hard jaw that looked like it might have been drawn with a T-square, chose to ignore it. He drove like
it was a sunny afternoon on the interstate. I was beginning to think the whole bunch was suicidal.
“Foggy” was the only word out of him during the twenty-minute trip. Not a mention of the previous
night?s events.
He eased back on the throttle when we reached the entrance to Palmetto Gardens, tossed a jaunty
salute to the guard, who had to look twice to see him through the soup, and parked near the stables.
“Here, pin this on your jacket,” he said, handing me a green badge that identified me as a track
official. I did as I was told and followed him to the rail, which popped out of the damp haze so
suddenly I bumped into it. So far, all I could tell about the track was that it was in Georgia and about
twenty minutes from town, if you drove like Mario Andretti.
“Wait here,” Callahan said, and disappeared for five minutes.
I could hear, but not see, horses snorting, men coughing, laughter,
and the clop of hoofs on The soft earth as I stood in fog so thick
I couldn?t see my own feet. When Callahan returned, he brought
black coffee in plastic foam cups and warm, freshly made sinkers.
I could have kissed him.
“What the hell are we doing out here?” I asked, around a mouthful of doughnut.
“Workin? three-year-olds,” he answered.
“That?s it? That?s what we?re doing here in the middle of the night? Listening to them work the threeyear- olds?”
“So far.”
“Is this something special? How often do they do this?”
“Every morning.”
“You?re shitting me.”
He looked at me through the fog and shook his head.
“You?re not shitting me. Great. I was dragged out of bed for, uh. . . to stand around in this. . . this
gravy listening. . . just listening. . . to a bunch of nags doing calisthenics.”
Callahan turned to me and smiled for the first time. “Flow with it, pal. You?re here, enjoy it. Put a
little poetry back in your soul.”
“What are you, some kind of guru, Callahan?”
“Horse sense. Besides, Dutch says you need to learn about the track.”
“1 can?t even see the track. And don?t call me pal. I?m not a dog, my name?s Jake.”
“Sure.”
He moved down the rail and I followed. Dim shapes began to take form in the fog. The outriders were
