside, as they entered the far turn, Beau loomed up on the horse running second, and at the head of the stretch, took over the lead.
Dawn’s eyes were riveted on him, hearing only his name, as the others blended together, just his. Just him. With a sixteenth of a mile to go, Beau was in front by five lengths. Pettibons King was being challenged now by a pack of horses for second.
Approaching the wire, Beau continued to reach out, lengthening his lead with each stride...Miguel hand-riding him with the reins pushed high on his neck and his whip uncocked.
“And it’s Beau Born in ccoommpplleettee ccoommmannnnddd!!!”
the announcer called. “Ladies and gentlemen, Beau Born is the unofficial winner of the twelfth running of the Overton Stake. There is a photo for place and show.”
Ben clutched the fence, lowering his head, and mouthed a silent prayer. When he raised his eyes, he watched Beau being pulled up. After they turned, jogged, and broke into a fluid canter, then and only then, did he turn to Dawn and smile.
The winner’s circle was filled with jubilant people; several of Ben’s friends, the owners of the Overton Racing Stable, their family and friends. And the track’s general manager was on hand to make the trophy presentation.
Tom dismounted Red and led Beau in as Miguel looked up toward the stewards’ box above the grandstand and waved his whip in a traditional jockey’s salute. The photographer snapped the picture as everyone huddled t
ogether, grinning and laughing. Beau stood proud. And the official sign was posted. Pettibons King held on for second. Jimmy Crickett, the little horse with the smile, finished third.
Chapter Five
How or why Gloria Mitchell happened onto the Miller barn one day, was a mystery. She was pretty, spunky, recently retired, and widowed. To Ben however, she was just an annoyance.
“I don’t like the way she looks at me.”
Tom laughed. “What do you expect out of an old nurse? She’s been looking at men “on their way out” her whole life. Hell, you’re prime in her eyes.”
Dawn chuckled, smacked Tom on the arm, and turned smiling at Ben. “Well, I think she’s nice. Besides, all she wants you to do is find her a horse.”
Tom nodded in agreement, somewhat. “Right, and how can a woman that smells like a lilac bush be all that bad?”
“She smells like a goddamned funeral parlor,” Ben said. “That’s what she smells like.”
Tom laughed, while closely examining a hangnail on his left thumb that had been bothering him all morning. “She’s got the hots for you, old man. It’s as simple as that. Go for it!”
“I’ll give you, ‘go for it.’ If you’re so gung ho, why don’t you...”
“I can’t, I tried. She won’t have anything to do with me. She wants you. No one else’ll do.”
Ben didn’t find any of this funny and left the tack room. They were barely into the third week of the new racing season, and already he was grumpy. Most of the horses had shipped in about seven weeks earlier and were doing well, but the Wagners had switched stables over the winter, and it bothered him. He’d been their trainer for years now and had won a lot of races for them. Why would they change? For lack of any other reason, he chalked it up to his suggesting they retire Majorama. With bone chips in her knee too numerous to count, and the joint having been drained of excess fluid too many times, ending her racing career to become a broodmare was sound advice.
Tom had tried consoling him in his own way. “Screw ‘em, who needs ‘em. So they got a bug up their ass. Who cares?”
Still, it played on his mind, and every time he’d watched Majorama head for the track in the morning, it upset him more. So much so, one would’ve thought when he heard she’d “broke down” and had to be destroyed, he’d have felt some satisfaction. But not Ben. He called it a waste, a crying shame, and probably would have punched old-man Wagner if he’d been within reach.
Gloria Mitchell’s timing was off. Majorama was about to become a by-product, and she was trying to flirt with an angry man. “Well, Mr. Miller. Are we going to claim a horse today?”
Ben shook his head in disbelief. Did she think on any given day there were horses worthy of claiming? “Now, Mrs. Mitchell, that’s not how it’s done. Surely you understand that a little clocking is in order. I don’t want to halter a dink for you, nor do I want to train one.”
Clocking? Halter a dink? Gloria pursed her lips. “Excuse me...?”
“Claim a sore horse,” Ben partially explained. Haltering is a common racetrack term for claiming. Clocking in this context refers to checking a horse out, watching it train in the morning, asking around about it, following it to the race, that sort of thing. “Claiming a horse is risky business.”
“Oh, but of course it is, Ben...may I call you Ben? And please,” she said, “you call me Gloria. It’s just that I’m so excited. I want a horse so badly. A black one. I like black horses. What about you? Remember Fury? I loved that show. Let’s look in the racing form to see if there are any black horses running today.”
Ben gazed down at the tack room floor, sighing. Why me, he wondered? A black horse. As if color had anything to do with making a sound choice.
“Ben?”
He looked at her, showing signs of giving in, giving up.
“Today...?”
Ben nodded. Maybe if it weren’t for the Wagners leaving him with empty stalls. No trainer likes giving up his or her stalls. “Okay, we’ll do it. You pick one out and we’ll talk about it. Now let me get back to work.”
Gloria could hardly contain her excitement as she headed for the track kitchen, racing form in hand and singing over her shoulder, “I’ll be back.”
Ben looked at Dawn and shook his head. “I’ll tell you what. When I die, I don’t want any flowers.” The aroma of lilac hung heavy in the air. “You hear me? None!” He buried his face in the racing form, mumbling to himself about corpses, funeral parlors, black horses, and then Woolworths for some reason, perhaps the fragrance. Dawn had to leave the tack room to keep from laughing.
Midday, Gloria returned to the barn, dressed in lavender from head to toe, and waving triumphantly. “I’ve picked one out! I’ve picked one out!”
So had Ben and Tom. They’d spent the last two hours going over the form themselves, and had ruled out all but one. A solid hard-knocker running for $6250. He’d been sprinting and looked like he just needed a little more ground.
“I knew I’d find one!” Gloria beamed. “My horoscope for today said I’d find exactly what I was looking for. And the best part is...” She perched herself on the chair across from Ben and Tom, next to Dawn. “He’s black!”
When Ben started to object, Tom tapped him on the arm and pointed to their choice in the form. He too was black.
Gloria crossed her legs at the ankles and put her purse on her lap. “His name is Too Cajun. Isn’t that a pretty name?”
Ben and Tom both glanced at the form. “Just lovely,” Tom said, somehow managing to sound quite serious. “How did you pick him out?”
“Simple,” Gloria replied. “He’s the only black horse running today.”
Ben instructed Dawn to stay on the backside until post time of the third race. “Hide the halter and shank in your jacket. If for some reason we don’t take him, don’t let on. No use advertising we’re looking.”
Dawn had some time to kill, so she decided to pull some manes, even though her fingers were still sore from the three she’d done earlier in the week. Cutting a mane to a shorter length with scissors would certainly be easier, but that’s not how it’s done. A comb is used to tease the hair back, leaving just a few strands, the longest ones, which are then pulled out. Start at the top and work your way down, she’d been told. That way, when you’re done, you not only have a shorter mane, but one that’s thinned out and laying nicely as well. Horses don’t have nerve endings in their mane and tail, so they basically feel nothing but the pull, though it does take a toll on a person’s hands. The hair when yanked can slice your fingers like a paper cut. Tom always taped his with Vet Wrap whenever he did any, that is whenever Dawn allowed him to do any. But he wasn’t as fussy as she was, and the manes didn’t look as good either.
“When you tape your fingers like that, you pull out more at a time than you should. I’ll do it my way, thank you very much. And please, do not go near Beau.”
Dawn finished a few minutes before she was to go over to the grandstand, and decided to walk up to the kitchen for a can of Coke. When she found the machine out of order again, that was that. They had fountain cola inside, but to her, it just didn’t taste the same.
She walked around to the back of the kitchen and sat down on one of the benches facing the first turn of the racetrack. There was a well-worn path at her feet. Though not exactly the ideal place to view a race, this was where one could hear exactly how it all went. The jockeys’ explicitness as they pulled up usually left no doubt. But she wasn’t going to be here that long. The plan was for her to head over at post time. Not before and not after.
Dawn thought about how the jockeys’ comments would change by the time they got turned around and delivered the horse back to its trainer. Excuses. Next times. It’s what most trainers wanted. And it’s what most jocks gave.
“We got boxed in.”
“We got bumped coming out of the gate.”
“She’ll be all right. She just got a little tired.”
“He just come up short.”<
br />
“We don’t get cut off, we win.”
“We’ll get ‘em next time.”
“Name me back.”
“Yes, name me back.”
On and on.
Not Ben though. He had a reputation for not talking at all to a jockey right after a race. He’d just witnessed what had happened, and sure as hell, he’d say, didn’t need anyone telling him how it went. Nor did he want any excuses for “running up the shit-house,” as he put it. Occasionally though, he’d been known to ask a jock to come watch the videotape of the race with him the next day, if something bothered him.
As Dawn started toward the grandstand, Tom took his place beyond the office door next to the paddock. When the horses for the next race were led in, Ben tried clocking Too Cajun, but it was nearly impossible with Gloria in his ear. He was never so happy to see Dawn.
“Here...” He motioned her over and slipped her a five-dollar bill. “Go get some coffee. Get a hot dog. Anything!” he whispered. “Just take her with you.”
Dawn nodded, smiling. With them gone, Ben was able to get a quiet look. Turned slightly, he appeared to be giving each horse equal attention. There were eight in the race. When he looked over at Tom then, both giving the other a hint of a nod, Tom went in to “drop” the claim. They were going for him.
“Just coffee, dear.” Gloria was too excited to eat. “I just can’t. But thank you. You’re so sweet.”
Dawn guided her down to the fence to watch the race. Ben and Tom joined them just before the start.
“Did we get him?” Gloria asked, eyes all lit up.
“We won’t know till the race’s over,” Ben said. “There were five other claims dropped.”
Gloria gasped! “For him? For Too Cajun?”
“Shhhhh...” Ben frowned. This woman. “I don’t know. He’s the only horse worth taking, so could be.”
“How will they decide?” Gloria asked, in a hushed voice and with her hand to her mouth.
Winning Odds Trilogy Page 6