Homestretch (11 page)

Right away my ear hooked into it, and the clerk of scales
started singing along—“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high …”

I was smiling, and the bugler stopped in the middle to ask, “So, kid, you win a race yet?”

“No,” I answered, hanging my head.

“First time you do, and they lead your horse into the winner's circle, I'll play that song for you,” he said, before walking out the door to the racetrack.

I had that tune in my head, tapping the whip on my boots to it, as I entered the paddock to ride Rose of Sharon. Nacho was leading her around the walking ring, and I could see she wasn't pumped up like before her last race. She was back to being her easygoing self.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Heidel,” Dag said, introducing me to Rose of Sharon's owners.

They were probably both in their eighties, and the man wore glasses as thick as old-fashioned Coke bottles.

“Good luck, son,” he said in a gravely voice. “Bring her back safe.”

“I will,” I answered. “I like your silks.”

“We've been married fifty-five years,” he said, pointing back and forth between his wife and himself. “That heart's a symbol of our love.”

Then his wife called me “Gillette.”

Dag just grinned as the man explained twice into her
good ear
that Gillette was riding another horse in the race.

“This filly might be on a down cycle,” Dag said, pulling me off to the side. “Her last win was a tough one. So don't punish her too much with the whip if she comes up empty.”

If that was true, I couldn't understand why he was running her back on just three days' rest. Horses usually race every two or three weeks. But I knew better than to ask.

“No red tag,” said Nacho, leading Rose of Sharon and me out to the racetrack.

A red tag gets put on a horse's bridle after a race if they've been claimed. Then another groom takes the horse away to a new barn.

Dag had practically put a
FOR SALE
sign on Rose of Sharon by dropping her so low in price after a big win.

“Rafael lose one horse to God. No lose this one to money,” said Nacho, turning us loose and crossing himself. “
No rojo hoy
. Please.”

The bugler snapped to attention, blowing his horn, as the field of fillies stepped onto the track.

Dut-dut-dut-da-da-dut-da-da-dut-dut-da.

Da-da-da-dut-dut-dut-da-da-dut-dut-da.

A crowd was lined up against the rail for the post parade, and the odds board had Rose of Sharon as the betting favorite at a little less than 2–1.

“My grandmother could win on this horse, kid. Don't screw it up!”

“I wouldn't bet counterfeit money on you, Giambanco!”

“That's what Dagget does. He puts some nobody on a good horse, so everyone's afraid to bet. Then he cleans up.”

“Can you just stay in the saddle on this one, kid?”

I couldn't shut those voices out.

Every word cut right through me.

After that mud bath I took, I wasn't sure how much confidence I had in myself.

I warmed up Rose of Sharon. But she felt almost numb beneath me, and she barely wanted to pick up her feet.

“If that filly had a shot in hell of winning today, I'd be riding her. Not you,” sneered Gillette, jogging his horse past mine.

In my heart I knew that Gillette was right.

Rose of Sharon and me were loaded into the starting gate, and Samuel was on the filly in the stall to my left.

“Just don't get in my way, bug,” he said, with his teeth nearly moving inside his mouth.

The gates sprang open and Rose of Sharon shot out first.

We were in front for maybe three strides, and every ounce of blood inside me was pumping just as fast.

But that was all the speed she had to give.

Suddenly, she started to feel like a bicycle I'd put into eighteenth gear to climb some mountain of a hill. The other fillies went flying past her, and I could see the tail end of every one of them.

I shook the reins at her. Only, she was too tired to run.

We passed the spot where Rafael's horse had broken down and had to be destroyed. And I never even thought about raising the whip to her.

By the time we came off the turn into the homestretch, Rose of Sharon was so far behind, it probably looked like we were winning the race that started
after
this one.

But we made it past the wire, and I'd finished my first race in the saddle.

I jogged her back toward the grandstand to a chorus of boos and comments.

“You're garbage, Giambanco!”

“Dead last!”

That's when I lost my focus, and maybe something spooked her, but Rose of Sharon dumped me on my ass. Then she took off running through the stretch the wrong way, without me.

“The race is over, you idiot!”

I just remember somebody bringing Rose of Sharon back and fixing a red tag to her bridle.

Cap Daly had claimed her for $10,000.

Tammie led her off the racetrack, screaming at Dag, “You ruined her with your damn milk shakes. She's too sore to run.”

Dag never lost his cool. Not even with me.

“You just brush off your pride, Gas. And make sure you're ready to ride Bad Boy Rising tomorrow,” he said.

Before I got back to the jockeys' room, Parker intercepted me.

“This way, boss,” he said, turning me down a long hall. “The stewards want to see you in their office.”

The stewards are racing's referees.

There were three of them sitting around a big oak table, looking at me like I was a joke and a menace on the track.

“This is simple, Mr. Giambanco,” one of them said, with Parker standing by my left shoulder. “You've had two rides and been on the ground twice. You get one more chance. If something goes wrong tomorrow, we'll suspend your license. And if I were you, I'd find a way to cover up the flames on those boots. El Diablo disgraced this sport, and you're not winning any sympathy points with us by wearing them.”

THAT NIGHT RAFAEL WAS
near tears over losing his horse. Nacho and Anibal took him to the cantina, trying to cheer him up. There was nothing left in front of me except an empty dorm room, so I decided to tag along.

The place was packed tight with beaners, and both TVs were blaring the replays of the races at Pennington.

“Qúe lástima,”
said Rafael, shaking his head.
“Era un caballo con mucho corazón.”

“Sí. Con mucho carazón,”
said Nacho, tapping his chest. “Much heart.”

Anibal brought four opened bottles of beer to our table and slid one in front of me. I wrapped my fingers around the neck of the cold bottle, but I wouldn't take a sip.

Tammie walked through the front door and right over to
where we were sitting. She came up behind Rafael, dropping her hands on top of his shoulders like she could squeeze the sadness out of him.

“Lo siento,”
she told him. “I'm so sorry.”

Then she took the chair next to me, looking at the beer in my hand.

“
You
want to drink it?” I asked her.

“Not really. And it looks like you don't either,” she said, seeing how much was left.

“Rose of Sharon. She o-kay?” asked Nacho.

“Her feet are sore. I had her standing in warm water and Epsom salts,” Tammie answered, pointing to her own feet.
“Agua caliente.”

Nacho lowered his eyes to his beer, like he was the worst groom in the world.

But everybody at that table knew it was really Dag's fault.

“Maybe my grandpa will let you ride her someday, after she gets healthy,” Tammie told me.

“Yeah. If the stewards don't yank my license first,” I said, feeling sorry for myself.

That's when El Diablo arrived. As he walked past us, El Diablo saw the tears in Rafael's eyes and said, “
Solamente un caballo
—just a horse, no a person. Be a man—
un hombre
.”

Rafael flew up from his chair, grabbing El Diablo around the collar with both hands, shoving him back a few feet.

I jumped up as fast as Nacho and Anibal to help, before El Diablo wiped the floor with him. But El Diablo never picked up his hands, or even tried to fight back.

“Soy un hombre!”
Rafael hollered, with the rest of us trying to pull him away.
“Soy un hombre!”

“Sí, ahora,”
said El Diablo, nodding his head. “You acting like man now.”

I heard those words from El Diablo's mouth, and something deep inside my chest hardened like a rock.

Everyone in the cantina had stopped to watch that scene, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of the TVs in the background.

On both screens the horses were loading into the gate for the race that Rafael's horse had broken down in.

Rafael let go of El Diablo and watched as the field streaked down the straightaway. It was only for a split second that you could see his horse take a little hop-step, pulling himself up, as the camera followed the rest of the runners around the racetrack.

Then Rafael grabbed his beer from the table and left the cantina, with Nacho, Anibal, Tammie, and me following behind.

We had just made it down the steps when El Diablo came outside.

“Era un caballo bueno,”
El Diablo said, raising a beer bottle before pouring some out onto the ground.
“Por el muerto.”

“Gracias,”
said Rafael, spilling some of his beer too.

I took the full bottle I was holding and lifted it high.

I poured every bit of it onto the ground and watched it seep in.

“For the dead,” I said, hoping Mom would be riding Rafael's horse in heaven.

“Sí. Por el muerto,”
echoed Nacho.

The next morning at the barn Dag didn't say a single word to me. But every time he passed by, I could see that toothpick rolling around in his mouth start to pick up speed.

“Could be special day for you today, bug,” said Paolo, grinning wide. “Who knows, you might win your first race. Has to happen sometime.”

I did nothing for hours but walk horses in circles. And every time I passed Bad Boy Rising's stall, his huge, fiery eyes seemed to zero in on mine.

Later on I saw the webbing up in front of Bad Boy's stall as the other horses were getting fed and he wasn't.

He was raising his voice about it too.

One of those sparrows nesting in the cracked wall of his stall was perched on the webbing, listening to him, until that sparrow finally spread its wings and flew off.

When I got to the jockeys' room, Parker had already covered up the flames on El Diablo's boots with black shoe polish.

“Maybe this will give you a brand-new start on things, boss,” said Parker, showing me the boots. “Lord knows, you really need one.”

“You're right,” I said as the ceiling lights glistened off them.

Gillette and Castro were both in my race, and the two of them were already riding me hard.

“I hear this will be your last day in the saddle, bug,” said Gillette.

“You mean his last day
out of the saddle
, don't you?” piped in Castro. “And that'll only be
funny
if nobody gets hurt but him.”

Samuel was in the race too. But I didn't see him anywhere.

His son was sitting alone by Samuel's locker, and something made me walk over there.

“Don't matter what those guys say,” he said, looking up at
me from his chair. “You're lucky. I wish I was small enough to ride.”

“Why?” I asked him.

“My great-grandfather was a rider, my grandfather rode races, and now my father. I ruined it by being tall. I can't play basketball, and I'm scared to death of horses,” he said, shifting a worried eye over to the bathroom door.

“I was scared of horses once,” I said, looking at the faint outline of a bruise on his chin.

I could feel my own bruises, even the ones that had faded and disappeared. And I knew I needed to do something about them, so I headed for the bathroom.

It was empty inside, except for one stall with the door closed.

I could hear someone puking his guts up in there.

Then I heard a flush.

Samuel stepped out of that stall glaring at me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nobody likes to get smacked,” I said. “Especially kids.”

“Yeah? I'd slap you down right now, but I hear the stewards are getting ready to do that and boot you outta here,” he sneered. “So why should I risk the fine?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said. “I'm staying right here.”

“Where? The can?” he said with a smirk, his voice echoing off the white tiled walls as he walked toward the door. “You just stay right
here
, bug. We all got a dump we need to take. Don't we?”

A HALF HOUR BEFORE
I was supposed to ride Bad Boy Rising, the clerk of scales paged my name over the loudspeaker, “Gaston Giambanco Jr., report up front.”

I passed through the swinging doors, and Dag was standing there.

He put an arm around me and walked me out of the jockeys' room into the hallway. I was already wearing his black silks with the coiled-up cobra on my chest. Then Dag settled us alone and out of sight behind a vending machine.

“This is for you, Gas,” said Dag, handing me a betting ticket. “I plunked down fifty bucks to win on Bad Boy Rising for you. He's thirty-five to one right now. That's eighteen hundred you'll get back when he wins. But the odds are sure to go up before the race.”

“So he's got a chance today?” I asked.

“He's got more than a
chance
,” he answered. “Just make damn sure you hold on to him. That's all.”

“If he's such a good thing, how come I'm riding?” I kept at Dag.