By F. Lynn Whyte
Jerry tucked the bidding paddle into his belt and draped his jacket across the passenger seat of his F-100 pickup. Good to have if it got cold later on. He paced in the parking lot outside the Windfields Farm arena, smoking his third cigarette. Should he just go in and buy something?
The evening of September 17, 1962, was not unpleasant out in that quiet courtyard. A little too cool to stand in shirtsleeves, but inside the yearling sale things were bound to heat up fast. With the energy of men predicting magic, transforming luck into the appearance of sound judgement. Gambling, but at another level.
A lot of hot air, that’s what Mona called it. She would never set foot in a real barn, with real dirt on the floor. If she had to be around ’the horses’, she preferred the clubhouse on Queen’s Plate Day, accompanied by dainty sandwiches, white-gloved waiters and ladies wearing feathered sunhats and frilly dresses. But Mona wasn’t his problem. Mona was Phil’s problem.
Jerry still remembered the spring Sunday when Phil came home from the track with shiny, hopeful eyes, and not because of his winnings. Something about this woman on a date in the clubhouse, a broken heel and her fancy-ass date couldn’t carry her down the stairs. Of course, Phil scooped that pretty lady right up and carried her all the way to the poor bastard’s car. She asked for his number, so she could thank him properly. Mona asked for his number. Shoulda known. He was a goner.
When Phil finally arrived, he snuck up behind Jerry, grabbed the auction paddle and slapped his friend’s shoulder. “You look good, all showered and slicked up! Nice duds, partner.”
Jerry checked his watch and looked at Phil, one eyebrow raised.
“Hey, Mona got home before I left,” said Phil, with a smile.
“You remember, we were going to meet early? Check out the warmup ring? Thanks to your wife, we missed that filly.” Jerry ground out his cigarette with the heel of a boot, wondering if that was her aim all along. “I bought a new shirt for this.”
“It was all worth it, partner.” Phil tapped over his chest pocket. “Let’s go watch the last few warmups while I tell you. Mona finally came around.”
Jerry followed him through the back door, grabbing a catalogue list off the table on the way. In the arena, the farm workers and some of the local barn kids warmed up young horses on lead lines. Willy, the farm manager, watched the activity, coiling up a lunge line. The auctioneer’s voice echoed over the PA system from the main ring, that rat-a-tat song punctuated by screeches of feedback.
Jerry’s soul loosened as he breathed in the scent of horses; musky, grassy perfume with notes of sweat and oiled leather. Like the sound of horses grunting and nickering, you loved or hated it, but you couldn’t ignore it.
Just like Phil, with his good looks and flashy clothes. He had a smile for everyone, and the possibility that things would get interesting.
“Boys.” The men nodded or tipped hats.
“Hey guys. Nice night to buy a winner.” Chest a little puffed. He’d been that way since high school. If everyone else jumped off a dock, Phil would launch himself off a cliff. When the boys were trying to decide between bowling and the drive-in on a Saturday night, he’d be headed down to the track, dressed in a penguin suit, to work some la-di-da dinner thing. And if you went with him, you might end up having a long chat with some carnies sparking up behind their trailers or the local cops, but you’d always have a good time and an even better story to tell.
A few of the other fellows gave the cold shoulder as Phil made his way down the line like the mayor, but it was okay to be a little unfriendly tonight. It was like race day. They’d compete fiercely, but when the last bell chimed, they’d all head to the bar together. Win or lose, a drink would go down smooth after all this.
Phil slapped him on the back. “We are not going to be spectators this time, Jerry. I know we cobbled together that five grand to look at the low-end horses—”
“Granger got a couple good ones, by the way. Anything left will be reserved at ten or over.”
“I got a plan.” Phil had that airy smile of mystery about him, like after he’d gone under the bleachers with a cheerleader, just waiting for one more question before he’d get on with the show.
Jerry couldn’t help but oblige. “Did you hear me? We can’t afford them.”
Phil dangled a keychain with the Davidson Industries logo on it. “What’s that new Elvis song? ‘Good luck charm’?”
“You gonna go work for the father-in-law now?” Jerry nodded at the keychain.
“Naw!” Phil tucked the keychain away. “Mona’s doing some new thing. You give them out to everyone. That way, every time a fella gets in his car, he’s thinking of the great Charles Davidson.”
And his beautiful, deadly daughter, Mona.
“And?” Jerry let Phil get to the punchline in his own time.
Phil held up his auction number. “Imagine this: We got a backstretch jock up. On a horse we’re gonna buy here, tonight. It’s a low-level stakes race, no more claimers for us.”
Jerry knew they would pick Arden, or Davy. Young, optimistic. That’s who you put on a maiden when money’s tight. Someone who’s still hungry, with that cocksure air of immortality, not some older fellow with creaky joints and bones that healed a thousand times. With them, you never knew when they’d tip over the edge from relaxed experience to the gut-wrenching fear of coming off one last time. No matter what they got underneath them, that happens and all bets were off.
“The track is perfect. Cloudy day, but not a spec of rain in the forecast.” Phil spread his arms and swept across an imaginary vista with one hand, as if he saw it all spread out before him. “They break from the gate like a bullet, and everybody holds their breath. Davy settles that little nag in the middle of the pack, one off the rail. We can just tell. This is our day. Can you feel it?”
They got to the warmup ring and leaned, elbows on the fence near the gate. The mid-level yearlings were being worked, getting them to settle in on the shank, trying real hard to avoid a twitch. A twitch would cost the house money, unless it’s a sure thing. A unicorn.
“I can tell by your face, my friend, you don’t like that. Thick of it, not the best place to be. But with a young jock on a maiden, it keeps them with the pace. Even though the colt wants to let loose on the backstretch, we hold them up. We’re letting those jugheads tire themselves out. Until–?” Phil had this air of excitement about him when he got like this, all optimistic and catch-the-stars.
Jerry couldn’t help but smile, even though he was trying like hell to play things cool. Harder than you’d think, when you know the punchline. He had to give him a nibble. “A colt, you say?”
Jerry knew the theory: you get a half-decent colt, run him for a year or two. Then, you put him out to stud and sit back and watch the dough roll in. A great plan, as long as you can avoid being killed by twelve hundred pounds of muscle that only has one thing on his mind.
Phil nodded. “When they round the turn, he lets him go. What do the truckers say? Hammer down! We’re in the owner’s box, up in the clubhouse. We’ll be sucking on the good stogies, don’t even need to lean over the rail to see them beat it for home.”
The next one was called over to the other side, and the crowd murmured as the handsome black colt trotted through, head and tail held high. Jerry nodded as he watched Willy beckon someone in from behind the building.
“And the bastard just goes. Huge stride. Neck out. Like a locomotive up the middle. Davy easing into the ride, shit-eating grin on his face. The crowd goes wild! He wins by three strides and you and me, my man. We hand off our cigars and hurry down the stairs to trackside.”
Two young, skinny kids steadied a colt through the big door on a double line. One on each side, working and tugging. The horse was all knees and knobs and bottlebrush tail. He had them both on high alert, steaming nostrils and foaming mouth, legs flying.
This time, it was a grin. “To the winner’s circle.”
Jerry waved at them. “Something better than that little shit. Davy in the silks. And us. Getting our pictures taken in the winner’s circle.”
At one point, the horse tried to pull both boys into the air with him. He was too small to get them off their feet and dump them, but they stumbled to catch their balance. And all along, the eyes stayed sane. Like he was waiting for his chance to best the world. No fear, which was the scariest part. Some might say, the best part.
Across the ring, Willy scrubbed the toe of a boot into the footing and shook a bit of the lunge line loose.
“That’s him.” Phil nodded his head toward the hurricane in the middle of the ring.
Jerry felt the smile drop off his face as his fingers brushed the envelope in his pocket. “But first, we need to buy him. And the check has to clear.” A measly five grand wouldn’t buy this little stud.
“Cash, my friend. Mona’s gonna be a mother, and if she wants to get the hell out of that shitty little apartment owned by her father, she finally figured out we need to make the big moves. Soon.” Phil tapped the edge of an envelope tucked into his jacket pocket. “P & J Racing Stables is going to own the prime colt from this auction by the end of the night.”
Jerry double-checked the catalog page in his pocket. “Brockton Boy? He’s the one over there.”
“Naw. I got a feeling about this one.” Phil pointed at the dancing colt. “I convinced Mona to get the goods. Buddy, we’re gonna buy Northern Dancer.”
“That one’s too small.” Jerry watched the struggle to attach the lunge line. “He’s already stud-dish. Needs to be nicked, sooner rather than later, and then he’s worthless.”
“I like him.” Phil pulled his lips tight to his teeth.
“We got a contract or a note to sign? I should put my name on the IOU, too.”
Phil chuckled. “I sealed this deal with a kiss. Her old man doesn’t even know about it yet. I can feel it man, she finally gets it.”
There was still something Jerry didn’t like. Mona wasn’t handing over twenty large just to help them. Never came to the barn or the track. She hated the smell of horses. This was about more than a horse deal. “But the plan—.”
Phil ignored him and nodded toward Willy, who had the ornery colt on the line, trying to get the boys to move the beast along. Northern Dancer stood there, squared up like any little guy who knows he’s being judged on his stature. The boys lunged and feinted, slapping at his hind end, and he ignored them like they weren’t worth his time. But he didn’t take his eyes off the trainer.
“Willy likes this Brockton Boy colt. I hear he wanted the old man to withdraw him from the sale.” Jerry tried again. “So that means—”
“I know how much to bid,” Phil said. “On The Dancer.”
Jerry took a deep breath. “Where did this information come from?”
Over the speakers, the auctioneer called out, “Sold! Sold for twenty thousand dollars to telephone bidder number four-oh-seven.”
Jerry looked at his catalogue page. “Brockton Boy’s up next.”
Phil turned, pulled the envelope out of his jacket. Scrawled across it, in a fine woman’s script ‘For Our Baby’. “Is he that good?”
“What do you mean, man?”
“Is he worth the gamble? Because, Jerry, we got one chance.” Phil still wore that grin, but his eyes had changed. They weren’t the bright, ready-for-anything expression he showed the world. They were solid, ready to trust. Jerry knew, if he said to go for this colt, Phil would risk everything. Including money set aside for the baby.
As if on cue, the voice came over the speakers. “And next we have a colt, Brockton Boy. Out of . . .”
“Bud?” Phil had his hands out. “You’re the horseman, I’m the dreamer. Remember?”
Jerry looked down at his boots, toe digging into the sandy footing. “Naw, I can’t ask—.”
And just like, Phil was gone.
Jerry hurried after him over to the sale side. The colt was handsome, a big rangy beast. He moved nice and smooth, kept his head up, didn’t look spooked by the crowd or the noise.
The lot went fast, numbers flying, Phil bidding like he had a bankroll that wouldn’t end. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket. “You got our five, right?”
Jerry nodded, patted the roll tucked into his shirt pocket.
“Ten thousand!” That auctioneer had a machine-gun rhythm going.
Thumbing through the bills in the envelope, lips moving as he counted, Phil missed some of the middle bidding.
“Twenty thousand!”
Phil looked like he never got settled in. “Bitch.”
“Twenty-two!”
Phil rubbed his fingers on that keychain. Jerry rubbed his fingers on the envelope in his pocket. He still couldn’t figure it out. Why did she give him the money? How did she get the tip?
“Twenty-three!” And something about the auctioneer, the way he looked down, checking his figures again.
Jerry could tell they hadn’t reached the reserve yet.
And Phil looked rattled. Did that thing where he glanced down, with his jaw going side to side. Like on the field, when a play was going sideways. Like just before he went into the cathedral to get hitched.
“Twenty-four,” Phil called out, and Jerry felt it, even though he didn’t know it. This was their magic number. Phil tightened his lips, looked down, tapping the paddle against his leg.
The auctioneer did his thing. “Do I hear twenty-five?”
No!
“It doesn’t matter,” Phil mumbled. His voice had that dead, final sound.
“Going?”
Trying not to look, but sneaking a glance around. Willy was down at the other end, holding that colt like a kid with a helium balloon in a thunderstorm.
“Going.”
“And we have a new bid. I have twenty-five, and we have met the reserve. Do I hear twenty-six?”
Willy leaned forward, trying to hide the disappointment on his face as Northern Dancer took a nip at his shoulder.
Jerry looked at Phil and he knew. The red-cheeked shame, the slumped shoulders. Mona did it on purpose. Now they had no choice. The tip was wrong, or a lie.
“Going.”
Jerry swore he heard it. Bang, the end of a legacy. Like a big old vault grinding closed.
“Going?”
The spotter looked at Phil. He tapped the bidder’s paddle against his thigh. The guy who makes that bid and wins something but can’t pay? He looks like a shmuck, or a fraud. Show up on the backstretch and get laughed out of the place. If he’s a nobody and the paddle is in his name, he might even get arrested.
Jerry put his hand on the paddle as Phil tried to raise it. “Let it go.”
“Sold!” The auctioneer didn’t miss a beat. “And here is our final offering this evening, the colt named Northern Dancer.”
Phil handed the envelope to Jerry, who did some quick math. Nineteen thousand in the envelope. Plus five. Only twenty-four.
“She told you there was twenty in there?”
Phil glanced at the colt, then looked away and sighed. They didn’t have the money to meet the reserve. And Jerry swore he heard Phil’s heart breaking.
“Hey, man. It’s okay. We didn’t lose anything.” Jerry said.
“I can’t watch this.” Phil brushed past him, headed for the exit.
Phil pushed through the crowd toward the back of the lot, then turned. “She knew.”
Jerry could see the raw pain, the throbbing. And there was nothing he could do. You don’t say ‘told you so’ when a man’s down.
Mona couldn’t just let them buy their filly and go about their little business. No, she had to dangle the big win, the possibility of greatness. And then make sure they lost. In public, with the big boys watching. Sure, she wanted Phil to be embarrassed, but the paddle was in Jerry’s name.
The bitch.
Phil slipped the new keychain off his keys and tossed it in a wheelbarrow full of manure. “You still got that pull-out bed?”
F. Lynn Whyte is a mother, writer, knitter and veterinarian. She would love to give the world a hug, but she’s an introvert and hugging is something that must be pondered carefully. Unless you’re a cat. She is more than happy to snuggle all the cats. She lives in Ontario, Canada with her family and several furry creatures.
Show Your Work 