Winning Odds Trilogy

by MaryAnn Myers

  Spears sat back.

  “So I started training him harder. I galloped him two, sometimes three miles a day and he thrived on it. Did he run any faster, no, but they started writing two- mile races, and I guess I don’t need to tell you where this story’s going. First time out at two miles, he was fifteen lengths off the lead at the head of the stretch. Then the announcer says, ‘And here comes Tender Tiger.’ He win drawing away. The other horses were tired and he was just getting going. He was running his race. So the point is, if I’d given up on him we’d have never known just how good he could be. And here, he’d had it in him all along.”

  Spears hesitated. “With all due respect, Ben, that’s a great story, but I don’t know how it applies to the situation at the racetrack.”

  “The racetrack…?” Ben said. “The reference is to you.”

  Spears nodded and slowly lowered his eyes.

  “I don’t like playing games,” Ben said. “The way I see it, when we make a suggestion, if you don’t agree, we have two options. You can tell me why you don’t think it’s a good idea, or we can give it a try. Not much has worked so far and we have everything to lose. When the doors close here, I’m done. And frankly, although I can’t speak for you, I’m not ready to quit. All right?”

  “All right.”

  There was a tap on the door and in came the secretary with Ben’s coffee. “Sorry I took so long, but I found some real coffee,” she said, proudly.

  “Aw, geez, thank you,” Ben said, and was just about to take a sip when in walked Tom and Dusty. Tom turned all of his attention on the secretary.

  “Well, aren’t you about the prettiest little filly I’ve ever seen.”

  The secretary smiled and shook her head. She was used to compliments, even ones that may or may not be sincere. “Actually, if you were correct in your observation, I’d be referred to as a mare.”

  Tom followed her out. “What a minute, does that mean you’re married?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Just old enough to know better.”

  Tom grinned and tipped his cowboy hat. When he walked back into Spears office and sat down, Ben’s coffee was now sitting in front of Spears. “I’m on to you, old man,” Tom said. And to Spears, “Don’t let him have caffeine. I’m warning you, it won’t be pretty!”

  Ben laughed, and introduced Spears to Dusty. The two men shook hands. “So what did we miss?” Tom asked, both men pulling up chairs.

  “Oh, we were just discussing strategy,” Ben said. “We’re on the same page now,” he said, pointing to his notes and looking Spears in the eye.

  “We were talking about the possibility of night racing” Spears added. “I think it’s a great romantic notion, but….”

  Ben smiled. Now that was more like it. “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, the red tape for one. If I got started on it today, right now, this very minute, we’d be lucky if we got it okayed and in place by next year this time.”

  “All right, we’ll shoot for next year then. Get the ball rolling.”

  Spears crossed out his initial comments and wrote the words “Do it – Make it Happen!” in big bold letters on the back of the page. Ben nodded.

  “And the bugler?”

  “A done deal,” Tom said. “Pastor Mitchell lined someone up to play TAPS tomorrow at Billy’s funeral and if he’s any good….”

  “If I might ask,” Spears said, “why is a bugler so important?”

  “Because it’s tradition,” Tom said. “It’s horseracing! It announces the live action.”

  “Do you think the people care one way or the other whether it’s a live bugler or taped music?”

  Tom looked at him. “Wait a minute, I’m getting the impression you’re the one that canned the guy.”

  “Well, I may have.”

  “You either did or you didn’t,” Tom said.

  “All right, I did. And all indicators….”

  “Indicated...?”

  “Indicated no one even noticed.”

  Tom looked at him. “Well, I’d like to see that report if you don’t mind.”

  Spears studied Tom’s expression. “The man got paid $45,000 a year.”

  Tom nodded. “No report, huh?”

  Spears smiled. “No report.”

  “I thought so.”

  Ben motioned for them to move on. Next on the list, another question Tom had. “Does Rupert’s tack store pay the racetrack for their space?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Well, I’d have to check.”

  “How about a ballpark figure?”

  “Uh…probably around $300 a week.”

  “Well, no damned wonder their prices are so high. What the hell? We shouldn’t have to drive a half hour away to get what we need.”

  “All right, let’s see,” Spears said. “That’s $45,000 for a bugler plus 38 weeks not charging the tack store $300 a week. How’s that going to help us, Tom?”

  “I’m going to leave that up to you, and while we’re at it, go on down the list a little. Whatever happened to a $1.50 hotdog? This is the racetrack for Christ sake. Excuse me,” he said, glancing to the heavens. “$3.00 for a hotdog? A hotdog? What makes a hotdog worth $3.00, and don’t tell me it’s because of the fucking bun or the mustard either. Sorry,” another apology to the heavens.

  Spears drew a deep breath. “I wish I could say these things are important, but in the grand scheme of things….”

  “Listen,” Tom said. “The handle’s down, it’s been going down for a long time. I get that, but what I don’t understand is odds are odds. Two to one pays two to one. No math needed. But the problem is no matter what the odds, people stopped coming. They can’t afford it. Why do we charge to park? Why do we have to pay to park at a baseball game? The parking lot’s ours, the parking lot’s theirs! We’re charging them to park and we’re charging them admission. And we’re marking up the food and drink 300-400%. And who gets that money? The horsemen? No! It goes to this building. It’s not going to the hotdog guy or he’d be charging less. What’s your salary? How much do you make? How much does the average horseman make? I guarantee you….” He held his hands up. “All right, let me step back a minute.” He bowed his head and drew a breath to try and calm down. “How did we get to this?”

  Spears looked at him and sighed. “Tom, if you knew what we pay in insurance, your head would spin.”

  “My head’s already spinning,” Tom said. “I’ll be back.” He walked out into the hall to a drinking fountain. “Lord,” he said, out loud.

  The secretary looked up from her desk. “Are you all right? Would you like some water?”

  “I’m getting some,” he said, taking a long drink. “What’s your name?” he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Wendy,” she said.

  “Well, Wendy…I’m Tom.” He shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” With that he walked back into the office and sat down. “I feel like we’re one of those charities where the administration gets all the money and the people still go hungry.”

  Spears looked at him. “These are things we can work on, Tom.”

  Tom nodded.

  Dusty cleared his throat. “I remember when I was a kid and how I felt coming to the track.”

  “Those days are over, Dusty,” Spears said. “The kids don’t care, and we’re competing with the casinos.”

  Ben looked at the list. “What about the whip?”

  “What about it?”

  “How would we go about doing away with it?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s something to consider.”

  “It would be suicide. They tried it in England and the jocks refused to ride. If that happens here, then what?”

  The four of them just sat there for a moment.

  “When God gave us dominion over the animals, I don’t think he meant we were supposed to beat them.”

  “It’s not exactly beating them, Tom,” Spears
said.

  Tom looked at him. “Did you ever get whipped as a kid?”

  Spears just stared.

  “I think I’ve had enough for one day,” Tom said. “If you all will excuse me.” He walked out of the office and down the stairs. When he made it outside, he drew a deep breath. “That was too weird,” he said, to himself. “I never thought there was anything wrong with it, until just now. God, forgive me.”

  Ben shook hands with the mutuals manager. The man had drawn up a very detailed report for him. The average mutuals clerk made between $18 and $24 an hour. The benefits package was generous as well. “If you’ll be wanting to make any changes, I will contact the union rep and we can….”

  “No, that’s okay,” Ben said. “I’ve got someone that will go over all this and I guess I’ll get back to you.”

  “Any changes will take time, Mr. Miller.”

  Ben nodded. He hadn’t said anything about changes, but since the man brought it up. “What are we looking at, next year at the earliest?”

  “Yes, at least.”

  Ben figured as much, thinking, that’s if we even make it until next year. As he walked back to the barn he had visions of it all empty. He’d seen it empty before. It closed down for four months each year during late fall and winter. It looked desolate then. He could only imagine how it would look shut down completely. He wondered what he’d do with the property. It’s not as if this was in the best of neighborhoods. It used to be nice, once upon a time.

  He glanced ahead, saw Randy’s truck, and figured he’d hitch a ride the rest of the way. Randy waved to him from Gibbon’s shedrow. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Take your time,” Ben said, relishing the thought of just sitting in the truck for a few minutes, hidden from the world. Someone tapped on the window. He’d rested his head back and had closed his eyes. Had he dozed off? He must have. He rolled down the window reluctantly. There stood Pastor Mitchell.

  “I was just headed for your barn to talk to you and I look up and here you are. What luck!”

  Ben smiled as best he could. This had to be about Billy Martin. What else?

  “I was wondering if I could count on you to say a few words at the service tomorrow.”

  Ben shook his head. “Ah, geez, I don’t think so. I uh….”

  “I know how you feel, Ben. A lot of people here feel the same way. For all practical purposes, Billy was a no-count. He wouldn’t lift a finger to help anyone.”

  Ben nodded.

  “But as the owner of the racetrack….”

  “Oh, so you’re going to play that card on me.”

  Pastor Mitchell smiled. “Seek and ye shall find sayeth the Lord. Come on, Ben, just a few words, that’s all.”

  Ben scratched the back of his neck. “Why don’t you get Tom to do it?”

  “I tried. In fact I just talked to him. He says he’s not worthy to say anything about anyone.”

  Ben stared ahead and sighed.

  “Thanks, Ben.”

  Randy came out to his truck for some additional supplies and greeted the two of them. “All set for the big event tomorrow?”

  Ben shook his head. “Very funny.”

  “Yes,” Pastor Mitchell said. “We’re all set.”

  Tom was tacking Red when Ben returned to the barn. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you tacking up for?”

  “Ah, I’m going to pony Dave’s horse in the first. With Linda gone….”

  Ben patted Red on the neck. He was a fine pony. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Tom?”

  Tom looked at him. “Yeah, I want to tell you I’m a sorry son of a bitch. I talk out of both sides of my mouth.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since today.”

  “And the whip thing is what brought this on?”

  “That and, I don’t know - life. What is life all about anyway? You live, you die, and if you’re lucky, you go for a carriage ride.”

  Ben stared, waiting….

  Tom tightened Red’s girth and mounted. “I think you’ve got the wrong partner, Ben.”

  Ben grabbed hold of Red’s rein. “No, I don’t think so. Come on, what’s going on?”

  Tom looked down at him and hesitated. “Someone stole Billy Martin’s truck. I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Ben smiled. “That’s it?”

  “Well, for the most part…and the whip. Damn, Ben, how many times have I watched a horse get whipped?”

  “Wait a minute, we’re talking about in the race, right? Cause I can’t see you ever standing by and watching any horse get whipped.”

  “It’s the same thing. I’m as guilty as anyone. We are all one in God’s eyes, Ben. You don’t understand. Never mind, I gotta go.”

  “Tom.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to work on it, all right?”

  Tom nodded.

  “And uh….” Ben sighed. “Don’t be coming down on my best friend like this anymore, okay?”

  Tom smiled. “I want to make it right, Ben.”

  “Me too,” Ben said. “But it’s going to take time.”

  When Tom rode away, Ben shook his head and walked into the tack room and sat down. “I’m starting to sound just like the rest of them.” Time.

  From the first stall, Native Beau Born, B-Bo, nickered. Whether or not that was a vote of confidence or perhaps a little criticism, it brought a much-needed smile to Ben’s face. “Let’s not forget who feeds you.” And takes care of you, Ben thought, and makes sure, as best he can, that nothing bad happens to you. He stared. “How did whipping horses ever get started anyway?”

  Chapter Nine

  Since Dawn was gone for the afternoon, Ben picked stalls. He couldn’t remember the last time he picked stalls. Tom usually did them. As a rule, the only time Tom ever ponied horses anymore for a race was when they were running one. Linda Dillon’s absence was being felt in many of the barns. She most always ponied a horse in each race. She’d bring one off the track and pick up another. No wonder her ponies were worn out.

  Ben walked up to the track kitchen to watch the second race and sat down with a cup of decaf coffee. He added cream and then a little sugar. It didn’t taste half bad. All these firsts; he couldn’t remember the last time he put cream or sugar in his coffee, or had a hankering for a piece of pie in the afternoon either.

  Rita from behind the counter pointed to the banana cream. “I just made them this morning.” Banana cream it was. Ben walked over to the table closest to the TV monitor broadcasting the race and sat down. The horses were loading in the gate.

  “And they’re off!”

  He found himself watching the three horse. It had dropped back off the pace and was running easy six or seven lengths off the lead. He squinted. Enrico was riding him. “He’ll win it,” he said to himself. He took a bite of pie, gave a thumbs up to Rita, who nodded and smiled and all the while had his eyes on the race. At the head of the stretch, the three horse swung five wide and started coming.

  “Come on,” Ben said. “Come on.”

  He had no idea who the horse was, who owned it or trained it. But it was clearly the best horse, on this day, and in this race. It won by two lengths. Ben finished his pie. How many races had he watched in his lifetime? How many winners had he picked? “Or losers?” he said, laughing to himself.

  “Is the pie that good?” Rita asked.

  “Better,” Ben said. He needed this; the race, the pie, a common everyday racetrack moment, life. He scraped up the rest of the piecrust, savoring every last crumb, and walked outside to see the horse pull up. He peered over the shoulder of one of the grooms standing at the rail to see his racing form. The winning horse was Demo Don, owned and trained by Doug Smith. It was the first time this horse had won all year, let alone hit the board in his last eight starts.

  “What did he go off at?” Ben couldn’t read the tote board from here, but hopefully the young man could
.

  “8-1”

  Ben nodded and started back toward the barn. There would be no way to prove it, but it looked as if they’d been holding the horse and finally let him run. He win so easy. As he approached barn 14, Billy Martin’s old barn, he paused and gazed down the shedrow. Someone called his name and he turned.

  It was none other than Linda Dillon.

  “Where are my ponies?”

  Ben just looked at her for a moment. He remembered when she first came onto the scene at the racetrack. If he recalled, she had hopes of being a jockey. She exercised fifteen to twenty head a day. “Worked her ass off,” so to speak, and still couldn’t make weight. She’d practically starved herself to death and even passed out once coming off the track on a two-year old colt she’d just breezed for the Dugan stable.

  “Well?”

  Ben took off his hat and scratched the back of his neck. “What ever happened to you?” he asked. “How’d you get to be the way you are today?”

  “What? Don’t give me a hard time, Ben. I just want to know where my ponies are.”

  “You no longer have any ponies, Linda. And even if you did, there isn’t a racetrack in this country going to let you pony anymore. You don’t belong in the horse business. You’re what’s wrong with the horse business, you and all the trainers that don’t care.”

  “Those ponies are mine, Ben, and I need to sell them.”

  Ben couldn’t believe he was standing here having this conversation. “Sell them to who? You wouldn’t get a hundred dollars killer price for either one of them.”

  “They’re my ponies,” she repeated emphatically. “They’re mine.”

  Ben walked away. “Take me to court,” he said. “Seems to me that note you left with them standing in their stalls with nothing to eat or drink is my Bill of Sale.”

  “Ben!” She grabbed his arm. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have any place to go! What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “Go find Dusty.”