Gargantuan (20 page)

I get a burger, a Coke, and a coffee and I’m just getting ready to bite into the burger when a young woman catches my eye. She has a broad, freckled face and a wild mane of blond hair. She’s not overtly beautiful but something about her gets my attention. I assume she’s some sort of rider since she’s wearing horsey boots and has a smudge of dirt on her face. I study her high round ass as she selects a box of cornflakes and a juice, pays for these, then goes to sit at a table directly across from mine. I keep an eye on her as I down my burger and Coke. I watch her inhale her food in a few seconds flat, after
which she sits looking forlorn, like she’s deliberating about a second box of cornflakes but probably has to keep her weight down for riding. I have an urge to talk to her but I shouldn’t. My wife may be a nutjob and maybe we’re close to over, but still.

I am completely taken aback when, as I walk by the girl’s table, she parts her lips slightly, smiles, and says, “Hi.”

I guess I probably do a double take because her smile starts turning into an outright laugh.

“Hi,” I say back.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the girl states.

“Uh…” I stutter.

“Who you work for?”

“I don’t,” I say, gathering myself. “I mean, I don’t work at the track.”

“Oh?” She lifts her little blondish red eyebrows and I swear to God, I’ve never seen anyone look so cute lifting their eyebrows.

“I’m spending the day with a friend, he’s a rider,” I explain.

This warrants another “Oh?” and another hike of the eyebrows.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” I say abruptly. I then hustle my ass out of there before I land in ten kinds of trouble.

I walk back to Henry Meyer’s barn as quickly as possible. I keep my head down for fear the girl will somehow materialize in front of me. I finally slow down as I reach Henry’s shedrow. As I look ahead to the barn aisle, I get a little confused. There’s a person upside down. It takes me a minute to realize it’s just Ruby, doing some of that yoga she does. Though why on earth she’d do a headstand on a patch of cold dirt in thirty-five degree weather, I’m not sure. The jockey is standing nearby, watching, and Jack Valentine, the horse, has his head hanging out over his stall guard, looking with interest at this instance of human folly.

“Hi, Sal,” Ruby calls out.

“You’re gonna get your head dirty,” I say.

“No no, I’ve got a little rub rag down there,” she tells me and now I notice that she’s put some sort of fabric there under her head.

“May I ask why the hell you’re standing on your head?”

“I was getting a headache,” she says.

“Oh.”

“We should get going,” she adds as she starts slowly lowering her legs.

“Yeah,” I say, “I know.”

Ruby is facing up again now. She gets to her feet and swats at her hair a little.

“Feel better?” the jockey asks her.

“Yeah, I think I do,” Ruby smiles.

I ask Attila if he noticed anything suspicious while I was gone and of course he claims he hasn’t, but I don’t trust the guy to be honest. Jockeys, from what I can tell, are more reconciled to the idea of death than the rest of the population, and Attila more than most. He just doesn’t appear worried about having a price tag on his head. Me, I’d fly to fucking Tahiti and live in a hut the rest of my life rather than walk around as a target. But to each his own.

We make our way over to my truck and get in. Attila is quiet and I can sense he’s preparing himself for riding. Ruby is quiet too. I drive.

I’ve never known why New York racing moves to Aqueduct for winter. There’s not much of a stable area there and most trainers keep their horses at Belmont and ship them over on race day. Belmont is much more beautiful than Aqueduct, so I just don’t get it. I decide to ask Attila about it.

He doesn’t seem to hear me though and Ruby answers.

“It’s ’cause Aqueduct has that all-weather inner track. It’s got a special surface so they can run even when it’s really cold. Plus, the paddock viewing area is indoors and race fans can stay warm.”

“Oh,” I say, and, since Ruby doesn’t seem to be in a chatty mood and I don’t want to break Attila’s focus by putting on the Schoenberg, I start daydreaming about the exercise rider from the cafeteria. I keep seeing her in the back of my mind. Smiling. Lips parted. It’s quite a vision.

We reach Aqueduct and soon we’re all huddled around the stall where Henry’s got Oat Bran Blues. I half listen to Henry giving
Attila his riding instructions for the race and, about twenty minutes later, I walk with Attila over to the jockeys’ room.

We don’t have much to say to each other and are walking in silence when I notice the exercise rider from the cafeteria right smack in front of us.

“Hi, Layla,” Attila calls to her.

“Hey, Johnson,” she says, nodding to him then turning to me and grinning.

Attila makes a quick introduction and Layla and I exchange a long look before Attila and I start walking again.

“Who’s that?” I ask him, trying not to sound particularly interested.

“Layla Yashpinsky Exercise rider. Nice girl. Got a sister that’s the hottest exercise rider going.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Layla rides some for Henry and Violet now and then and she ponies a little too,” Attila says.

“What’s ‘ponies’?”

“You know, the pony riders who escort the racehorses to the starting gate. She’s some sort of a substitute pony rider I think.”

“Oh,” I say.

We’ve reached the jockeys’ room now and, since I’m not allowed in, I leave Attila to his own devices and wander off to buy a program. I think about the exercise rider as I open the program and glance from it to the tote board. Attila’s mount is one of the longest shots on the board. But I like long shots.

R
uby hasn’t seen me ride a race since that day, lifetimes ago—but really only three weeks ago—when we met here at Aqueduct. I’m still convinced I won that race because of her. Because of the way she stared so intently at old Ballistic. Because of her red coat and the notion I had before even speaking to her that her toenails would be painted bright red. And today I want to ride well. For her and for myself, to put myself at peace after the madness of these last few days.

Normally I might try talking to some of the other guys in the jocks room but today I just nod at everybody and keep focused. I sit down in a corner and work on some of the yogic breathing techniques Ruby’s taught me, pulling air deep into my lungs and distributing it throughout my body. I sit with my spine straight and my eyes closed and after twenty or so minutes like this, I am very calm. By the time I walk out into the paddock, I feel good. I’m visualizing the track and what I’ve got to do to give Muley a good trip and a real shot at winning.

It’s a cold day but it’s bright and cloudless and, in spite of this being just another allowance race, there are a lot of owners in the paddock, several with their kids in tow. Sons dressed in conservative blue blazers. Little girls in shiny shoes.

I feel cheerful, almost optimistic as I go to stand in the center of the walking ring, next to Ruby and Violet, who are talking with a tall blond woman.

“Attila, this is Jessica Dunn, Oat Bran Blues’s owner,” Violet introduces me to the woman.

“A pleasure,” Jessica Dunn says, extending a hand to shake. Her grip is firm and her smile is genuine. She’s an elegant, kind-seeming woman who, Violet has told me, is a successful painter who one day got it into her head to buy a racehorse. Muley is the first horse she’s owned and this will be his first start under her ownership.

“He’s a fine horse,” I tell her.

“I’m very fond of him,” she smiles, and brushes a strand of long hair from her eyes.

I kiss Ruby for luck then walk over to Muley, who Henry and Sophie, the groom, have led from his saddling stall.

“Do your best,” is all Henry says as he gives me a leg up.

I feel Muley quiver a little under me. The horse has a sensitive back and it takes him a minute to absorb the weight of a rider. I stare at his ears and talk to him softly, letting him do what he’s got to do to get ready.

As Sophie leads us onto the track and over to Juan and his pony horse, I feel Ruby at the rail, watching me. Ava used to turn up now and then to cheer me on if she was having a good day. But I can’t remember the last time Ava had a good day or even spoke to me coherently. And, to be honest, I don’t want to be thinking about Ava right now.

Muley loads into the gate without fussing but then spooks when the assistant starter climbs up into the stall. The colt rears and I almost get pitched off. I’ve barely got my feet back in the stirrups when the bell goes off and the gates open. Muley takes an awkward step and nearly falls to his knees. For a moment, I imagine the worst but the colt gamely recovers and lurches ahead. He’s a big colt but capable of using himself well and he’s got some speed. He accelerates powerfully and in a few strides has caught up to the last horse in the pack. I keep a hold on him because, surging as he is, he’s threatening to clip heels with the horse in front of him. I feel him fighting me. I click off the seconds in my head and calculate that
the frontrunners are setting an honest pace and if I plan to really try to win this, I’ve got to catch up. Soon.

I steer Muley three horses wide to the outside of the pack and then let him loose a little. He passes two horses. We’re coming around the turn now and I try to keep him as close to the rail as possible without bumping into a gray colt running to our left.

“Careful, junior,” the gray’s jock, Richard Migliore, calls out to me.

I ignore him. Bad enough he’s calling me “junior” when I’m only five or six years younger than him, but I’m not even that close to his damn horse. I feel myself getting angry. Muley picks up on this and, probably thinking I’m mad at him, surges ahead again. By now we’re almost around the bend so I let my horse go. He passes one more colt. I ask him to switch leads, which he graciously does at once, catching up with the two frontrunners now. Luis Chavez is on the favorite, a little chestnut named Saint Maybe who has his nose in front of a long-shot bay. I see Chavez look over his shoulder, watching me and Muley coming up to Saint Maybe’s hind end. I hear Chavez chirp to his horse but nothing doing, Muley’s on a rampage and we go flying by the chestnut, fighting the bay for the lead. As the bay’s jock hisses at me to forget about it, our horses eye each other and Muley sticks his nose in front. The other colt fights right back. We’re about three jumps from the wire and there’s nothing between the two colts. I show Muley the whip and this pisses him off so much he surges one last time, getting a nostril in front of the other colt at the wire.

We’ve won.

I stand up in the irons and ask Muley to pull up but he’s still angry about my showing him the whip. He’s the kind of horse that knows his job and resents being reminded of it. Now he wants to teach me a lesson. I let him run another furlong before getting tough with him, pulling on him until at last he slows down. I turn him around and start slowly cantering back to the winner’s circle.

As Muley winds down to a trot, I let myself look over toward the rail and sure enough, there’s Ruby, grinning like an idiot. I smile
at her as I pull Muley up in front of his groom and let her lead us into the winner’s circle.

Henry and Violet are beside themselves telling me what a nice job I’ve done. Jessica Dunn is beaming at me. Chances are, everyone she knows told her never to expect to do more than lose money on owning a horse, so to win with her very first horse is probably beyond beautiful for her. Jessica reaches up, takes hold of my hand, and squeezes it. I squeeze back, glad to win one for a lady who seems like someone I’d actually like to be friends with. I scan around and see Ruby, standing next to Violet now. Both women are beaming like I’ve just won the Derby.

Muley shakes his head a little, wanting me off his back now that his work is done. I wait for the photographer to capture the happy occasion before hopping down. I tell Ruby I’ll see her a little later then I head back into the jocks room to change silks since I’ve actually got a ride in the next race too.

“Nice work, junior,” Richard Migliore says as I pass him in the hall.

“Thanks,” I say, still not thrilled with the
junior
business but well beyond caring at this point.

I start wondering if maybe I can pull off another win. I’ve never won two races in one day, never mind two races back-to-back. I feel confident though, like anything is possible.

But a daily double is evidently not in the stars for me today. Two jumps out of the starting gate, I realize that my mount, Appellation, a seven-year-old claiming mare, is sore. She was a little stiff warming up but it seemed like the kind of stiffness that would pass. It hasn’t. The old girl just isn’t running well. I’ve only been on her once before and she wasn’t the smoothest of rides then, but this is more than awkwardness. The mare is unsound. I start cursing out Nick Blackman, the hack who calls himself a trainer and entered poor Appellation in this race. I’m not sure how Blackman held the mare together long enough for the track vet not to notice the old girl was off. Maybe Blackman’s paying the vet off. Who knows. But I should have been wary. I knew Blackman’s reputation.