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 hell 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 hell 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-shiny 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 shirt 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.
"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 God 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 God 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 pissed at him. He's maybe the best handicapper in the business, but it's a thankless damn 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 shine, 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 assume passed 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.
"You get all that?" he asked when we were a respectable distance from Willie.
"I think so," I said. "If the track's hard, Disaway'll probably fold in the stretch again. If it stays soft, he could come in second."
"Very good. You're learning."
"The little guy you gave me the nudge on," I said. "What was that all about?"
"That's Scoot Impastato. Out of Louisiana. Started racing quarter horses when he was thirteen. Moved up to Thoroughbreds when he was sixteen, if you believe his birth certificate. He's a seasoned jockey, great legs, magic hands, and he's all of twenty, soakin' wet. "
"Very impressive," I said. "So why the nudge?"
"He was riding Disaway on Sunday," Callahan said, and headed toward the little guy.
The jockey, Scoot Impastato, was a man in a child's body, with a voice that sounded like it was still trying to decide whether it was going to change or not. Right now it was kind of low choirboy. But the boy had hands made of stainless steel.
"Hey, Mr. Callahan," he said as we sat down.
"How they runnin', Scoot?" Callahan asked.
"So-so," the youngster answered. "You know how it goes—some days it don't pay to answer the call."
"Still upset about the race Sunday?" Callahan said. He was fishing. I don't know much about horse racing but I know fishing when I hear it.
The kid chuckled. "Which one?" he asked. "I was up four times and I ran out of the money four times." He seemed to be taking it in stride.
"Well, maybe it was some little thing, y'know, maybe you handled them a little different than usual and they got pissed. You know Thoroughbreds."
He laughed aloud. "I oughta," he said. He poured half his cup of coffee into an empty water glass and filled the cup with cream until it looked like weak chocolate milk, the way New Orleanians like it.
He added some sugar and kept talking as he stirred it up. "Once at Belmont I was up on Fancy Dan, fifty wins in two seasons, the horse couldn't lose. He went off a three-to-two favorite. The bell rings, the gate pops, he just stands there! I'm whackin' him with the bat, I'm bootin' hell outta him, I'm cussin' him, I'm sweet-talkin' him. He ain't goin' nowhere, he just stands there lookin' at the crowd and smellin' the grass. For all I know, he's still standin' there."
"So what happened with Disaway?"
Definitely fishing.
"Crapped out," he said with an aimless shrug. "He came outta that three stall like Man O' War and led the pack all the way around the backstretch; then we come into the clubhouse and all of a sudden he starts fallin' asleep on me. Midnight Star comes by like we was stopped for gas, then half the field passes us. I guess he just decided to walk home. I was yellin' at him just to keep him awake."
"How'd he look in the morning workout?"
"Fine. Not too spooky. Ran good. Two-tenths ahead of his usual speed."
"Well," Callahan said, "at least he got out of the gate."
"Sunday was like that. Seems every horse I rode wanted to be someplace else for the day. Well, it's Thoroughbreds for you, like you said."
His breakfast came. Steak, three eggs, and grits, and he dove in. I wondered how he stayed so small. Callahan kept fishing.
"You up on Disaway today?"
"Nope. No more. Got me another ride. Chigger Bite."
"How come?"
"Me and Smokey had it out. After the race he starts chewin' my ass for lettin' Disaway out early. Finally I says, 'Hey, it wasn't me, it was Mr. Thibideau,' and he looks at me like he thinks maybe I'm lyin' or somet
hin'. Who needs that shit anyways? The owner says let him loose at the five-eighths, I let him loose at the five-eighths." And he laughed again. "Maybe he thought the seven-eighths pole was the wire." He kept talking while he ate. "It ain't like it was some big surprise. Hell, we been talkin' about it. Mr. Thibideau wanted to try a change-up, letting him out at the five-eighths'stead of the stretch, maybe cut a coupla tenths off his time. He just didn't have anything left for the stretch. Anyways, I never argue with the owners."
"You didn't disagree with Thibideau, then?"
"Not out loud. Hell, he comes up just before post time, tells me boot him on the backstretch, and that's what I did. I just figure you want to try a change-up, why do it when you're the favorite? I'd rather wait until we're not on the board-nothin' to lose that way."
"Well, he probably had his reasons."
"Afterwards he comes up, says he's sorry, and gives me a double century, make up for the purse. 'I made a mistake' is all he says."
"He had the exercise boy break him out at the three-quarters again this morning," Callahan said casually over his coffee cup.
"Disaway's a marginal. Put him in a field with a bunch of heavyweights he might pull in third if he's feeling just right, it's been raining, track's soft, like that. Give him a little mud, a slow field, he takes the money."
"Thibideau ought to handicap him a little better."
"Mr. Thibideau, he keeps tryin', y'know, hopin' the horse'll show a little more stamina. You wanna know what I think, the pony's a stretch runner. He won't have it to run wide open them last three furlongs. Also he was favoring his left front gam. Anyways, I got another ride."
"When was he favoring the leg?"
"Just after the race. Probably got a pebble in his shoe. I told Smokey about it."
"Well, good luck today," Callahan said, and we moved outside.
The fog had burned off and left behind a beautiful day, with a cool breeze under a cloudless sky.
Callahan said, "That was probably Greek to you."
"I followed it pretty well. I just don't understand the drift of it all."
As we walked around the corner of the cafeteria, I got my first good look at the track and whistled between my teeth.
Hooligans Page 19
