Horse Heaven (86 page)

“Well, you know what?”

“What?”

“That horse’s owner’s kid was some kind of long-distance bicyclist, and he persuaded the owner to try something all these other bicycle riders he knew were trying. Builds red blood cells nine ways.”

“Geritol?” Buddy had said.

“Something that really works,” said Curtis, “enhances the number of red blood cells, and carries more oxygen to the muscles, and the horse runs faster and longer. It’s like a bigger heart.”

“What does it do to the horse?”

“Nothing,” said Curtis.

“Then why isn’t everyone using it?”

“They will be, in ten years. It’ll be just like Lasix.”

Buddy had thought this was just the thing for Residual. It was not an item he put on the Kingstons’ bill. Not, you might say, a currently legal item. She had run very well. He thought he could see a difference in her fractions—maybe only two-fifths of a second, but every fifth of a second was a length.

“How ya doing,” Curtis said now, not a question. “That filly’s back. You must be thinking Breeders’ Cup or you would have left her on the farm another couple of months.”

“Bad for ’em to let down.” Buddy directed his steps toward his barn, and Curtis fell in beside him. Buddy remembered that he had given everyone an extra hour. Why had he done that? It was far better to get up every morning at the same time, no matter what. Curtis Doheny was a big, fat, awkward man, and Buddy never liked how he loomed over him. It made Buddy feel like something was going to fall, that something was Curtis, and maybe he would fall on Buddy.

“Is there something I can do for you this morning, Curtis?”

“I thought I’d have a look at that filly. See the outcome of the experiment, you know. Do a little science.”

This, Buddy knew, was bullshit. What Curtis wanted was to be seen with people, even if there was no one around to see him. He said, “Curtis, right
now, I think maybe you should go your way and I should go my way, and then maybe we’ll get a cup of coffee later.”

Curtis didn’t take his suggestion, and came along after him, sort of flapping his feet and rolling along. The thing about Curtis, for Buddy, was that he always made him conscious of his own size, which was short and thin. Curtis pulled out a large handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. Then he said, congenially, “So—you got some good ones in the barn these days, Buddy. That’s what everybody says.”

“Then it must be true,” said Buddy.

“Nah. I saw you had three winners down at Del Mar the other day, and two the next day.”

This was common knowledge, so Buddy wondered where these platitudes were going.

“The thing is, I’m thinking of buying an interest in a couple of horses again. I’m back on my feet now, pretty steady, and I got some money to spend. You got any owners who are looking for a partner?”

“I might,” said Buddy, disconsolately. The only hope of keeping Curtis quiet was keeping him isolated, or giving him partners who could speak no English. In southern California, those kind were few and far between.

“Yeah, I put together about two hundred grand.”

Buddy’s head had to swivel in Curtis’ direction.

“No shit,” said Curtis complacently.

“Why don’t I take you to the sales in Keeneland next week and get you a couple of yearlings of your own, then?” said Buddy. This was a brilliant idea.

“Nah. I want to buy into a couple of better-class horses and not have to foot all the training bills myself. Makes more sense.”

Yes, unfortunately, it did. Buddy decided to test the depth of Curtis’ resolve. He said, “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

“Nah. You got the best horses.”

This was not in fact true. Several other trainers had horses that were as good as Buddy’s or better. The other half of the sentence was “of all the crooked trainers.” Buddy felt himself actually squirm. He said, “That’s good saving, Curtis.”

“Ah, I put together a couple of long shots, let’s call it that.” He laughed. Then he said, “So listen. I like this colt Fuzzy Minister. He’s got a couple of wins. And that colt who just got back from a lay-up. Hickory Dickory. My bet is, he’s hotter than a pistol.”

Buddy saw right there where the ground lay. What he had assumed was an idle thought on Curtis’ part was a well-conceived plan. The groups who owned these particular colts were large and convivial, on the young side, and
not very knowledgeable. Curtis planned to get in with them for some reason still unclear—perhaps it was only to have friends and associates he could pal around with. He said, “I can ask if they’re looking for more partners. You know, a group gets too big, and the winnings aren’t much.”

“But the horse gets syndicated and goes to stud and there you are.”

“Those are two nice colts. Deputy Minister and A.P. Indy. Just what everybody wants.”

“I think so, too. You see that article in
The Blood-Horse
in the spring? Said A.P. Indy was the top stallion in the world. You and me, we keep that guy running and winning, and we got it made. These guys who own him are going to kiss our feet. Looks like a sure thing to me.”

“Curtis, you’ve been around the racetrack for twenty-five years or more. Don’t you know that the only sure thing is that a sure thing is never a sure thing?”

“Hell,” said Curtis, jovially.

What made Buddy especially leery of this deal that he now felt tightening around his neck like a noose was Curtis’ well-known chattiness when he was drinking. The man would brag about anything if he had a drink or two under his belt and an ear in his vicinity. He said, “So. Let’s talk about something else. How are you otherwise, Curtis?”

“Never been better.”

A very bad sign.

One thing you needed if you were a crook, Buddy had always thought, was a well-developed sense of right and wrong. Without that, you couldn’t keep track of your sins and keep them to yourself. That was one thing Jesus had done for him, shown him black and white. Now when he had a choice to make, he knew what it was. That was part of his new level of success, and also a sort of containment procedure for the sins he continued to commit. Since he was better able to keep track of them, he knew he could deal with them sometime in the future all in one fell swoop, you might say. When Curtis was in his cups, he had no sense of right and wrong at all, and would report everything he did, right or wrong, in the same semi-whining, eager-to-please tone of voice. Buddy cast about for a neutral question to ask, but Curtis had no wife or children. He had drinking or not drinking. Other than veterinary medicine, that had been his whole occupation as long as Buddy had known him.

“Say,” said Curtis.

“Say what,” said Buddy.

“I heard that you did some Jesus-freak thing.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Now the looming seemed larger than ever. Buddy said, “I had what they call a midlife crisis, I guess.”

“Kind of a religious thing?”

“You might say that.”

“So where are you now on that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know.”

“I guess I think this is kind of a personal subject, Curtis.”

“Well, yeah. I see that, but if you got it, flaunt it. That’s what it says in the Good Book.”

“It does?”

“Sure. It says that Peter denied Jesus three times. So I take that to mean that if you’ve got religion it’s the same as Peter denying Jesus if you pretend that you don’t.”

“I’ve never heard you talk like this, Curtis.”

“Oh, I know a lot of scripture.” They were almost to the shedrow. The horses were looking for their morning hay. Some of them looked up as the two men approached. Buddy found his throat constricting at the idea of talking about his personal relationship with Jesus to Curtis Doheny, especially since Jesus had gotten a little remote in the last few months.

Curtis went over to Fuzzy Minister with a proprietary air. The colt was a beauty like his sire, blood bay with a perfect white stripe down his nose, a shining mahogany coat, and an elegant head. His dam was by Nijinsky, and he was a good example of the precept that the best racehorses were the best in every way—best-looking, best-tempered, best-bred, easiest to train. This was a precept that was often observed in the breach, but when you looked at a horse that had been a million-dollar yearling, like this one, it was nice to remember it. Curtis said, “Yeah, this is the best two-year-old in your barn. I fiddled around with racehorses before, you know. I had shares and claimed a few and all that, but this time I said to myself, Nothing but the best. I deserve nothing but the best.”

Buddy wondered what the deserving part referred to.

“We gonna push this filly a little bit?”

We? “What?”

“Looking at that filly, I say go for it.”

“Yeah.” Buddy went into the feed room, and Curtis followed him to the doorway, where he stood, blocking the light and scratching his balls. He said, “You know, I could do a lot of work for you. I could work only for you. Who
you got now? Barton? Couple others? Why don’t you just employ me, and I’ll just work for you. We can make a deal. I can work all three tracks for you. I think it’s a good idea.”

“Maybe.”

“You got a lot of maybes today.”

“Well, I don’t feel I can make a decision on all this stuff right now.” Buddy didn’t really have anything he needed to do in the feed room, and what he had thought of as a refuge, he saw, had turned into a trap. Curtis continued to stand in the doorway, now with his feet more or less planted and his hands in his pockets. Buddy reckoned his height at about six three. That would make him ten inches taller than Buddy and maybe twice his weight. Buddy elected not to push his way out, but all the same felt a considerable urge to bend down and snake between the guy’s legs. Instead, he said, “Somehow, Curtis, I feel that you are threatening me.”

“You know, Buddy, we’ve been friends for a long time, and with all due respect for your intelligence, I’ve got to tell you that I am. Between you and me, I’ve got a lot of plans. I’ve had one of those midlife crises myself, just this summer, and what I came up with was that I deserve better. Better treatment, just in general a better life. And, you know, everyone knows that no one’s going to give you what you haven’t got the guts to go out and get for yourself, so I made up my mind to go out and get it, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” said Buddy.

“So, Buddy, you’re my first stop on this train. We’ve been friends a long time and we’ve done a lot of business. So, if I want to turn my life around, you’re the obvious place to start. My bet is that we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. What’s your bet?” He smiled for the first time this morning, and Buddy noticed that his voice had lost that eager-to-please quality.

“I bet we are,” said Buddy. For all the fact that Buddy knew that Curtis Doheny was a loser and maybe worse than that, that the man was ugly, damp, disheveled, gross, and did not seem at the moment to have his, Buddy’s, best interests at heart, there was something, oh, don’t you know, relaxing about being with him and going along with his program. Though Buddy wouldn’t have thought of introducing him to any of his owners or of having a closer relationship with him twenty minutes ago, well, the fact was, why not? Curtis could be useful to him, but that was the least of it. And Curtis could hurt him, even physically, though that seemed unlikely. The fact was, it was kind of nice to be with someone who knew what he wanted. At least what he wanted was specific and clear. And he really seemed to want it. That was something, too, something to appreciate and observe. Buddy stepped up to Curtis and looked up at him. Behind him, he could see that the lights had gone on in the office,
and that Danny and Raoul were heading down the shedrow, a couple of Diet Cokes in their hands. He said, “You know, Curtis, I’m sure we can work something out.”

Curtis grinned pathetically, suddenly transformed from angry to happy, like a kid, Buddy thought. He stepped back. He said, “You know, Buddy, I don’t mean to get that way. But let me tell you, things haven’t been easy for me,” and as they went out of the feed room and walked down the shedrow, Buddy saw that maybe this was to be his penance, on the principle that no kindness goes unpunished—to listen, hour upon hour, to Curtis’ life story.

A
FTER
L
IMITLESS WON
the Del Mar Derby, Grade Two, nine furlongs on the turf course, and added $267,000 to his previous winnings, Rosalind, who was there for the win, called Al, who was in Helsinki, and said, “Honey, where are you going to be the first weekend in October?”

Al liked it that she had called him “honey,” even though she often called him “honey.” He checked his virtual calendar and said, “I have a meeting in Berlin on Friday evening, and one in London on Tuesday, but I haven’t got a plan for the weekend itself. Is he running that colt in the Breeders’ Cup? I want him to run that colt in the Bree—”

“How about Paris?”

“Ooh,” said Al. “Are you making a date?”

“I am.”

“Where are we staying?”

“How about the Georges Cinq?”

“Where are we eating?”

“Well, Sunday night at the Pré Catalan.”

“Didn’t we eat there once before? Isn’t that quite a romantic eatery?”

“On our honeymoon.”

“Did we have a honeymoon?”

“Yes, Al, we did. And maybe we’re overdue for another one. But I thought I would invite some friends to come along.”

Al wondered if Rosalind had positive memories of their honeymoon. There were those, he knew, who would doubt the very idea, but with Rozzy, you never knew. He said, “Not too many, okay? And make sure I know them all.”

“I will.”

“I leave it in your hands, honey. But you tell him—”

“I know what to tell him, Al.” Her voice was very sweet, which reminded Al, Another month of this and I’m done. It wasn’t quite possible to know yet
how many men and women now unemployed or marginally employed would soon be making primally heavy and large metal objects in factories now being built by Alexander Maybrick Industries International, but when all was said and done and everyone had expressed their opinion about the Information Age and the shift from manufacturing to service industries and ascendancy of bioengineering over plain old engineering, large and heavy metal objects were still going to come in handy as long as people were intent upon reproducing themselves and then piling up air miles, land miles, sea miles. He had been home for sixteen days out of the last ten months. He had seen Rosalind four times, though he talked to her almost every day. Truth to tell, he could have been home more, he could have seen her more, but he had been trying it out, being without her. And when all of
that
was said and done, after she did something to you and you did something to her, and you were resentful and hurt and you had all these other feelings you couldn’t quite name, what you had to decide was very simple—with her or without her? When you were thirty or forty, maybe without her seemed rather attractive. But when you were sixty-five, without her seemed like a life sentence, and a short one at that. So, he then thought, the horse could run on dirt and turf, sloppy and fast. So, he thought, the horse has won three-quarters of a million dollars in a couple of months. I’d like to see the damned animal race. I’d like to see the damned animal race in the Breeders’ Cup. All well and good, but Al could hardly remember what the colt looked like. Bay, probably. Most of them were.