Part 27 (1/2)

”All these characters are interested now,” Callahan said. ”The track handicappers, the owners, the trainers, the railbirds-all standing by to see just how much horse he is today.”

The exercise rider led the gelding out onto the track, lined him up, and then, standing straight up in the stirrups and leaning far over the horse's mane, egged him on until he stretched out his long legs and took off down the track into the fog. Half a dozen stopwatches clicked in unison somewhere in the mist.

I could hear him coming long before he burst through the haze, snorting like an engine, his hoofs shaking the earth underfoot. Then, pow! he came out of it and thundered past us, his head up and his mane waving like a flag. The watches clicked again. Callahan looked at the chronograph on his wrist.

Still no comment.

”Let's get some breakfast,” he said. ”The jockeys'll be showing up about now.”

I watched Disaway as they led him out to be hosed and squeegeed down and fed. His nostrils were flared open, his ears standing straight up and slightly forward, and there was a look of defiant madness in his eyes. I was beginning to understand why Pancho had a thing about Thoroughbreds.

”Well, what do you think?” I asked as we walked down the shedrows.

”About what?”

”What was all that about, feeling the horse's legs, the stopwatches, all the inside track stuff?”

”Well, he's not a bad kid,” Callahan said as we walked through the dissipating fog. ”He's strong, good bloodlines, has good legs, but he's a mudder. He just does okay on the fast track. If I were a betting man I'd put my money on him to show. He's about half a length short of a champion.”

”You got all that from feeling his forelegs?”

”I got all that from reading the racing form.”

As we walked past the shedrows and headed across a dirt road toward the jockeys' cafeteria, I saw a dark blue Mercedes, parked near the stables. It was empty. I looked around, trying not to be obvious, but the fog was still too heavy to see anybody farther away than twenty feet.

”Old Dracula's here,” Callahan said.

”Dracula?”

”Raines. The commissioner.”

”You don't like him?” I found myself hoping Callahan would say no.

”Runs a tight operation. Like him a lot better if he had blood in his veins. One cold piece of work. That's his wife right over there. ”

It caught me by surprise. I turned quickly, getting a glimpse of Doe through the fog, talking nose to nose with a horse in one of the stables. Then the mist swirled back around her and she vanished.

”Let's mosey to the commissary,” Callahan said. ”Grab some groceries. Listen to the jocks and trainers.”

I didn't know Callahan well, but he was acting like a man who's on to something.

The fog had lifted enough for me to see the contours of the cafeteria, a long, low clapboard building. The dining room was a very pleasant, bright room that smelled of fresh coffee and breakfast. It was about half filled with track people: jocks, trainers, owners, handicappers, exercise riders, stewards. The talk was all horses. Mention Tagliani to this group, they'd want to know what race he was in and who was riding him.

I stayed close to Callahan, ordered a breakfast that would have satisfied a stevedore, and listened. Callahan was as tight with these people as a fat man's hand in a small glove. He talked to the track people from one side of his mouth and me from the other: ”The little guy with the hawk nose and no eyes, that's Johnny Gavilan. Very promising jock until he took a bad spill at Delray a couple years ago. Turned trainer . . . ”

Or: ”The little box in the coat and cap is Willie the Clock, the track handicapper. He works for the track and sets the beginning odds for each race. Knows more about horses than G.o.d and he's just as honest . . . ”

Or: ”The guy in the red sweater, no hair, that's Charlie Entwhistle. A great horse breeder. Started out as a trainer, then won this horse called Justabout in a poker game. At first it was a joke because old Justabout was just about the ugliest animal G.o.d ever created. He had no teeth. He'd stand around the paddock munching away on his gums and from the front he looked bowlegged. People would come down to the paddock, stick their tongues out at him, throw things at him, laugh at him. The Toothless Terror they called him, and he didn't look like he could beat a fat man around the track.

”Everybody was laughing at Charlie Entwhistle.

”But it turns out there's only one thing Justabout was any good for, and that was running. He not only loved to run, he couldn't stand for anything to be in front of him. Brother, could that kid run. He was home in bed before the rest of the field got to the wire. He rewrote the record books, made Sunday school teachers out of a lot of horseplayers, and he made old Charlie Entwhistle rich.”

Callahan looked at me and smiled.

”And that's what horse racing's all about.”

We had finished breakfast, and he picked up his coffee. ”Now let's go to work,” he said, and we moved toward the other side of the room.

30.

MAGIC HANDS.

”Just listen,” Callahan said as we drew fresh cups of coffee, though I hadn't so much as cleared my throat for the last thirty minutes.

”Every day of the season, Willie the Clock judges the top three horses in each race and sets the opening odds. His choice is printed in the program as a service to the bettors. No guarantees, of course, but that doesn't matter. The players are always p.i.s.sed at him. He's maybe the best handicapper in the business, but it's a thankless d.a.m.n job.”

”Why?”

”Because favorites lose more than they win. They get a bad break out of the gate or get caught in a traffic jam in the backstretch and can't find a slot. Here comes a long shot paying thirty to one and the players yell 'boat race.' Everybody wants to lynch Willie.”

We sat down next to the square little man, who was about sixty, had a face the texture of weatherbeaten wood, wore the same coat, rain or s.h.i.+ne, winter or summer, and had a black cap pulled down hard over his eyes. His binoculars were as big as he was. He didn't talk much and was very cautious about his clipboard, which is where all his information was scribbled.

He peered suspiciously from under the peak of his cap, recognized Callahan, gave him what I a.s.sume pa.s.sed for a smile for Willie, and scowled at me.

”This's Jake, Willie,” said Callahan. ”He's on our side.” Willie grunted and returned to his breakfast.

”What's lookin' good?” Callahan asked.

The little man shrugged and ate awhile longer. We sipped coffee while Callahan eyeballed the room. He nudged me once and nodded toward a wiry little guy, obviously a jockey, who came into the restaurant and sat by himself in a corner. The newcomer didn't look a day over fifteen and wouldn't have weighed a hundred pounds in a diving suit.

”Ginny's Girl looks good in the fifth,” Willie said finally, then closed up for another five minutes. Callahan didn't press but finally said, ”How about Disaway?”

Willie looked at him from the corner of his eye.

”Something special?” he asked.

Callahan shrugged. ”Just wondering, y'know, after he dozed off in the stretch Sunday.”

”He's lookin' fair.”

Another minute or so of silence, then: ”Not too crazy this morning; clocked out at 3:22. Not bad since they opened him up at the three-quarter and he's usually a stretch runner . . . ”

He washed down a piece of dry toast with a gulp of black coffee, searched for something in the corner of his mouth with a forefinger, then added: ”Track gets a little harder later in the day, he may tiptoe around. Right now I'd say he's a toss-up to place behind Polka Dits, who was kinda wild at the workout.”

”Talk at ya,” Callahan said, and we moved on again.