That’s right. The foal was Zuppa Inglese.
Pete’s Cake was in several of the photographs. Eric studied the jockeys’ names. Were they famous? Were the races important
ones?
He sighed. He might as well have landed on another planet. His nephew’s immediate, scornful, but accurate appraisal of Eric’s
understanding of this milieu ran through his mind in a continuous loop as he paced.
You don’t know anything about horse racing. You don’t even know what you’re looking at when you see a horse.
One additional part of Jimmy’s assessment Eric had deemed going a bit too far:
I’m not sure you can tell a mane from a tail, so if you ever get close to a horse, watch where you put your hands.
The pacing made him feel a little too warm, so he decided to look for that Pellegrino. He opened the refrigerator and saw
beer and a bunch of carrots—well, horses liked carrots. He knew that much, didn’t he? Probably some sugar cubes in here, too.
There were other vegetables, a couple of apples, some sealed plastic containers, a box of baking soda, what looked to be a
wide variety of veterinary medications (perhaps this was the horses’ refrigerator, too?), some nondairy creamer, and a bag
of coffee beans. He looked at the racks in the refrigerator door: two bottles of fume blanc and at long last, the Pellegrino.
He thought of putting away some of the sports drinks, decided he didn’t owe Shackel any favors, and shut the refrigerator
door. He found a bottle opener at the wet bar, poured himself a crystal tumbler’s worth, and sat back down.
He was finishing off the last of it when Shackel returned. For a moment, surprise registered on Shackel’s face, and he glanced
toward the desk. Eric felt a little bloom of confidence.
Didn’t think I’d get out of the chair, eh? No, I didn’t go through jour desk or computer.
“I shouldn’t have left you in here alone for so long. I’m sorry,” Shackel said. “I’m glad to see you made yourself comfortable,
though. Good, good.”
The bloom faded. Eric suddenly felt criminal for taking even this small bit of water from a man he was about to fire. But
he glanced at his watch and regained his resolve. A forty-minute wait!
“Zuppa’s a youngster, a two-year-old that hasn’t let us really see his stuff yet,” Shackel said, “but I’ve made some changes
and—”
“Mr. Shackel, forgive me, I’ve arranged to have the horse trained elsewhere. ”
Shackel went pale. “You can’t— ”
Eric explained that yes, indeed, he could.
“You—you don’t blame me for what happened to Mark, do you?”
“For my brother’s suicide? No.” Was that a lie? Not for the first time, Eric wondered if he did irrationally blame Shackel,
and if that were really what lay beneath his willingness to move the horse from this trainer. He chose his words carefully.
“Mr. Shackel, this has been a difficult time for everyone, but I assure you my decision is final.”
He had no sooner said this than the intercom buzzed again. Shackel answered it, his frown deepening as he listened. “Wait
a minute…” He looked up at Eric. “Eric, they tell me a transport truck you ordered is here, and that Donna Free-point followed
it in. If she’s your new trainer, well—you really couldn’t be making a worse mistake. Not just in taking Zuppa from here at
this point in his training, but in choosing her.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but there’s nothing more to be said, really.”
Eric discovered that from Shackel’s perspective, this was not quite true. The trainer treated him to a tirade that included
a great many terms that Eric was not familiar with and few that he knew well and seldom used, and ended with, “You don’t know
anything about horses! ”
“On that we agree,” Eric said, feeling much better about drinking the Pellegrino now, and walked out of the office.
He stayed on the grounds only long enough to ensure that the horse was
Pete’s Cake was in several of the photographs. Eric studied the jockeys’ names. Were they famous? Were the races important
ones?
He sighed. He might as well have landed on another planet. His nephew’s immediate, scornful, but accurate appraisal of Eric’s
understanding of this milieu ran through his mind in a continuous loop as he paced.
You don’t know anything about horse racing. You don’t even know what you’re looking at when you see a horse.
One additional part of Jimmy’s assessment Eric had deemed going a bit too far:
I’m not sure you can tell a mane from a tail, so if you ever get close to a horse, watch where you put your hands.
The pacing made him feel a little too warm, so he decided to look for that Pellegrino. He opened the refrigerator and saw
beer and a bunch of carrots—well, horses liked carrots. He knew that much, didn’t he? Probably some sugar cubes in here, too.
There were other vegetables, a couple of apples, some sealed plastic containers, a box of baking soda, what looked to be a
wide variety of veterinary medications (perhaps this was the horses’ refrigerator, too?), some nondairy creamer, and a bag
of coffee beans. He looked at the racks in the refrigerator door: two bottles of fume blanc and at long last, the Pellegrino.
He thought of putting away some of the sports drinks, decided he didn’t owe Shackel any favors, and shut the refrigerator
door. He found a bottle opener at the wet bar, poured himself a crystal tumbler’s worth, and sat back down.
He was finishing off the last of it when Shackel returned. For a moment, surprise registered on Shackel’s face, and he glanced
toward the desk. Eric felt a little bloom of confidence.
Didn’t think I’d get out of the chair, eh? No, I didn’t go through jour desk or computer.
“I shouldn’t have left you in here alone for so long. I’m sorry,” Shackel said. “I’m glad to see you made yourself comfortable,
though. Good, good.”
The bloom faded. Eric suddenly felt criminal for taking even this small bit of water from a man he was about to fire. But
he glanced at his watch and regained his resolve. A forty-minute wait!
“Zuppa’s a youngster, a two-year-old that hasn’t let us really see his stuff yet,” Shackel said, “but I’ve made some changes
and—”
“Mr. Shackel, forgive me, I’ve arranged to have the horse trained elsewhere. ”
Shackel went pale. “You can’t— ”
Eric explained that yes, indeed, he could.
“You—you don’t blame me for what happened to Mark, do you?”
“For my brother’s suicide? No.” Was that a lie? Not for the first time, Eric wondered if he did irrationally blame Shackel,
and if that were really what lay beneath his willingness to move the horse from this trainer. He chose his words carefully.
“Mr. Shackel, this has been a difficult time for everyone, but I assure you my decision is final.”
He had no sooner said this than the intercom buzzed again. Shackel answered it, his frown deepening as he listened. “Wait
a minute…” He looked up at Eric. “Eric, they tell me a transport truck you ordered is here, and that Donna Free-point followed
it in. If she’s your new trainer, well—you really couldn’t be making a worse mistake. Not just in taking Zuppa from here at
this point in his training, but in choosing her.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but there’s nothing more to be said, really.”
Eric discovered that from Shackel’s perspective, this was not quite true. The trainer treated him to a tirade that included
a great many terms that Eric was not familiar with and few that he knew well and seldom used, and ended with, “You don’t know
anything about horses! ”
“On that we agree,” Eric said, feeling much better about drinking the Pellegrino now, and walked out of the office.
He stayed on the grounds only long enough to ensure that the horse was
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