by Brad Smith
“Little pitchers have big ears,” he’d say.
Billie glanced over to where Jodie was sitting quietly, nibbling at a jelly donut as she watched the action on the track. She’d insisted on paying for her own breakfast. She was serious in that insistence, as she was in most things. Too serious for a little girl, Billie thought, although she was hardly an expert on the subject. Maybe she had been serious too at that age.
She turned to Skeeter. “Did my father talk to you about when he figured to run the colt?”
“He was aiming for a sprint here at Chestnut, first week of August,” Skeeter said. “But we’re set back now, horse hasn’t been worked in near two weeks. Might be too soon, running him then.”
“How will we know?”
“I say breeze him short a couple days, then see how he is. Move him up in distance from there. You’ll know if he can handle six furlongs.”
Billie nodded, watching a young woman go loping by on a large bay colt, the woman standing in the irons, laughing at something.
“You do realize you can’t run a horse without a trainer,” Skeeter said. “And you don’t have one. Or do you?”
Billie took a sip. The coffee was weak but hot. “Not at the moment. I think Mr. Caldwell put the word out that I’m persona non grata. Every time I talk to a trainer, he runs away like I’ve got leprosy.”
“What is persona non grata?” Jodie asked.
“It’s Latin for leprosy.”
“What are you going to do?” Skeeter asked.
Billie had another sip of coffee before setting it on the bench beside her. “I talked to a guy named Luke Walker. He used to train thoroughbreds but these days he’s into quarter horses. He said he’d have a look at the colt.”
“He might come on as trainer?” Skeeter asked.
“He was kind of vague about that,” Billie said. “Vagueness is one of his strong suits. He said he might know somebody, that kind of thing.”
“I remember that boy,” Skeeter said. “He started right here at Chestnut, you know. He knew his way around a horse. He was an up-and-comer—I recall him running horses all over the state— Churchill, Keeneland, Paducah. Always wondered what happened to him.”
“Too much partying, that’s what happened,” Billie said.
“He did have that reputation.” Skeeter chuckled. “I also recall that his brain kept getting caught in his zipper.”
Billie glanced at the little girl beside her and then back to Skeeter. “Little pitchers have big ears.”
Reese Ryker stood in Caldwell’s office, by the window overlooking the track, and watched as Skeeter Musgrave loped the gray colt back toward the gate, where Billie Masterson and the girl Reese had seen at the farm were standing. Billie had a stopwatch in her hand and when Skeeter pulled the horse up, she showed the face to the rider.
“So now she has a stall,” Reese said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Caldwell was sitting at his desk across the room. He’d been reading People magazine when Ryker arrived.
“Wasn’t much I could do about it, Reese,” he said. “Short of out-and-out breaking the goddamn law, which would have landed me in court. The agreement was signed, paid in full for the season.”
“Why is Daniel Clay sticking his fat nose into it?”
“I hear he was pals with Masterson. Looking out for the daughter, I guess.”
“He ought to look out for himself,” Reese said. “I happen to own a TV station. Maybe I’ll have my investigative team look into Mr. Clay’s record.” He turned. “You ever know a lawyer didn’t have a few skeletons in his closet?”
“What’s done is done,” Caldwell said. He wished Reese would get off the subject of David Clay. “So she can work the horse. How’s she going to run him without a trainer?”
“How do you know she’s hasn’t found one?”
Caldwell got to his feet and walked over to the window. “Lookit down there, Reese. I see that old piss tank Musgrave, the smart-mouth bitch, and a child. I don’t see a trainer.”
Reese had to concede the point. “But we have to assume she’s still looking.”
“Looking and finding are two different animals,” Caldwell said. “The word is out there that you might have a legal claim to the colt. These small trainers don’t want to run afoul of you. The way I see it, she’ll get discouraged at some point and put the colt on the block. Then he’s yours.”
“I’m not sure she’ll sell to me. I seemed to have rubbed her the wrong way.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know,” Reese said. “You know how women are. They don’t have to have a reason to do an about-face. It can’t always be their periods, can it?”
“You wouldn’t have to buy him under your own name, though, would you?” Caldwell asked.
Reese considered it. “What are you thinking?”
“Wouldn’t be hard to find an intermediary. I could help you out with that.”
Reese turned back to the window. Skeeter had climbed down from the horse and they were leading the animal to the shed rows. They looked like a happy little family in a Rockwell print, if Rockwell were to paint a picture of a drunk, a foul-mouthed waitress, and a white trash orphan.
“Might be something to consider.”
“I wouldn’t have any trouble coming up with somebody discreet,” Caldwell said.
I bet you wouldn’t, Reese thought.
“What’s going on with that PR position job at the Double R?” Caldwell asked. “Are you still looking at hiring somebody?”
“Still discussing it in-house.”
“It makes a lot of sense,” Caldwell persisted. “The Double R is a going concern. And with that colt Ghost Rider . . . well, let’s just say you’ve got a superstar in the making there. You’ll need somebody to handle publicity.”
Reese looked at Caldwell and nodded slightly. “You’re on the short list. You need to keep me in the loop with that colt. You hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And let me know if David Clay shows up here again.”
“He won’t,” Caldwell said. “I put the run on him yesterday.”
Like hell you did, Reese thought and left.
Fifteen
LUKE STOOD TRACKSIDE, HIS FOREARMS OVER the rail, stopwatch in his right hand. Billie was a few feet away and Jodie was sitting on the rail. They all watched as Cactus Jack galloped past, with Skeeter aboard. Luke clicked the watch and had a look.
He had shown up at the farm the night before, having just arrived from Tennessee, driving a red Ford F250 that had seen some hard miles. The windshield was cracked, the front fender dented, and one headlight held in place by duct tape. The tires were caked in mud, as if Luke, leaving Tennessee, had pointed the truck north and not bothered with the modern improvements known as roads. The mufflers were rusted through; Billie had heard the engine barking from a half mile away, and so she was standing on the back deck when the truck pulled in the lower laneway and rolled to a stop by the barn. Luke got out and started up the hill, walking stiff-legged, like a man who had driven for several hours without stopping to stretch his legs. Or a man who had fallen off any number of horses, dirt bikes, and barstools in his time and was now paying for the countless fractures, sprains, and torn muscles he’d suffered.
“I wouldn’t say no to a cold beer,” he said as he approached.
“You’re a constant surprise,” Billie told him and went inside for two bottles. They sat in the dying light, drinking. With an effort, Luke kicked off his worn Frye boots and set them aside. His gaze settled on the broodmares at pasture.
“So where is this wonder horse?”
“We’ve been working him at Chestnut Field,” Billie said. “Your old stomping grounds.”
“We? You got a mouse in your pocket?”
“Got an old boy named Skeeter Musgrave working him.”
“I know Skeeter.” Luke took a drink. “You stretched him out yet?”
Billie hesitated. “Skeeter?”
/>
“The colt.”
“Oh,” Billie said. “Looks like tomorrow.”
“So you intend to race him?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not I have a trainer.”
Now, at the track, Billie watched as the colt under Skeeter passed by and then she turned toward Luke. “What’d he do?”
“Three furlongs, thirty-two seven.”
“He can do better than that,” Jodie said. “He was lugging at the turn.”
“How’d you like to go sit in the truck?” Billie said.
“I wouldn’t.”
She’d been at the house again at dawn and this time Billie hadn’t argued. There didn’t seem to be any point in it. But Billie had to wonder yet again how a nine-year-old could be up and out the door at first light. Where was the mother, and what the hell was she doing? Shouldn’t she be making the kid breakfast and nagging her to brush her teeth, that type of thing? It was what Billie’s mother had done, at least on the days she’d managed to get out of bed before noon. Later on, there were many when she did not.
They all watched as Skeeter loped the horse toward them, pulling the animal up short of the rail. The colt wasn’t breathing hard.
“He was lugging at the turn,” Skeeter said.
Jodie shot Billie a look but she wouldn’t meet it. She saw that Skeeter was limping even more than usual as he walked the horse out before leading him back to the stall. At Luke’s suggestion, Billie and Jodie rubbed the animal down while he and Skeeter went for a stroll along the track. Billie kept an eye on the two of them. Skeeter was doing the talking and Luke the listening, which was rare. When they returned, Skeeter said he had to be getting home. Billie watched as he climbed into his truck, grabbing the steering wheel with one hand and the door post with the other and lifting himself in.
Luke had been there when they arrived earlier, a half hour past dawn. Leaving the farm the night before, he’d told Billie he was staying at a buddy’s place outside of Junction City. He’d shown up this morning wearing the same jeans and T-shirt as the day before, along with a beat-up straw Resistol, pulled down to hide his eyes. Billie wondered if he had slept in his truck. She could have offered him the couch in the farmhouse but she didn’t want to give him any ideas, given their history.
Now he suggested they get something to eat and the three of them walked over to the clubhouse. They sat outside in the morning sun with their fried egg sandwiches and coffee. Jodie had juice. Out on the track there were other trainers working other horses.
“So tell me the plan here,” Luke said.
“There is no plan,” Billie told him. “That’s the beauty of it. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“That’s the beauty of it?” Luke asked.
“I’m joking,” she told him. “I remember when you used to have a sense of humor.”
Luke started to tell her to fuck off but caught himself, glancing at the little girl. He took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with the weak coffee. When he turned his head, Billie saw that he had a mouse beneath his left eye that wasn’t there the night before. Apparently he’d had a night. Back when she knew him, and dated him briefly, he was always getting into fights, usually over a girl. He was famous for saying that he was a lover and not a fighter. He lost a lot of fights and won his share of girls, so maybe he was right.
“The plan is, I either race the colt or sell the colt,” Billie said. “My father thought the horse was special. I have to take that with a grain of salt, as Pliny the Elder would say.”
Luke turned to her. “Who?”
Billie shook her head and continued. “Thing is, I’m not exactly in love with the idea of racing him if he’s going to finish up the track and cost me money in the process. If selling is the smart move, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“You can’t sell him,” Jodie said.
“Remember what I told you about the truck?” Billie said to her.
“So why am I here?” Luke asked.
“There’s a theory out there that you know horses,” Billie said.
“And you want me to be the one tells you what to do?” Luke asked. “Why would I take that on? I don’t know if the horse is any good. Only God knows that and even God bets across the board sometimes. You got offers on him?”
“Not exactly.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I don’t have an actual offer I would consider,” Billie replied. “But Reese Ryker would buy the colt today if he could.”
“That dipshit—why does he want him?” Luke asked.
“Because he owns the sire and apparently he’s afraid that I’m going to dilute the line by breeding the colt to every broodmare in Kentucky. He’s convinced that the dam is of inferior blood. He’s all about the blood, that boy.”
“So he’ll geld the horse,” Luke said. “That’s why you don’t want to sell to him.”
“One reason.”
“What’s the other?”
Billie glanced at Jodie. “I don’t like his cologne.”
Luke laughed. His laugh had acquired a whiskey crackle to it, a sound Billie recognized from a number of her father’s friends who had liked to bend an elbow.
“There’s something else you should know,” Billie said. “Ryker’s been telling people that Humphrey Brown bred Saguaro to my father’s mare after he sold the horse to Ryker. So he figures he’s got a claim on the animal.”
“You got the colt’s registration?”
“I do.”
“Then Ryker’s just flapping his gums.”
“Speaking of papers,” Billie said. “What about your license?”
“I’m still thinking about that. Whether or not I need this in my life.”
“What does Skeeter think?” Billie asked. “Or did you two go for a walk earlier to talk about fall fashions?”
“Skeeter likes the colt. Skeeter likes him a lot.” Luke sat quietly for a time. “That’s something else you have to consider. You can’t keep asking that old man to work that colt. He can’t hardly get in and out of his truck, his hips are so bad.”
“I saw that,” Billie said. “I smelled whiskey on him this morning, too.”
“Well, he ain’t drinking at six a.m. for pleasure,” Luke said. “That’s painkiller, that’s what that is. He don’t want to say no to you because of your old man. But you need to find somebody else to work the horse.”
Jodie got to her feet. “I have to use the bathroom.”
Billie looked around. There were washrooms just inside the clubhouse doors. Jodie walked away, depositing her cup and napkin in the waste basket beside the benches.
“What’s the deal here?” Luke asked. “Is she yours?”
“No, she’s not mine,” Billie said. She told Luke about her father and the kid, the shortened version.
“Donkeys and goats,” Luke said. “I’ll be damned.”
“I’m certain you eventually will,” Billie said. “Are you going to train the horse in the meantime?”
Luke fell silent again. Billie didn’t like it when he was quiet. It suggested he was using the part of his brain that operated on logic, and the logical decision might not be the one she wanted to hear. But then again, maybe it was. Maybe she should sell the damn horse, sell the farm, and head out. That was the original plan. When had she decided it was no longer in her best interests? When she found out that Reese Ryker was an entitled racist asshole? What did that have to do with Billie’s best interests? Nothing she did would change what he was.
“I’d like to stretch him out,” Luke said. “See what he’s like at six furlongs. Let’s do that and then we’ll talk some more. But you have to decide whether you want this, Billie. I was real happy racing my gelding on the flat tracks and then you came along.”
Billie was watching the clubhouse doors where the girl had gone. Through the glass she could see the washroom door as well, and she had seen Jodie go inside but s
he didn’t know if she was alone in there or not. How long did it take to go pee?
“You listening to me?” Luke asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“You want to run the goddamn horse or not?”
Billie kept her eyes on the clubhouse and then Jodie emerged, walking toward them wearing the same serious look, wiping her hands on her jeans. Maybe the washroom was out of paper towels.
“Yes,” Billie replied.
Sixteen
CALDWELL CALLED REESE RYKER FROM HIS office as he was watching the horses out on the track that morning. Or rather, as he was watching one horse. He told Reese what he was seeing.
“Come to my office,” Reese said.
Caldwell had been waiting for an invitation to the sprawling stables of Double R Racing for a while now, thinking it would be the next step toward getting hired there. “I can be at the farm in half an hour. How do I find your office?”
“I’m not at the stables, I’m at my TV station.”
So Caldwell was obliged to drive to Louisville, an hour’s trip. He arrived in the middle of rush-hour traffic and got stalled on 64 for thirty minutes. In the mezzanine of WTVK, it took him a while to get past reception; apparently Reese hadn’t told anybody he was coming. When he was finally ushered into the glass-walled office on the top floor of the building, he found Reese sitting behind a large desk, talking to a man in a leather bomber jacket and jeans. The man was tall and thin as a sapling, with dirty blond hair that reached the collar of the coat. He was on his feet, leaning with his back against a plate glass window overlooking the city, doing something on his cell phone.