by Peter Klein
‘That’s the thing though, isn’t it? Everyone puts up the same-old same-old.’
‘It’s Christmas, Punter. People expect to see that crap. Come Christmas they want to see Santas and reindeers and angels and stuff. What else you gonna put up this time of year?’
‘I dunno. Leave it with me for a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.’ I asked him how we’d done for the week.
‘Not bad. We’re on track for budget for this quarter. I’m drowning at the moment though, since we lost Andrew. Haven’t been able to find a replacement for him yet. You’d think some kid would jump at a part-time job like that.’
‘You advertised?’
Billy nodded towards the window. ‘Put a sign up out front. I’ve also spread the word we’re looking to hire. In the meantime, I’ll bat on as best I can.’
I could always trust Billy to do the best he could. I’d known him years ago when he was a battling jockey working for my father. Increasing weight had forced him out of the game and he’d drifted into a succession of hospitality jobs before ending up at Gino’s when the old man himself had run the place. There, he’d been chief dishwasher, barman, pizza maker and anything else Gino had asked him to do. It seemed I’d inherited him when the place became mine. And I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal and trustworthy employee. Billy lived rent-free in the tiny flat above the shop as part of the deal. He was on a good wicket and he knew it, which is why he took an obvious pride in anything to do with the place.
Over breakfast we spoke about some operational issues. We had a cracked toilet bowl that needed replacing. And our insurance premium was due. Trouble with a restaurant, there’s always expenses you’ve got to put your hand in your pocket for. I gave Billy the green light for both items and then he showed me the summer menu he’d put together. It was essentially a different mix of the same food we offered all year round; a dozen varieties of pizzas, assorted garlic bread. Some pastas and desserts.
‘What’s changed?’ I said. Other than the new-look font and colour, it seemed pretty much the same to me.
‘Garlic bread. It’s now gourmet, made on the premises.’
‘Gourmet? What do we do that’s different from last week?’
Billy sighed patiently. ‘It’s not what we do, or don’t do to it,’ he explained, ‘it’s the perception in people’s minds when they see the menu.’
I looked blankly at him.
‘A couple come in and see plain old garlic bread on the menu, right? Hardly gonna excite ’em, is it? For all they know it’s just some tasteless frozen shit I’ve bought across the road at the supermarket.’
‘Is that where we get it from?’
‘No, we make it up ourselves. But it don’t matter where we get it from, Punter, garlic bread is garlic bread, either way you cut and slice it. But, tell ’em it’s gourmet, made on the premises garlic bread, and I’ll have to fight ’em off the counter with a stick, won’t I? Specially if I pan-fry some garlic butter up and leave it wafting through the restaurant all night.’
‘I knew there was a reason I hired you as manager.’
‘You stick to your horses and leave me to run the show here. You’ll see, we’ll put Pizza Hut out of business yet.’
After my breakfast meeting with Billy, I drove straight to the races at Caulfield. It’s only a five-minute drive and I parked my kombi van in my usual spot under the shade of the two gum trees by the side of the members’ entrance. My old bus always looks like an intruder in the members’ car park, where gleaming Porsches and BMWs are the usual means of transport. I’d owned my van for over a decade and it was second-hand when I bought it, so naturally it was showing its age. It had telltale signs of rust on the roof and tailgate, and the side door needed an appointment with a panel beater for coming off second best with a trolley in a car park. But I was attached to my van. I’d surfed the entire east coast in it and used it as a sort of pseudo surf room where I kept my wave skis, wetsuits and other assorted surfing gear. I smiled at the driver of a shining Mercedes coupe who pulled in and parked alongside me. The driver got out and turned his nose up disapprovingly at me. Gave me the sort of look that inferred I was parking illegally.
‘Good day for it,’ I said, nodding appreciatively towards his car. ‘Nice motor.’
Mercedes man grunted a reply that left no doubt he didn’t converse with tradesmen and hurried off. Yeah, nice motor, mate, but where would you put the surfing gear?
Just outside the entrance area, old George was standing patiently with his white plastic bucket collecting for the Salvos. I tipped him a fiver and he accepted it graciously as always.
‘Thanks, Punter, hope you back a winner or two today.’
‘You too, George.’
Some gamblers have immutable racetrack habits. They wear the same ties, the same suits. I know one bloke who confesses to wearing the same boxer shorts each time he goes, because he swears they’re his lucky undies. Me, I don’t have too many superstitions when it comes to clothes, but I’ve always tipped the Salvos on the way into a meeting. I sometimes tip them on the way out too, if I’ve had a good day. Other charities won’t get a dollar out of me. Maybe it’s the way they hound you; stick a tin in your face and ask you for donations. I don’t know what they do with the money or where it goes. I’d never stopped to ask George about it. I just gave him my loose change and sometimes I won and sometimes I lost, it didn’t seem to matter. But I know I always felt better if I put a dollar or two in George’s bucket before the first race.
Daisy was working the till at the café when I went to grab a coffee. She used to cook for me and the rest of Dad’s stablehands a lifetime ago, which was why she still treated me like a young nephew. These days she’d ceased preparing meals for strappers and had advanced up the ladder of catering. Daisy managed the restaurant for the caterers at the four metropolitan racetracks, and presided over a large casual staff who turned over hundreds of meals a day and endless afternoon teas.
‘Hello, luv,’ she greeted me. ‘How’s your dad, he got anything going today?’
Daisy loved a bet as much as anyone and she always looked out for my father’s horses on his home track at Caulfield. I told her his best today was Princess Upstart.
Daisy immediately pulled out a formguide from her apron and circled the horse.
‘Thanks, luv. You have a good day now and don’t forget to come back for lunch.’ She eyed me critically over the top of her glasses. ‘I’m sure you’re not eating nearly enough. It’s roast lamb today. Make sure you see me; I’ll slice you up an extra serve.’
I had to suppress a laugh. She remained convinced I was a perennial meal skipper, like I used to be back at the stables. I promised I’d see her later and left her to it.
Later in the afternoon, I saw Maxine again. She was leading in Princess Upstart, owned by her father and trained by my old man. Dad would have been none too happy about it either. The way he saw it, she was a wealthy owner’s daughter playing at being a strapper when it suited her. It was all very well dressing up and taking a horse to the races, but what about getting your hands dirty at four in the morning and mucking out the stables like the horse’s usual strapper did? It takes around ten to twelve weeks to get a horse ready to race and all strappers look forward to their hard work culminating in leading their charges in on raceday. Maxine’s insistence on taking her father’s horse to the races may have created friction with the filly’s regular handler; just another fire for my father to put out. No, Dad didn’t like it one bit, but he went along with Russell Henshaw’s wishes anyway. Henshaw did, after all, have a dozen impeccably bred gallopers in Dad’s stables, so if his socialite daughter wanted to lead them in on raceday and it kept him happy, well, Dad would grit his teeth and bear it.
I leant against the mounting yard fence and watched Maxine and the other strappers walking their horses around. There’s something I love about watching the horses in those few final minutes before a race. Some are flighty and skittish, jumping
at shadows and giving the impression that they’d rather be anywhere else but on a racecourse. Others clomp sleepily around as if they were a milk-cart hack. I won’t play a race until I see the horses parade in front of me. I want to know how a horse has come on from its last run, or if it’s ruined its chances by sweating up nervously in the mounting yard. Some of these horses were actually breaking out in a light sweat now, but it wasn’t because they were upset, it was due to the unseasonably hot weather we were getting. Already it was twenty-eight degrees and rising. By late afternoon it would easily get to the predicted top of thirty-two. Since early November we’d been experiencing a spate of thirty degree plus days. Melbourne can cop a heatwave, but you don’t normally get the real ‘hotties’ until January or February, the bushfire season. Must be something to do with global warming; at least that’s what everyone was saying. Even the betting agencies were running a book to see if December would be our hottest month on record.
The area around the mounting yard was starting to fill up with punters, eager to check out their fancies before having a bet. You see a lot of people looking at the horses before a race, although most wouldn’t know a fit horse from a rocking horse. But they lean against the fence and whisper knowingly that number five can’t win because she’s trained off or is wearing bandages, or some other nonsense. Truth is, there’s only a handful of people I’ve met over the years who can look at a horse before a race and tell you what it’s going to do. I had a good teacher of course, my father, although my betting activities weren’t exactly the vocation he’d hoped I’d take up. For me and my brother David, it was always assumed we’d follow in Dad’s footsteps and take over the horse-training duties at Parraboo Lodge. David had slotted easily into that role and had been Dad’s assistant trainer for over a decade. He’d eventually take over from Dad when the old man retired – if he ever did.
As for myself, I was still the black sheep of the family, because according to Dad I was ‘wasting my ability and would end up like all punters; broke’. I’d actually avoided penury for the best part of ten years now, and was quite happy with the comfortable lifestyle that I had. Did I have to get up at the crack of dawn to muck out boxes like other strappers did? No. Did I have to worry about the phone ringing incessantly with owners demanding to know how their horse was going? Forget it. I wasn’t cut out for the regimented lifestyle of a trainer’s son. So despite my father’s pre-ordained edict that I follow him into the training business, I haven’t gone back to work for him and I’ve managed to get by living on the punt. I’m not big-time and I have my ups and downs. But betting on the horses is what I do best. So I guess it’s punter by name and punter by trade.
Maxine walked by leading Princess Upstart. An appropriate name, I thought, given the woman who was strapping it. The filly was rock-hard fit, all bone and muscle. That’s the stamp I like to see on my father’s horses. Certain trainers turn their gallopers out with a trademark look and my father, David John Punter, certainly put an unmistakable seal on his horses when they were ready to win. DJ knew a bit about winning. Two Melbourne Cups, a swag of Group races and five training premierships in a career spanning forty-odd years were testament to his training prowess.
The other trainers were by now deep in conversation with their connections. Attentive owners were soaking up every word a trainer or jockey uttered, like a verdict being handed down by a High Court judge. Hoppy Baker declared emphatically to half a dozen clients how well their horse had improved since her last run. Hoppy was a trainer who gave instructions like a football coach booming out orders to his players on an oval. It was said he didn’t need a telephone, and I could guess why; I could hear him from the other side of the mounting yard. The stewards gave the order for the jockeys to mount up and I swung my attention back to the horses.
Princess Upstart was the logical favourite at evens. She had a touch of class, was on her home track and had run a slashing second at her last start. Sixbefour was about ready to peak after two races and she was value at the fives. The other chance was What About Me, who was trained up Albury way. Her trainer, Tosca Hughes, didn’t bring horses to town unless he thought they could win. The bookies were keeping her safe at fours. The rest of the ten-horse field I could safely put a line through. The strappers led them on a final lap around the yard before they made their way out the gate and onto the track. I caught Maxine’s eye and gave her a wink and a wave as she walked by. She gave me her infectious laugh, the cheeky smile, and was that an extra wiggle from those shapely jodhpured hips? A couple of guys behind me thought so – I could practically hear them drooling while they were discussing her.
‘Maaate, get a load of the chick leading that horse around. That’s a crime . . . you can’t go paradin’ round in them things.’
‘Steady, mate. We’re here for the betting, not the birds.’
I laughed to myself. Time to hit the betting ring, try and make a quid.
I watch as the horses parade in the mounting yard. Strappers leading their charges around, waiting for the jockeys to mount up. They’re mostly female strappers; perhaps eight or nine women and a couple of guys. Years ago you hardly saw a woman in racing stables. Nowadays, it’s considered a respectable job. And trainers love employing women. They reckon they’re kinder to the horses and don’t get as aggro with them as men do. What a con. If only they knew what they are really like. Some of the things I’ve seen . . .
I mean, look at that one leading number three around. How typical. Is it possible to wear a pair of jodhpurs any tighter around your arse? Stupid little bitch. God, they make me angry. They’re all the same. Every single one of them. Dolling themselves up for one reason and one reason only. You watch, I’ll bet you anything she tries it on. Here they come, the jockeys. Now, see if I’m wrong. There you go, what’d I tell you? Look at the dirty trollop. She’s not even paying the slightest attention to the trainer, or even the horse. No, instead she’s giving the jockey a slutty smile. A cute look-at-me laugh. You wouldn’t do that for a guy strapper, would you? Bitch. And look at that one with number ten. The one in the red top. How about the way she legged the hoop into the saddle? She’s still got her hand on his boot. That’s not even subtle. Why don’t you just give him your phone number now? Filthy little silk chaser.
After the strappers lead their horses onto the track, they return to the mounting yard. Some make their way up to the area set aside for attendants in the grandstand. A few of them, including number three, elect to watch the race by the fence opposite the winning post. Well, of course she would. That way, she can show off her figure to the whole grandstand. I mean, look at her, sticking her backside out like she’s a bloody model. Laughing loudly at some inane joke with a bunch of other girls. Pathetic. Did you see that, the way that guy strapper tried to make conversation with her? And her complete disregard of him. Dismissed by a toss of her hair. Just like Amanda used to do.
2
‘Just tell me one thing,’ said Tiny, ‘’cause I never could figure it out. Why do girls stay in a relationship with guys that abuse them?’
We were climbing the stairs of the Red Triangle in Fitzroy. There was me and Tiny, and my brother David. David had also invited Myles Perry, a trainer who rented some boxes from my father, for our regular Tuesday night game of snooker. Tiny took the stairs two at a time. His name belied his size; he was a giant of a man who topped six foot six and could fight like a threshing machine. He earnt a living by standing the door four nights a week at a couple of King Street clubs.
Tonight, there was only one topic that anyone wanted to talk about; how ‘Mad’ Charlie Dawson had killed his ex- girlfriend. It was juicy racing news. When a half-crazed jumps jockey murders his strapper girlfriend, it’s a story guaranteed to sell papers. It had been all over the broadsheets and on the TV and radio for the past couple of days. The story had started to dry up a little now, only because the police had arrested Dawson on Sunday. But the media was still milking it for all it was worth and had switched their fo
cus from who the killer was to why he’d done it.
Mad Charlie Dawson; David and I had known him from years ago when he rode track work for my father. Most people who worked at Caulfield knew him or had a story to tell about him. As a teenager, I was too afraid to even look him in the eye. The wild, cross-eyed stare, the temper blow-ups that could happen at a moment’s notice. I remember he once jumped off his horse during track work and decked an early-morning jogger who’d run across his path and nearly collided with him. A total over-reaction, but that was Charlie. He’d flare up over anything.
‘I dunno,’ said David. ‘I thought she’d broken up with him some time ago. He was a bloody bomb waiting to go off, wasn’t he? Remember when he used to ride work for Dad?’
I nodded. ‘He’d be about the only bloke the old man wouldn’t go crook at if he mucked up a gallop. I don’t know how he managed to sack him without causing a scene.’
David snorted sarcastically. ‘Because he got me to sack him, is what he did. Waited till he was interstate and then told me to get rid of him. Think I wasn’t shittin’ myself?’
We’d reached the end of the rickety wooden staircase and come out onto the top floor. I held open the door for the others to file inside.
‘What did you say to him?’ I said.
‘I told him the old man was spelling his steeplechasers; didn’t need a jumps jockey anymore to ride work. I made sure to sling him an extra five hundred along with his wages and told him the old man would be straight on the phone as soon as we got a jumper in the yard again. You reckon I wasn’t laying it on thick.’
We all laughed, commiserating with David.
‘All the time he was giving me that crazy punch-drunk look, where you don’t know if he’s going to have a go at you or go on home.’
‘Yeah, I know that look,’ said Tiny with empathy. ‘I had to throw him out of a club I was bouncing about a year ago. I literally had to pick him up and walk him off the premises. I mean, he’s a jockey, right? Half my size. I take him out and tell him it’s over for him for the night. Finished. Told him no hard feelings, but he’s pissed and being a nuisance and he’s barred for a week. You know what the mad prick did? There’s a hot-dog vendor outside. He grabs the guy’s skewer and comes at me full tilt like a midget attacking a basketball player. Fair dinkum, I didn’t want to hurt him, but I ended up having to give him a real belting ’cause he just wouldn’t stop. When he’s had a drink, he’s a certified nutcase. That’s why I can’t understand that poor girl even hanging around with him anymore.’
