The waitress smiled. She had a crush on Tom. Wendy noticed.
Randy came in, gave Dawn a kiss, and sat down next to her. “That was Mom. They want Dad to come to the Clinic for tests. They’re driving in Monday morning.”
“Tell me your dad’s not driving.”
“That’s what I said.”
“And.”
Randy rolled his eyes.
“What time?”
“They should be here around noon.”
“He’ll be fine,” Ben said. “I have a good feeling.”
Randy smiled, appreciating that comment.
“How’s that uh…?” Ben glanced around, not wanting to be overheard, not knowing where his boundaries as concerned friend, trainer, and racetrack owner set in. “That other horse from the last race?”
“I think he’ll be okay. It seems up high.” Randy moved his shoulder in a discreet way.
Ben nodded. End of subject.
Several people from across the room yelled to Ben. “Nice race!”
Ben waved. “Thank you!”
Tom was looking at Wendy again, just looking.
“Quit,” she said.
“What?” Tom laughed. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Spears that is, feeling a bit like an outsider.
“How’s B-Bo?” Randy asked.
“Good,” Ben said. “He came back good.”
“He bit me,” Tom said, pointing out a rip on his shirt sleeve. “He was all wound up in the post parade.”
Ben nodded. “Must have been from the crowd.”
Spears smiled. “Speaking of the crowd, attendance was 5700 which has been fairly normal for good-weather Saturdays, but the great news is the handle was up by about thirteen thousand. It’s the best Saturday we’ve had in over nine weeks.”
“How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know.”
Tom looked at him. “Wait a minute. Are you saying you keep track of weather in relation to the crowds?”
“Well, I don’t personally, but yes.”
Tom leaned forward. “So what’s the best weather condition, a sunny day, a rainy day? We might be on to something here?”
Spears laughed. “Actually the best day we’ve had this year was the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.”
“Ooh,” Tom said. “I don’t know what that means, I mean, really, what does that mean? Was it a pretty day?”
“If I recall correctly, it was a rainy day,” Spears said.
Tom looked at Wendy, and then everyone else at the table. “This is a complicated business.”
They all laughed.
Here came their drinks, here came their antipasto, here came hot Italian bread and herb butter. It was time to dig in, to celebrate. Ben proposed a toast. “To racetrackers everywhere! May they all win their share!”
When Ben made the decision to no longer run a public stable; no more training for other owners, he went into what most sports media would refer to as a rebuilding phase. His stable now consisted of Beau Born progeny. Last year was the first two-year-old crop, lightly raced at the end of the year with three wins. The scaling-back timing was great, considering little Maeve’s relatively newborn age, and D.R. being a toddler.
“Life has a way,” Ben liked to say. Dawn got to spend more time at home and they all got to watch the babies grow, horses and infants. They all got to work on building Beau’s stallion career, building Randy and Dawn’s house, building a family.
As they all sat talking, laughing, enjoying their celebratory meal, Ben’s only regret was that Meg wasn’t here. He lowered his eyes for a moment, talk at the table far off in the distance, talk all around them. Life going on in spite of her absence.
Dawn touched his arm gently. “Ben, are you all right?”
He nodded. “Just feeling a little sad,” he said.
Dawn gave him a hug and when she did, everyone at the table silenced; a silence that spread around the room. Ben raised his eyes and smiled. “When you get to be my age, you get a little sentimental. Don’t worry, I’ll forget it in a moment and be fine.”
Everyone laughed, some even clapped.
“It’s time to go home,” he said. Finished eating, they were all tired. Randy was headed back to the racetrack to check on the horse, Peek I Am. Spears had another gathering he “needed to make an appearance at” with the Chamber of Commerce. Dawn was headed home to hopefully see the children before they fell asleep. Dusty had an AA meeting to attend. Tom was going back to the track to check on B-Bo. Wendy said she was going home and straight to bed.
“Big day tomorrow,” she said.
“Oh?” Tom asked.
“My sons are coming home for the day.”
Tom smiled as he walked her to her car. She’d obviously called them home because of his request to meet them. “Are you going to bring them to the track?”
“Yes. I promised them lunch in the clubhouse, if you’d care to join us. They’ve never been to the racetrack.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Well, we’ll have to make sure they have a good time.” He kissed her gently and then touched the rim of his cowboy hat. “Sweet dreams, pretty lady.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dusty was waiting outside the tack room when Tom arrived in the morning, sitting on an over-turned muck basket, newspaper in hand, and looked like he’d lost his best friend. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
“What?”
Dusty handed him the sports page. Tom stared. It was a photo of the dinner celebration at The Rib with the caption. “New owner of Nottingham Downs devastated by the news.”
“What news?”
“Read the article. It’s short.”
Tom skimmed the print. “It’s short because it’s a lie.”
Dusty nodded. “Tell me about it.”
Tom stood reading the article again, one short paragraph, a caption actually.
Former leading trainer at Nottingham Downs Dave Brubaker says the racetrack is doomed. “I do not see a future here.” Ben Miller, new owner of Nottingham Downs fears the worst. Not even his own horse Native Beau Born’s allowance win yesterday could cheer him up.
Dawn arrived and looked over his shoulder. “What are you reading?” Her eyes zoomed in on the photo and then the caption. “What?” Ben was right behind her. Should they spare him? But how? It was just a matter of time before he’d see it elsewhere. She and Tom conveyed that in a glance.
Tom handed him the newspaper.
Ben looked at the photo, looked at the three of them, and then put on his glasses to read the article. “Well,” he commented.
“What the fuck?” Tom said.
Ben looked over his glasses at him. “Did B-Bo eat up?”
B-Bo? Tom shook his head and marveled. “Old man, when I get to be your age, I hope I’m half as wise.” Tom walked down to B-Bo’s stall, checked his feed tub, and walked back with a thumbs-up. Business as usual.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Ben said, and unlocked the tack room. It was a light training morning, which was a blessing of circumstance. Ben didn’t have to leave the barn. He didn’t have to field any questions until, around ten-thirty when a reporter showed up at the barn.
Ben told the man he was busy, but the man persisted. “I just have a few questions. The people have a right to know. Is Nottingham Downs going to close?”
Dawn phoned Wendy from Wee Born’s stall. “Get Spears over here. Now! There’s a reporter here. Did you see the paper? Good.” She hung up and stuck her head out the doorway. “Ben, can I see you a minute.”
Still ignoring the reporter, Ben walked down to Wee Born’s stall. The man followed.
“Excuse me,” Dawn said, implying, first off, this would only take a moment; second, this was a private conversation. The man stepped back, ended up in front of B-Bo’s stall, and practically jumped sky-high when B-Bo charged to the front in what may have appeared to be an attack, when in actuality
it was just B-Bo feeling good.
“I just talked to Wendy,” Dawn said to Ben, her voice low so as not to be overheard. “Spears is on his way. Let him handle this.”
Ben shook his head. He wasn’t used to other people “handling” his business.
“Please,” Dawn said. “Don’t bother yourself with this.”
Ben glanced at the man, now standing outside the shedrow between the barn and the road.
Dawn looked at him. “All right?”
Ben glanced at the man again.
“What time are you going to the film room?” Dawn asked.
“Eleven. Why?”
“Just wondering. I hadn’t planned on going, but I might go too.”
“Why?” Ben asked, and then smiled. She was trying to divert his attention. She had succeeded. Here came Spears. When he glanced ahead and saw the reporter, he crossed over to the opposite barn, and walked down and out onto the road to greet the man.
“Hello, I’m Richard Spears, General Manager at Nottingham Downs. I don’t think we’ve met, but I want to thank you for being part of such a fine enterprise.”
“Um, I don’t work here at the racetrack,” the man said.
“Well, that’s a shame,” Spears said, and pretended to start to walk away then hesitated. “Well, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing on the backside? Are you a Thoroughbred owner?”
“I’m with the Herald, here to do a follow-up to the story in today’s paper.”
“Oh,” Spears said. “Are you trying to correct the misquote?”
“Misquote?”
“Brubaker. He said he never said that; he said it was taken out of context. How are you going to fix that?”
“Fix it?”
“Yes,” Spears said, taking out his cell phone and glancing at it. “Does a Regis Milburn work for you?”
The man looked at him. “Actually, I work for him.”
“Oh,” Spears said, nodding, as if he knew something the young man didn’t. “Well, you have a nice day.” He shook the man’s hand. “Hope to see you at the races. By the way, we’re not going anywhere. You might want to start with that in your retraction.”
The man turned on his heels and walked to his car parked at the stable gate. Spears walked down to Wee Born’s stall.
“Well?” Ben said.
Spears played the conversation recorded on his cell phone.
Ben’s eyes lit up. “So Brubaker didn’t say that?”
“No.”
“And this Regis Milburn?”
Spears smiled, dialing his phone. “I’m still trying to reach him.” He held up his hand. “Hello, yes, Regis Milburn please. Richard Spears. He’s expecting my call.”
Ben chuckled. This was a treat seeing Spears in action.
“Yes, hello. Thank you. Yes, yes, I am very concerned. I know the stellar reputation The Herald has and frankly, I was a bit surprised not only by the misquote, but with the paparazzi-tabloid type of intrusion into the personal lives of the parties in the photo, myself included. When did this become standard journalism for The Herald?” He listened, and listened, and listened. “Thank you. I appreciate you handling the matter. Thank you.”
He hung up and pocketed his phone. “Done.”
Dawn smiled. She was used to things being “done.” She nodded her approval.
Ben patted Spears on the back. “We’re going to be watching the replay of the races at eleven. I’d like it if you’d join us.”
“Us?” Dawn said. Her diversionary tactic earlier was backfiring,
Ben smiled. “It’s not good to say things you don’t mean.”
“Yes, Dad,” Dawn said, teasing.
“We’ll see you over there,” Ben said to Spears.
The film room at Nottingham Downs was little more than a 10x10 video screen and about twenty folding chairs in a cramped space. It rarely drew a crowd. The most common attendees would be a trainer or owner, accompanying their jockey to go over why a horse didn’t finish in the money, what went wrong, or what might have gotten them beat. Or, an owner, trainer, groom, wanting to watch the “win” again.
Ben, Tom, Dawn, and Dusty were on assignment, the only ones there today. Spears came in and sat down next to Tom. “Okay, what are we looking for?”
“Whip effectiveness,” Tom said.
“Isn’t that the Stewards’ job?”
“No, they look for whip abuse.”
Spears looked at him.
“And,” Tom added, “lack of whip use.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, a jock not riding to win.”
Spears nodded. The horses were being loaded into the gate for the first race. “I like gray horses,” Spears said.
The others just stared at him.
“Just saying,” he said.
They laughed.
“Did you watch the first race yesterday?” Dusty asked.
“No,” Spears said. “I was meeting with a hotdog vendor.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Shut up,” Tom said.
“And they’re off.”
“Turn down the volume,” Ben said.
Dawn turned it down completely.
The racing secretary Joe Feigler walked by the door, backed up, and came in to join them. “Is there something wrong with the volume?”
“No,” Tom said. “Sit down.”
Joe sat down next to Dawn. She made him nervous.
“Look! Look right there,” Dusty said.
“Can we back it up?” Ben asked. “Where’s the remote?”
“At home on the coffee table,” Tom said. “Can everyone just shut the fuck up.”
They all laughed.
“Oh look,” Spears said. “The gray horse is going to win.”
Tom looked at Joe. “Repeat that and you’re toast.”
They all laughed again, everyone but Joe that is. He didn’t get the joke, didn’t know how little Spears actually knew about racing.
“All right. All right,” Tom said. “Now let’s get serious.”
Ben looked at him. “Why? I’m supposed to be inconsolable.”
Dawn mimicked hugging him, as in the newspaper photo. “It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”
Now they had Joe laughing.
“Let’s start this over.” Tom said.
Joe took the remote and set the race to start again. “Volume?”
“No!” they all said in unison.
“Okay, okay, I was just asking.”
This time when the latch sprung, they were all serious. “Can you slow it down?”
“I don’t know. No.”
“Shit!” Tom said.
Dusty leaned forward. “Did you see that?”
The number five horse looked as if it was lugging out and when the jockey hit him with the whip, he sucked back. The number three horse wearing full blinkers ducked his head. “Was that from the sound of the whip?” Dawn asked. “Why’d he do that?”
Ben shook his head. No sound was putting them into a whole new dimension. Tom watched the horses’ eyes. Dawn watched the jockeys’ hands. In the stretch run, every time a jockey hit a horse, she jerked. Again, again, again….the gray horse was moving up on the outside. It reminded her of “All Together”. It reminded her of the day she broke down.
“No,” she said. “No.”
At the wire, the gray horse won by a head.
They all looked at Dawn. She was trembling. She looked at Tom. She looked at Ben. She drew a breath, and then another breath, and then another, and lowered her eyes. It never occurred to her until this moment, but she now needed to know, she needed to ask. She looked at Tom again. He was there that day; he was close by, on Red. He’d gotten to the filly first.
He shook his head no. No. “She was being hand-ridden,” he said.
“Who?” Joe asked.
Tom hesitated and motioned to the screen. “The uh, six horse.”
“It ran second,�
� Joe said.
“Yes,” Tom nodded. “I see that.”
“Which race next?” Joe asked.
“All of them.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them,” Tom said, smiling. “You’re welcome to stay.”
“No, that’s okay. I have work to do.” He laughed. “Don’t want the bosses to think I’m sleeping on the job.”
The remaining group watched each subsequent race, made comments, replayed a few races, and came to a conclusion, a consensus: the whip did not play a factor in the majority of the outcomes of the races. And not only that. At times, it seemed to have a negative impact, like the horse that sucked back and the horse that shied from the sound of the whip. Tom made an additional interesting observation.
“It’s almost as if when they start using their stick, they stop riding. Come on, these horses don’t neck rein. They talk about needing the whip to guide a horse. What happens when you start riding with one hand? You can’t steer them then, you can only over-steer them, one handed.” He paused a race and pointed. “Look.” When the jockey was hand-riding, the horse’s head was straight. As soon as the jockey took to using the whip, the horse started to lug out. Tom hit play, pause, play, pause. “See.”
They all sat nodding.
Admittedly, talking amongst themselves, the ineffectiveness “in the outcome” of the race was most profound. “It’s like beating a dead horse,” Tom said, silencing the room. “There is no point hitting a tired horse. You start hitting a tired horse and then what do you get? Injuries.”
Spears sat thinking, stroking his chin. He looked for Wendy, forgetting she wasn’t there. “Where is Wendy?”
“Her sons are in town. They’re up in the clubhouse.” Tom looked at his watch. “Oh, shit, I gotta go.”
They all stood at the same time, all stretched. They’d been watching the replays for close to two hours. Spears yawned. “I’ll bet there are statistics, studies, on where a horse is most likely to break down in a race.”
Ben looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Let me reword that.”
They all nodded.
“I’ll get Wendy to research this. If fatigue plays a part, it would be in the stretch run, right?”
“Right,” Ben said.
Winning Odds Trilogy Page 71