Part 26 (2/2)

”Not on your life,” I croaked.

He put his hand gently on the door.

”Gonna be a great day.”

I was too tired to argue.

”Smas.h.i.+ng.”

At exactly 5:15 we were in a red sports car with more gadgets than an F104, heading out into a damp, musty morning. As we crossed the tall suspension bridge to the mainland, we picked up fog so thick I couldn't see the shoulder of the road. Callahan, a tall, muscular chap, with high cheekbones and a hard jaw that looked like it might have been drawn with a T-square, chose to ignore it. He drove like it was a sunny afternoon on the interstate. I was beginning to think the whole bunch was suicidal.

”Foggy” was the only word out of him during the twenty-minute trip. Not a mention of the previous night's events.

He eased back on the throttle when we reached the entrance to Palmetto Gardens, tossed a jaunty salute to the guard, who had to look twice to see him through the soup, and parked near the stables.

”Here, pin this on your jacket,” he said, handing me a green badge that identified me as a track official. I did as I was told and followed him to the rail, which popped out of the damp haze so suddenly I b.u.mped into it. So far, all I could tell about the track was that it was in Georgia and about twenty minutes from town, if you drove like Mario Andretti.

”Wait here,” Callahan said, and disappeared for five minutes. I could hear, but not see, horses snorting, men coughing, laughter, and the clop of hoofs on the soft earth as I stood in fog so thick I couldn't see my own feet. When Callahan returned, he brought black coffee in plastic foam cups and warm, freshly made sinkers. I could have kissed him.

”What the h.e.l.l are we doing out here?” I asked, around a mouthful of doughnut.

”Workin' three-year-olds,” he answered.

”That's it? That's what we're doing here in the middle of the night? Listening to them work the three-year-olds?”

”So far.”

”Is this something special? How often do they do this?”

”Every morning.”

”You're s.h.i.+tting me.”

He looked at me through the fog and shook his head.

”You're not s.h.i.+tting me. Great. I was dragged out of bed for, uh . . . to stand around in this . . . this gravy listening . . . just listening . . . to a bunch of nags doing calisthenics.”

Callahan turned to me and smiled for the first time. ”Flow with it, pal. You're here, enjoy it. Put a little poetry back in your soul. ”

”What are you, some kind of guru, Callahan?”

”Horse sense. Besides, Dutch says you need to learn about the track. ”

”I can't even see the track. And don't call me pal. I'm not a dog, my name's Jake.”

”Sure.”

He moved down the rail and I followed. Dim shapes began to take form in the fog. The outriders were leading their riderless charges through the opening in the fence and out onto the track.

”This is the morning workout,” Callahan said. ”Gets the kinks out of the ponies.” He pointed to a stately-looking cinnamon-brown gelding, frisky and hopping about at the end of its tether. ”Keep your eye on that boy there,” he advised.

”What about him?” I asked.

”That's one fine horse.”

”Oh.”

”If you don't mind my asking,” he said, ”just how much do you know about racing?”

I had been to the horse races twice in my life, both times out in California with Cisco Mazzola, who loved three things in life: his family, vitamins, and betting the ponies, and I'm not real sure in what order. Both times I had lost a couple of hundred dollars I couldn't afford to lose, making sucker bets. After that, Cisco stopped inviting me.

I said, ”I know the head from the tail and that's about the size of it.”

”That's okay,” Callahan said, although he seemed surprised at my ignorance. ”Keep your ears open, I will give you the course.”

Before the day was out, I was to learn a lot about Pancho Callahan and a lot more about racing, for he talked to me constantly and it was like listening to a poet describe a beautiful woman.

”First, I will tell you a little about Thoroughbreds,” he said. ”Thoroughbreds are different from all other animals. Thoroughbreds are handsome, hard, spooky, temperamental. They are independent and proud. And they are also conceited as h.e.l.l because, see, they know how good they are. The jockey, if he is worth his weight, he takes his kid in tow and he talks to him and he disciplines him around the track. The trainer may tell the jock how he wants him to run the race, like maybe hold the pony in until the backstretch or let him loose at the five-eighths pole or the clubhouse turn, like that, but once that gate opens up, it is just the jock and the horse and that is what it's all about.”

In the fog, with the sun just beginning to break behind the large water oaks nearby, we could hear the horses but not see them until they were on top of us. The three-year-old gelding was frisky and playful and the outrider was having trouble with him. He was snorting and throwing his long neck across the saddlehorn of the outrider and trying to bite his hand as they galloped past in the fog, which was eerily magenta in the rising sun's first light.

It was one h.e.l.l of a sight. Callahan was right, there was poetry here.

The three-year-old was to become a lot more important than either Callahan or I realized then. His name was Disaway. And on this particular morning, he wanted to run.

”He is full of it,” Callahan said. ”A real Thoroughbred feeling frisky. Is that a sight?”

I allowed as how it was a sight.

”Thoroughbreds are trained to break fast out of the gate and open up and run quickly and flat away to the finish line, save up a little extra and put it on hard near the end, like a swimmer doing the two twenty,” Callahan said. ”This horse wants to go, so they have to calm him down a bit. Otherwise he will be too brash and spooky when the rider is up.”

So they were not running hard and instead were trotting in and out of the cotton wads of fog, working out the early morning kinks. When they brought him in, he made one more halfhearted effort to bite the outrider and then, hopping slightly sideways, he kicked his heels a couple of times and settled down. The trainer led him to the tie-up to be saddled.

Disaway was a fine-looking animal with very strong front legs and a sweat-s.h.i.+ny chest, hard as concrete. The muscles were quivering and ready. Callahan walked close and stroked first one foreleg, then the other, then strolled back to the rail.

No comment.

The owner was a short, heavy man in a polo s.h.i.+rt with a stopwatch clutched in a fat fist and binoculars dangling around his neck. His name was Thibideau. He stood with his back to the jockey, chewing his lip. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and sounded like it was trapped deep in his throat.

”Okay,” he said, without turning around or looking at the rider, ”let's see what he can do. You open him up at the three-quarter post. ”

The exercise rider looked a little surprised and then said, ”The three-quarter, yes, sir.”

They threw the saddle over the gelding's back, all the time talking to him and gentling him, and got ready to let him out.

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