End of the Race

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “What’s that?” Taryn asks, pointing to a long rod with a dangly thing on it, rotating around the circle toward the gates.

  “The track workers are setting up the mechanical rabbit,” Gran explains.

  “It looks like a stuffed animal,” Taryn says, as the bar stops in front of the gates. She’s right, it does look like a stuffed bunny, propped up forlornly on the long bar.

  When the rabbit lure begins to move, the greyhounds start to howl like crazy. A buzzer sounds, the doors slide open, and six greyhounds burst onto the sandy track, each with a number sewn on a fabric piece attached to their backs by a belt. A gravelly voice blasts over the loudspeaker: “They’re off!”

  The greyhounds move like Olympic athletes, their muscles and joints interacting with smooth precision. I’m spellbound. They’re so incredibly graceful.

  Taryn jumps up and down, caught up in the excitement. “Wow! If I could run that fast, I’d beat everyone at my track meets.”

  “Five Dog is gaining on Three Dog,” the announcer’s voice blares. “Six Dog lags behind ten paces, but he’s gaining, gaining on Five Dog!”

  The people in the stands scream: “Go, Three Dog!” “What’s the matter with you, Six Dog?” “I told you to bet on that Five Dog!”

  “Why don’t they call the dogs by their names?” Taryn asks.

  Gran shrugs, looking disturbed.

  My eyes try to keep track of each dog’s progress, “They must be going about fifty miles an hour, especially Two Dog on the outside of the track.”

  Suddenly, as I watch, Two Dog stumbles and falls. She doesn’t get up, just lies there yelping. “Oh, no!” I shout. “Let’s help her.” I’m ready to jump out of my seat, when a dog handler runs out.

  Meanwhile, the announcer continues with his brassy play-by-play as the other greyhounds streak past the finish line. “We have an upset victory. Our frisky Five Dog, Bettor’s Dream, is Drescher’s winner today!” Groans and cheers rise from the stands.

  The handler leads the injured greyhound out and down through what looks like a trapdoor.

  “Where’s he taking Two Dog—I mean, Bad Girl?” I wince as I read the name listed on the program by number two.

  “I hope to an on-site vet, to get her attended to. She took quite a spill,” Gran replies.

  I’ve got to see where they’ve taken Two Dog. It’s now or never, because the next race is in fifteen minutes. If only I could find a shred of evidence, something to use as leverage to pressure Manny into seeing that these dogs are treated better. But what? Gran will never let us snoop around in unauthorized areas. I glance meaningfully at Taryn. “Gran, I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce.

  “I’d better come along, Maggie. This is no place for a girl to be milling around.” Gran returns her reading glasses to her shoulder bag and latches it closed.

  “I’m fourteen, Gran,” I sigh. “Besides, it’s right at the end of our seating area.” But Gran doesn’t look convinced.

  Taryn jumps in, just as we’d planned. “Don’t worry, Dr. Mac. I’ll go, too. We’ll protect each other.” Taryn adopts a kung fu stance,

  Gran chuckles. “OK, but come right back. I made the appointment with Manny Drescher immediately following the next race.”

  I give Gran a thumbs-up, and Taryn and I inch back along the row of seats. When we reach the main hall, I turn to her. “Last chance to back out. This mission might be kind of scary. And Gran will be mad at us if she finds out.”

  Taryn looks insulted. “My track team doesn’t call me Nerves of Steel for nothing.” Her sparkly brown eyes hold a dare. “How about you, Maggie—are you scared?”

  “No way.”Yes way. Who are you fooling, Maggie MacKenzie?

  As we weave through the stream of people, I glance down side passages and check for doors that may lead to kennel areas. Meanwhile, Taryn’s talking a mile a minute. Maybe that’s her way of keeping calm. “Even my mom’s grandpa, the first African American to win gold medals for the U of P’s track team, couldn’t run as fast as that Two Dog.”

  “Your great-grandfather won gold medals in track? That’s awesome,” I tell her—then hold up my hand. “Hear something?” Muted animal sounds reach my ears. “Do you hear a dog whining?”

  “From which direction?” asks Taryn.

  “Not sure.” As we walk, I tilt my head at various angles, trying to pinpoint the sound. Near a metal door marked PRIVATE, the whines and whimpers get louder. “Taryn, those aren’t happy sounds.” I hesitate, gathering up the courage to ignore the sign and open the door.

  Taryn beats me to it, flipping open the door and running down the first few steps. “C’mon, Maggie.”

  The dingy cellar smells of mildew, wet fur, and dog food. Rows of cages line the walls, filled with muzzled greyhounds. Some look emaciated. Some are agitated, turning round and round in their tiny spaces or clawing the sides of their cages.

  “Taryn, there’s Bad Girl!” The fawn greyhound is tied to a post, licking her front leg. “They haven’t even bandaged her leg yet.” We walk up to her slowly, and she wags her tail. I hold out my hand, and she licks it. Cautiously, I stroke the silky space between her pointed ears. “Are you hurt, Sweetie?”

  “Maggie—voices!” Taryn whispers. “Let’s hide.” I run to join her behind a cabinet as we hear two men in conversation, coming closer.

  “You’ve got to run in the 420 Derby on Monday. There’s thousands riding on you, Bad Girl,” one of the men says.

  He actually expects this dog to race again so soon? I peek out. The guy leaning over Bad Girl is short and stubby. He’s dressed in a derby and baggy brown khakis. The man standing over them is tall and smokes a cigar. As he exhales, I stifle an urge to cough.

  Cigarro man says, “Shoot her with the painkiller. She won’t even feel that sprained ankle on Monday.”

  The short man takes a syringe from his pocket, uncaps it, and injects the dog. Bad Girl yaps sharply. That is totally unethical! The Humane Society would consider this cruelty, and I know from my research that the Division of Special Revenue could slap these guys with some stiff fines. If only we had some way to prove what Manny’s handlers are doing.

  I glance at Taryn for her reaction. She’s two steps ahead of me—she has her mini tape recorder out and is recording their conversation!

  Maybe we can get something on Mr. Drescher—but not if they see us.

  We duck down, squeezing ourselves farther behind the dusty storage cabinet as the men walk closer. Between the dust and the cigar smoke, I have to struggle not to sneeze.

  “What about Whiskey ’n’ Water?” a gruff voice asks. I hear the creak of a cage door and claws scratching rapid-fire against metal.

  “Get this down his gullet,” the other guy says. “That mongrel will never win otherwise. Weighed in too darn heavy this morning. What have you been feeding him, rocks?” Both men chortle.

  More whimpering. I can’t bear to hear any dog abused. Got to peek out.

  The stubby man is trying to force something down the greyhound’s throat while the tall man holds the dog’s jaws open. Whiskey ’n’ Water twists his head side to side in alarm.

  I have to do something— now. Taryn is still tape-recording, so if the men do anything to me, at least she’ll have evidence. I take a deep breath, then step out from behind the cabinet.

  “What are you feeding that dog? Stop it right now!” I try to sound stern and menacing, but my legs are shaking so badly, I’m afraid I’m going to fall.

  Cigarro man glares at me. “None of your business, kid. You’re not allowed down here. Now scoot.” His face is one bone-warping scowl.

  “She said stop it!” Taryn emerges with her recording equipment. “I’ve got you on tape.”

  The stubby man startles, and the bottle falls from his hands. Taryn’s actually spooked him.

  I reach down and grab the bottle before he can. “It’s laxative!” I shout.

  The tall man throws his smoking cigar onto the floor. “Get those ki
ds!” he yells to the stubby man.

  Taryn and I run for it, with Taryn way in the lead. She is one incredible runner. We careen up the stairs, puffing and sweating, and don’t stop until we are down the hall, far from that metal door. I glance back. No sign of the two creepy guys.

  I pull the laxative bottle out of my pocket. “Evidence.”

  She pulls out her mini tape. “Evidence!”

  We shake on it.

  Back at the stands, we’re huffing and puffing. “Girls, are you that out of shape?” Gran inquires. “Don’t your coaches run you at your athletic practices?”

  I can’t lie to Gran—I tell her the whole story. Gran is shocked, and I know we’re in for a major lecture, but all she says is, “Girls, you know what you did was potentially very dangerous. I won’t go into it now. We’ll talk later.” Gran checks her watch. “The next race is about to begin.”

  I shake my head. I’m burning mad at the way those men were abusing the greyhounds. “We’ve seen enough, Gran,” I say. “Can we meet Manny Drescher now?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Who should I tell him is here?” Manny Drescher’s secretary asks, looking us up and down suspiciously. I bet she’s wondering why two kids and a clean-cut suburban lady would want to chat with the likes of Manny.

  “Dr. MacKenzie, Maggie MacKenzie, and Taryn Barbosa. Tell him we’re friends of Roselyn’s,” Gran replies.

  “Roselyn who?” The secretary hesitates. Is she for real, or just pretending she hasn’t a clue?

  “Roselyn Drescher. His sister.” Gran emphasizes the last word.

  “Of course.” The rattled secretary regains her composure, patting down her red hairdo. “Didn’t you have an appointment for 3:00 p.m.?” Gran nods. “You’re early. It’s only 2:30. I’ll see if he’s available.” She clicks off in her teetery heels and returns moments later. “Right this way.”

  Manny sits behind an oval desk littered with yellow and green betting forms. He’s talking into a cordless phone and holds up a finger, as if to say, “Just a minute.”

  While he finishes his call, we look around.

  Taryn nudges me. “Check out that safe, Maggie.” A huge round wall safe, the kind you see in thriller movies, is embedded in the wall to the left of Manny’s desk.

  I point to a photo on the wall, near the safe. “Look at this.” In it, a younger Manny and Roselyn stand side by side in front of Speedway, all smiles.

  “From happier days,” Gran notes dryly.

  Manny clicks off his phone and lumbers over. He extends a hand adorned with gold rings. “Any friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.

  Give me a break, Manny.

  “Are you enjoying the races?” he continues. “How about that Five Dog, Bettor’s Dream? Were you lucky enough to bet on a winner today?”

  “I don’t bet,” Gran replies.

  Manny continues as if he hasn’t even heard her, like he’s so infatuated by his voice that he wants to hear it talk, talk, talk. “I’ve been in this business for thirty years and I haven’t seen any faster than Bettor’s Dream. He’s won cup after cup. Bettor will be in the American Greyhound Hall of Fame in a few years, soon as he retires.” Manny grins proudly.

  Taryn and I exchange glances. “What about Bad Girl, your Two Dog?” I ask, my pulse racing. “She shouldn’t run again Monday after spraining her foreleg, like your men expect her to. That kind of injury takes time to heal—maybe even a couple of weeks.”

  “She’ll do just fine.” Manny’s grin distorts into a downward curl. “What men?”

  “We have evidence your dogs are being tampered with,” Gran says. “We assume that you run a legitimate business here. But some of the dog handlers are performing unethical activities, which could get them fined and the dogs disqualified.”

  Manny’s face twists into a scowl. He folds his arms across his barrel chest. “We don’t do anything shady here. This is a class operation, so don’t get smart with me.”

  “Let’s keep this discussion calm, Mr. Drescher, because I’ve alerted the police downstairs that I may need their help,” Gran warns. She turns to Taryn. “Go ahead.”

  Taryn takes out her mini tape recorder and clicks it to “play.” The basement conversation replays loud and clear: “Shoot her with the painkiller. She won’t even feel that sprained ankle on Monday.” Snickers all around, then a yelp from Bad Girl. The dog’s cry hurts me, just as it did when we heard it live.

  The color drains from Manny’s face. He and his secretary stand there awkwardly.

  “Forcing an injured dog to run before the injury is healed is cruel and unethical,” Gran says, obviously shocked again by Taryn’s tape recording, but quickly regaining her composure. “The Humane Society would like to hear about this.”

  I gather my nerve to talk. “We also saw a dog named Whiskey ’n’ Water about to be force-fed laxatives so that he’d weigh less before the next race. Doping dogs to run before an injury is healed and laxative abuse are both grounds to remove a dog from the active racing list. Plus there could be big fines from the Division of Special Revenue.”

  “My handlers don’t feed their dogs any laxatives.” Manny yanks his shirt farther over his belly.

  “Maybe the owners are bribing the handlers—who knows?” I say. “Don’t believe me? Here’s the bottle.” I fish into my pocket and hold it up, with the label face out. “You should be ashamed of the way your dogs are treated.”

  “What do you people want, anyway?” Manny shouts, pounding his fists on the table and sending a flurry of candy-colored betting forms to the floor.

  Gran speaks. “We’d like to close you down. But at the very least, we want to open up a greyhound adoption booth at your track so that the older and injured dogs can find good homes instead of being abused or put to sleep.”

  Manny shrugs. “Listen, lady, I’m running a business, not an animal shelter. Not every dog has what it takes to be a winner. Dogs come, dogs go.”

  I jump back in. “But where do they go?”

  “That’s not my concern,” says Manny. “I’m running a track here. What the owners do with their dogs is their business.”

  “It should be your business,” Gran retorts. “You create the market for these greyhounds, so you should share the responsibility for what happens to them. Did you know that Gingerbread, one of your racers who was dropped on your sister’s lawn by a Speedway van, almost died this week from infected wounds and a broken foreleg?”

  “My grandmother writes a syndicated newspaper column,” I point out. “She could write an exposé about Speedway and how the racing dogs are treated. Her column has millions of readers. They would be horrified to know—”

  “Are you threatening me? Who do you think you are? Get out!” Manny shouts.

  His secretary, glued to the spot, comes alive. “You heard him. Scram!” She points to the hallway. Manny comes at us with his fist raised. My legs are wobbly. Will I be able to run? I can hardly walk.

  “May I remind you about the police downstairs?” Gran says quietly. “Shall I call them now?”

  Manny doesn’t answer. The veins in his forehead bulge and pulse with anger.

  I’ve got to try one more tack. They always say you can catch more flies with honey…“On the other hand, Mr. Drescher, if your dogs could be retrained and had safe adoptive homes to go to, we’d be so grateful. I’ll bet those protesters we saw outside the track would be grateful, too, if they saw you doing good things for these dogs,” I add. “We’d like to help you—”

  Manny cuts me off. “An adoption booth costs money. What’s in it for me?”

  Gran steps in. “What’s in it for you is your public image. Retraining your dogs and providing them with homes after their racing days are done is just plain good business. It improves your reputation in the community. You’ll get good publicity—and get rid of those pesky protesters downstairs. If you cooperate, I’ll encourage some of the local veterinarians to volunteer their services for the dogs to be adopted.
Dog tracks should be illegal, but as long as they exist, the least we can do is see to it that the dogs are well taken care of.”

  Manny silently ponders our proposal.

  “You know, it might not be such a bad idea, Manny,” his secretary says.

  “But the cost?” Manny squints suspiciously. “You people think I’m rolling in dough?”

  “We’ll raise the money for the adoption booth and for retraining the dogs,” I explain. “We’ll even staff the booth and advertise the dogs on a Web site we create and maintain. All you have to do is provide space and maybe kick in some dog food now and then.”

  “You won’t have to spend much money on it,” Taryn assures him.

  “I’ll think about it.” Manny rakes his hands through his hair. “Good for business, huh?”

  Gran smiles, but her square MacKenzie jaw juts stubbornly. “One last thing, Mr. Drescher. We’d like to take the dogs who are in the worst shape, including your Number Two dog, Bad Girl, who has no business racing again after a sprain injury.”

  “I’ll have to call their owners. Let me see what I can do,” Manny mutters.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The secretary escorts us back into her office while Manny makes calls to the dog owners. After a few minutes, Manny returns.

  He admits that Whiskey’s owner is eager to get rid of him—Whiskey’s been on a losing streak for months. Bad Girl’s owners have agreed after Manny told them about the alternatives—a fine and the threat of disqualification from the gaming commission. “Like I said, I run a class operation here. No funny stuff allowed,” Manny repeats. He gives us fifteen minutes to get what we need from our van and meet his driver, Thomas Mahoney, back at Speedway’s main entrance.

  We quickly gather leashes and Gran’s medical bag. She carries it with her wherever she goes, because she never knows when she’ll get an animal emergency call on her pager.

  Mr. Mahoney greets us at the entrance. He’s built like a beanpole and wears a sports jacket emblazoned with Speedway’s logo on one shoulder.