The Last Carousel

by Nelson Algren

  Your cheating heart

  Will tell on you

  Their bed was unmade; the floor unswept. Pots, pans and dishes stank in the sink and beer cans rusted below. Forms, overnight sheets and copies of Sports Illustrated littered the table and the single overstuffed chair. A week of Floweree’s dungarees, shirts and muddied boots cluttered the trailer.

  Kate kicked a sweatshirt aside, unhooked a black satin gown that had the sheen of age upon it, and slipped her feet into a pair of red slippers. She slapped on a floppy, flowered hat and took a swig from a half-pint of Old Overholt. Then she sank into the overstuffed chair with the bottle in her lap.

  And there Kate Mulconnery sat in her foolish hat; in the slow soft darkening of day. Watching where headlights, beyond the woods, showed the night’s first bettors making their ways.

  Now in the early-bettor’s hour, when the toteboard’s two hundred shuttered eyes light neither WIN nor PLACE nor SHOW; nor whether a track is fast or slow. In the hay-smelling evening light, among the litter of her days, she took another swig.

  Till lamps, and leaves and damps and glooms, of times and homes that once were hers, and now were gone, returned like the twilit glimmerings of the headlights approaching; then receding beyond the ominous wood.

  One October had come down the Mississippi like a cloud returning home to rest. Waters had followed through the woods. When the waters had ebbed, every tree had stood stripped of its April finery; bare, dark, and separated on a sea of sour mud.

  There, in the sinking mins of somebody’s kitchen, the handle of an iron frying pan had loomed like a lopsided gravemarker; above the grave of someone who’d lived a lopsided life. Yet the very thing, the girl had decided, to pry a rusted lock off some long-lost river-pilot’s sea-trunk stuffed with treasure.

  Plodding barefoot through the stinking gullies, she’d searched, among drowned roosters and cats the blueflies were already at, for the magic sea-trunk of her child’s fancy. If the watches and bracelets and rings and brooches in it weren’t pure gold, silver would do. If there was no silver, she’d be grateful for copper. If the dresses weren’t silk she’d be content with cotton. If they didn’t fit she’d cut them down.

  Rye was for remembrance. Kate took another swig.

  Thirty years now since those waters had ebbed. And all there had been, in the sea-trunk of all her days, was a U-Haul on which payment was overdue. And a four-legged brute she’d have to enter in a claiming race if he didn’t get into the winner’s circle this same night.

  She’d had other horses before Red’s Big Red. As she’d had other men before Hollis Floweree. Some of the horses had pulled a tendon; some had lost speed. Some had looked good when she bought them but had later gone bad; and all the men had turned mean. Horses or men, whether paid for or gotten in trade, had sooner or later been claimed. The difference was that losing a horse didn’t wound her pride.

  She drifted off into the kind of woman’s dream where one sees herself acting out some fantasy; yet knows she is only dreaming.

  Kate saw herself leading a horse to paddock whose name she could not recall. Yet she’d run him once—just once—at Waterford Park. A stallion.

  A horseman, wearing a Westerner’s hat, was leaning against an old-fashioned railroad bell and smiling at her as she approached. Then she saw that the smile was mocking, and turning about, saw that all she was leading was a small, pinkish penis. It was alive and had a rope-twitch about its head. In a surge of shame she tried to rid herself of the end of the rope in her hand. It coiled itself about her wrist as if it were part of the creature she led, and she wakened.

  The room had grown dark. She lit the lamp above her dresser.

  She slipped a gown over her head, then let down her bright hair; itself as tawny as a mane. There was always a bit of chaff in it; she brushed it now till it shone in the light. Then she braided it, as she’d once seen Ann Harding do in some forgotten film, about her head.

  “Not bad,” she decided, checking her reflection in the mirror, “I look strong enough to braid trees.”

  She clasped a string of imitation pearls about her throat, clipped on a pair of imitation jade earrings and smiled for the track photographer.

  Dressed for the winner’s circle if not for a ball, Catfish Kate went to lead her horse to paddock.

  Now the horses had been tried too often against the same horses. Moon River had outlasted Flying Indian, Lord Wingding had easily outrun Moon River; Port-O-Pogo had overtaken Lord Wingding in a rush, Djeddah’s Folly had nipped Port-O-Pogo at the wire. Then Moon River had beaten Djeddah’s Folly and Flying Indian had outlasted Moon River.

  The riders had been tried too often against the same riders. The Mexican Thief had ridden the daily-double twice around this bullring of the summer night. Then Houssayen had begun getting the jump on everybody especially Casaflores. So Vaes had held Houssayen’s saddlecloth, coming out of the gate, long enough to get Casaflores the rail and bring in a route horse at 35-1. So Houssayen had told Floweree That Mexican Thief Gets The Best Of It Every Time.

  Then the apprentice Duryea, D’Arcia and Josohino had come down the stretch stride for stride until Casaflores came down off the crown again, picking up speed as he came and got under the wire before all three stride-for-striders.

  The red INQUIRY sign went up. While the crowd grew still in order to hear whether the protest, entered by Duryea against Casaflores, would be sustained.

  The toteboard kept flashing—1-7-7-1-1-7 off and on and off and on until the PA system cried out most pitifully: Owner of red Corvair Illinois license DJ 5485 Come To Your Car Motor Is Running Doors Are Locked. And an old sad scuffler, car-less all his days, thought with relief, “I’m glad that ain’t me.”

  The Mexican Thief won the photo. “Nine claims of foul against him since the meet began,” Duryea complained, “and not one sustained.”

  “Mexicans get the best of it every time,” Floweree agreed.

  So Floweree broke the Mexican’s nose in the jock-room brawl, Vaes accused Houssayen of having pinned Casaflores’ arms, a jockey’s valet swore the Mexican had swung first, Josohino accused Vaes of having no guts because he’d stood by and watched his best friend slugged, The Clerk of Scales said “I didn’t see anything,” D’Arcia said, “Leave me out of this,” and The Popcorn Woman under the grandstand said, “I never seen such a bunch of popcorn-eating motherfuckers my whole born days.”

  “It’s one time the Mexican Thief didn’t get the best of it,” Duryea congratulated Floweree.

  “Keep your saddlecloth tucked in,” Floweree had cautioned the apprentice.

  But Djeddah’s Folly is moving up in ciass, an old sad scuffler quickly explained, while Port-O-Pogo is moving down: First bet the breeding then bet the speed. Speed up when you’re winning, slow down when you’re losing. In a claiming race look for condition and forget class. Never bet on the rider—bet the horse. Your strongest bet isn’t on a horse but against it.

  “I know, I know,” another scuffler cut in, “but if a route horse is wearing bar-plates in a short event when the track looks fast but is actually sloppy, do I still bet the breeding? When a horse is clearly the class of a race, what do I do if I know he’s just a good old sport? Do I still bet the breeding? Do I still bet the class?”

  “When a track is sloppy watch out for any two-year-old filly wearing smooth-plates in case of a change of riders, in event the moon is full and the slop turns to mud—she might just roll in. But never let anyone put the touch on you standing next to the fifty-dollar window. Tell him you’ll meet him in the hotel lobby and he’ll settle for ten.”

  “But what do I do if my horse lugs in? And what do I do if my horse lugs out?’’

  “If your horse lugs in, you lug out. If he lugs out, you lug in. And never date a girl vocalist whose favorite song is Somewhere Over the Rainbow—there’ll always be a dude in the lobby wearing long sideburns and green eyeshades waiting to take over her check.”

  “And what do I do if I
don’t do what I ought to do? What do I do then?”

  “Just watch out for those sheenies D’Arcia and Josohino. Watch out for that hillbilly Duryea. Watch out for that ex-con Houssayen. If he don’t ride as he’s told to ride those New Orleans dagoes’ll bury him in the Old French Cemetery. But mostly watch out for that Mexican Thief. He’ll bury you under the grandstand.”

  Watch out don’t forget, pay no heed don’t look now, keep in mind, get on, lay off, here he comes, there he goes—O Boy am I glad he ain’t me.

  Now the night’s earliest tipsheet-shouter began hawking Father Duffy’s Hotshots—“Nine straight winners today, folks—nine!”

  How this clown got two dollars a sheet just by turning his collar around, when the red-sheet, green-sheet and yellow-sheet touts were getting only a dollar, could be explained only upon the premise that Catholic bettors paid the extra dollar because they assumed it was going to the church; or to assuage the pang of guilt some endured in attending a gambling occasion. More likely, they felt they’d have a better day with The Virgin going for them.

  “Father Duffy”—a renegade Jew—suffered no pangs when his clients (or were they his parishioners?)—went home with nine straight losers. There would be no lack of believers whose faith in The Virgin would remain unshaken.

  Nor was he troubled by the Protestant loser who snarled at the holy father every night when he came in; and snarled again when he left —“Why don’t you turn that collar around and go to work, you bum?”

  The holy father only smiled benignly; as much as to say “I forgive you, my son.”

  He knew the Protestant loser. The PL materialized on TV, just before the evening news, five nights a week, offering financial advice. For fifteen minutes he offered consistently conservative counsel on investment. Then the camera-eye blinked out and he drew his Racing Form from his desk and raced to the clubhouse at Ozark Downs.

  Six races later he’d be standing before the shoeboard, his jacket wrinkled by sweat and tie askew; the very image of a man in desperate need of a 35-1 on-the-nose shot to get him even for the night.

  “No matter how much a man makes in his own business,” Father Duffy explained, “so long as he’s playing the horses he’s working for me. The dollar-bettor will stay with you longer, and pay you off sooner, than the thousand-dollar bettor. The higher the fee you charge for information, the more horse-players will believe in it. And when you’re hustling tip-sheets it don’t matter whether you’re giving out winners or losers, so long as you holler loud. The louder you holler the more they’ll buy. Here, I’ll show you.”

  “Nine straight losers yesterday, folks!” Father Duffy shouted, “nine straight losers again today! Get your losers here, folks!”

  Three bettors hurried up; each with two dollars in hand.

  Chicago money is coming in on Good Old Ed, the word got out, but it won’t go down till the flag is up. So the old sad scufflers scuffled about till the flag went up before they put their money down. But Good Old Ed never got a call, because the Chicago money had gone down on Helen’s Peach; which was why the rumor had gone out to bet Good Old Ed. And each old sad scuffler, rebuffed once again, went milling around with a dead ticket in his hand.

  Watch out for Duryea, he’ll drive through any hole he can get a horse’s nose through—watch out for Houssayen, he picks his own mounts —watch out for D’Arcia and Josohino, they work together. Watch out for Floweree unless he’s lost his nerve. But mostly watch out for The Mexican Thief when his horse begins switching his tail. Are they going to take a urine test on the Mexican’s $82.80 win? Did you know that Mexicans ride with only one toe in the irons? Why don’t they take a test on the Mexican?

  Every night, as the small amber lamps of the paddock came up, the same word went out: Watch out for Duryea, Watch out for Padagua, Watch out for McLennon, Watch out for Anson, Watch out for Di Stefani. But mostly watch out for the Mexican Thief.

  But not even old sad scufflers said Watch out for Hector Vaes.

  The beardmen moved big bets away from the track while screening their action with small throwaways on other horses. They padded the machines with other peoples’ money to bring the price up on off-track wagers. While security men moved among the bettors looking for faces of short-wave past-posters; whose photographs they kept, for matching purposes, in pockets made to hold dossiers.

  Anytime a face appeared in the local press, captioned Known Hoodlum, that face was officially barred from the clubhouse, grandstand and stable area of Ozark Downs.

  Any person who had served time, regardless of the offense, was categorically refused employment on the premises of Ozark Downs.

  Any employee discovered making a wager, while in the employ of Ozark Downs, was dismissed.

  Consequently the waitresses brought in a whole tribe of unemployable touts to run their bets for them as well as for their customers. The bartenders watered the whiskey to make up their losses at the daily-double windows. And the women who grilled hamburgers and hot dogs brought in their own rolls so they wouldn’t have to account for hot dogs and hamburgers sold on the company’s rolls.

  Therefore the front office had to hire people-watchers who were paid better than the people they watched.

  One people-watcher caught a waitress coming out of the gate carrying stolen cocktail glasses. All she had to do, to keep her job, was to go to bed with him. But, after she’d slept with him, he had her fired anyhow. The consequence of this was that two weekend bartenders, one of whom had once been married to the waitress, beat up the people-watcher.

  It wasn’t until the people-watcher fingered them that it was discovered that both bartenders were Known Hoodlums and that the people-watcher himself had served time. Everyone involved, excepting the waitress, lost their jobs. She was able to keep hers by going to bed with the Chief of Security.

  Didn’t you see my rider stand up in the irons to let that Mexican Thief pass him? Could anything like that happen at Ak-Sar-Ben? Do you know that Barnett has only one eye? What became of Don Meade have you heard? Do you know that a hog can out-run a horse—for the first hundred feet? Didn’t Red’s Big Red quit at Miles Park?

  That wasn’t Red’s Big Red it was Good Old Ed and he didn’t quit he throwed a shoe—I’ll see you at the fifteen-dollar combination unless a Chinaman wearing a blue beret crosses my path—everything else is superstition.

  Some depended upon a sudden gust from the northwest to propel their selection across the finishing line; while others banked upon the wind to stop the favorite at the head of the stretch. Others prayed, as the flag went up, that all the winds of the earth would stop blowing for one minute and fifty seconds.

  Some hung around the sellers’ windows, cash in hand, before the windows opened, fearing to be shut out. Others never bet till the horses were in their gates and there could be no further fluctuation of the odds.

  Some balanced barometric readings against post positions; others rested their hopes upon drought or depth of dust.

  And though some figured results by the changeful skies and others by the shoeboard, nobody asked how much either shoes or skies would count if a groom pried a calk just loose enough for a horse to throw it. Or how much speed would count if a rider took his mount wide simply by slacking his left rein at the turn.

  And if a rider were bought and the owner didn’t know and the trainer didn’t care and the paddock judge wasn’t quite sure, how could the bettor be sure that the rider might not lose his nerve a furlong from the finishing line and fling his electrified whip into the soybean field just when he needed it most?

  As no offtrack bettor could be certain, when he went to collect on a long-priced horse, that he might not find his bookie gone.

  Gone on the arfy-darfy saying: “I wish this wasn’t me.”

  The biggest larks were the photograph finishes. For the darkroom at Ozark Downs was very dark indeed. Anything could be accomplished up there short of inciting a riot: the horse that had won by half a head could be made to appear
to have lost by that margin, simply by giving the finishing line an imperceptible slant; or by retouching the nose of one horse to make it appear to be touching the wire. The track itself, of course, gained nothing by this. But to the member of the camera patrol who had a five-hundred-dollar bet going, it afforded innocent merriment.

  Till the big field lights came on in a blue-green glare and everybody warned everybody to bear in mind that a short-legged horse could out-run a long-striding one in the stretch if the long-legged one’s hooves had been weighted.

  And don’t you know, they warned one another, that a sponge up a nostril can hamper a favorite’s breathing?

  Don’t you know that a battery can be fitted into a whip? That a fistful of bennies up a plater’s behind will make him pass up Damascus?

  A skinny old man and a stout middle-aged one were in a hassle among the seats beside the paddock.

  “These seats aren’t reserved,” Fats, who was sitting, reminded Old Skinny; who was standing.

  “I left my program on that seat,” Old Skinny complained—“that reserved it.”

  “There’s no program on this seat, old man,” Fats contended.

  “Stand up ‘n let’s see,” Old Skinny challenged him.

  “Give the old man his seat,” someone behind Fats intervened.

  “Mind your own business,” Fats put the voice down without turning around.

  “I want my program,” Old Skinny persisted.

  “Don’t get arrogant, old man,” Fats warned him, “I’m a doctor!”

  This threat, implying not only that an M.D. was beyond ethics when it came to usurping a seat, but that he might see to it that anyone denying him a seat of his choice might be denied medical attention for the rest of his life, troubled the bettors about the pair. If an M.D. was immune to racetrack ethics, didn’t that also allow dentists to evict other bettors from seats they’d come early to get? And interns? And nurses? And gynecologists? And psychiatrists? And once the psychiatrists were in, how were you going to keep out pharmacists and mailmen? The prospect of chaos was imminent.