In fact, the colt was working quite nicely, and Dick had him ready for a race. The colt was working so nicely that Dick was tempted to imagine himself as a genius—a person who understands the few simple elements of any process that will propel it forward where always before it has been fatally retarded. And now that the colt was working so well, a lot of people were looking at him in a new way. His quirks, like viciousness, appeared to have been taken care of. No longer did his unpredictability serve as a disincentive, and Dick knew that Herman Newman was the belle of the ball.
They talked every day. Herman Newman was a nice man, but you had to tell him everything over and over. What was a blinker again? What were rundowns again? Tell me again what Legend is? How do you mean, prophylactic? Arthritis in a three-year-old? Tell me again, is a three-quarters work a minute, eight seconds good? Tell me again, what should I say to this reporter? There were lots of apologies—Herman Newman was always saying, You know, I take this, what is it, ginkgo biloba for my memory, and maybe it is getting worse, but I don’t know. I’ve always liked to be reminded right now of what I already know. It drives my wife crazy. But, you know, you don’t know the same thing today as you did yesterday. Every day, the sun comes up all over again. And so-and-so called me again.
So-and-so. Here was Dick’s deepest worry, the paradox of his existence. Herman Newman could be seduced at any moment. Horse agents called him all the time, French, English, sometimes American. Then he would call Dick for advice. This guy Tommy Ormond called. His buyer was a quiet man, didn’t like his name in the papers. “Japanese,” said Dick.
“The Japanese don’t have any money anymore,” said Herman Newman.
“They do at the top,” said Dick.
“Why won’t he tell me his name?”
“There’s a lot of secrecy in horse racing,” said Dick.
“Tell me again why that is.”
“Because there’s a lot of money at stake, especially on the betting side.”
“Should I sell the horse?”
“Don’t ask me that,” said Dick.
“Who can I ask? I don’t know anyone but you. Tell me again why I shouldn’t sell the horse.”
“Because he’s a great horse. He can win for you and make you a lot of money.”
“Okay.”
And then, later in the day, “Hi, Herman Newman here. This guy called me, Simon St. Melbourne. What is he, Australian?”
“English.”
“He has a buyer.”
“From Hong Kong, I bet. He has Hong Kong connections.”
“There’s still plenty of money in Hong Kong. Some of it’s Chinese, too. You think Beijing is interested in this horse?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Newman.”
And then, “Herman Newman here. This guy Gustave Galopin or something like that called me.”
“Arabs. They haven’t had much of an interest in American racing until lately.”
“Tell me again—”
In fact, there was no reason for the man not to sell the horse. Herman Newman was not a horseman, and seemed uncomfortable in his new role as owner. All over the world, on the other hand, there were deserving men who had spent dozens of years and millions of dollars without ever coming close to a horse like Epic Steam. Why should Herman Newman, a man who couldn’t remember what a blinker was from one day to the next, run a horse like this one, when men who knew horses, who had horses in their blood, who in some cases believed that they had been horses in previous lifetimes, had no chance at him? Ah. Well. Of all the things in the world that were unfair, ownership, that simplest of them, often seemed the unfairest of all.
There was only one reason for Herman Newman to own Epic Steam, and that was that Dick Winterson wanted to train the animal. Of course, if he put him in a good race and the horse won, which Dick was sure he would, then the pressure on Herman Newman to do the right thing would only increase.
EPIC STEAM was ready to run. More important, Herman Newman was ready for him to run. “Tell me again why we missed this Count Fleet Stakes? Tell me again why you scratched him, is that the word, from the Whirlaway Stakes? It’s all right with me if he gets shipped somewhere. Whatever it takes. Tell me again why you don’t want to ship him?”
“He’s hard to handle.”
“Didn’t you tell me he seems to have turned over a new leaf?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Don’t you trust him?”
“I’m starting to trust him.”
“Tell me again why you don’t want to put him in a race.”
“I do want to put him in a race. But I want it to be the right race.”
“What would be the right race?”
One that no one in the world was looking at.
“I think maybe the Paumonok Stakes.”
“Have I heard of that race?”
“No. It’s a prep race. If he does well, he can go in a famous race.”
“Okay. Tell me again when they run this race?”
“In a couple of weeks.”
“Should I be there?”
“Yes, you should, Mr. Newman.”
“You just remind me what to wear and do.”
“You’re very game, Mr. Newman.”
“I’ll tell you something. I don’t mind looking like an idiot. I never have. People who are worried about appearances don’t get anywhere. They’re always checking themselves out. That takes a lot of time that, at my age, I don’t have. So I look like an idiot, so what, you know what I mean?”
“I do, sir. The Paumonok Stakes. I will keep you informed.”
“Tell me again what that race is worth?”
“About a hundred thousand dollars to the winner.”
“That’s a nice piece of change.”
“Yes it is, sir.”
IT WAS ONLY on the morning of the race that Dick realized that he had never actually run Epic Steam before. He had worked him and read about his previous races and fantasized about every named race there was and obsessed day and night about the horse, but when it came to actually knowing what the horse would do in a race, or, for that matter, in the saddling enclosure, in the test barn, under the stands, out on the track with ten thousand people looking at him and yelling, well, that he didn’t actually know. An oversight of some magnitude.
To Herman Newman, he said, “The horse is well prepared and fit. He’s been training superbly. I think he’s as ready as he’s gonna be.” Whistling in the dark.
To himself, he recited all his own statistics—horses trained, races won, money earned, blah blah blah. But it didn’t matter. Every step out of the barn with this horse was a blindfolded step toward the edge of a cliff. You didn’t know where the drop would be. Actually, the training had been going fine, and for the last two weeks they had even trained the horse with a four-year-old gelding, to accustom him at least a little to the proximity of another horse. The gelding was a big self-confident turf horse, a little on the phlegmatic side. His exercise rider was big and phlegmatic, too, and a couple of times when Epic Steam pinned his ears to bite his partner that guy gave him a cut across the face with his whip to ponder at his leisure. It wasn’t something Dick liked to do, but that, too, worked well enough.
Dick wondered why sometimes all the evidence in the world that everything was fine wasn’t enough to convince you.
Frankie took a different attitude toward the whole thing. He just shrugged and said, “Look, boss, my opinion? Stop making a special deal out of this horse. Put the jockey on him, tell him to run, and leave it at that. You’re giving yourself a heart attack trying to figure this horse out. Bottom line? He’s a fucking horse.”
And so Herman Newman showed up, and so his wife showed up, and she was the sort of wife Dick would never sleep with, which was a relief, and so his sons and their wives showed up, and the same went for them, and it was like showing a vanload of tourists around. One of the sons was in toys, also, and another was a professor of something like medieval Russian history and th
e third was a rabbi. Yes, a real rabbi, with the hat and the coat and the long curls. Dick had never seen a rabbi at the track before, but he was glad. Maybe, he thought, that was the secret to Herman Newman’s run of luck. He made a point to brush against the rabbi and then touch the horse with that hand, since he didn’t dare invite the rabbi to endanger himself by approaching the horse.
The Newmans stood in a circle around the horse, at a safe distance, contemplating him. What’s more, as they contemplated him, he put aside his busyness for a moment and contemplated them. At this moment, Dick took the opportunity offered and threw the jockey into the saddle. The jockey exchanged a glance with him. The glance said, So far so good, here goes.
Dick shepherded the Newmans through the betting hall and up to his box. It took a while, because the Newmans were amazed by everything they saw. Even Herman, who had been here a couple of dozen times, seemed freshly amazed. By the time everyone was seated, Epic Steam had picked up his pony and was out on the track. The rabbi, who upon perusal looked to be rather young, leaned around his wife and touched Dick’s sleeve. He said, “This equine of ours seems to me to have a rather intransigent quality.”
“You’re not the first to notice that, but I’m surprised you noticed it so quickly.”
“Would this be a good quality in a racehorse?”
“Within certain limits, yes.”
The man pressed his fingers into his beard and regarded the track. He said, “Highly ritualized.”
Dick said, “It’s the same every day, everywhere, all year round.”
“I like that,” said the rabbi. “I might come back.”
“You don’t see too many rabbis at the track.”
“What are those numbers on that display there?”
“Those are the odds. The odds on our horse are three to one. He’s had lots of good races, but he hasn’t raced for a long time, so the bettors like him, but he isn’t the favorite.”
“This is a strange thing for my father to do.”
“Why is that?”
“All his forebears were revolutionaries. I’m the black sheep of the family. My grandfather would have died to see his grandson a rabbi. He nearly died, or said he did, when my father revealed he was investing in the stock market. When he told us he bought a racehorse, my mother took him to his doctor. She really did. But now we don’t mind. I’ll tell you something. My father is a man of perfect innocence, at least as far as I’ve ever seen. He never manufactured a toy that had to be recalled or was even rumored to be unsafe. But that’s not what I mean by innocent. That’s just not guilty. It’s more like every experience is new to him, no matter how many times he’s done it before.”
“I’ve noticed that,” said Dick. Epic Steam went into the gate, then backed out, then went in again, then backed out again. Two men closed in on his rear. He kicked out but missed both of them. Then he went into the gate and stayed there. Dick said to the rabbi, “There they go.”
The big dark horse broke from the third slot and bounded forward. For Dick, he alone was distinct in the swirl of horseflesh. It wasn’t even voluntary. His gaze simply picked out Epic Steam and focused on him and the others disappeared. The horse was not in the lead, but about four lengths back in the third lane, running forward like a normal racehorse. It went on like that. Dick began to think he was a genius again. Thinking he was a genius felt like a sort of inner melting—gravel turning to molasses. Or maybe that was just the feeling of relief. The horses came out of the first turn, Epic Steam as crystal clear as the moon on a dark night. Dick could see his tail streaming, his muscles stretching, the hand of the jockey on the rein, holding but not pulling. “Every horse is trainable.” That’s what he would say to the press when they asked. There were other good horses in the race, horses people were talking about in only positive terms. Dick couldn’t make them out. Down the backstretch, Epic Steam went a little wide, into the fourth lane, and then the fifth lane. The horses went into the second turn. The leaders, three of them, were bunched on the rail. Epic Steam was fifth. But he was wide.
The rabbi said, “The horse seems to be awfully far to the outside. Geometrically, isn’t that unwise—”
“Watch this,” said Dick.
The big dark horse swept around the turn, far away from the others. And then they were in the stretch. Epic Steam was in the middle of the track now, all by himself, and Dick realized that this was how he had to run, way to the outside. It was the only safe way. But, of course, the horse was fit enough to climb Mount Everest. And here was the payoff. With nothing to distract him, the horse bolted for the finish line, passing so far to the outside of the other animals that they didn’t see him and so didn’t hook on and catch fire. Maybe even the other jockeys didn’t see him. He was a stealth bomber. The jockey didn’t even have to go for his whip—in fact, it looked like, the guy just had to hold on tight and hope he could stop the horse in time to get to the winner’s circle. The horse won by a length. It was only then, sitting there for a moment, that Dick felt the depths of his own fear, all that fear he had been covering over for God knew how long. Then he stood up and shepherded the Newmans down to the winner’s circle. They, of course, were amazed.
While they were standing there with the photographer and with the actress who was to help the track president give out the trophy, waiting for Epic Steam and his jockey and his groom to return from the next borough, Dick said to the rabbi, “Your father really deserves this.”
“You may think so,” said the rabbi. “Sure he does. But the wonderful thing about my father is, he never even thinks about what he deserves.”
Dick wondered what Herman Newman would possibly talk to other owners about, should he find himself engaged in such a conversation.
And here came the horse, exhausted but still alight, his neck arched, his nostrils flared, all his veins standing out, full of himself, and, you might say, happy. Herman Newman, forgetful of every warning Dick had ever given him, went up to the horse and embraced him around the neck. And then they drew up in a line and the cameraman clicked the photo, and Dick remembered that in horse racing, always and forever, luck was better than genius. And that’s what he told the guys from The Blood-Horse and the Thoroughbred Times when they asked him.
55 / PARK MIN JONG
JESSE OFTEN WONDERED whether his thoughts influenced events. For example, his mother had just called him to dinner, and he was walking toward the table and noticing that she had made eggplant parmesan and thinking that he didn’t like eggplant parmesan when the front door slammed open and Leo burst in. His mother said, “Oh, Leo, there you are, I just put—”
But Leo ran into the bedroom. Jesse went to the doorway of the bedroom, and saw that his dad had a gun in his hand, and was loading bullets into it. Jesse had never seen a gun before, except in the movies or on television.
Leo was jamming bullets into the cylinder. Jesse turned and went out, went over to his mother, who was sitting quietly at the table. He sat down in his place. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even seem to notice him, but then, when Leo came into the room, she startled. Leo said, “I’m going to Park Min Jong.”
This was a park that Jesse had never heard of. “Why are you taking a gun, Dad?” said Jesse as Leo snapped the gun into his shoulder holster and then slipped his arm into the strap. “Are there gangs there?”
“I’m just going to make sure. I won’t use it unless I have to, but I’m going to make sure.”
“Make sure of what, Leo?” said his mom, quietly, more as if she had to say it than as if she really wanted to know.
“Well, it’s simple. I called that bookie yesterday at eleven-thirty. I can get the phone-company records to back me up. And I said, ‘Give me fifty on the sixth horse in the first race and fifty on the third horse in the second race.’ The odds were eight to one on the first horse and six to one on the second horse. I know those were the bets, because I remember the feeling I had—six one three two—you know, that was the address of that apartment
we lived in that time, remember that?”
“That was six one three three,” said Jesse’s mom.
“Well, exactly, but you can’t make the daily double on the third race. It’s got to be on the second race.” He looked at her with fond irritation, and said, “You know, I don’t understand why you can’t get a grasp of that thing. That’s the simplest thing in racing, what the daily double is. Anyway, those were the bets I made. Do I have to record myself now? Keep some kind of unimpeachable record? I mean, what is happening to this country? When Mickey Cohen ran things, well, my dad would tell you, they ran pretty well, but that’s because, between you and me, they were run by Jews.”
“Where are you going with the gun, Leo?”
“These Korean bookies have their own boss, you know, they all do. That’s what happened to this country. Every ethnic group has its own boss. It isn’t like when I was a boy, Jess, when things were more centralized. Now you’ve got to be schlepping down to Korea Town, or—” He broke off. His hair seemed to stand on end. Jesse always had this feeling, that when his father got angry his hair stood on end. “What the hell am I wasting my time here for? The Goddamned payoff on that bet was over fourteen hundred dollars, and if I don’t get it, there’s going to be a payoff, let me tell you!”