Horse Heaven

by Jane Smiley

  ALSO IN CALIFORNIA, Elizabeth Zada e-mailed Mr. Tompkins to say that she considered “friendship” to be a large relationship category, into which all sorts of behaviors naturally fell, and that she certainly felt considerable friendship for Mr. Tompkins.

  SEPTEMBER

  69 / BIG TIME

  BUDDY CRAWFORD had no horses in his stable now, and was more successful than he had ever been. He had fifty at Hollywood Park, thirty at Santa Anita, and another thirty at Del Mar for the Del Mar meet. His win percentage was up around 20 percent, and the press interviewed him almost as often as they interviewed Baffert. He wasn’t a funny guy like Baffert, but they always said he “is peppery and straightforward,” “pulls no punches,” “tells it like it is.” Everyone was eager for Residual to get back from the farm and back into training. In her absence, she had gone back to being a great filly—one of the best if not the best of a great crop of fillies, obviously the kind to mature into a terrific four-year-old. Real racing men were always connoisseurs of the older horse, unlike the Derby-crazed general public. Look at Kelso. Look at Forego. Look at Cigar. Look at Stymie. Unlike Secretariat, they were revered by men who knew something about horses and racing, something more than pretty pictures.

  His staff had grown. Leon had the horses out at Santa Anita, and he had an assistant trainer of his own. Two guys he had hired from the East were watching over the horses at Hollywood Park while he was running the ones at Del Mar, but even so, there was a lot of driving that San Diego-Pasadena-Inglewood triangle. He had not only his cellular but his car phone, in case someone should be trying to get in touch with him while he was talking to someone else, and the car phone was attached to a fax machine. He also got an assistant assistant, Lanai her name was, whose only job was to drive with him and answer the phone in the car and tell him who it was, so that he could choose who he needed to talk to more, the one on the cellular or the one on the car phone.

  As a result, he was sleeping like a log, which was the best thing to happen to him in thirty years.

  One thing that he had gotten over was the notion that he had to know much about all of these horses he had, including their names and breeding. So he kept in his mind the names and breeding of the most expensive ones—the Mr. Prospectors and the Deputy Ministers and the Unbridleds, whose owners were the most likely to demand results. He let the assistants keep track of the others. He also had gotten rid of all his claimers. If you were driving and flying somewhere all the time, then you couldn’t keep an eye on everyone’s horses in the same way that was natural when you were out in the trainers’ stand every day, and so for Buddy claiming had become a game played blind and for not very high stakes, not worth it anymore. Buddy felt the loss, though, especially since he didn’t feel very comfortable in the constant company of the rich, the well-educated, the well-born, and the essentially non-horsey.

  In spite of what they all agreed about Residual, the filly didn’t excite him all that much anymore. Finally, her career had so many ups and downs and strange events that he had backed off from her in some way. Still, it would be nice to get the filly back from the farm so he could put her back into training. She had a whisker of a chance to get to the Breeders’ Cup, and if she got there, she had a pretty good chance to win it, since the distance was right for her, and her times were consistently as good as the best who Buddy suspected would get there.

  Buddy had never spoken to the girl vet who did the surgery, and had not taken the occasion to use her again. Sometimes he saw her around and he didn’t really acknowledge her. So she recommended 120 days off. His own vets, who hadn’t seen the symptoms, the X-rays, or the surgery, didn’t have much to say about the whole thing. A hundred twenty days out of training was standard, ninety was okay in certain circumstances, and sixty? Well, there were trainers who brought horses back into training sixty days after a chip surgery. No one had done, say, a follow-up study to show that breakdowns occurred more or less frequently, but the anecdotal evidence, well—

  She looked good. Her coat was all shined up again, she was in good flesh, her eyes were bright, and her manner was alert. Well oxygenated, as always. It was nine weeks to the Breeders’ Cup. If the filly trained well, it was marginally enough time to get her there. That was another reason to bring her back to the track—the longer she languished out of work, the less fit she would become, and the longer it would take to get her back into racing fitness. Buddy had never been a big believer in letting the horses down. They were Thoroughbreds—they thrived on work and running. It was a mental thing. If they couldn’t do what they were bred to do and enjoyed doing, then they got restless and developed vices. A chip was a chip, not a fracture or something like that. It was something that broke off, not something that broke. What was left was perfectly fine. Well, there were all sorts of reasons to bring her back, and not many reasons not to, but even so, he was glad Deedee was riding again and that Marvelous Martha had packed up her bags and her opinions and returned north. Marvelous Martha had lots of opinions and couldn’t be intimidated, it seemed like. Buddy didn’t want her back, so he even did Deedee the favor of putting the horse in Arcadia, close to home, so that Deedee could bring the baby, ride the horse, and go home.

  The first morning, when the groom tacked her up and Deedee took her out to the training track just to walk around for a while, she bucked and crow-hopped all over the place, which she had never done, and which gave Deedee to think of her new responsibilities as a mother, but then she settled down in her usual way, and anyway, she was never a dirty bucker or a dirty spooker, sneaky or determined to dump the rider. She was just happy and energetic and reactive. When she had quit bucking, she walked around alertly, with big steps, but relaxed, too, just the way Deedee liked her. It did seem vaguely to Deedee that the filly had had a surgery and was coming back rather quickly, but she decided that Buddy would know best, and anyway, many sleepless nights and sleepy days had compromised her sense of time. As they were walking around, Deedee reflected happily that the filly felt fine and she, Deedee, was glad to get back to work, too, especially since Buddy was being so accommodating about Alana Marie. When all was said and done, the thing she had been afraid and annoyed about, missing the big time, hadn’t happened at all. The big time was yet to come, and she was right there for it. Everything had worked out all right in the end. And Buddy had told her that, when she was ready to ride a few more, he had some good ones for her, some easy rides on class horses, and there was nothing wrong with that. All in all, she thought as she rode the filly back to the barn, things were about as fine as they had ever been for her. She was married, employed, still riding horses, and not even close to being a waitress at McDonald’s out in Bakersfield, where her parents now lived.

  The next day was Sunday, and Buddy told everyone that he was instituting a new policy with the Santa Anita horses, that on Sundays they didn’t have to be at work until six. He didn’t know if it was permanent, but he thought he would try it and see what happened. If it worked out okay and nothing got overlooked, then he would try it at Hollywood Park when all the horses moved back from Del Mar. There was no one who did not welcome this idea and think it was long overdue, and everyone remembered not to get up at 4:00 a.m. except Buddy himself, who was there as usual, wondering where the cars belonging to his staff were when he pulled into the parking lot at a quarter to five. Only Curtis Doheny was there, and when Buddy got out of his Lexus, Curtis got out of his Ford truck and came over to him.

  About the only thing Buddy was not sure of was how to guarantee Curtis Doheny’s silence. When Curtis had approached him in the early summer, he had been in a different mood, hadn’t really thought about that part of it, had been swept along by Curtis’ enthusiasm. Before her last pre-surgery race, they had given the filly three shots of Epogen, Curtis’ helpful suggestion. Surprisingly, Buddy had not known about Epogen. What happened was, Curtis Doheny had asked him one day if he remembered that colt that Brit trainer Colin Gallorette had had, that had won so many races
back in the late eighties, before the guy went back to England and kind of disappeared. Buddy had said, “Yeah. That was about the only good horse that guy had.”

  “Well, you know what?”

  “What?”

  “That horse’s owner’s kid was some kind of long-distance bicyclist, and he persuaded the owner to try something all these other bicycle riders he knew were trying. Builds red blood cells nine ways.”

  “Geritol?” Buddy had said.

  “Something that really works,” said Curtis, “enhances the number of red blood cells, and carries more oxygen to the muscles, and the horse runs faster and longer. It’s like a bigger heart.”

  “What does it do to the horse?”

  “Nothing,” said Curtis.

  “Then why isn’t everyone using it?”

  “They will be, in ten years. It’ll be just like Lasix.”

  Buddy had thought this was just the thing for Residual. It was not an item he put on the Kingstons’ bill. Not, you might say, a currently legal item. She had run very well. He thought he could see a difference in her fractions—maybe only two-fifths of a second, but every fifth of a second was a length.

  “How ya doing,” Curtis said now, not a question. “That filly’s back. You must be thinking Breeders’ Cup or you would have left her on the farm another couple of months.”

  “Bad for ’em to let down.” Buddy directed his steps toward his barn, and Curtis fell in beside him. Buddy remembered that he had given everyone an extra hour. Why had he done that? It was far better to get up every morning at the same time, no matter what. Curtis Doheny was a big, fat, awkward man, and Buddy never liked how he loomed over him. It made Buddy feel like something was going to fall, that something was Curtis, and maybe he would fall on Buddy.

  “Is there something I can do for you this morning, Curtis?”

  “I thought I’d have a look at that filly. See the outcome of the experiment, you know. Do a little science.”

  This, Buddy knew, was bullshit. What Curtis wanted was to be seen with people, even if there was no one around to see him. He said, “Curtis, right now, I think maybe you should go your way and I should go my way, and then maybe we’ll get a cup of coffee later.”

  Curtis didn’t take his suggestion, and came along after him, sort of flapping his feet and rolling along. The thing about Curtis, for Buddy, was that he always made him conscious of his own size, which was short and thin. Curtis pulled out a large handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. Then he said, congenially, “So—you got some good ones in the barn these days, Buddy. That’s what everybody says.”

  “Then it must be true,” said Buddy.

  “Nah. I saw you had three winners down at Del Mar the other day, and two the next day.”

  This was common knowledge, so Buddy wondered where these platitudes were going.

  “The thing is, I’m thinking of buying an interest in a couple of horses again. I’m back on my feet now, pretty steady, and I got some money to spend. You got any owners who are looking for a partner?”

  “I might,” said Buddy, disconsolately. The only hope of keeping Curtis quiet was keeping him isolated, or giving him partners who could speak no English. In southern California, those kind were few and far between.

  “Yeah, I put together about two hundred grand.”

  Buddy’s head had to swivel in Curtis’ direction.

  “No shit,” said Curtis complacently.

  “Why don’t I take you to the sales in Keeneland next week and get you a couple of yearlings of your own, then?” said Buddy. This was a brilliant idea.

  “Nah. I want to buy into a couple of better-class horses and not have to foot all the training bills myself. Makes more sense.”

  Yes, unfortunately, it did. Buddy decided to test the depth of Curtis’ resolve. He said, “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

  “Nah. You got the best horses.”

  This was not in fact true. Several other trainers had horses that were as good as Buddy’s or better. The other half of the sentence was “of all the crooked trainers.” Buddy felt himself actually squirm. He said, “That’s good saving, Curtis.”

  “Ah, I put together a couple of long shots, let’s call it that.” He laughed. Then he said, “So listen. I like this colt Fuzzy Minister. He’s got a couple of wins. And that colt who just got back from a lay-up. Hickory Dickory. My bet is, he’s hotter than a pistol.”

  Buddy saw right there where the ground lay. What he had assumed was an idle thought on Curtis’ part was a well-conceived plan. The groups who owned these particular colts were large and convivial, on the young side, and not very knowledgeable. Curtis planned to get in with them for some reason still unclear—perhaps it was only to have friends and associates he could pal around with. He said, “I can ask if they’re looking for more partners. You know, a group gets too big, and the winnings aren’t much.”

  “But the horse gets syndicated and goes to stud and there you are.”

  “Those are two nice colts. Deputy Minister and A.P. Indy. Just what everybody wants.”

  “I think so, too. You see that article in The Blood-Horse in the spring? Said A.P. Indy was the top stallion in the world. You and me, we keep that guy running and winning, and we got it made. These guys who own him are going to kiss our feet. Looks like a sure thing to me.”

  “Curtis, you’ve been around the racetrack for twenty-five years or more. Don’t you know that the only sure thing is that a sure thing is never a sure thing?”

  “Hell,” said Curtis, jovially.

  What made Buddy especially leery of this deal that he now felt tightening around his neck like a noose was Curtis’ well-known chattiness when he was drinking. The man would brag about anything if he had a drink or two under his belt and an ear in his vicinity. He said, “So. Let’s talk about something else. How are you otherwise, Curtis?”

  “Never been better.”

  A very bad sign.

  One thing you needed if you were a crook, Buddy had always thought, was a well-developed sense of right and wrong. Without that, you couldn’t keep track of your sins and keep them to yourself. That was one thing Jesus had done for him, shown him black and white. Now when he had a choice to make, he knew what it was. That was part of his new level of success, and also a sort of containment procedure for the sins he continued to commit. Since he was better able to keep track of them, he knew he could deal with them sometime in the future all in one fell swoop, you might say. When Curtis was in his cups, he had no sense of right and wrong at all, and would report everything he did, right or wrong, in the same semi-whining, eager-to-please tone of voice. Buddy cast about for a neutral question to ask, but Curtis had no wife or children. He had drinking or not drinking. Other than veterinary medicine, that had been his whole occupation as long as Buddy had known him.

  “Say,” said Curtis.

  “Say what,” said Buddy.

  “I heard that you did some Jesus-freak thing.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Now the looming seemed larger than ever. Buddy said, “I had what they call a midlife crisis, I guess.”

  “Kind of a religious thing?”

  “You might say that.”

  “So where are you now on that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know.”

  “I guess I think this is kind of a personal subject, Curtis.”

  “Well, yeah. I see that, but if you got it, flaunt it. That’s what it says in the Good Book.”

  “It does?”

  “Sure. It says that Peter denied Jesus three times. So I take that to mean that if you’ve got religion it’s the same as Peter denying Jesus if you pretend that you don’t.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this, Curtis.”

  “Oh, I know a lot of scripture.” They were almost to the shedrow. The horses were looking for their morning hay. Some of them looked up as the two men approached. Buddy found his
throat constricting at the idea of talking about his personal relationship with Jesus to Curtis Doheny, especially since Jesus had gotten a little remote in the last few months.

  Curtis went over to Fuzzy Minister with a proprietary air. The colt was a beauty like his sire, blood bay with a perfect white stripe down his nose, a shining mahogany coat, and an elegant head. His dam was by Nijinsky, and he was a good example of the precept that the best racehorses were the best in every way—best-looking, best-tempered, best-bred, easiest to train. This was a precept that was often observed in the breach, but when you looked at a horse that had been a million-dollar yearling, like this one, it was nice to remember it. Curtis said, “Yeah, this is the best two-year-old in your barn. I fiddled around with racehorses before, you know. I had shares and claimed a few and all that, but this time I said to myself, Nothing but the best. I deserve nothing but the best.”

  Buddy wondered what the deserving part referred to.

  “We gonna push this filly a little bit?”

  We? “What?”

  “Looking at that filly, I say go for it.”

  “Yeah.” Buddy went into the feed room, and Curtis followed him to the doorway, where he stood, blocking the light and scratching his balls. He said, “You know, I could do a lot of work for you. I could work only for you. Who you got now? Barton? Couple others? Why don’t you just employ me, and I’ll just work for you. We can make a deal. I can work all three tracks for you. I think it’s a good idea.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You got a lot of maybes today.”

  “Well, I don’t feel I can make a decision on all this stuff right now.” Buddy didn’t really have anything he needed to do in the feed room, and what he had thought of as a refuge, he saw, had turned into a trap. Curtis continued to stand in the doorway, now with his feet more or less planted and his hands in his pockets. Buddy reckoned his height at about six three. That would make him ten inches taller than Buddy and maybe twice his weight. Buddy elected not to push his way out, but all the same felt a considerable urge to bend down and snake between the guy’s legs. Instead, he said, “Somehow, Curtis, I feel that you are threatening me.”