by Peter Klein
I didn’t raise the subject with Maxine, though perhaps it’s what I needed to do. Anyway, between my feelings of being worked over by Maxine’s father and her being exhausted, the night was hardly a success. We didn’t have any dinner, relying on the finger food we’d had at the function. Instead, I made some tea while Maxine took a shower and when she came out of the bathroom, we sipped our tea and talked for all of five minutes before she said if she didn’t get some sleep, she was going to pass out. I took the hint and told her it was probably best if I went home to my place. Truth was, I was secretly glad to go back to my own home. ‘You get a good night’s sleep,’ I said, reaching over and giving her a kiss. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow when the batteries are recharged.’
‘Goodnight, Punter. The batteries will be fired up then, I promise.’
On the way home, I swung by Gino’s. The place was closed for the evening and the staff had long since gone home, but I stuffed a couple of invoices that had to be paid under the door for Billy. Then I drove down Glenhuntly Road on my way home. As I passed the Chinese restaurant I was surprised to see it still open. It was late, yet people were standing around talking outside and in the open doorway. I slowed down and had a stickybeak. The restaurant wasn’t actually open at all, and the people weren’t customers, as I had thought, but a couple of workmen surveying some damage. They had their van parked out the front; Douglas & Son Glaziers. That was appropriate given the job they were looking at. The entire front window was broken and wicked-looking shards of glass littered the footpath. It was just like the Vietnamese restaurant three doors up I’d noticed a week earlier. Only this time I wasn’t so sure it was some kid who’d leant his bike clumsily against the window. I pulled over and looked back at the Vietnamese place. They’d put a temporary corrugated-iron security shield up and appeared to be still waiting for the glaziers to put a new window in. It’s probably what the Chinese shop would do too. Good business for the security companies and glaziers, not so good for the restaurateurs.
Next morning I woke up to the usual five thirty home invasion. Scratch, scratch on the bedroom door. A short silence followed by a head butt, then a strange burrowing sound.
‘All right, I’m coming.’
That response bought me approximately thirty seconds of silence before the ruckus started up again. This time there was a sound like a fingernail running down a blackboard.
‘Oh for Christ sake, I said I was coming, didn’t I?’
The source of the noise meowed loudly, satisfied that appropriate action was under way. I switched on my bedside lamp, threw on a robe and slippers and opened my door. Che marched in, tail held high, and nearly tripped me up as I walked out to the kitchen. I tipped some dried biscuits into his bowl, and he attacked them like he hadn’t been fed for two days.
‘You’re a greedy creature, aren’t you?’ I gave him a pat on the neck and left him to his breakfast while I jumped into the shower.
Over coffee and breakfast, I scanned through the races at Moonee Valley, which I planned to go to that afternoon. There were several playable races, including race five, in which my father had a horse called Sometimes in with a good chance. In fact the more I looked at her form, the more I liked her. She was fast reaching her peak, stepped up to her right distance and loved the Valley track. The only thing I wasn’t sure about was the rider. Dad hadn’t declared a jockey in time for the papers to publish it. If he went with Williams, who’d ridden her last start, then that was fine, except it would carry its full weight of fifty-six kilos. If he was going to claim on it and use an apprentice jockey, then that was okay too, provided it was a half-decent rider. I always steer clear of inexperienced kids, who seem to find ways to get a favourite beaten. It was still far too early to get the official riders for the day from the website or the radio. They didn’t come through till around 8 a.m., and it was just gone six. But there was another way, straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I picked up the phone and called my brother, David.
I figured he’d be busying himself around the stables, doing the hundred and one things that needed doing on a raceday. He’d know who was riding the horse and he could also tell me how she’d gone since her last start. He took a while to answer and when he did, he sounded a little distant.
‘Hi David, it’s me. I just wanted to find out who’s riding Sometimes today. Is Dad going to use Williams or put a kid up on board?’
‘Um, she’s actually not running today.’
‘She’s not?’
‘No. None of Dad’s horses are.’
‘What? He’s got half a dozen entered, hasn’t he?’
David went silent on me for a moment before I got the sense something was wrong.
‘You haven’t heard, have you?’
‘Heard what? David, what’s up?’
‘It’s Carmen, Carmen Leek. She . . . died last night. Dad’s scratched all his runners as a mark of respect.’
I had to think for a moment who David was talking about before the penny dropped. ‘Young Carmen, who straps for the old man?’
‘Yeah, that’s her.’
‘How did she . . . I mean, was she in an accident or something?’
David’s blunt silence told me that wasn’t so. ‘No, no accident. She was murdered.’
4
I drove out to Moonee Valley around eleven. The radio was on, but I wasn’t paying any attention to the panel on Turf Talk. I was thinking of what had happened to Carmen Leek. I knew her on a nod-your-head, say g’day basis. She’d been working at Dad’s stables for about five years; rode a bit of track work, devoted to looking after her horses. She must have been reliable or else Dad wouldn’t have put up with her. And now she was dead.
Although Carmen’s death hadn’t yet been reported in the media, news of what had happened had spread faster than a bushfire at the track. Nothing, but nothing stays secret on a racecourse. The first person to give me the mail about her was Thommo. He joined me in the queue as I lined up at the cappuccino bar by the betting ring. Thommo dresses just like your average member. Well groomed, always in a suit and tie and polished shoes. He had an oversized set of binoculars hanging off his shoulders. They weren’t for watching the races, by the way. They were to give you an expertly delivered bump in the side as he brushed past you in the crowded betting ring. Afterwards, as you reached for your wallet or purse, you’d discover they were missing and wonder how you’d managed to drop them. Thommo’s a pickpocket. There’s not many of them around nowadays. Everyone uses EFTPOS and people don’t carry around the amounts of cash they used to. But there’s still one area where a pickpocket can ply their trade: at the races. Thommo’s what I call a racetrack acquaintance. I accept what he does and we’ve came to an understanding that any friends of mine are strictly off-limits to him. Occasionally I tip him a winner and once or twice he’s repaid the favour by using his special skills in his professional capacity for me.
‘Mate, I’m sorry to hear about what happened to that girl who worked for your father,’ he said.
I nodded at him. ‘I just found out from my brother this morning. Carmen, her name was. Murdered, apparently.’
‘How was she killed?’ Typical Thommo, cut straight to the chase.
‘You know as much as I do. It’ll probably come out in tonight’s news.’
Thommo gave the girl some money for his coffee and thanked her. ‘I see your old man’s scratched all his runners today.’
‘Yeah. As a sign of respect.’
‘Your father always had class, Punter.’
‘I think he’d swap all of his class to bring the girl back, if he could.’
Thommo sipped his coffee, thumbed his formguide and changed the topic. ‘You got anything for today?’
‘I liked the old man’s filly, but now that she’s not running nothing really stands out for me. Gonna be a slow day at the office, I reckon. How ’bout you, what’s it looking like?’
Thommo relied on a packed betting ring to make his day wo
rthwhile. Carnival time when partying racegoers crammed into the track like sardines was when he had his best paydays. He had his own rating system; four-wallet days he used to call his better efforts. Quieter times of the year he’d rate them lower. He swirled his coffee around in his cup and scanned the crowd that was starting to trickle in. It was still early; the first race was another forty minutes away, but Thommo always had a good feel for what the attendance would be.
‘Might get a few latecomers for the main race, but the crowd’d be nothing to get excited about.’
‘A one-wallet sort of a day?’ I enquired.
‘Yeah. Dunno how a man’s supposed to earn a living. No one comes to the races nowadays. They all stay home and bet on the internet.’
I nodded solemnly. Agreed declining crowds must be a problem in his line of business.
‘I gotta go,’ I said. ‘Might see you for a drink later.’
I walked over to the betting area. Big Oakie White’s staff were busy setting up his stand, although there was no sign of Oakie himself as yet. Big Oakie was my main bookie and I also did a nice little side business supplying him with pre-post prices. I said g’day to his daughter, Michelle, who clerked for him on the stand, and then I moved on to the horse stalls to kill a bit of time before the first race started. Trainers were emerging from the mounting yard with saddles for their runners. I did a slow lap of the stalls, letting my feet take me where they fancied. Over at the swabbing stalls the vets were taking samples from some of the horses as they arrived off the floats. Groups of hopeful owners wandered by and proudly showed off their horses to family or friends. Hard-faced punters lounged against the rail with dog-eared formguides, trying to find that elusive winner. I thought about what Thommo had said earlier; no one comes to the races nowadays. That was true; you didn’t actually have to go to the races to have a bet. But there’s something I love about going to the track. The smell of a sweating horse, or even the ammonia-like stench of a horse staling. A strapper swearing because a horse stood on his foot. The stewards, whispering quietly amongst themselves and wearing their funny-looking hats. Pint-sized jockeys talking in their squeaky voices. I loved it, loved every sight and sound I could take in. Tell me I’m old-fashioned, but I can’t get that sitting at home in front of a TV screen.
They called the runners into the mounting yard and I watched them parade. With Dad’s horse being scratched, I had no other betting prospects, so it was strictly a watch-and-wait sort of a day. In fact, my routine hardly changed for the next five races; check out the fitness of the horses in the yard before the race. Have a look at the betting. Watch the race. See how they pulled up and then do it all again. And they say the life of a professional punter is glamorous. Days like today, it can be downright boring. By the time the fifth was over, I decided I’d meet up with the gang and have a drink at the bar.
There’s a small group of us who’ve gotten to know each other over the years. We’re all keen racegoers and get to meet up most Saturday meetings. We usually get together for a drink after the main race of the day and commiserate with each other if we’ve lost or congratulate ourselves if we’ve backed a winner. Thommo was there of course, although his occupation was known only to myself. To the others in the group, he’d passed himself off as ‘working in sales’. That was the beauty of a day at the races. You could be an out-of-work alcoholic or a millionaire businessman, it didn’t really matter. When you sat at a bar at the track and had a drink with someone, you were just another punter trying to pick a winner. And so it was with our gang. Members of our group came and went. New people were introduced; some stayed and others moved on. I didn’t know a lot about most of them and I expect most didn’t know a lot about me either, other than that I was the son of a successful trainer and bet for a living.
Thommo was drinking with Tiny and his girlfriend, Louise. Two other regulars from our group, Matt and Ric, were there as well. I went to the bar and got myself a lemon squash and a sandwich and joined them. They’d all heard about Carmen’s murder. I think everyone on the course had. Condolences were passed on to me as if I had a personal link to the girl. Nothing against Carmen, but she worked for my father. I barely knew her and I rarely spoke a word to my father. But I accepted it all with graciousness and told them what I’d said to Thommo earlier, that I knew as much as they did about the whole thing. When the conversation about Carmen petered out, Tiny winked at me and asked me how the battle was.
‘Tough going today. Can’t even find a race to play.’
‘Wish I had your trouble,’ said Tiny. ‘I’ve found four so far and I’m doin’ my arse.’
Louise seemed to find my lack of action a puzzle. ‘You mean you’ve been here all day and haven’t even had a bet?’ she asked.
I nodded, gave her a smile. She was good company, a real looker and had been with Tiny all of three months. He’d met her pulling beers at a club he was bouncing. A good match, I thought.
‘But don’t you get bored? I mean, what’s the point of coming if you don’t bet?’
I shrugged. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to be patient. Patient and disciplined enough to wait till the right race comes along.’
‘Punter’s right,’ echoed Matt. ‘You’ve got to have the patience and discipline to only bet those races you think you can win.’
‘My problem’s too much discipline,’ said Ric. ‘I’ve got too many ground rules and even with those, I still can’t make up my mind. Then, when I’m all set to go, I’ll talk to someone in the ring and they’ll tell me they heard the trainer say the nag had a setback or some other bullshit that’ll sway me from my original bet.’
‘That’s not discipline,’ said Matt, ‘that’s procrastination. At the end of the day, you gotta make your own decision on having a bet or not having a bet. Isn’t that right, Punter?’
They all looked at me over their glasses, awaiting my verdict. The thing is, even though they all knew I bet for a living, it didn’t matter what I said or how many times I explained something, my advice would be listened to and forgotten by next Saturday.
‘Well, you do the form, pick your chances and if the price is right, you make your bets. Unless something drastically changes on raceday, there’s no way you should change your mind. If you’ve come to a conclusion about an outcome for a race, then you should stick with your reasoning.’
‘But why come to the races if there’s nothing to bet on?’ said Louise, genuinely mystified. ‘I mean, you could go shopping, or have a long lunch, or –’
‘They don’t understand, do they, Punter,’ said Tiny, cutting in. ‘He’s still gotta be here, luv, to see what’s goin’ down. He’s gotta look at the horses, work out what’s fit and what’s not. Watch their runs, check their prices. All that sorta shit. It’s like homework. Isn’t that right?’
‘Kind of.’
‘You see,’ said Matt, making sure that Ric had got the point, ‘you gotta have patience and discipline.’
I smiled at Matt. I’d known him for about a year or so, a regular racegoer who never missed a meeting. He was Ric’s mate and the way they carried on chiding each other over punting theory, they were more like an old married couple. Matt had started off sharing a drink with Ric at the races and then he began sitting with us until he became one of the group. He was a few years older than me, tallish, fortyish and looked as if he worked at keeping in shape. He had a boyish face and an outgoing, cheeky personality. It was hard not to laugh along with his sense of humour and he didn’t mind telling a joke against his own punting ineptness. He could afford to be happy-go-lucky too, because he didn’t have to work. He’d inherited some property from his parents and lived off the investments. He told me once that his wife worked, but he was content to stay at home and play house, look after his kids and dabble in the stock market.
Ric, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Ten kilos over what he should have been and didn’t care. Scruffy hair that always looked like it wanted a cut or a wash. He dressed and acted in the ma
nner of a morose public servant; which indeed had been his occupation for the past sixteen years. Some nondescript job where he was buried in the basement of the Bureau of Statistics. I must admit, I always found it hard work trying to make conversation with him. I’d put it to him once that he must enjoy his job, having been there so long. You know what he told me? That he hated every bloody minute of his work. For Christ sake, talk about gloomy. These days I made sure to just keep the subject to racing with him.
I asked Matt how his week had been.
‘I have a confession,’ he announced solemnly. ‘I played a maiden race at Echuca last Monday. Backed the odds on fave in a six-horse field and it lost its rider in a scrimmage at the turn.’
A clicking of tongues and shaking of heads all round from us know-it-all punters.
‘I know. I shouldn’t be even looking at the fields for Echuca. But I had a couple of hours to kill in the afternoon until I picked the kids up from school. I got sucked into grabbing the formguide and ducking into the local TAB.’
We all gave him a good-natured roasting about the folly of backing maidens at country meetings. Matt took it in his stride and even bent over the bar and made a pretence of self-flagellation.
‘Twenty lashes,’ he said, ‘as punishment for such an obvious punting misdemeanour.’
The banter went on like it did every Saturday. After another drink, I said I’d call it a day and left them to it. Outside, there were still plenty of punters milling about the betting ring trying to get out on the last race of the day. It always has me beat why the average gambler tries to get square in the last. It’s no easier than trying to find the winner of the first. In a lot of cases it’s harder. If you want to bet, you’ve just got to be disciplined and choose the right race. Matt was right about that. And the right race isn’t necessarily the last race. Even though I wasn’t going to have a bet, I stood and watched the runners in the mounting yard. It was on my way to the car park, which meant I could look at them parade and then make it out to my van in time to listen to the race on the radio, while beating the crowd home. The race was a shocker, one of those anything-can-win mares’ races, where ten out of twelve runners could salute the judge.
