Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  Lorenzo didn’t need to be told twice. He was out of there quicker than a horse jumping from the outside gate in the Oakleigh Plate. There was silence for a moment after we heard the door close, then Angelo spoke.

  ‘Um, can I put my hands down now?’

  On Friday morning I dropped around to Terry the Greek’s for a haircut and shave. I’d been going there since I was kid. Despite the ever-growing number of unisex saloons in the Glenhuntly Road strip, I stubbornly resisted the free cappuccinos, the gimmicky massage chairs or the expensive product I’d probably be suckered into buying if I ever did go into one. Instead I stuck to Terry’s. It was a bit like stepping into a time warp. He actually owned his shop, which was only three doors down from Gino’s. It was an identical building to Gino’s, with an upstairs apartment where Terry and his wife and two daughters lived. Downstairs, as you walked in, he had an old glass shop cabinet filled with smokes and lighters and pipes and the sort of smoking paraphernalia you only see at trash and treasure stalls these days. He had other odds and ends in the cabinet as well, mainly hair and shaving products that belonged to another era, and bottles of Brylcreem and mysterious Greek shaving potions with exotic smells. He was lathering me up with some of the stuff now, to the ever-present sound of the racing station playing on the radio. In between lathers I could see him stealing glances at his formguide. I hoped he’d pay a bit more attention when he started on me with the cutthroat razor.

  ‘You got one today, Terry?’ I asked him.

  ‘I tell you,’ he said, his eyes lighting up excitedly, ‘is a bush horse in race four that was a tragedy beaten last start. She’s a moral today, you should have something on her yourself.’

  A tragedy beaten. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that line.

  ‘My day off today, Terry.’

  I had no intention of playing the races today. I was heading out to the sales after my haircut to bid on the horse for Chas Bannon.

  ‘How’s your father?’

  Terry always asked after Dad. Years ago he’d been involved in a syndicate of a moderately successful horse trained by him. He still had the winning photo proudly displayed on the back wall of the shop, along with a dozen other ageing racing photographs.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Still training winners.’

  ‘You know he trained my besta ever horse, Fright. I had lotsa horses with trainers over the years, but your old man, he the best.’

  I almost laughed, which wouldn’t have been wise, considering Terry was slicing delicately away at my chin with the razor. It was just that Terry made out like he was a big-time operator with two hundred horses in work. True, he’d raced a dozen horses, but he’d be lucky if he’d owned more than a hair in their tail. He walked to the back wall and proudly pointed his razor at the photos. I watched him from the mirror as he gave me the ‘owner’s tour’, as he did every once in a while, just in case I’d forgotten.

  ‘Here, dis is Fright winning at Sandown,’ he said with reverence.

  You’d have thought it was Kingston Town winning a Cox Plate, the way he was talking about it.

  ‘That day, your father say he a good thing and he win like one too. I get the eight to one and thankayou very much.’

  I guess that was Terry’s way of saying he’d cleaned up. He pointed other horses out to me too. Gallopers from long ago, their photos faded with age.

  ‘And Precise, you woulda remember her, no?’

  It was kind of hard to hurry Terry when he got into one of his racehorse reminiscing moods, but I dropped a hint that I had to get out to the sales and promised I’d look at the photos on the way out.

  ‘Of course, of course, I sorry. I talk too much and forget everyone in a hurry, got things to do. Me, I not gotta lot to do except cut people’s hair. If no people come, I no cut hair. In between, I sell smokes, listen to races, try and betta a winner.’

  ‘You’ve got a good life, Terry. No stress.’

  He smiled contentedly and recommenced the attack on my stubble. ‘Is not a bad life,’ he agreed. ‘Hey,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘you see all the broken windows in the shops lately? Gino’s down the street, they gotta smashed twice in the past week and down past the railway, other restaurants they gotta windows smashed too.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Bada business. Is probably kids, you know? Nothing better to do.’

  ‘I got a feeling they won’t be around anymore, Terry.’

  Terry finished up with my shave and haircut in just over an hour. It would have been a lot quicker if he hadn’t darted back and forth to look at his formguide or serve customers in between snips. But I didn’t mind, I sort of liked the way he fiddled around and got things done in his own time. Besides, where the hell else would I go to get my monthly treat of a shave? Terry was just applying the final touches, wiping my face with a hot hand towel, when a guy came in wanting some smokes. While Terry served him, I swung down out of the barber’s chair and took a look at the photos on his wall. Aside from Fright and Precise, which were both city winners, most of the horses were country gallopers I’d never heard of. Some of the photos dated back to the sixties and seventies, the horses ridden by jockeys who had long since vanished or given the game away. I looked closely at the photo of Precise. There were three photos actually, a larger centre shot of her passing the post, a smaller shot of her returning to scale and another of the happy connections being presented with a trophy. Jockeys seemed to ride much longer then; they almost looked comical with their legs hanging way down and their feet jammed in the stirrups. Not like today where they ride super-short, with only their toes in the irons. The jockey colours, too, seemed simpler. Back then, there seemed to be a lot more silks in just the one, or at most two colour combinations. Nowadays, owners had four or five colours, with stripes or motifs and any combination of checks and bands. I suppose with twenty thousand new horses registered each year in Australia, perhaps all the older colours had been taken. There was even a horse I’d seen the other day that went around with a yacht and a dollar sign on its silks. You’d never have seen that in years gone by.

  I slipped Terry a fifty and told him to keep the change. He complained it was ‘too mucha tip’. Way I figured, I was getting the haircut cheap and the shave for nothing, compared to any other fancy Glenhuntly salon I cared to go to.

  ‘Okay, Punter, I taka your tip, but I give you one of mine. You backa number two in race four at Moe. She a tragedy beaten last start.’

  ‘See you next time, Terry,’ I said. A tragedy beaten, for Christ sake.

  The Oaklands sale yards weren’t exactly bristling with buyers. This was, after all, the last sale before Christmas, a modest affair of tried horses and broodmares. Most of the serious players weren’t to be seen; they’d be saving their money for the annual round of yearling sales beginning in January. Today’s attendees were mainly a sprinkling of stud masters trying to offload dis appointing breeding stock and battling trainers trying to find a bargain tried horse. Although there weren’t many people about, the atmosphere was relaxed and welcoming. Christmas greetings and best wishes for the new year were exchanged among clients as they slapped each on the back and shook hands. I picked up a catalogue from the main counter and wandered over towards the horse barns, flicking through the pages as I walked.

  Chas Bannon wanted me to bid on lot forty-three. There wasn’t much I had to do. He’d inspected the horse himself a month ago in the paddock and had it vetted. He’d arranged finance with the auctioneer to a certain limit and had also organised for me to act as his agent. All I had to do was bid for the horse and, hopefully, buy it. I decided to have a look at the horse anyway. I found her in block B, not far from the main parade ring.

  The catalogue said she was an unraced three-year-old filly, sired by Storm Halo out of More Than Enough. The dam may well have had enough too, judging by her produce record. She was getting on in years, eighteen by my reckoning, and had had seven foals for just two winners. Frollick
was by far her best daughter, but that was two foals ago. Since then she’d thrown yet another maiden galloper and this horse, Lotsoflaughs, whom Chas wanted to buy. On paper, it didn’t make me suddenly want to talk to my bank manager. When you buy a horse, the dam’s produce records don’t lie and a two out of eight strike rate wasn’t what you’d call brilliant. But Chas had seen all the progeny from the mare over the years and he said the only ones that fired were the bay-coloured ones with a likeness to the mother. Frollick had been a bay and Chas liked the fact that Lotsoflaughs was a dead ringer to her. I’d pointed out warily to Chas that she’d had several unsuccessful trials and had never even made it to the track, but he wasn’t deterred from buying her.

  ‘Never mind she hasn’t raced yet,’ he’d told me. ‘That stock don’t mature until they’re three or older.’

  I walked past the filly’s box door and feigned a look of bored interest at her. That was all her vendor needed to jump off his stool and greet me like a long-lost relative. He asked me if I wanted to see the filly paraded.

  ‘She’s a lovely filly, a half sister to Frollick, you know.’

  I told him I was just passing the time, but hoped he got a good price for her anyway. ‘What do you think she’ll fetch?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ he said. ‘Depends on the interest level.’ He didn’t know if I was a tyre-kicker or a genuine buyer, but he certainly wasn’t naïve enough to let me know what his reserve was. I nodded a smile at him and walked on.

  Over by the fast-food stand, I bought a coffee and took it inside the auditorium, where I picked a seat in one of the back rows. It was a good position, giving me a front-on view of the horses as they came into the auctioneer’s ring and also allowed me to see anyone else bidding. I looked around the sparsely filled sales ring. There were only a handful of people sitting there at the moment, but they were beginning to trickle in as the starting time drew closer. The auctioneer started reading out loud the usual legal rigmarole of the conditions of the sale. I don’t know why they bother; no one pays them the slightest attention.

  The first hundred or so lots were all tried racehorses. Some were two-year-olds which had already demonstrated they were too slow to make the grade, their owners keen to cut their losses while they could. Then you got into the older horses, a mixed bag at best. Most were chaff bandits, coasting along with the odd win or placing. Others hadn’t even graduated to the track yet for one reason or another; they were too fractious and scatty, or just unsound, or maybe they couldn’t run a thousand metres down a well. Lots of reasons a horse doesn’t make it, and you really needed to know their history or you’d end up blowing your money. One thing’s for sure, an owner rarely parted company with a horse if it had any ability.

  I watched about a dozen horses go under the hammer. Despite the ‘caveat emptor’ tag that goes with a tried horse, there didn’t seem to be any shortage of buyers prepared to take the risk. I heard a trainer in the row in front of me talking to an owner about a horse they were planning to bid on.

  ‘I know the bloke that had him before. Couldn’t train a dog to bark. If I can’t improve him, I’ll give the game away. If the worst comes to the worst, we can put him over the jumps.’ Bragging and urging; racing’s standard fare. One man’s trash, another man’s treasure.

  In between sales, I looked around the auditorium and noticed that Kagan Hall had come in and was standing by the chute where they brought the horses in from the parade ring. I didn’t think he’d bother with a sale like this, but he was talking intently to a group of people, another of his syndicates, perhaps. I flicked over the page in my book to the lot coming up. That had actually been withdrawn, as had the one after that. Lot twenty-four was the one I reckoned he’d be bidding on. A lightly raced, well-bred three-year-old entire. If it came good and won a race or two, he could sell it as a stallion prospect. It was the sort of horse that had Hall’s name all over it. Sure enough, when it entered the ring, Hall ceased talking and turned around. While its handler circled the ring, the auctioneer praised the horse’s virtues.

  ‘Unluckily struck down by a virus as a two-year-old . . . The victim of an ownership dispute . . . Now here to be sold today. Don’t miss this opportunity, ladies and gentleman. Well, start me off. What am I bid? Two hundred thousand, two fifty for starters? You tell me, what’s he worth?’

  Hall put his hand up for fifty. There was a counter bid from some breeder standing up the back and they traded small, tentative bids against each other until the horse was eventually knocked down to Hall for a hundred and thirty thousand. He appeared pleased, smiling and nodding with the other members of his syndicate as he signed the buyer’s chit from the auctioneer’s spotter. Obviously another successful Winning Way purchase.

  Hall and his syndicate left the ring shortly after, and I forgot about him as the countdown to Chas Bannon’s filly grew closer. I ducked over to the cafeteria and bought another coffee which I took back inside to my seat. Then I watched another dozen or so horses sold before my lot was led into the ring.

  She was a nice enough type, a dark bay just like her half sister. A bit leggy, but she had a strong and long body which suggested she’d grow into those gawky pins of hers, once she matured. Maybe Chas was right; she just needed a bit of time to grow and develop. The auctioneer started her off at some stupid gambit price and quickly dropped back in increments of ten thousand at a time.

  ‘All right then, fifty, I’ll take fifty. Forty, forty thousand, she’s got to be worth that at least.’

  No response. Not a single bid.

  ‘Well, give me thirty then, and she’s cheap as chips at that price. Go on, who’ll give me thirty for the unraced half sister to Frollick.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’re making it hard for me, ladies and gentleman. All right, let’s make it twenty then, and I’ll meet the market. Somebody start me off with twenty.’

  Someone did and I looked around closely to see who it might be. Sometimes the vendor or one of his friends throws in a dummy bid to get the sale started; just one of the tricks they get up to. Whoever it was, it brought a counter bid of five thousand from a bloke sitting down near the front row. He looked tentatively back to where the original bid had come from. No further response from there. The auctioneer held his gavel solemnly to the crowd, appealing for another bid, but no one seemed interested. I kept still; no sense in showing my hand too early.

  ‘Going once, going twice for twenty-five thousand . . .’

  As he swung the hammer down I raised my hand to a spotter for another thousand. My bid raised the stakes and the guy came back for another thousand. I saw him again and he came back with the same. We could go back and forth like this all day. I’d never know what his budget was, but I knew what Chas Bannon had drawn a line at. Time to change strategy and let him know we meant business. I held up my hand with five fingers clearly stuck out.

  ‘Thirty-two thousand, I have. It’s against you up the front,’ the auctioneer said, challenging the guy to another bid. He came back with a counter of two thousand and I immediately held up my hand for another five. The guy threw me a dirty look, then shook his head at the auctioneer. He’d bowed out and the horse was mine.

  After I signed for it, I called Chas on my mobile and passed on the good news.

  ‘Well done, son! Well done,’ he said excitedly down the phone. You’d think from his response he was a first-time buyer rather than an experienced old hand. It was good to see he still had the enthusiasm for getting his hands on a new horse at his age.

  ‘Can you arrange to put her on a float and send over to my stables?’

  ‘Good as done, Chas,’ I said.

  When I’d finished with Chas, I went straight over to the general office and organised some transport for the filly. That was my official duties completed for the day, but as I had nothing else to do, I thought I’d stretch my legs, stroll around and look at some more horses. I walked up barns A and B, but most of the horses there had already been sold. Across
the paddock were two more barns I hadn’t been to yet. I sauntered up and down the aisles, poking my head over a stall here and there if anything caught my interest. If a horse was being paraded, I’d stop and have a look at it and check its record. I probably inspected half a dozen horses before I felt I’d exhausted those two barns.

  At the end of the quadrangle was one more barn, a solitary line of twenty boxes all by themselves. It looked like they’d tacked them on as an afterthought; an overflow stable for the busy yearling sales. As I got nearer, I could hear the clip-clop of a horse being led about on the bitumen pathway. Then a voice which I recognised.

  ‘That’s right, turn her around and face her up to me. No, not like that, make her stand properly.’

  Kagan Hall. Inspecting a horse and, by the sound of things, giving the attendant a hard time. They couldn’t see me yet, because I was on the opposite side of the barn looking at them through the wire mesh of an empty stall.

  ‘What’s that scar from, the one on her off-side hock?’ said Hall.

  ‘Um, I don’t really know,’ said the attendant. She was youngish, probably in her early twenties, pretty in a tomboy sort of way; thin and wiry, with hair that could have done with a good combing.

  ‘Where’s your boss?’ asked Hall brusquely.

  ‘He must be in the sales ring,’ she said, almost apologetically.

  ‘Well, walk her up and back again for me.’

  The girl did as she was asked and I stood and watched from the cover of my stall. I checked the catalogue against the sticker on the horse’s rump. Number seventy-eight, some poorly performed, ill-bred thing, which I couldn’t imagine Hall buying for an instant. Hall watched as the girl led the horse up and down. She was smartly dressed in a pink cotton polo shirt which had the stud’s logo emblazoned on the chest. She wore riding boots and cream jodhpurs which hugged her skinny hips as she walked the horse up the pathway and back for Hall.