Secretariat Reborn (23 page)

On a grass flat in Sarasota Bay, Christian anchored his Whaler and pointed to a narrow channel that bordered a sandy shoal with mangroves. He told Vince they needed to get out of the boat and wade through the grass flats to the edge of the shoal, since a boat motor would scare the fish.

Vince grumbled about getting wet and wading fifty yards in knee-deep water, but his griping stopped after his first cast. When his shrimp hit the water, the fin of a large red broke the surface and gulped down the bait. Vince’s pole bent close to snapping, and Vince struggled to reel in the fish.

“Holy Christ,” Vince yelled like an excited kid. After a lengthy battle, he landed the thirty-three-inch red drum.

Christian began an uneasy friendship with Vince, although they shared little in common. Christian learned that Vince was a city guy, raised in the dingy alleys and rough neighborhoods of the North. He was old enough to be Christian’s father and had crude manners and lacked culture. To Vince, a plate of spaghetti was fine dining, and he would not know a Picasso from a Rembrandt. His only interest was business and making a fast buck at someone else’s expense. Morally, they stood worlds apart as well.

Christian, on the other hand, had grown up in Florida and lived for the outdoors and nature. He had seen snow only twice and would go insane up North if shut in without sunshine for half a year. He spent the better part of his life in Sarasota, an extremely culture-conscious town that had playhouses, museums, art galleries, and fine restaurants. Hidden among the Sarasota population were best-selling authors, renowned artists, actors, and musicians. Bumping into Stephen King in a bookstore, drinking with Dickey Betts in a lounge, or attending the film festival and talking to a movie star was not unusual for Sarasota residents.

Christian’s mother and lawyer stepfather exposed him to the finer things in life and, with urging, he even had a few years of college under his belt.

Christian, though, could switch gears when hanging with blue-collar workers, boat people, and cowboys. Unconsciously his accent would even change to a southern drawl when he talked to the good old boys in Myakka. Allie had joked and said he lived a double life, being a redneck cracker and a classy gentleman in one package.

With Vince, however, Christian was at a loss. He could not relate to the guy on any level. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. After their second fishing trip, Christian realized that Vince simply liked to fish, and unfortunately none of his associates shared his passion.

On one occasion, Vince brought up the earlier Scarab ride. “The ride back to the dock—I seriously thought about hurtin’ you for pullin’ that ballsy stunt,” Vince said while reeling in his line. “But what saved you, what impressed me, was you weren’t worried about your own skin. You were only concerned about your gal and family. Devotion to family is important to me, too. And from all reports, I’ve learned you’re a straight shooter and a decent guy.”

Vince shook his head. “Usually I deal with lying snakes, pathetic losers, or greedy, hardcore bastards like myself.” He laughed. “You’re a refreshing break, Christian. You look like a beach bum and act like a hokey boat kid, but I ain’t buyin’ it. You’re smarter than you let on. I like bein’ around ya.”

Christian accepted the compliments with mixed feelings. Sure, he would be Vince’s fishing buddy and show him a good time. They laughed and joked around, but beneath it lay Vince’s unspoken words, “screw me over, and like you or not, you’ll pay a dear price.” Christian was playing with fire, getting sociable with the mobster, and in the end, he might get burned.

Christian often reflected on Vince and then on Mystery and his lack of performance. The two were closely connected.

Christian picked up the remote, turned on the TV, and watched a few minutes of the six o’clock evening news. The chatty newscaster did not fill the empty void in the quiet farmhouse. Christian switched off the set, stood, and looked out the window at the cypress trees that bordered the lake. Like a time gauge, the tree’s bright-green needles of summer had turned orange and deep red with the onset of fall and now, in January, were dropping soon to leave the trees barren.

Where had the time gone, he wondered. Nearly a year had passed since Kate set fire to the barn, and last he had heard she faced a five-year prison sentence. His thoughts turned to Mystery. With New Year’s, the colt was considered a two-year-old, his racing career soon starting.

Beneath the cypress, Christian saw four little brown shadows marching through the grass in single file, making their way to the back door. “Here they come,” he said, watching the female raccoon and her three half-grown babies. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bowl of leftover stew he would not eat. He opened the back door, and the coons were waiting. Like little bears, they sat up on their hind legs and did a begging motion with their front paws.

“All right.” He smiled and dumped the food onto the step, near his bare feet. “Some company is better than none.”

The raccoons ignored him, accustomed to the handouts, and picked up each food piece with their front paws, held it, and ate with more manners than some children. With their cute little masks and
fluffy ringed tails, the coons were charming. He never understood the repulsion some people felt toward the creatures.

A crisp winter wind blew his hair back as he gazed at the horizon of darkening trees beyond the pastures and the turquoise sky, laced with pearly lavender clouds. In the distant pine forest, he heard the yipping of a few coyotes, their populations on the rise in Florida, alarming the local cattlemen in Myakka, who occasionally lost a calf.

He closed the door and ambled back to the living room, facing another lonely night without Allie. Several days before, she had taken Mystery and two other horses to Miami. The Gulfstream meet had started. Rather than go to the Tampa track, she decided to take advantage of some vacant stalls at Calder, since the track was closed in the winter months. She entered the two horses in Gulfstream races only days apart. Although Mystery was not in a race, he needed his gate card and tattoo. Plus, raised on a quiet farm, he had to be acclimated to the racetrack commotion and to be exposed to the multitude of horses.

The colt had only marginally improved, but he at least was taking hold of the bit, a good sign, and was keeping more in stride with a companion horse. He still lacked the fire in his gut required to win races.

The phone rang and Christian raced into the kitchen, knowing Allie would call with her nightly report on what the horses had done that day.

“Hey,” Christian said.

“Hey back at ya,” she said, her voice cheerful.

“Well?”

“The filly got a second! And Gulfstream is a tough crowd. She even beat out one of Nick Zito’s. I’m in the hotel bar, celebrating with Sam, you know, the pin hooker who set you up with the loan on Mystery.”

Set me up all right
, Christian thought. “So what happened with
Mystery today? You planned to work him three-eights with other colts.” He heard her sigh.

“He did okay. He worked with some fast colts and got a thirty-eight.”

He had learned that the time and conditions differed from track to track, so he asked, “How did he stack up against the others?”

“Dead last, but Christian, it just took him longer to find his stride. He was moving at the end.”

“Christ,” he mumbled quietly.

“Don’t get discouraged. I think he’ll come around.” She laughed. “I’ll tell you your colt sure stops traffic. Everyone loves him, he’s so well-built and good-looking. Even that jerk Price had one of his assistant trainers ask me about your colt’s pedigree. Another old trainer stopped me. Said he saw Secretariat train down here as a two-year-old, and Mystery was a spitting image—even has the same straight hind legs and sloping rump. That was awesome.”

Christian fidgeted with the phone cord and nervously changed the subject. “So when are you coming home?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night, and I miss you, too. Look, I gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” he said and hung up, his mind on the old trainer. How many others might make the link that Mystery looks a heck of a lot like Secretariat? He walked to the living room couch and plopped down on the cushions. “Why be concerned?” he grumbled. “He’s the prettiest colt in Miami, but he’s can’t run worth a hoot.” He snatched up the remote, turned on the TV, and hoped for a distraction.

Five months later, Allie entered Mystery in his first race at Calder. Christian watched Allie squat down and take off Mystery’s leg wraps. “We’ll have to celebrate tonight after his win,” he said.

Allie stood. “He should at least be in the money. He’s the best colt in the field. The new snaffle has stopped him from dipping to
the left, and the blinkers are keeping his mind on business, but there’re no guarantees in a first race.”

“He’ll win. He has to,” Christian said, confident that his clone was on the same path as the great undefeated Secretariat.

Mystery had improved over the spring. He was still chunky, but the colt had found his stride. He took hold of the bit and learned to switch leads after the turns so he wouldn’t tire. More importantly, his competitive nature had emerged. His workouts were thirty-six in three-eighths of a mile. He was in today’s third race, a twenty-five-thousand maiden special weight that was six furlongs.

Christian was so positive of the colt’s victory he had told Vince to expect the purse money. It was June, and Mystery’s slow development and adjustment into racing had hampered Christian’s plan to pay off the gangster. Being a good trainer, Allie refused to push the colt until he was ready. She was unaware of the problems Christian faced if Vince’s loan deadline wasn’t met in July.

A man’s voice came across the backside PA system, calling for the horses in the third race. A strong wind whipped through the barns, and Christian glanced up at the black thunderstorm clouds rolling in, signaling the end of spring drought. Tropical storms would become a daily afternoon event with the progression of summer.

“Hope the rain holds off,” said Christian.

“Me too,” said Allie. “I’m not sure how our boy will handle a muddy track.” She tied Mystery’s tongue down, so his breathing wasn’t hampered in the race and slipped his bridle on. She led him out of the stall and guided the colt through the barns, being his trainer, exercise rider, and groom.

A week prior to the race, she had relinquished Mystery’s morning exercise to an apprentice jockey named Jeffery, so he could get a feel for the colt. Although Jeffery had an English first name, he was Hispanic like most of the jockeys in Miami.

Christian carried a bucket of supplies and walked alongside Allie and Mystery. Normally, grooms brought the horse and supplies and met the trainer and owner in the racing paddock, but Christian
didn’t have that luxury. Ironically, he was probably the poorest owner at Calder, but had the most spectacular colt. Allie, Mystery, and Christian reached the track and walked along the outside rail, passing the lathered horses and their grooms headed for the barns after the second race.

Christian’s hands grew sweaty, his heart pounded, and he felt like leaping out of his skin. The trio left the track and entered the riders-up arena. He glanced at Allie beside him. She was the picture of calm, leading the huge red colt, talking softly to reassure him.

They stopped before the saddling paddock, and Allie lifted Mystery’s upper lip in front of an official who checked the colt’s tattoo. “Clever Chris, fourth horse,” the man said and marked his clipboard. “Good-looking colt.”

They proceeded to the covered paddock and the number four stall, when a tremendous crash of lightning struck nearby. Mystery spooked and reared. Allie had to use all her strength to contain him.

“Easy, Mystery,” she said and brought the colt’s front legs back to earth. “You’re not going to let a little lightning upset you.” The colt quickly settled. They stared out the paddock as the storm let loose, the dark gray clouds releasing a deluge of rain. Strong winds whipped at the trees, and the outside spectators raced for shelter within the grandstands. Thunder shook the building and unnerved the horses.

Allie patted Mystery. “I’m going to walk him to keep him calm. With lightning, they’ll delay the race.” She led Mystery out of the stall and joined the other horses and grooms that walked in a circle under the sheltered paddock.

Christian kept looking at his watch while the storm wreaked havoc. The fast, dry track quickly turned into an obstacle course of mud and big puddles. Allie was right. Because of the chance that a horse and jockey might be hit by lightning, the third race was held up for fifteen minutes past the scheduled post time.

Finally there was a break. The storm passed, but the weather was still windy and raw, with sprinkling rain. Allie brought Mystery into
the stall, and Christian held his lead. The jockey’s valet handed Allie the saddle. After saddling Mystery, she adjusted the blinkers and led the colt out to the riders-up area where the jockeys waited.

She walked Mystery around the wide grass and treed circle, and Jeffrey approached. “I’m not sure how he’ll handle this surface,” Allie told him. “Let him level out and find his stride. Don’t push or crowd him.”