by Peter Klein
‘Me and the girls saw the ads they were running in Best Bets and over drinks we decided we’d all chip in and buy a share if it wasn’t too expensive. Do you think they’re all right, this mob?’
I confessed I didn’t know much more than her. ‘But my girlfriend is doing the public relations work for Winning Way. She’s organised this whole shebang tonight.’
‘Where is she? You’ll have to introduce me.’
I looked around the room and spotted Maxine over towards the bar area talking to a group. I pointed her out to Daisy. ‘She looks tied up now, but I’ll bring her around to meet you when she’s free.’
‘She looks lovely, Punter. I’d better get back to the girls now. Say hello to your father for me next time you see him.’
‘I will. Hey Daisy, I hope you buy into a Melbourne Cup winner.’
Next to me there was a loudish young group throwing down Winning Way’s hospitality as quickly as they could. I didn’t know who was worse, the guys or the girls. Perhaps it was the free booze or because it was Friday night and the end of the working week, but they were putting it away. I caught one of the guy’s eyes, gave him a friendly nod and struck up a conversation with him.
‘You here to buy a horse then?’ he asked.
‘Just tagging along,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ll see what they’re offering in the presentation. But that guy can certainly pick a winner,’ he said, pointing his glass towards a man talking to a group of people near the podium. I followed his gaze and recognised a handsome, charismatic-looking man in his late thirties. It was Kagan Hall. Even from twenty metres away you could hear his cultured, very British voice as he effortlessly made conversation with total strangers. There must be an art to that type of thing. To be able to approach people you’ve never met and work the room making small talk. They say it’s a learnt skill. If that was so, then I’d never taken classes.
Hall was talking about some horse he’d just bought. ‘One of the nicest colts I’ve ever seen,’ he said to the group, who were hanging off his every word. ‘Big girth and shoulders, lovely stride. Just the sort of horse that will mature into a Derby horse by next spring.’
‘Are shares in him still for sale?’ asked one of the would-be owners.
‘Yes, there are a few left, but there’s a lot of interest being shown in him. I wouldn’t leave it for too long.’
Oh, that was good. Very good. A born salesman. Didn’t push too hard or sound desperate, just enough to whet the appetite. I saw the bloke who’d been asking about shares now talking earnestly to his mates, perhaps seeing how much of a bank they could rustle up between them. Hall seamlessly excused himself and moved on to the next lot of prospects, joining them like a long-lost friend.
‘Hello.’ He flashed that ultra-confident smile. ‘I’m Kagan Hall. Have you raced a horse before?’
Slick operator. I had to hand it to him. I didn’t know how he did it. Day after day, week after week. Buying horses and then having to flog them off to punters. Looked a tough way to make a quid. There were around thirty-odd syndication schemes operating in Australia that I was aware of. Some had been around for decades. They were the real deal, headed by respected judges of horseflesh who picked winners in the sale ring every year. It was a lucrative trade to get into in a bull market. When conditions were right, you simply bought a bunch of yearlings, put a mark-up on them to cover expenses and management fees and offloaded them to eager buyers like I was seeing here tonight. But there must have been difficulties associated with the trade. If you bought big-time like Hall did, then you had to borrow the funds to make the purchases. I figured he’d have to find the payments to make the interest and pay his staff and then for all of this. I looked around the room and did the maths. Upwards of two hundred people at, say, thirty dollars a head for drinks and finger food. No wonder the man at the concierge had given us such a hard time about catering. Then, he’d have to advertise; that would cost a small fortune each month, especially for the exposure he was getting. And of course Maxine wouldn’t come cheaply either, pro moting the whole box and dice. Sounded like a lot of work and pressure to get an earn out of. Think I’d stick to punting.
I was saved from further thoughts by Maxine, who waved at me through the crowd and then walked over.
‘Hi sweetie, sorry to leave you alone. They’re just about to start the presentation. Can you save me a seat up front somewhere and I’ll come and join you in a tick?’
Ushers herded us towards the seated area of the room, and I selected a couple of chairs near the front, putting my jacket on the spare seat for Maxine. On stage, the lights dimmed as a PowerPoint presentation flicked on and Kagan Hall welcomed us from a podium. Maxine came along and squeezed in next to me.
‘All going to plan?’ I whispered.
‘Yeah, so far so good. He’ll launch into his spiel now. You watch him, he’s a natural.’
Maxine wasn’t telling me anything that I didn’t already know. In front of a crowd, Kagan Hall was a born performer. He should have been on TV. From the moment he spoke his first word he had the audience eating out of his hand. A large screen showed a video of an impressive yearling colt being led around the sales by an attendant. It reared up and struck out cheekily with its forelegs before the tap of the auctioneer’s gavel confirmed a sale. ‘Sold to Kagan Hall! Another successful purchase to Winning Way Syndications.’
Hall stopped the video and froze the image of the colt in front of us all. He paused for a moment, using the silence to build the suspense. Then he leant forward on the podium, seemingly making eye contact with every person in the room.
‘Why do we do it?’ he asked the crowd. ‘Why do we put our hand up for a horse in the sale ring?’
Hall left the podium and strode confidently forwards to the front of the stage. He held his arms open like a politician, assuring his voters that he had all the answers. There was some nervous coughing and throat-clearing. Finally, someone in the audience called out from the back of the room.
‘I dunno, we must all be dreaming. Half the horses never even make it to the track and the ones that do are mostly too slow to win a race!’
The respondent got a few laughs from the rest of the audience before a solemn-faced Hall spoke again.
‘You, my friend, have hit the nail right on the head. We’re all dreamers, those of us in the racing game. We dream that the horse we’ve bought will turn out to be a good one. We dare to dream that it will win a Golden Slipper, a Cox Plate, a Melbourne Cup. After all, some horse has to win it every year and why shouldn’t it be yours?’
He paused briefly and smiled warmly at his audience.
‘Let me tell you some sobering facts. It’s true, nearly half the horses sold don’t make it to the track. They break down, they have mishaps, they need more time, they’re too slow, they’re retired for breeding. You’ve heard all the excuses. At Winning Way we don’t have a magic prescription, but we do have a rigorous procedure to ensure that we only select the best credentialed yearlings. We go through all pedigrees with a fine-tooth comb and if they don’t meet our selection criteria, we strike them off our list. Other syndication companies will promise you the world and won’t even give you an atlas, but our record stacks up against the very best. For those who aren’t familiar with our record, here’s a brief reminder.’
Hall stood to the side and flicked his remote control. It brought up the next clip showing Winning Way’s star gallopers. There had been a few over the last five years. The video started with Time Machine, who’d kick-started Hall’s syndication career in Australia. He’d won the Slipper and Sires Produce Stakes before being syndicated for more than what several mansions in Toorak were worth. Then Sarasun galloped into view. They’d bought him in New Zealand for the proverbial song, a tried horse who’d gone on to win the AJC Derby. He’d been a colt too, which meant he would earn far more from the breeding barn than he could at the track. That had led to his early retirement and fatt
ened the wallets of his lucky owners. There were plenty of other horses mentioned in the clip, most of which I’d heard of. All the images had a picture of Hall in the background; at the races accepting a trophy, or at the sale yards making a winning bid, his very presence a reminder to us all of his astute judgement.
Hall froze the clip and took up his position at the podium again.
‘Ladies and gentleman, I’ve given you a small sample of what Winning Way has achieved in five short years, and I want you to share with me in even greater success.’
He stopped, probing the room for any non-believers. It was hard not be a complete convert.
‘Winning Way isn’t the cheapest syndicator around, and I make no apology for that; it’s a costly business. But we get the results. For those of you looking to make an astute purchase, I invite you to join me in my current offerings tonight.’
He hit the remote again and took us through a dozen-odd weanlings which he’d purchased. All very slick and polished. He showed the glossy pedigree charts, positively oozing with winning bloodlines. Then he wheeled in his guest speakers. He had his stable vet talk about how professional Winning Way were to deal with. Then he had two top trainers wax lyrical about the quality of youngsters that they’d received over the years from Hall. Finally, he had the Chairman of the Racehorse Owners Association stand up and waffle on about him for five minutes. For Christ sake, I thought they were going to give him a medal. Eventually Hall wound up the formal part of the function and invited everyone to stay for drinks and see him or his staff about buying shares in any of the horses offered. I couldn’t believe the applause he received when he finished. You’d think he was a bloody rock star.
Maxine gave my hand a quick squeeze and whispered to me, ‘What did you think, impressive, wasn’t he?’
Had to admit he was. If I needed further proof, surely it was in the throng that was swamping him offstage, eager no doubt to wave their credit cards and chequebooks at him to secure a share in one of his horses.
‘C’mon, I’ll introduce you to Kagan. You can meet my father too, it’s about time you did.’
I followed Maxine to the bar area and left her for a moment while I grabbed a couple of drinks. When I walked back to her, we were joined by a petite brunette with her partner in tow.
‘Hi Punter. Here on business or with friends?’ Her eyes flickered towards Maxine standing behind me. ‘Are you going to introduce me?’
‘Oh, hi Kate. Er, this is Maxine.’
I don’t know why we males find it difficult to introduce ex-girfriends to the current model. They don’t mind at all, seem to find it amusing in fact, a sort of game where they eye each other off and try to score subtle points. Kate and I had known each other for several years. Our problem was we’d gotten to know each other intimately on our first night. Sex on the first date sounds great at the time, but trust me; it’s all downhill from there. It didn’t cut us off completely, but it put some space between us from that time on. As she’s told me often enough, I’m not her type and we’re strictly friends. And as far as that night went, we conveniently avoid the subject and haven’t talked about it since. Fortunately, Kate’s a keen racegoer and I see her most Saturdays at the track. We’ve shared other bonding experiences together. She works as a crime reporter with The Age. You wouldn’t pick her for one. Slim, a good looker and a classy dresser. Especially when she did herself up for the races. The girl had style. But she was a tough cookie underneath all the gloss and smarts. She’d done her journalism apprenticeship covering real estate and business before settling on the crime beat, which she found far more interesting. She could smell a breaking story like a blowfly could molasses through a feed-room door. Her editor and peers agreed she had one of the best black books of ‘colourful identities’ in the country, and she certainly knew how to milk them. Several times I’d helped her out with information on people relating to her stories and likewise, she’s helped me if I’ve ever needed to find something. So we go back, professionally and personally.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Kate in a voice that could pass for anything between admiration and taking the piss. ‘You’re Russell Henshaw’s daughter, aren’t you?’
‘And you work for a newspaper or something,’ said Maxine, in a manner suggesting a position as a junior receptionist. Touché.
‘Journalist, actually. I’m with The Age.’
‘Oh really? That must be so exciting. Are you here covering this event tonight?’
Kate shook her head, gave a careless little toss of her hair and smiled dismissively. ‘Oh no, I don’t cover the social pages. Strictly crime.’
Two alpha females playing the bitch game. This could go on all night. I broke the stalemate and offered a handshake to Kate’s partner. He seemed the type she’d go for. Good-looking, sporty, well-educated sort of a voice. Nathan, he said his name was. Told me he worked in the media doing something or other with a website. We all laughed politely at a joke he made about fools and their money being parted when it came to buying horses. Then Kate smoothly excused them both.
‘Must leave you to it then,’ she said, placing a hand on Nathan’s shoulder and guiding him away.
Maxine grabbed my arm and said, ‘There’s Kagan now. Let’s go over while he’s free.’
We walked over and Maxine introduced me.
‘So pleased to meet you,’ he said, making it sound like I was the one person in the room he’d been wanting to meet all night. ‘Tell me, DJ’s your father, right?’
Said that was so. Never hurts to have a famous trainer as a father for a conversation starter. ‘It was an interesting presentation tonight.’
‘I’m so glad you enjoyed it. We had a wonderful attendance, thanks to Maxine.’ He turned and gave Maxine one of his charming smiles and patted her on the shoulder.
‘How many of these do you usually put on each year?’ I asked.
‘Oh, dozens of the damn things. It never really stops. I’m presenting up at the Gold Coast next week, then it’s up to Rockhampton and Townsville before we hit Darwin on the return trip. We’ve got Adelaide and Perth to organise and – Maxine doesn’t know this yet –’ he said naughtily, pretending Maxine couldn’t hear, ‘I’ve just teed up a New Zealand trip that coincides with their national sale.’
‘I didn’t know about that.’ Maxine feigned horror.
‘Why so many?’ I asked.
‘Got to keep in front of buyers’ faces. Top-of-mind brand awareness, that’s what I want. When a potential owner thinks about syndicators, I want them thinking Winning Way and no one else. That’s why we do all the PR, the advertising and schmoozing. You have to remind them constantly that you’re out there.’
I found myself becoming genuinely interested in the business and was about to ask another question when Maxine’s father, Russell Henshaw, burst into our circle.
‘Nice talk, Kagan. When you finish with the syndication business, you can always get a job on radio any time,’ he said, slapping Hall on the back and laughing at his own joke.
‘I might take you up on that, if ever this falls over,’ said Hall.
‘That’s not going to happen any time soon,’ said Maxine. ‘At least not while I’m running the publicity.’
‘You’ve done a super job, too, my love,’ said Henshaw, giving Maxine a kiss on her cheek.
‘Dad, I want you to meet John.’
Henshaw wore a loud apricot-coloured striped shirt, no tie, under a navy blazer. An even brighter matching handkerchief was stuffed into his jacket. That was surely proof that money couldn’t always buy good taste. I’d seen Henshaw around the track often enough. Once or twice he’d bowled up when I’d been talking to Dad or David and interrupted our conversation just like he’d done now. So he must have known me by sight, just as I did him. But we’d never been formally introduced before and so I offered my hand, gave him my best smile and told him how pleased I was to meet him.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ignoring my outstretched hand, ‘I’
ve got horses with your old man. You’re the son that turned his back on the stable, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not really involved with the stable these days,’ I said, withdrawing my hand and putting it awkwardly by my side.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ he said dismissively, ‘you weren’t suited to stable life, were you?’ Henshaw didn’t wait for my reply, instead turning back to Hall. He pointed his thumb at me like I wasn’t there and said, ‘His old man’s a leading trainer and he’s knocked back going into the business.’
I glared at Henshaw, feeling a rush of blood flush through my face. If he was looking to bait me then he was succeeding. Before I could reply, Maxine came to my defence.
‘Punter doesn’t have to follow his father into training, Dad. If he isn’t interested, then that’s up to him.’
‘Sure, princess. I’m just jokin’ around.’ He looked at me. ‘You know that, don’t you? No offence meant.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘Tell me, are you here to give Maxine a hand tonight?’
‘I actually picked Maxine up from the airport,’ I said neutrally.
‘Oh, playing the taxi driver?’ He gave Hall a dig in the ribs with his elbow and smirked at me. ‘Well, whatever makes my little princess happy.’
Maxine looked at him patiently. ‘I didn’t see you at the airport offering to pick me up.’
‘Hardly. That’s why they invented taxis.’ Henshaw winked at Hall, then planted another kiss on Maxine’s cheek before he abruptly excused himself and moved off.
There was no doubt Russell Henshaw was a rude bastard. Nor the slightest doubt he disliked me. The way he leered at me, his bullying, provocative face looking for an argument told me all I needed to know. What a pain in the arse. Mental note to self, don’t be in a hurry to meet up with Maxine’s old man again.
We stayed another forty minutes or so before I took Maxine home. I can’t say either of us was in the mood for the other’s company. She was tired from the interstate travel and organising the night’s event. I was cranky after meeting her father. I didn’t understand how he’d got under my skin the way he had, or why. Normally, I don’t even register someone having a dig at me. It’s not like I’m thin-skinned or can’t take criticism. But he seemed to go out of his way to annoy me, to find fault in what I did. Maybe he thought I wasn’t good enough for his daughter; whatever.
