Titans (2 page)

It must be almost noon when we reach the Gambini brothers’ pride and joy. Young girls and women aren’t the norm at the midnight races, but during the day, no one shoos us away. So we linger near the woods, a good distance from the chain-link fence, and watch for signs of life. In the middle of the season, jockeys and managers and sponsors bustle back and forth between the stables and track. But there’s time still before things are in full swing, and most jockeys elect to train on private tracks, on private property, paid for by family money.

Magnolia sits on the ground and produces a deck of playing cards from her pocket. I sit next to her and she deftly shuffles and splits the cards, five to each of us. Magnolia gazes at the empty track and says, “Let’s start with lowball, aces down.”

She’s suggesting low poker on my account, because I always end up with crap cards. It doesn’t matter, though, Magnolia will beat me either way. Her father taught her, though she’s since become a much better player than him. Admittedly, that’s not saying much. Magnolia’s dad has lost and repurchased a family vehicle more times than I can count with his own deck of cards. If you ask the man, he’s always up. But tell that to his children, who are living on the dwindling dollars tucked discreetly inside his wife’s hatbox.

Although Magnolia despises her father for what he’s done to them, the card games stuck.

I suppose gambling runs in the blood. I would know, after all. It was my grandfather’s own addiction that cost us a home the first time. That one-story, green-shuttered, ranch-style house was supposed to be left to my father and our family. It was my grandmother’s adamant wish. But she went quietly one night when I was very young, and my grandfather was not a quiet man.

He gambled everything he had in his bank account, and then every hard-earned wad of cash we hid between his walls. Finally, he gambled away that house note too, and onto the streets we marched.

My grandfather’s affinity for cards was worse than an addiction. It was wild and frenzied.

My father’s addiction is of the softer sort. Slow to grow, but steadfast once it bloomed. He likes cards too, and Magnolia’s old man because of it. But it was the Titan races that lost us the last safety net we had.

Magnolia and I play for an hour or so, our eyes flicking to the barren track, until finally, after my best friend has made a mockery of me hand after hand, the sound of someone approaching reaches my ears.

The guy is wearing an orange hunting vest over a plaid shirt. Hairy forearms protrude from rolled sleeves, and he’s got a perma-grimace thing going on, as if he’s never had a real, gut-clenching laugh in his entire life. White hair that’s on its last legs, a tall, thin frame, and eyebrows so thick they demand respect—that’s this guy. He looks pale. He also seems angry about who knows what, but pale nonetheless. I notice trickles of sweat running down his face, and consider telling him to lose the hunting vest. It’s summer, for crying out loud.

The old guy is barely holding himself up, and he’s breathing rapidly. Magnolia notices the man and his condition, and whispers that we should go get my mom. But I have a motto I’ve stood by since I was eleven years old, and it’s solid as the sun.

Don’t let others do for you what you can do for yourself
.

I can help this man as easily as Mom could. So I stand and approach him. “Hey, you okay?”

He grumbles.

“Want to sit with us?” I ask, gently taking his elbow.

The man looks at me, his grimace extra grimace-y. He looks familiar somehow. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Uh, you don’t look fine,” Magnolia adds, coming to stand beside the two of us.

He tugs his arm away and nearly tumbles backward in the process.

“You’re already sweating bullets, old man,” I tell him. “You want a mouthful of dirt too?”

The man snaps at me with his vicious dentures. Not that I’m certain he wears dentures, but it seems likely. “I don’t need your help. Leave me alone.”

“When people say they don’t need help, you know what they usually need?”

He glares at me.

I keep a firm grip on the man and look at Magnolia. “Get his other side. Let’s get him down.”

Magnolia juts her chin out. “Uh …”

“Just do it, Mag,” I clip.

The man releases a string of profanities lovely enough to make my younger sister sing with delight, but still we strong-arm him toward the ground, next to our playing cards. He’s not fighting us that hard. Not really. And after he settles himself in the leaves, he resorts to silently scowling.

“Since you’re no longer speaking, we’re gonna have to stick around for a while to make sure you don’t bite it.” I sit a few feet away, and Magnolia flops down across from me, eyeing me like,
Can we just get out of here?

“Take off that hunting jacket, at least,” I tell him.

His jaw tightens.

“Take it off.”

He grumbles.

“And here we have it, folks,” Magnolia booms. “The two most stubborn individuals ever to grace Warren County.” She laughs nervously while the man and I have ourselves a nice staring contest.

Eventually, Magnolia gets comfortable enough, or maybe bored enough, to change the subject. “How’d you finish junior year? Have you gotten your grades yet?”

“Yeah, they posted Sunday.”

Magnolia grins. “Well, how did the math genius make out?”

I can’t help the smile that lifts the corners of my mouth. “I did okay.”

“Pfft. You probably got a hundred on Slander’s final.”

I don’t respond.

“No way.” Magnolia’s eyes widen. “You got a hundred on that slimeball’s test? Doesn’t that mean he puts your name in next year’s final?”

My laughter gives me away, and Magnolia shakes her head. “Just think of all those future juniors cursing your name as they try and work through … through …”

“Division postulates?” I offer.

Her nose scrunches. “Gross. Don’t speak of such foul things around me. I’m a lady.”

For the next few minutes, I trace my newest theories on what track lengths and jams this Titan season will hold for Magnolia in the grass. I wish I had chalk. And a clean sheet of paper. And the parts my dad used to bring home from work. When I realize Magnolia’s eyes have glazed over, I stand and shoot a pointed look at Old Man.

“We’re going to leave now, unless you need us to stay longer.”

“I didn’t need you to stay at all,” he growls.

“Manners,” I joke.

But then Magnolia and I raise our heads to Cyclone Track, holding our breath. Magnolia doesn’t speak. Nor do I. We’re both afraid if we make a noise, the possibility will dash away. We were hoping to glimpse an aspiring jockey inspecting the grounds, or maybe a Gambini brother.

But this is better than we dared hope.

There in the distance is a flash of steel against the sun, and the clatter of hooves as a horse is led toward the track. I clamber to my feet and Magnolia does the same, double aces forgotten, Old Man left to his own devices.

The horse approaches the starting gate and tosses its head. I squint against the shadows thrown by the trees, and make out the rider. It’s a guy I don’t recognize, but of course that isn’t surprising since jockeys can only ever enter the races once. That goes for Titans too. Once a Titan’s serial number has been entered in a prelim race, it can’t ever be run again after that season. This limits the number, and
kind
, of people who invest in Titans. It also ensures there will always be new customers.

The aspiring jockey is dressed in blue, no number or surname or slogan on his back. He’s a free agent then, as many are around this time. Without a sponsor, he may not be able to cover the $50,000 entrance fee. Heck, his Titan may be borrowed for all I know.

Slowly, the Titan’s eyes change from black orbs to a red burning solar system—a sure sign that the horse’s racing engine is warmed up and ready to operate. The jockey guides his horse into a lane, not bothering to enter the starting gate. He works his fingers across the control panel, turning the two joystick-type devices on either side to straighten the creature out.

“Think he’s working on start speed?” Magnolia whispers.

I nod, though he should use the starting gate if that’s the case. Raising a hand to my forehead, I inspect the guy more closely. He’s built lean, taller than most jocks I’ve seen here, and is wearing dark shades and a handkerchief over his mouth.

Where is his helmet?

The jockey logs a few more commands and the Titan stiffens, neck rigid, legs bolted to the ground as if roots stretch from his hooves down into the earth.

There’s a low churning noise that grows in volume, signaling that the horse is about to be let loose. It sounds like an airplane rumbling down a tarmac, gaining speed. But the horse hasn’t moved an inch. Magnolia looks at me, and I look at her. We smile. This is our place. Always has been. No matter how difficult life gets, and despite the money my father lost here—we share this love.

The sound builds.

And builds.

The guy leans backward, but he should know better. You’re supposed to lean forward. His shoulders tighten and he breathes out. I can almost see the oxygen leaving his body. And then he slams his hand on that glittering black button, and his Titan roars to life.

It’s off, running, momentum building until I feel as if I’ll burst from excitement. The jockey leans back even farther and straightens his legs in front of him in black leather stirrups. He holds on to the grip bar with his left hand, and moves his right over the control panel to kick his horse into the next highest gear. It’s wrong, though. He should have done it earlier. The first turn is rapidly approaching, and the tight radius means he’ll need to slow soon. Two seconds earlier would have been best. Two and a half, even. His dash has a stopwatch. Why isn’t he using it?

Sure enough, the first turn arrives and he’s slowing his Titan, realizing he should have taken advantage of the straightaway when he could. But, hey, that’s what practice is for. As he turns his Titan back toward his original starting point, I run my eyes over the track. The Gambini brothers built it six years ago, and the first race began a year after that. My dad says the older brother had an obsession with NASCAR and horse races and all things speed related. But it was the younger brother, Arvin, who envisioned the Titans.
That weasel’s the one who pulls the strings
, Dad says.

The Gambini brothers have only one living relative, their grandmother. And that grandmother has pockets that run deeper than the depths of hell. It isn’t money that the brothers wanted when they started the Titan Circuit, it was attention. When the cameras started rolling, and interviews started appearing, Arvin morphed into a man people envied. After all, plenty of people are wealthy. But not everyone has fame.

Arvin and his older brother may not need extra cash, but they certainly reap it on race days. Men travel from miles around and stomp heavy work boots through the forest to place bets on their favorite Titans. And the majority who lose their rears in a matter of minutes? Well, that dough goes into the Gambini account. Then there are the entrance fees too.

That fifty thousand dollars to enter your horse?

Straight to the Gambinis.

And the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars it takes to purchase a Titan?

A portion of that goes to the Gambinis as well, who hold shares in Hanover Steel Incorporated, the company and plant that produces them.

Of course, it’s not as if the brothers don’t have expenses. There are track designers to pay, and bet makers and bet takers. There are the engineers who build the temporary tracks as the summer weeks progress and the races become more challenging. And more dangerous. I’ve also seen billboard ads and heard radio announcements for the Titan Circuit. The brothers must pay for those too.

And then there is their entourage: a dozen employees who follow behind the brothers with bags of freshly pressed suits and makeup and hair styling creams in case of interviews. These people laugh at their bosses’ jokes and smile only when Arvin and his brother are in good spirits.

Sometimes I wonder about the real horse track in Detroit, the one that’s rumored to be three steps away from bankruptcy. Their undoing started before the Gambini brothers stepped in. After the recession hit, even the wealthy watched their wallets more closely, no longer visiting the tracks as they once did. Of course that left them bored. Bored enough to consider what the Gambini brothers pitched as a safe, new investment in technology, with all the fun that racing promised.

Horses that operated like race cars.

It would diversify their portfolios, the brothers said. And who knows engines and transmissions better than the people of Detroit?

They agreed. They shook hands. And soon after, the middle and lower classes were offered a new opportunity. Leave behind those champagne specials and cold stadium seats where you’ll never truly belong, and join the party in the woods. A place where a man can hold a beer to his lips that he brought from home. A place where he can smoke and curse and impress his friends with a ten-dollar bet, paid in cash.

A place where he can be comfortable.

Where he can be king.

The police flocked to the Gambini brothers’ track that first night, handcuffs at the ready. But then, their collars were the deepest shade of blue. After Arvin shook their hands and asked the Warren County police chief to fire the first shot for that opening race, and then pledged a hefty donation to the force, the authorities became more of an occasional sighting. More often than not, when you did see them, they were out of uniform, bet cards in tow. Arvin called them each by name, and made sure they got a good spot next to the fence before the races began.

As the jockey in blue brings his Titan around for a third attempt at hitting the corner in record time, I find myself slipping closer to the gate, just like those off-duty police officers. Magnolia hisses my name, but what does it matter?

The jockey takes off, and it’s his worst run yet. I’m not sure whether to feel sorry for him, or to internally gloat. There’s nothing to gloat about. It’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to race, or even touch a Titan.

Steel grinds against steel as the horse turns sharply and barrels toward the gate, running full speed toward me. I jump backward, and almost don’t make it out of the way in time. The Titan slams into the space where my fingers were, and the jockey tears off his handkerchief and sunglasses.

“Practices are closed to the public,” he snaps. He has blond hair that’s tied back in a short ponytail, and dark brown eyes. He’s not unattractive, but he’s not particularly handsome, either. Not when he’s scowling like that.

I casually turn my head from side to side. “Don’t see anything that says that.”

His hands grip the joysticks tighter and the Titan between his legs prances. “Go on, get out of here. I don’t like being watched.”

“It wasn’t you I was watching,” I retort, my gaze coming to rest on his horse.

Magnolia touches my arm, but her stance is rigid. She’s ready to stand our ground if that’s what I want.

The guy leans forward and shakes his head. “Titan fans. Such a pity that you’ll never know what it’s like to ride. You’ll always be there …” He nods to me. “And we’ll always be up here. So go ahead and watch every move I make from down there in the dirt.”

Someone approaches from behind. I spin to see the old man staring past me at the jockey. If looks could kill, Handkerchief Boy would be eight feet underground. He doesn’t speak, just glares at the jockey with a silent message I interpret as:
I may be old, but that means I don’t have much to lose by burying you with my old man hands
.

The boy redirects his Titan and gallops toward the stalls.

“Well, that was rude,” Magnolia says. Then, craning her neck, she yells, “Rude!” She glances at me. “That shade of blue on him is atrocious. All wrong.”

I press my lips together and watch him ride away, fury burning through my veins. I’m upset because he’s right. Compared to me, that guy will always have more. Even if the Titan is borrowed, it means his family has friends with influence. Friends who can pull strings and make things happen.

I’ll never have the chance to compete in the Titan Circuit, yet I need that prize money more than anyone who rides this year will. That’s how life works, though, right? The rich get richer, and the poor grow more resentful.

“Thanks for that,” I tell the old man, but he only grumbles. “Seriously, you should go home. Drink some water and lie down. I’ve nearly fainted in this park too. It’s the trees. The shade makes you think you’re cooler than you are.”

When the old man grinds his teeth, I hold my hands up in surrender and Magnolia and I take off toward home for egg salad sandwiches.

“Why’d you even help that guy?” Magnolia asks after he’s out of earshot. “And why was he lurking around the track?”

“Same reason we were? And because I’m not heartless?”

“Why not?” she asks. “Being heartless is where it’s at.”

I laugh because I know she’s not serious. But it’s difficult, the laughing. Because even though the jockey and his Titan should hold my attention, I can’t stop thinking about that obstinate man and his liver-spotted hands. He reminds me of someone that I don’t need any help remembering. Because this person is always lingering near the front of my mind, and my heart aches something awful each time I think of him. It asks if I could have saved him, if I could have done something so that he’d still be here.

As Magnolia leads us through trees that grow denser, and foliage that scrapes against my bare calves, all I can think is—

I miss Grandpa
.