The place was jammed. The parking lot was almost full and people were milling about the betting
windows, worrying over their racing forms, studying the electronic totalizator boards, which showed
Disaway paying $33.05 to win, almost fifteen to one.
“He has to beat Ixnay,” said Callahan. Ixnay was the favorite, paying only $3.40 to win. “The eight
horse,” he continued. “Two horse, Johnny‟s Girl, is favored to place. Then it‟s nip and tuck among the
field.”
We went from the betting rooms to the paddock. Disaway and the rest of the horses in the first race
were on display. He was showing good temper, standing with his legs slightly apart, his nostrils
flared, checking out the crowd. Judging on looks, I would have had my money on Disaway. The other
horses in the first race didn‟t look like they could carry his feed bag.
“Good-looking horse,” said Callahan. “Too bad he‟s got such tender feet.”
“Who‟s riding him today?” I asked.
“Scoot Impastato‟s up,” Callahan said.
“I thought he was through with „Thibideau,” I said.
“Who knows,” Callahan answered vaguely. “Maybe he needed a ride.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “He seemed so dead against him the other day.”
Callahan looked at me like I had just spit on his shoe.
“How would I know? Why do you do what you do? Why do jockeys jock? Hell, they get fifty bucks a
ride, a piece of the purse if they win. Rainy days, when the track‟s muddy, it‟s easy for a horse to go
down doing forty miles an hour. Jock can get trampled to death.”
“You mean like today,” I said.
“Not too bad out there now,” Callahan said. “Sun‟ll cook off most of the standing water. When it‟s
real muddy, shit I‟ll tell you, racing in the mud is one piss-poor way to make fifty bucks. But it‟s a
ride, what they do. Thibideau probably said, „I‟m sorry, kid, here‟s an extra fifty,‟ old Magic Hands is
up. Kid knows the horse, Thibideau wants a winner. He made peace.”
After the paddock we went to the top tier and he walked me through the private club section, a posh
series of tiered rooms protected from wind, rain, and sun by tinted glass, with royal-blue velveteen
sofas, low-cut mahogany tables for drinks and snacks, and TV monitors to provide close-ups of the
race for the privileged. Red-jacketed waiters, all of whom seemed to be elderly black men, solemnly
served refreshments. The place seemed to brag of its elegance, a fact I mentioned to Callahan.
“The sport of kings,” he said. “These are the aristocrats. Owners, breeders, money people. All part of
it, all part of the show.”
From the elite of the club we went down among the commoners at the rail. The crowd was already
four deep. Callahan, I learned, had a box in the club section, courtesy of the track, but he preferred to
be as close to the horses as he could get.
“Like to feel „em go by,” he said, adjusting his field glasses, checking out the infield, then the gate.
“When betting starts, we can get next to the wood.”
He handed me a program and I checked out the charts. There was a list of the stewards, headed by
Harry Raines, and some track information that surprised me. According to the program, taxes took
fourteen percent of the pari-mutnel‟s first ten million, eight percent of the next ten mill, six percent on
the next fifty, and five percent on everything over that. Obviously the state was getting fat, a fact
which certainly vindicated Raines.
The infield was as impressive as the stadium. A large pond with a fountain in the centre had attracted
herons and other water birds to it. Gardens surrounded the pond and there was a granite obelisk at one
end.
“What‟s that?” I asked, pointing to the large marker.
“Remember me telling you about Just about at chow the other morning?”
“You mean the ugly horse?”
Callahan nodded. “First big winner to come off this track. Ran his first heat here, ran here most of the
next season. First two years he won forty-two races. Ugly as he was, he was so good he once got a
standing ovation for coming in second. The crowd figured he‟d been racing so much he was tired. Just
before the season ended last year, he got trapped against the rail going into the far turn, tried to break
out, bumped another kid, went down. They had to destroy him, so the board of stewards decided to
bury him out there.”
At exactly ten minutes before post time a horseman in a red cutaway and a black hunter‟s cap led the
horses out onto the dirt, parading them around the track and in front of the stands. There was a ripple
of applause, now and then, and a lot of chitchat among the horseplayers as the Thoroughbreds went
by. Disaway was acting a little frisky, jogging sideways and shaking his head.
Callahan was right about the railbirds. Ten minutes before the first race, half of the crowd around us
seemed to rush off en masse, waiting until the last minute to get their bets down. We moved up
against the rail and across from the finish line, a perfect position.
The odds on Disaway changed very little, as Callahan had predicted. Five minutes before post time
they dropped from $33.05 to $26.20, still a hefty long shot as far as the bettors were concerned.
As they started putting the horses in the gate, Callahan gave me the binoculars.
“Watch Disaway, the four horse. He‟s acting up a little but I don‟t think he‟s nervous. Anxious to run.
Looks good, lots of energy.”
I could see him jogging sideways and throwing his head about as the handler tried to lead him into the
chute. Magic Hands was leaning over his shoulder, talking into his ear. A moment later the horse
settled down and strolled into the gate.
I turned around and appraised the clubhouse with the glasses. Raines was in the centre box, alone,
looking stern, like Patton leading his tanks into combat.
“There‟s Raines,” I said, “centre stage.”
Callahan gave him an unsolicited compliment. “Raines is a tough administrator. Built a rep for the
track; well run, clean, profitable.”
“Aren‟t they all?” I suggested.
“Hah! I got out of college,” said Callahan, “got a job working for the vet at a little track. Florida.
Assistant track doctor. Track was dirty. Shit, they switched blood samples, dosed horses.. . crazy. Saw
two horses die that summer, one with heaves. Terrible. Pony just lies down, gags for air. Like
watching him suffocate, only takes hours. Don‟t want to kill him because you keep hoping he‟ll turn
around, make it. I decided to make a stink how bad it was. Got me fired. Told me I‟d never work at a
racetrack again. So I became a cop, went back, cleaned their tank. Heads up, they‟re coming out.”
I gave him back his glasses just as the bell rang. I could see the horses charging out of the stalls, a blur
of horseflesh and wild colours; mauve, pink, orange, bright blues and greens seemed to blend together
in a streak of colour, then the line began to stretch out as the field moved for position. The crowd was
already going so crazy as the eight horses pounded toward the first turn, I couldn‟t hear the announcer
giving the positions.
“How‟s he doing?” I yelled, unable to make one horse from the other on the backstretch.
“Off the rail and fourth going into the turn,” Callahan yelled. “Got a bad break coming out of the
gate... making tip for it. . . Scoot‟s laying it on.. . on the outside now, moving into third. Scoot isn‟t
letting him out full yet. . . passing the three-quarter post. . . Scoot still holding him back. . . running
him to win, all right. Not gonna let him out until the stretch. . . there he goes into third place. . . he‟s