Horse Heaven (38 page)

In fact, he had fallen, was falling deeper, into what his dad, always a man who called a spade a spade, called “the insurance trap.” The first step into the insurance trap was thinking that something might go wrong rather than letting something go wrong. The next step was buying something that might or might not prevent the thing that might go wrong from going wrong. Then you began to look for signs that what you had bought was working, and then you lost your sense of what was really happening, so you bought more stuff, and pretty soon, there you were. You didn’t know which end was up, so, in your confusion, or, as his dad would have said, because your head was already up your ass, you pushed it farther in because at least it was a cozy spot. The two horses confused him, because the only thing he really knew about both of them was that they were extreme—he was an extreme son of a bitch and she was an extreme sweetheart. Now every time each of them acted more like a normal horse—he saw a person pass his stall without lunging at the stall guard, ears pinned and teeth bared, or she switched her tail—Buddy was tempted to think his insurance was working, and therefore to try something more, just to wedge his head higher up into that warm, tight spot. Why this was he wasn’t quite sure. Neither owner needed more money, and they knew that, unlike some owners. Even he, Buddy, didn’t have the old craving for funds that he had felt for so long. Picking the pocket of Jason Clark Kingston had had an air of superfluity about it, not to mention bad conscience. Both horses could end the season right here and have done more than well. There were trainers all over the world for whom five races was enough for any two-year-old.

But how good were they? In the old days, it was an accepted thing—race ’em race ’em race ’em. Eventually, as with Lexington, Stymie, John Henry, Kelso, Phar Lap, Citation, Count Fleet, you realized what you were seeing was something that you would remember all of your life. But what did Jesus think of that? What did that tempt you to? To the contemplation of greatness? Into the cruelty and exploitation that Buddy had engaged in so routinely in the past, for money and fame and just because that’s all he knew how to do?

The fact was, he had not known Jesus long enough to know how he thought about these issues. Buddy’s preacher had pointed out to him that Jesus kicked the money changers out of the Temple, but it wasn’t clear to Buddy that that referred even to gambling. The Bible was not a definitive guide on a number of subjects, and so you found yourself getting into that insurance trap there, too, leafing here, trying this passage there, opening in the middle of that chapter over there, and learning that, for example, “many are called but few are chosen.” Well, racing racing racing surely did separate the few that were chosen
from the many that were called. Or that the Angel said unto her, I bring you tidings of great joy that shall be to all men. That didn’t seem to apply to horse racing in any way, no matter how you sliced it. And once you were buying insurance, secret insurance, there was no one to ask, because no one besides you knew all the facts.

It was no relief at all to get to the track. When he pulled into his spot in the parking lot, people were already looking at him. He waved and smiled in the time-honored presidential, I-am-not-a-crook manner and strode with all deliberate speed toward the barn. Even though it was barely light outside, and not light at all inside, his aisles were suspiciously abuzz. The feed man was standing at one end of Epic Steam’s aisle, shaking his head at several men Buddy recognized as journalists. He was shaking his head because Buddy had instructed him that when in doubt he should pretend not to know English. The guy from the San Diego paper was trying Spanish, but the feed man, from Tijuana, was pretending not to know that, either. Buddy walked past the four men, who turned to pounce on him, with another of those practiced waves. “How are you boys this morning,” he said, not as a question. At the far end of the aisle, beyond Epic Steam’s stall, stood Georgette, his office manager. She was pretending she couldn’t speak at all. Everyone else was standing across from the two-year-old colt’s metal door. It was a long walk, as walks made in ignorance always are. Halfway there, Leon, his assistant trainer, came up to him, his manner studied and casual, waved at the reporters, and said in a low voice, “I tried to call you at home, boss, but you’d already left.”

“How did these reporters know I was working these horses right now?”

Leon shrugged, then said, sheepishly, “The thing is, Buddy, you always work your hot horses first thing. People know that—”

“What else is wrong?”

But there they were. There it was. Oscar, Epic Steam’s groom, held it up for him to look at. It was a stiff gray cat. He said, “Foun it in straw, boss.”

“He found it in the straw,” said Leon.

“Horse keel it,” said Oscar.

“The horse killed the cat,” said Leon.

“He hit it gainst wall,” said Oscar.

“He picked it up by the neck and threw it against the wall,” said Leon.

“Foun it in straw.”

“Yes,” said Leon. “He found it in the straw when he was picking out this morning.” They both looked at him. They all looked at him.

Buddy spoke smoothly and carefully: “I don’t think the horse killed the cat.”

As if in answer, Epic Steam caught his eye, pinned his black ears, and lunged at the stall guard.

Buddy said, “I think the cat must have picked up some rat poison somewhere, and wandered over here to die.”

The cat’s neck was broken and his head was turned sharply to one side.

Buddy said, “No doubt, he curled up in the straw.”

The cat’s skin was abraded where the horse had pawed the fresh corpse.

“And the horse, showing typical two-year-old curiosity, pawed him a little bit.”

Epic Steam snorted and gave forth a mighty challenge.

“He’s all boy, but it’s mostly playful.”

“Right, boss,” said Leon.

“Right, boss,” said Oscar.

“Oscar,” said Buddy. “You get rid of the fucking cat.”

Oscar nodded.

“But, first, tack this guy up and let’s get the first set out there.”

He walked back to the reporters. He said, “Oh, a cat died in the horse’s stall. Looks like poison. No one wanted to touch it, you know. Superstition. All that. Bad sign.”

“Think it’s a bad sign for next week?”

Buddy laughed cheerfully. “Depends on the work.”

The reporters laughed cheerfully, too. He herded them back toward his office. One of them said, “Horse ever taken down game before?”

Everyone laughed again. Buddy said nothing in reply.

Fifteen minutes later, when the first set was lined up to be mounted, they had Epic Steam, as always, right up front, the stud chain firmly set across his gum. As always, they did their little ballet. Buddy stepped up to him; twenty yards away, at the end of the row of stalls, a groom led a filly across the aisle; Epic Steam stopped grinding and jumping just for a moment and stood there, ears pricked; Buddy bent down and felt his legs firmly and quickly; as he stood up, Leon stepped forward and threw the exercise rider on top, and then the horse moved out. No matter what, the exercise rider was instructed to keep him going forward. A horse going forward was less able to rear, buck, crow-hop, bolt, spin, you name it. Less able, not unable. But it worked. His predatory urges possibly assuaged by the death of the cat, Epic Steam moved off almost normally, and the reporters were glad to look at Residual.

And just as they all had backed away from the colt, they all stepped closer to the filly. Two of them reached out to pet her, possibly not even realizing it. Buddy didn’t stop them. Better that their brains were fogged by sentiment.

Yes, she seemed to come to your hand, as if affectionateness expanded her. She pricked her ears, arched her neck, flared her nostrils, sniffed the hand of the
Form
reporter, then turned her head and looked deeply into his eyes.
Buddy bent down beside her and felt her legs. Cold today, cold enough for anyone to feel. Last week he had felt just a degree of heat in her left ankle. He had chosen to start her on Legend, not to X-ray. The heat was gone now. She stood squarely but alertly, as if on tiptoes. He threw the rider up and the filly moved out immediately, eager to get to work. As she walked down the aisle, every head, horse and human, chicken and goat, cat and Jack Russell terrier, turned to look at her. Walking behind her with the reporters, Buddy said, “She’s shaped up into a nice filly. But there are nice fillies every year.”

He glanced at the reporters; they were staring after the filly’s scintillating red haunches, white ankles. This was a view Buddy liked of a horse, the shimmering tail like a waterfall, the sharply defined hocks, and below, the graceful lift of perfect pastern angles shading the hollow, silvery heels. Looking at a horse from behind like this told you all about running, all about how a thousand-pound body could seem airborne. People didn’t think Buddy was much of an esthete when it came to horses, and it was true that he didn’t swell up at the sight of a pretty head or a graceful neck or a kind eye, but, walking behind a horse like this, he could stare at those miracle ankles for quite a while.

The instructions were that three of the horses in this set were to do a timed work—three-eighths for the fillies, a half-mile for the colt. The colt was to jog the wrong way around the track out ahead of the fillies to the eighth pole, then turn, gallop to the half-mile pole, and then break off to work a half-mile. Residual and a rabbit filly by Glitterman would backtrack to the wire, then turn and gallop to the three-eighths pole, and get timed from there. They would be done with their work by the time Epic Steam, who always worked alone, was ready to go. The other horses in the set were only galloping. As they walked out to the trainers’ stand, Leon in the front, then Buddy, then the reporters in a semicircle around him, Buddy found himself unable even to hear their questions, or to hear his answers, though he was making some. Jesus, he thought, would have to take care of this. He supposed he would find out what Jesus had said in the next day’s papers.

Epic Steam disappeared behind the tote board on the far side of the track. The fillies were still on the turn, the rabbit on the rail and Residual on the inside. Already, of course, Epic Steam had quite a reputation, and Buddy didn’t have to see him demonstrate it by whinnying, squealing, rearing, and champing at the bit. Everyone else would keep their distance. They always did.

Buddy trained his glasses on the fillies. He could see them easing to the pole, and then they were off. The lights over the track had begun to pale as the sky lightened. The Glitterman filly was a brown, so the two were easily distinguishable, even at this distance. The fillies ran neck and neck for about a furlong, as per instructions, and then Residual began to pull away. What a Ferrari
she was. At two furlongs, the Glitterman filly seemed to hit a wall, though that was only an illusion. Buddy’s clock said she was running as well as ever, though perhaps her heart was breaking. That was something else you sometimes had to do on the way to the Breeders’ Cup, pick a rabbit and break her heart over and over, every five days, just to keep the big horse thinking well of herself. Residual was to do three-eighths, but not a bullet work. Just something to keep her tuned. She came around the turn toward the box, running easily, ears pricked, happy. The girl, Deedee, sat still on her, coiled like a cat, the wave of the horse’s stride passing through the girl’s body. One of the reporters said, “They remind me of water. That girl ever tried to be a jockey?”

“Too long in the leg,” said Buddy. That was what he said. Later, he remembered that perfectly.

The Glitterman filly was trotting now. Buddy noticed that. And other horses were scattered around the track. The sun was coming up pretty good. All seemed in order. And then one of the reporters said, “Look at that,” and there was Epic Steam, just to their left. What he had been doing Buddy didn’t know, because he was watching the fillies. Epic Steam must have been watching the fillies, too, or at least watching Residual, because first he was squealing, then he was bolting right after her, and his rider was yanking and pulling on his mouth, trying to twist his head around. But the horse had a neck of granite and a mouth of steel. He bore down on the filly, those muscular shafts they called legs stretching and folding, stretching and folding. The filly, who was coming down to a jog, flicked her ears, and Deedee, Buddy could see this, tensed and turned her head. It must have been a frightening sight, the sight of that giant dark beast heading down the track at them, for only Jesus knew what purpose. The filly flicked her ears again, backward, forward. It was hard to know his intention. Normally, a stallion wouldn’t dare approach a mare incautiously, but that would be a stallion who knew something. You never knew what Epic Steam knew. As he ran at the filly, she took off. They were right below the trainers’ stand. Buddy could see Deedee’s white face. But she took hold, steadied the filly, and crouched against her neck. The girl and the filly had decided to run for it. Around him, the reporters noticed the same thing. They shut up and hunched forward. In a moment, the big dark horse was on the filly’s heels, his own rider standing in the stirrups and leaning back against the reins. They ran like that into the turn, the filly on the rail, the colt right against her, her ears pricked, his pinned. Every horse in their way scattered to the outside. The colt was fighting the bit. Buddy knew he wanted to bite her. Some stallions were like that. He’d seen it in the breeding shed, a stallion attacking and biting the mare, knocking her down. And he was so much bigger than she was—he probably outweighed her by two hundred pounds—he had
muscles upon muscles. But, coming out of the turn, she did it—she floated away from him as easily as she had distanced the sprinting filly, effortless, joyous even, happy to whip him. Soon she was two lengths in front of him, and they stayed that way, the colt straining to catch the filly, the filly easy and smooth. Twenty strides? That many? And then the colt’s fatigue brought him inside the circle of the rider’s strength, and the rider managed to turn his head to the outside, and pull him up. As soon as they were out of danger, the filly and her rider floated to a trot like a big jet plane coming in for a perfect landing.