Secretariat Reborn (30 page)

It shouldn’t have been an eye-opener that she hid a gun in her pickup and had no problem pointing it at four mobsters, threatening
to blast them if they harmed her man. Damn, she was gutsy. Admittedly, she had said her only fear was of the heart, of loving and losing.

“Sooo,” she said, breaking the silence. “This explains why you couldn’t tell me about your evenings with Vince. The goods, I take it, were drugs.”

“I think so. Allie, I hate lying to you, but you were safer not knowing, not being involved in my mess. Mystery didn’t make enough purse money, and I couldn’t pay back the loan on time. I had to work for Vince, picking up the bags with his boat. He used you and my family as leverage so I’d keep my mouth shut and do it.”

He looked out the window and released a weighty sigh. “But it’s over. I saved Vince’s neck, and he’s letting me off the hook.”

“That’s good news, but Christian, we’ve been together almost two years. Your problems are my problems. You should’ve told me.”

Mid-August and Christian found himself once again in Miami at the Calder Race Course with Allie. They stood by the rail and waited for the start of Mystery’s fourth race. She had entered the colt in a mile-long allowance with a forty-thousand-dollar purse. If Mystery won today, he was on his way, the next time out a six-digit stake race. Allie had even started looking at upcoming races at Belmont and Churchill Downs.

Christian had tried to share her enthusiasm, but always the guilt of racing the illegal horse rolled in, squelching his excitement. The thought of deceiving millions of people caused him many sleepless nights.

Like the White Sox that cheated during the World Series, he would betray history if Mystery, like Secretariat, went on to win the Triple Crown. The money and fame that came with owning a spectacular racehorse was slowly taking a backseat to his guilt.

Only weeks earlier, he followed his conscience and saved Vince, not expecting any compensation. All his fears and worries had vanished by simply doing the decent thing. He could breathe again and, darn, it felt good.

He faced another dilemma with Mystery, do the honest thing—retire the colt, give up a ton of money, and betray his father’s dream—or keep racing him and see how far he would go? Christian thought about his father’s plan of racing the horse, making the money, and bringing him home. He could claim the horse was sterile, avoid the second DNA test required for a stud, and elude getting busted. The secret of the cloning would die with the horse and him. It was tempting.

Why, then, did Christian get a nagging ache in his gut whenever he thought about it? It had started after he read about Secretariat and found himself on his mother’s living room floor, teary-eyed, after watching Secretariat win the Belmont. No one could possibly watch that mind-blowing race without getting a lump in his or her throat. It was simply miraculous, like watching a horse fly.

And who the hell was he, some Florida hick, to tamper with a phenomenon, to screw with a nation’s trust and emotions, to screw with history? More and more, Christian felt sick about it.

“He’s up against some of the best two-year-olds in Florida,” Allie said, looking at the catalogue as Mystery walked toward the starting gate “And he’s running a mile. He might run out of gas. We’ll find out if he’s only a sprinter.”

“I don’t think distance will matter,” said Christian. He put his thumb to his mouth and chewed on the nail, nervous if his colt lost, more nervous if he won. After this race, he would have to make a decision. It leaned toward one that Allie wouldn’t like.

The bell sounded and the gates opened. Mystery gamely lunged out, neck and neck with the pack of horses. Going into the first turn, he was running second, only a nose short of the front-runner.

“What the hell!” Allie screamed. “What the hell are you doing, asshole?” she screamed at Jeffery. “Slow him down or he’ll have nothing left at the end.”

Christian listened to her and grinned, accustomed to her getting worked up and cursing the jockey who was out of earshot.

“That’s it!” she seethed. “That jackass will never ride him again.”

At the half-mile pole, Mystery passed the front-runner and kept moving. With every stride he gained ground and increased the distance between him and the field of horses. Allie held her forehead and became quiet. Mystery approached the final turn all alone.

Christian covered his mouth and murmured, “Sweet Jesus.” The other horses were so far behind Mystery that he could have trotted to the finish line and still won. Instead of slowing and tiring at the
wide turn, he accelerated and appeared like a fiery red blaze. It became a one-horse race, Mystery competing against himself, each stride longer, faster.

The normally steady voice of the race announcer was screaming, “Unbelievable! Unbelievable, Clever Chris! He’s all alone and moving at incredible speed.”

Allie was hyperventilating. “He’s—” She gasped, “he’s moving too fast. He’s going to break a leg. I’ve never seen a race like this.”

Christian had, only a month earlier on a tape. His eyes watered as Mystery was halfway down the homestretch while the other horses were still rounding the turn.

“Clever Chris has at least a forty-length lead!” said the announcer. Mystery blew past the finish line, going faster in the end than at the start and looking like he could run all day.

“Clever Chris takes it,” said the announcer. “Tremendous race. Ladies and gentlemen, Clever Chris’s time was one thirty-three and one. That’s—my word, that’s a new track record. Wait a minute, he’s also broken the Calder track record for three-year-olds going a mile. Ladies and gentlemen, you just witnessed greatness. Clever Chris has the makings of a true champion.”

Allie slumped over, squatted on her heels, and held a post for balance. Christian’s arms rested on the rail, and he buried his face in them and felt the welling up in his eyes, so overwhelmed he had to force himself to breathe. With this race, all his father’s aspirations had come true.

After several seconds, Allie stood. “I’m not sure—” she said, also out of breath. “I’m not sure how many one-mile track records he broke today. I think he also broke Gulfstream’s.” She put her hand on Christian’s shoulder, tugging at him to lift his head. “Christian, Christian.”

Christian raised his head and tossed his hair back, trying to collect himself. Using his shirtsleeve, he wiped the moisture from his face and eyes. Mystery had followed in Secretariat’s footsteps before, but today he had surpassed his famous clone donor, going faster at
a younger age. The possibilities ahead were limitless. He turned to Allie. “I’m good. I’m okay. Heck of a race, huh?”

Mystery, with Jeffrey, trotted down the track alongside the pony rider. As they approached the grandstands, the crowd erupted with wild cheers. Christian and Allie walked into the winner’s circle, but they weren’t alone. Hundreds of spectators rushed to the circle, packing the outside brick wall. They wanted to see Mystery, a colt destined for fame.

Christian held Mystery’s bridle and stroked the colt while the photo was taken. He glanced at the spellbound crowd, their eyes starry orbs. The men were clapping, shouting, and some held up their cell phones to take pictures. Many women were so awestruck that they openly wept. Numerous hands reached over the barrier, hoping to touch Mystery, hoping to touch an upcoming legend. Christian hung his head to avoid eye contact. It had started.

Christian led Mystery out onto the track, and Allie sponged the colt down with cool water before taking him back to the barn. She could barely contain herself. “I just can’t believe that race. Do you realize you probably own the best two-year-old in the country?” She rattled on. “We’re done with Miami. We’re heading north and putting him in a grade-one stake race for a couple of hundred thousand. Then it’s the Breeders’ Cup for two-year-olds in the fall. Your father did register him in the Breeders’ Cup, didn’t he? I don’t remember seeing the card.”

“Yeah, he’s registered,” said Christian. “The card is stapled to his Jockey papers and Florida-Bred certificate.”

Christian’s cell phone chimed, and he took it from his pocket, but didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Mr. Roberts,” said a man’s voice. “I would like you to come to the clubhouse so we can celebrate your win and perhaps discuss some business.”

Christian noticed the foreign accent. “Who is this?”

“This is Sheik Abdul,” he said. “We have never been formally
introduced, but we met a few years ago when I claimed the full brother of your colt, Glade Hunter. You were rather unhappy at the time.”

“Yeah, I remember you,” Christian said, tempted to hang up. A thought then occurred to him.

“Shall you honor me with your presence? I flew in from Kentucky just to see your horse and this race. I must say, I was not disappointed.”

“I bet you weren’t. Sure, I’ll meet with you.” He closed the phone.

“Who was it?” Allie asked.

“Someone I need to talk to,” he said and handed her Mystery’s lead. “You go ahead. I’ll see you at the barn in a little while.”

She took the lead and gave Christian a what-the-heck’s-going-on look. Before she could question him further, Mystery pulled and danced around on the lead, seeing the horses for next race coming down the track.

“Go on,” Christian said. “I won’t be long.” She gave him a frustrated frown and walked off with Mystery, heading for the backside.

Christian, still carrying the bucket of horse supplies, took the elevator in the grandstands up to the clubhouse restaurant. He asked the hostess, a young woman, if he could stash his bucket behind her desk.

“Of course. Mr. Roberts, you have a super colt.” She gave him an awkward glance. “Can I please get your autograph?”

Christian scratched his head. The entire restaurant must have seen him holding his colt in the winner’s circle. “Sure, why not.” He smiled, and she handed him a pen. He scribbled his name on her racing catalogue, realizing that as an owner of an illustrious horse, he also was fast becoming a celebrity.

He scanned the restaurant and saw the sheik, his four-man entourage, along with Price at a window table. Price stood and waved him over. As Christian strolled toward the sheik, he noticed the other diners were gawking, pointing, and nodding to him. A man rose from his seat and asked to shake his hand, congratulating him on the fantastic
race. Christian thanked him and finally approached the sheik’s table.

“Mr. Roberts, I am pleased you accepted my invitation,” the sheik said and nodded to a large Arab man sitting near him. The man rose and yielded his chair to Christian.

Christian recognized the big man from the earlier scuffle with Price when Glade Hunter was claimed. The guy had knocked Allie down and commented that American women did not know their place. Christian felt the muscles in the back of his neck tense up with aversion, but he faked an easygoing grin.

The sheik motioned to the vacant seat. “Please, Mr. Roberts, sit. Would you like some tea?” he asked.

Christian eased into the chair and noticed the teacups in front of each man. Even Price had a glass of ice tea, obviously respecting the Arab custom forbidding alcohol. “No thanks, tea is for little old ladies.” His eyes sparkled with insolence, and he turned to the waitress and ordered a cocktail.

The sheik’s nostrils on his large hook nose flared with the affront, but he apparently choose to ignore Christian’s rudeness and little-old-lady comment. “Your colt ran quite an impressive race.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” Christian said. “So, what do you want?” he asked, although he had a good idea.

“I am interested in purchasing him.”

“How much?”

“One million,” said the sheik. Christian stood and turned to leave. “Mr. Roberts, where are you going?”

“Sheik, there’s a saying,” said Christian. “Cheat me once, shame on you, but cheat me twice, shame on me. That’s no offer.”

“It’s more money than you’ll ever see,” Price sneered.

“Is that right?” said Christian, leaning over and resting his crossed arms on the back of the chair. “I imagine that once the press hears about this race, I’ll be flooded with offers, and they’ll be for a hell of lot more than a million.” He straightened.

“Wait, Mr. Roberts,” said the sheik. “Please sit down. I was told
you were a young man with no head for business.” He glanced at Price. “But I obviously was misinformed. How much do you want for your colt?”

Christian returned to his seat, and the waitress placed his rum and Coke on the table. He took a long slow sip, set the glass down, and leaned back. “Sheik, every year you drop a small fortune at the horse sales, paying more than a million for some of those yearlings, not knowing if they can even run. I’ve been told my colt is probably the fastest two-year-old in the country. That’s worth at least ten.”

“So you want ten million dollars?” the sheik asked.

“No.” Christian took another swallow of his cocktail. “I was lied to about Hunter’s times and then cheated out of him in the claimer. Afterward, I was arrested and thrown in jail for shoving Price against a tree. I can deal with all that irritation, but what I can’t forget or forgive—” His eyes narrowed, focusing on Price. “Going to my dying father and having to say I was sorry for losing his horse. That’s gonna cost you extra.”