Having taken care of his other guests, Bloch returned, lowering himself heavily into the chair next to Moody’s. He took a healthy swallow of his drink, belched, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Like it out here, Bobby?” he asked.
“I’ve been in the country before,” Moody said, a little testily.
“This is a long way from West Virginia.”
“Where I grew up, we didn’t know people like this existed. I didn’t meet any until I got to the University of Virginia.”
“Most of them are all right. They’re players, you know?”
“Republicans.”
“Maybe, but players. You gotta play with the players.” Bloch scratched his belly. “They like making money as much as we do.”
“I’ve made my money, Bernie.”
“You’re not going to be in the White House forever.”
Bloch’s words had too many meanings. Moody searched his mind for a different subject, but was spared the effort when a woman who had come up behind them put her hand on Bloch’s shoulder. Both men looked up, a little startled. It was Lenore Fairbrother.
“You’re Bernie Bloch, aren’t you, darling?” she said, her odd, almost English accent very strong. “I’m told you keep absolutely cases and cases of gin in that big vulgar car of yours. Could you be a dear boy and bring me a drink? I finished mine waiting in the damned potty line.”
Bloch got clumsily to his feet. “A pleasure, Mrs. Fairbrother. A pleasure.” He took her glass and went over to his car like a servant bidden.
“And you are?” she said, turning to Moody. Her lovely eyes seemed to have trouble focusing.
“My name is Robert Moody.”
“Which is your horse?”
“I haven’t any horse. I’m here as a spectator.”
“No horse,” she said, glancing over to the paddock, where the riders in the next race were now saddling and mounting up.
“I’m from Washington,” Moody said. “I’m the president’s chief of staff.”
His remark, uttered as though in defense of his horselessness, sounded stupid.
“Chief of staff,” she said, with a smile that was a quiet way of laughing at him. “Well whoop de doodle do.”
Bloch hastened back with the refilled glass, saving Moody from a response. For an instant, he’d felt like hitting the woman. He’d never done such a thing, but his West Virginia father had.
He had another urge, too. There was more to that mocking smile than ridicule. It struck him also as a challenge, possibly even an invitation. This was a real lady, as much a thoroughbred as any of the horses in the paddock. He found himself even more excited by her than he had been the previous night, though he wished she were more sober.
“Thank you, dear boy. So terribly nice to meet you, uh, chief.”
She took an unsteady step backward, sipping her drink, then turned in a great swirl and set off for the paddock.
Sweat was dripping off Moody’s forehead and nose. He wiped it away.
“Hell,” he said.
“Don’t let her bother you,” said Bloch. “She’s like that all the time.”
“She doesn’t bother me,” Moody said.
Bloch looked at his watch. “Not long now.”
Moody watched the Fairbrother woman enter the paddock, stepping daintily over some horse dung. Bloch’s jockey was already in the saddle, with two grooms attending to his mount.
“Aren’t you going to talk to your rider?” Moody said.
“I never go near my horses, Bobby. Only when they’re in the winner’s circle.”
The ground behind the VIP boxes sloped upward to the top of a long ridge that ran the length of the course. It had been the site of a sizable cavalry skirmish in the Civil War, a small if briefly fierce engagement won by the Confederates, who had caught their Union foes encamped on the summit and chased them from their tents and campfires across the plain and into the woods. A small historical marker by the highway memorialized the obscure event.
Tents were pitched on the summit again—not military but festively striped civilian tents offering shade from the sun and expensive refreshment for the guests of the wealthy racing folk and corporate sponsors. With their pennants and banners fluttering in the occasional breeze, they seemed almost medieval pavilions, as might be erected for kings and nobles attending a tournament.
Tables and chairs had been set up on the grass in front of most of them, the sanctuaries cordoned off by rope and marked by signs, politely warning, INVITED GUESTS ONLY. Robert Moody had no such invitation. As he did not know and would not for a moment have expected, his daughter May did. He had thought she was out in California, but she was in Virginia that afternoon, sitting there, looking down on him. She had come to Washington to sign a contract to play Rosalind in As You Like It, which the Folger Shakespeare Theater was presenting again that fall. One of the big financial contributors to the theater, a banker named Steven Granby, had taken her out to the steeplechase for an afternoon in the country. Her father was the last person she expected to see there. She would have thought he’d be at some congressional barbecue or hard at work at his office—not among all these horses and aristocrats. She’d known that in accepting a role in Washington she’d run the risk of encountering him again, but she’d imagined a different scene—his coming to the theater as an apologetic supplicant, asking permission to visit her backstage, permission she might not grant. She had been in town only two days, yet there he was, seated in a folding chair by the rail just below her, with that horrible Bernie Bloch, a man who made the sleazy little tyrants who ran movieland seem saints.
Granby, her host, was a nice, slightly star-struck, not unhandsome middle-aged man, as bent on showing her off as he doubtless was in pitching a little woo, maybe getting her into his bed. She had quickly discouraged both these aspirations, extracting his promise to return her to Washington before dinner.
May had looked forward to this outing in the country, but now she felt altogether miserable. It had been a shocking, painful surprise to find her father there. If it weren’t for the embarrassment it would cause, if Granby hadn’t been so enormously nice to her, she would have insisted on leaving at once, pleading the heat or headache or almost any excuse. Except for a brief, angry conversation over the phone when she was in California, she hadn’t spoken to her father in nearly three years. Though the anger was gone, the hatred and resentment remained.
To her immense relief, he hadn’t noticed her. He had glanced in her direction once or twice, but evidenced no recognition, apparently taking her for just another figure in the crowd, as she intended. Like many in her profession, she had learned the tricks of disguise. She was wearing very dark sunglasses, a light chiffon scarf over her head, and a wide slouch hat over that—the brim pulled down over her eyes in mysterious Marlene Dietrich fashion. Her host had introduced her to his friends only as “Miss Moody,” and they had reacted with no more excitement or interest than if he had said “Miss Smith.”
If these were people of taste and intelligence, they would hardly be familiar with her last few films, so dreadful they might not even be in video rental stores. May Moody, at the age of thirty, appeared to have lost her stardom, though she had never quite understood exactly what that was, or why it was.
“Are you having a good time, May?” said her host, resting his hand briefly on her shoulder.
“Marvelous,” she said, flatly, and turned away from him to look at the jockeys getting ready for the race. Finally, he took his hand away.
Lynwood Fairbrother had promised Showers a $7,500 bonus if he won the Valley Dragoon Chase, precisely half the purse. The sum was nothing to him, but everything now to Showers. He and Becky had gone to the auction pavilion that morning to look at Queen Tashamore’s great-grandson and now Showers ardently wanted that horse. Except for his great-grandmother, the stallion’s ancestry wasn’t terribly impressive, but the big animal was magnificently formed, an athlete who looked bo
th fast and strong. According to his papers, he was five years old. With training, Showers might at last have a competitive steeplechase horse of his own. That the animal would restore the Tashamore line to the Showers’ bloodstock was simply serendipity. It made the opportunity to buy the stallion seem divinely provided, if the price remained low.
The manager of the auction house said no one else had asked to look at the stallion, not even Bernie Bloch, despite his talking about the horse to Vicky Clay. Showers had a few thousand dollars in the bank. If he was able to take that $7,500 bonus from Fairbrother, he might have a chance to bring the animal home that night. This was a relatively small auction—not like Saratoga or Lexington—and a lot of the sales were for less than $10,000. There was a good chance this horse might have no other serious bidders.
The Dragoon Chase would be a most meaningful contest. No Fairbrother horse had ever won it. Neither Showers nor his father had ever won it. His knee still hurt and he was a little groggy from the night before, but he was truly up for this race.
Becky was holding Moonsugar’s bridle for him as he rechecked the girth. Fairbrother’s horse was big, seventeen hands, and very scopey—capable of any jump on the course at the fullest stride. But the gray gelding was young and inexperienced, prone to nervousness and fits of temper. He could become quite obstreperous if passed by another mount.
“I wish it were a little cooler,” Becky said. “And a little breezier. He really doesn’t like this heat.”
“He’ll be all right,” Showers said.
“What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You could have used more sleep.”
Without responding, he took the reins from her and mounted. It was no business of Becky’s what had happened last night—or hadn’t.
Moonsugar began sidestepping, prompting Becky to snatch the bridle and hold the animal fast, taking control of the horse—and Showers.
Showers had known this racecourse all his life, had ridden it in a score or more of races, and had walked it again that morning. He studied it now from the saddle. To win, he would have to take the lead early and let Moonsugar run full out, hoping not only that the animal’s endurance would last the distance but that it wouldn’t kill itself in the process. The horse had only one speed it was happy with, flat-out, and once committed to it, there was no holding it back. Showers would have to work hard to collect the animal before each jump.
“This will be his best race,” Showers said.
Becky frowned. Lenore Fairbrother, her owner’s badge and ribbon readily admitting her to the paddock, had joined them, bringing a drink.
“Stirrup cup, my brave captain?” she said, offering up the gin and melting ice.
“After the race, Lenore,” said Showers, uncomfortably.
“Very well, dear boy, then kiss my hand.”
She raised her free one up to Showers’ knee. He hesitated, knowing that the many eyes upon him included her husband’s, then leaned forward and brushed her fingers quickly past his lips. Becky was looking at him as though the promised $7,500 was payment for his entertaining Lenore the previous night.
Moonsugar took another side step, throwing Lenore off balance and causing her to drop her glass.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“Time to go, Lenore,” Showers said. He gathered in the reins, preparing to move off onto the course.
“Wait,” Lenore said. “Take this.” She snatched a piece of ribbon from her hat, handing it up to him.
“What am I to do with it?” he asked.
“Tuck it in your belt, dear boy. As you go bounding along, it will make you think of me. ‘Valor, brave knight. You fight under fair eyes.’”
“Don’t you think that’s a little medieval?”
“Just like you, dear boy.” She hiccuped.
He shook his head, smiling indulgently, shoving the ribbon into his boot top. With the merest flick of rein, he got Moonsugar into motion, heading onto the race course. Horse and rider towered above all around them.
“I’ve got ten large on this race,” Bloch whispered to Moody as they moved from the chairs to the rail. “Sherrie’s Dream to win. Gotta get something for what this is costing me.”
“Ten thousand dollars? I thought people here only made two-dollar bets.”
“My bookie in Baltimore is laying it off for me.”
“I don’t want to hear about bookies, Bernie.”
“Relax, Mr. White House. You’re not involved.”
Deena came between them, hooking her arms in theirs. “What a beautiful sight,” she said.
There were fifteen racing horses out on the turf, gathered nervously at the starting rope, looking like a cavalry troop about to begin a charge.
Deena was holding on to her husband and Bloch tightly, her eyes glittering with her excitement. “You should have us out here more often, Bernie,” she said. “This is great.”
Moody wondered which rider she was staring at, and why she was clinging to Bloch as closely as she was to him.
A recording of kettle drums was played over the loudspeakers, increasing to a crescendo. Suddenly it stopped, the starting rope dropped, and the line of horses and riders shot forward. The mount to Showers’ left, a big coal-black thoroughbred named Inkydink, leapt into the lead. Moonsugar snorted after him, but took time in getting up to his stride, allowing a number of other horses to pull ahead as they pounded along over the meadow grass toward the first jump. A big chestnut bulged in on Showers from the right, the animal’s hindquarters almost touching Moonsugar’s right front shoulder. Moonsugar veered left, tossing his head in frustration, pulling into Inkydink’s wake but crowded on the other side by another horse falling off the pace. In that position, they came to the first fence, sweeping over it as though lifted by the same hand.
Moonsugar cleared the obstacle with encouraging ease, but the wall of horsetails and rumps ahead had closed. Leaning into the oncoming turn, as the course descended into a shallow swale, Showers kept his mount in place, cursing this sabotage of his race plan. They splashed over puddled mud at the bottom and then dug into the turf of the ascending rise beyond, bits of dirt from the horse ahead stinging into Showers’ face. Moonsugar’s power carried him up with little strain, but they could make little headway.
At the next jump, the chestnut horse to their right faltered slightly, allowing Showers a chance to spring forward a length and ease to the outside, but he was still stymied. Moonsugar’s strength would rot back here unless the field broke open, or he found some other path.
After the third fence, a murderous four-footer set at the climax of the turn, he made a decision, pulling his horse in front of the chestnut and then sliding far out to the right. It cost him time. He could see the lead horses pulling away as they thundered onto the back meadow, but, ticking over the fourth jump near the end of its rails, he found clear grass stretching invitingly ahead. He relaxed his pull on the reins and felt Moonsugar respond, as though he were pushing on a speed lever. One by one, the horses to his left began to slip behind him. After two more fences, he began to edge Moonsugar back into the center of the course.
He was lying fifth, sailing along unimpeded. It was quiet on this side of the course—no sound but the collective thud of the gallop. Showers might have been engaged in nothing more earnest than a Sunday fox hunt. He felt good, realizing he now had a chance. It was a long race, and Moonsugar was a horse for the distance. He stood high in the irons for a moment, stretching his injured right leg, then settled to a faster seat, letting his horse reach with his stride.
On the ninth fence, a rider went down, his mount bolting ahead, goaded by the flicks and glancing blows of the wildly flying empty stirrups. Showers looked back and saw the jockey roll to the side and rise to his knees, well clear of the pack. His concern for the jockey held his attention too long. He almost missed the approach to the next obstacle.
Moonsugar managed it easily without help or direction. The riderless horse was plungin
g along in fourth place, and they gained on it swiftly. The ground dipped and the course jogged a little to the right before curving left into the north turn. The timber of another jump flashed beneath. The third-place horse was faltering a little now, trailing Inkydink and Bernie Bloch’s Sherrie’s Dream, another chestnut, by two or more lengths.
Muddy clods scattering in the air, they came around toward the crowd now. The general admission spectators were at this end, jammed in a mob along the rail. Three jumps further along was the VIP section, fronting a long straight stretch without hurdles. Once they were onto it, Showers gave his mount full head, thwacking him twice with his light whip. They had another circuit of the course to go, but Showers put Moonsugar into what amounted to a stretch drive. If he didn’t get his horse in front here, he never would.
With quick glances, Showers searched the stream of faces along the rail for Becky’s. He couldn’t find her, but noticed Lenore Fairbrother all right. She was standing on the hood of her Jaguar, cheering him on with a raised glass.
The roar from the crowd drowned out the hoofbeats, becoming an overwhelming din. The third-place horse slipped behind him. Within four or five strides he began to pull even with Sherrie’s Dream, and then slowly moved ahead, the other jockey looking worried and puzzled as he went by. The man finally gave whip to his horse, but it was too late. Showers gained a length, and then another. Moonsugar rolled along at top speed, happy in his effort. He went into the turn just trailing the leader, Inkydink, gaining ground with each of the next two hurdles. Both horses went over the fence after that together, stirrup to stirrup.
From then on, it was a two-horse race. The other jockey, a young man named Jimmy Kipp, appeared upset, confused to see Showers showing so much speed with so much race to go. He seemed hesitant, as though seeking some sure measure of his horse’s remaining strength.
The Last Virginia Gentleman Page 5