Daybreak on Long Island - Part 3

Original article written by The Steward posted 13 years 1 week ago

The tiny track kitchen was swarming with horsemen. The line wove its way out the door, and information was passing like water through a pipe towards the back of the queue.

“They think it was Larry Burndorf,” Amanda Kessler was saying excitedly. “He’s the only one with any reason to do it!”

“Do what?” Nan Lanson asked, joining the line was a dollar bill in her right hand.

“The rumor is that Larry is trying to sabotage Emma Lochran’s chances in the Filly and Mare Dirt Mile,” Amanda explained patiently.

“Why on earth would he do that?” Peihe Sun asked, a cup of coffee in one hand and today’s Feature Race in another. She had just exited the kitchen and was on her way back to the barn. She had reason to be concerned; Peihe trained two of the Filly and Mare Dirt Mile entrants.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Larry has never won a Steward’s Cup race, and that race is the one where he has the biggest shot,” Amanda pointed out.

“Biggest shot?” Peihe looked confused. “His filly – no offense to him – has a tall order in that race.”

“And actually,” Nan interjected, “so does Sofie. Why wouldn’t he go after Peihe’s horses, or Jolene’s filly, or Paul’s?”

“I don’t know,” Amanda admitted, but added importantly, “all I know is that I hired an extra security guard for my shedrow this week.”

Peihe nodded, as if agreeing that this might be a good course of action. “But the hoof pick – why would he steal that?”

“It’s less conspicuous than walking in and breaking the horse’s leg, I guess,” Amanda answered. All three of them grimaced.

“Poor Emma,” Nan said sadly. “Has anyone thought to get her a new hoof pick?”

--

At the front of the line, Kevin Hern was waving a dollar bill in the face of the barista. “How hard is it to get a Danish around here?” he snapped.

“I’m surprised, you’re usually a little more even-tempered!” Rob Kilbourn laughed, pushing in beside his friend.

“I’ve been waiting here for ten minutes, and I just want a pastry,” Kevin complained. “I’ve got horses to work, you know, and the track opens in three minutes.”

“Going to win this year?” Rob asked.

“Doubt it,” Kevin rolled his eyes. “My freak colt with the best shot has to be stuck in the most talented crop of turf horses in history.”

“That stinks. Oh, hey, Marla, can I get a coffee?” Rob called over to the disgruntled-looking woman in a green and white apron. “And maybe a Danish for my friend here?”

“Sure, Robbie,” she replied with a smile. Her bright red lipstick, bright red nails, and fake-tanned leather skin gave her a somewhat horrific look.

“How did you do that?” Kevin gasped, surprised.

“Oh, Marla and I go way back,” Rob said, grinning. He handed Kevin the pastry, then stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip jar.

“See you later, hon,” Marla called as the two men fought their way through the throng.

Kevin looked at Rob suspiciously, one eyebrow arched. Rob gave him a sound thump on the shoulder. “If you pay up, it pays off,” he explained.

--

“Will you look at this day!” Melissa Mae crowed, leaning up against the rail a 16th of a mile past the wire.

“Hey, don’t spook the horses!” Bill Oelrich snapped, trying to hang on as high-strung juvenile colt, Grip, skittered sideways going the wrong way towards the wire.

“Ah, lighten up, Bill,” Paul Heinrich called a few paces away from Melissa. He was hanging over the rail as well, but turned to grin at her. “He’s just nervous. It is a beautiful day.”

Melissa smiled back. “It’s one of those days that makes you just want to sing or something,” she said, then laughed. “I never feel like that!”

The sky was clear and crisp. The humidity hadn’t yet kicked in at an oppressive rate, and the horses felt good. A pair of fillies with white and gray saddle pads over their purple Steward’s Cup cloths – Doolittle trainees – galloped past, with the younger filly, Glamored, throwing her head and snorting aggressively.

“Yahoo, hang on!” Bryan called from the grandstand.

Bob Probert sat sedately on an ugly Appaloosa pony, his long legs appearing to almost wrap around the thin gelding’s body. The horse’s tail swished impatiently while Bob watched his colt Missed the Point galloping about four paths wide down the stretch.

Dana Williams was on a more dignified-looking Arabian, its long tail billowing behind. She watched carefully for traffic between the pointed ears, which perched so delicately on top of the arched neck. On her right, she could feel Night of Angels tugging hopefully at the lead in between them.

“You can turn her loose, boss,” the exercise rider, Marco, suggested. “We’re warmed up enough.”

Like a mother sending her child away to school, Dana hesitated. Finally, she took a calming breath and released her beloved filly, setting her free under Marco’s care. Night of Angels bounced away immediately, her head up and ears pricked as she trotted for the clubhouse turn.

Lee Cara watched the exchange from the press box, where he was picking up an overnight sheet for Thursday’s races. He recognized Night of Angels because his filly New Age would be racing against her in the Juvenile Fillies Sprint. Night of Angels had a better record, but New Age was coming off a good race against colts. Lee nodded in approval, feeling confident at Dana’s display of worry. He headed back towards the elevator.

A third filly from the same race, Feeling Foxy, was schooling at the gate. Dan Gordon, her trainer, sat comfortably across a burly buckskin Quarter Horse, his hand loose on the rein. The leggy filly jogged up to the gate amicably, then would balk before walking in. Dan noted that she wasn’t being mean, in fact, she was being quite coy. Feeling Foxy was willing to cooperate and please her handlers, but simply wasn’t going to walk in the gate this morning.

“Alright, guys, give it up,” Dan called over to the gate crew, urging his mount forward to collect his filly.

Feeling Foxy flicked an ear in his direction, then calmly walked into the gate. She stood like a pro, then backed herself out.

Dan blinked, then shook his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”

--

As the main track closed and turf workers started to circle outside the gap, Clinton Jacinto found himself standing on a platform on the grandstand apron to the left of the wire. A perky blonde had thrust a microphone into his face, and was asking him to talk about some of the Steward’s Cup entrants on the track.

Normally, this wouldn’t faze Clinton at all, but a crowd of about fifty onlookers had gathered to watch the morning works. They were all gathered around the platform, looking hopefully up at Clinton, cameras in hand, ready to take pictures of the first famous horse he pointed out.

“Well, as you can see…” the soft-spoken Clinton started out slowly, “the horses are getting ready to go onto the turf course right now. My horse in the Steward’s Cup is a dirt horse, so she already finished her training today.” He paused kind of awkwardly, before adding, “I don’t really know these other horses because they aren’t mine, but I’ll do my best.”

“Little fist!” someone from the crowd shouted randomly.

“Er…” Clinton hesitated, confused.

“Little fist of the TURF,” Jolene Danner corrected, sitting proudly on her reliable palomino gelding. Beside her was a burly black colt, Tattered.

“I love him,” the tourist from the crowd called back sheepishly. “Good luck!”

“Thanks!” Jolene smiled. Behind her, four horses in two pairs of two walked along towards the turf course. A well-matched filly and colt made up the first pair, the second pair were two older fillies slated for the Filly and Mare Turf. All four of them were chestnut, contrasting with Tattered’s dark coat.

“Ah, yes, these are the Jolene Danner horses,” Clinton nodded sagely, as if he’d planned their appearance. “And behind them, you can see that handsome colt with the white star, that’s Precipice from the Tanitha Starlet barn.”

Tanitha himself sat in the grandstand, kicked back on the second level with his feet up on the edge of the railing. He watched Precipice through the rims of dark sunglasses, looking a bit like Eric Nalbone on a Saturday afternoon with a stylish polo and gray slacks.

The blonde woman suddenly snatched the microphone straight out of Clinton’s hand. “Everyone, look!” she shrieked, her voice piercing with excitement. She pointed, “there is Black Heart! Do you see her? Up there, at the top of the stretch!”

Fifty pairs of eyes turned to watch the lanky black filly motor down the lane, her dark head bobbing as she reached with her forelegs. As soon as she flew under the wire, her rider rose in the stirrups and slowed her to an easy canter.

“And here is her trainer, Anna Leroux!” the blonde continued, practically shoving Clinton out of the way while simultaneously dragging Anna onto the platform. “Let’s find out what she thinks of Black Heart’s strong gallop!”

Unnoticed by the crowd, Clinton slipped away, back towards the barn.

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