With sixteen minutes to post, the atmosphere felt like the moment between lightning and thunder. The moment when life seemed to balance on the brink, anticipating an uncontrollable force. Thrilling, almost frightening, it reminded me of the minutes in DeMott Fielding’s pickup truck, when snow silently fell around us and he asked if I would ever consider marrying him. They were the moments when the very next thing will change everything, forever.
Running down to the bottom of the grandstands, I flipped open my umbrella and jogged along the white rail. The announcer’s voice crackled above me on the loudspeakers.
“In lane one, we have that brisk brew from Abbondanza, Cuppa Joe. Monday’s big winner. And in lane two, Loosey Goosey, a fine fresh filly from Manchester Barn.” His voice sounded vaguely British, like a fake English accent. “In lane three, it’s the mighty warrior known as SunTzu from the Hot Tin Barn.”
I glanced across the oval. The eight horses were walking single file, heading for the starting gate. The jockeys hunched their shoulders against the soft rain.
“And in lane four, Bubba’s Revenge . . .”
I glanced at my watch. Eleven minutes. Eleanor expected me back in the dining room by post time. I hurried down the backstretch and stepped around a clutch of smokers who stood outside the Quarterchute Café, faces as lined as topographic maps. Closing the umbrella and giving it a shake, I opened the door. And smelled heaven.
Fries. Cheeseburgers. Grease.
“Freddie,” said a tiny woman behind the counter. “Love of my life, pay up.” She turned to the man working the grill. “Raleigh’s here.”
On my first day out here, after Eleanor reordered my breakfast, I ran into this place like a beagle following a scent. By my second day, I had learned that Birdie Bidwell and her husband, Freddie, had opened the Quarterchute Café thirty-plus years ago, providing cheap food for the backstretch trainers, grooms, pony riders, and an assorted clutch of old gamblers whose wagers had won them small percentages of racehorses, just enough to qualify them as part-owners. The jockeys came in too, but only to drink water.
Birdie was a preternaturally tiny woman, almost childlike, with tourmaline-blue eyes and a round face. The cash register almost touched her chin. She held a Sharpie in one hand, carefully writing the day’s word, which she hung daily on a birch tree beside the entrance. Spanish-to-English translations, for the track’s many Hispanic workers. Today’s sign read Relaciones = Relationships.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I said.
“Honey.” She capped the pen. “We were so worried about you we had to start a pool.”
I took a jumbo cup from the soda dispenser. “What was the wager?” I hit the button for Coca-Cola. Breakfast of champion liars.
“The wager was ‘Would Eleanor Anderson set foot inside the hospital?’ That woman hates anything medical. But you know that.”
I didn’t, but I nodded.
“Then I remembered something,” Birdie said. “When your uncle Harry got sick, that pneumonia killed him? Eleanor went to the hospital every single day. So I took long odds—and I won!”
“Congratulations.”
“Ah, it was easy. Any idiot can see how much your aunt loves you.”
I looked away, staring at the heat lamp on the counter. Underneath it, two foil packages waited, each labeled Raleigh’s BnE. That acronym used to stand for breaking and entering. Now it was bacon and egg. I picked them up, feeling the warm, soft foil, and decided the worst part of being undercover was lying to the nice people.
“Thanks, Birdie.”
“Those are on me.”
“No, really—”
“Don’t ruin my luck.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Thank you.”
But she had already turned to the television opposite the cash register. A man dressed like an English beefeater raised a trumpet and began playing the opening tune. The Café fell into a reverential silence, as if the Pledge of Allegiance was being recited. The television shifted views, showing the track, the grandstands, the people, and a final shot of the inboard lights. The odds were almost locked in. The last shot was of the starting gate. In their confined spaces, the jockeys looked both compact and loose, straddling the horses. The trumpeter stretched out his last notes, extending that moment between lightning and thunder.
I checked my watch and walked over to the gingham-covered tables. If I ate fast, I could still get back to Eleanor. There was an open seat next to the old guy everyone called the Polish Prince. He was circling names on the betting sheet, slashing through others.
He looked at my food. “That stuff will kill you.”
“Aunt Eleanor already told me.”
“She would.”
He glanced up at the screen, waiting for the race to start, and I bowed my head to give silent grace, then unwrapped the first sandwich. One hundred percent pure American grease, God bless it. I took my first bite as the starting bell rang and looked up to see the gates bursting open and horses leaping out.
“What the—?” The Polish Prince stood up.
Five horses splashed down the muddy track. But the camera flashed back to the starting gate. Three horses hadn’t left, but one was jumping out. A bay horse. A second—black as night—reared inside its small space, then leaped like it was clearing a hurdle.
But the third horse . . .
I stood up.
The Polish Prince looked at me, pointing at the television. “Hey, ain’t that your aunt’s horse?”
Despite the wide-open gate, SunTzu refused to move. The jockey was whipping his crop, over and over. But the horse stood like a statue. Standing in the saddle, the jockey whipped some more. The horse stumbled forward.
But suddenly the camera returned to the race. The announcer was calling the front runners. When it returned to the gate, SunTzu had taken several steps, ponderous as a Clydesdale. His head was drooping and the jockey stood again, yanking on the reins. But the horse was already coming down fast, crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been slashed. And in one horrifying second I realized the jockey was stuck. He was trying to get his foot out of the stirrup. The animal listed to one side, going down, taking the rider with him. And pinning him underneath.
I ran for the door.