a lawyer, she’s a schoolteacher. Only she don’t teach. Anyway, the boy, he lives in Los Angeles, and my daughter, she’s all the way down in South Jersey. After Pam passed, I started coming here all the time. But then it turned lousy, like I said.
“So now, I got me a place upstate. There’s a sweet little track twenty minutes from my house. It’s not major league, but it’s got some nice horses going. And not just the old campaigners that aren’t fast enough for the big purses anymore; the prospects, too. You can pick out the ones that are going places. It’s kind of fun, watch them after that. Not in person, I mean in the papers. See how they made out.”
“You miss your kids?”
“About as much as they miss me,” he said. “I always worked second shift. Put in a lot of overtime, too. Always adding to that goddamned pension, that was me.”
11
One day, the old man said he’d showed me what he knew—a
piece
of what he knew, he made sure to tell me. That’s how I knew it was time for him to split.
“You don’t have to do this … what you do, Henry.” That was the first time he ever said my name. “I know you must get paid good, but there’s not even a pension at the end, right?”
I nodded. The old man knew more than I thought he did. There’s only one way a guy who does my kind of work gets to retire.
12
After the old man went away, I did the same stuff he did. I was there every night. I kept my notebook, and I watched. They never called me off, and I got paid expenses every week, so I figured they hadn’t found that Arnie guy yet.
One Tuesday night, there wasn’t a single pacer I liked in the first race, but I was crazy about a trotter going in the second—a tough little gelding named Sheba’s Pride, eleven years old and he still knew the way home. That was something the old man taught me, how some of the older horses had the track figured out better than the drivers did.
Sheba’s Pride was in with 5K claimers, grinders who weren’t ever going to get claimed, just there to pick up a pick of the purse. My horse had a life mark of fifty-one and one, but he took that when he was a four-year-old. Three of the other horses had gone faster, and much more recently. But not one of them had taken their mark on a half-mile track, like my horse had.
It was a nasty day, cold with heavy clouds; the infield flags showed a hard wind, too. None of that was going to bother my horse. I had watched him qualify when he shipped in fromFreehold—another four-turn track. His driver had him pocket-sitting all the way; he could have cruised home second, qualified easy. But he pulled outside, challenged, and put together a last quarter in twenty-eight and three, open lengths between him and the horse that had been on top.
“They have to want it,” the old man had told me. I knew that was what he meant by “heart,” even though he never said the word.
I had wheeled Sheba’s Pride, so I had the Double covered if he could pull off his half. I didn’t care who won the first, but I watched anyway. The seven horse tried to cut across, but he moved too sharp. The interference break took out the front-runners … lucky none of the horses went down.
Some rat with no business winning anything managed to stagger home ahead of what was left. Paid a ridiculous forty-seven bucks for the win.
When I checked the board, it was like the stakes just shot up. I knew if Sheba’s Pride came through for me, I was looking at a real bundle.
The marshal called the trotters, and they rolled in behind the moving gate. When the pace car pulled away, three of them fought for the lead, but Sheba’s Pride showed nothing going into the first turn. He was shuffled back, sixth on the rail, and he stayed there all the way through the first two quarters, even though the second went in a stone-slow thirty and four.
Just past the half, Sheba’s Pride pulled off the rail, but he wasn’t the only one with that idea. Usually,
“So now, I got me a place upstate. There’s a sweet little track twenty minutes from my house. It’s not major league, but it’s got some nice horses going. And not just the old campaigners that aren’t fast enough for the big purses anymore; the prospects, too. You can pick out the ones that are going places. It’s kind of fun, watch them after that. Not in person, I mean in the papers. See how they made out.”
“You miss your kids?”
“About as much as they miss me,” he said. “I always worked second shift. Put in a lot of overtime, too. Always adding to that goddamned pension, that was me.”
11
One day, the old man said he’d showed me what he knew—a
piece
of what he knew, he made sure to tell me. That’s how I knew it was time for him to split.
“You don’t have to do this … what you do, Henry.” That was the first time he ever said my name. “I know you must get paid good, but there’s not even a pension at the end, right?”
I nodded. The old man knew more than I thought he did. There’s only one way a guy who does my kind of work gets to retire.
12
After the old man went away, I did the same stuff he did. I was there every night. I kept my notebook, and I watched. They never called me off, and I got paid expenses every week, so I figured they hadn’t found that Arnie guy yet.
One Tuesday night, there wasn’t a single pacer I liked in the first race, but I was crazy about a trotter going in the second—a tough little gelding named Sheba’s Pride, eleven years old and he still knew the way home. That was something the old man taught me, how some of the older horses had the track figured out better than the drivers did.
Sheba’s Pride was in with 5K claimers, grinders who weren’t ever going to get claimed, just there to pick up a pick of the purse. My horse had a life mark of fifty-one and one, but he took that when he was a four-year-old. Three of the other horses had gone faster, and much more recently. But not one of them had taken their mark on a half-mile track, like my horse had.
It was a nasty day, cold with heavy clouds; the infield flags showed a hard wind, too. None of that was going to bother my horse. I had watched him qualify when he shipped in fromFreehold—another four-turn track. His driver had him pocket-sitting all the way; he could have cruised home second, qualified easy. But he pulled outside, challenged, and put together a last quarter in twenty-eight and three, open lengths between him and the horse that had been on top.
“They have to want it,” the old man had told me. I knew that was what he meant by “heart,” even though he never said the word.
I had wheeled Sheba’s Pride, so I had the Double covered if he could pull off his half. I didn’t care who won the first, but I watched anyway. The seven horse tried to cut across, but he moved too sharp. The interference break took out the front-runners … lucky none of the horses went down.
Some rat with no business winning anything managed to stagger home ahead of what was left. Paid a ridiculous forty-seven bucks for the win.
When I checked the board, it was like the stakes just shot up. I knew if Sheba’s Pride came through for me, I was looking at a real bundle.
The marshal called the trotters, and they rolled in behind the moving gate. When the pace car pulled away, three of them fought for the lead, but Sheba’s Pride showed nothing going into the first turn. He was shuffled back, sixth on the rail, and he stayed there all the way through the first two quarters, even though the second went in a stone-slow thirty and four.
Just past the half, Sheba’s Pride pulled off the rail, but he wasn’t the only one with that idea. Usually,
Similar Books
