the locals were exposing fishbelly skin. They looked stunned, like people from Irkutsk transported to Hawaii by aliens.
‘Miles Davis,’ said Cam. ‘A John Denver for people who don’t like words. And voices.’ He was staring at the wiry man in black piloting the espresso machine. ‘I know that bloke from somewhere.’
‘Miles,’ said Harry. ‘Miles. Good name for a horse. Rode a bloke called Miles Ahead in the Irish St Leger. Bugger of an animal. Huge thing. Caught wide and ran fourth. Bloody miles behind.’
The man brought the coffees over. ‘Two lattes, one short black,’ he said.
Harry examined his coffee. ‘That’s black,’ he said. ‘I can tell you’re a man knows black. Wear it. Make it.’
‘Let me know if it’s strong enough,’ the man said. ‘We can do it again.’
‘Got you,’ said Cam.
The man cocked his head.
‘Demons,’ Cam said. ‘Played a few for the Demons. Right? Crackers Keenan’s day.’
The man smiled, a self-effacing little smile, said, ‘I wasn’t much good.’
‘You were good,’ Cam said. ‘Crook ankle, I remember.’
‘Crook everything after some games.’
I saw McCurdie crossing the road. He was dressed for town: brown sportsjacket with bulging side pockets, grey flannels with turn-ups some distance above big brown shoes, checked Gloster shirt and a green tie wide enough to double as a table napkin. Even from a distance, I could see evidence that it had often served this secondary purpose.
McCurdie came right up to the window, peered into the cafe. Cam tapped on the glass, just below his nose. McCurdie recoiled like a startled horse, focused, recognised us. A smile of relief. He came in, had a good look around as he worked his way through the tables to get to us.
‘Pretty smart place this,’ he said, sitting down with care.
‘Ensures we won’t see anyone we know,’ said Harry.
A waitress appeared.
‘Cuppa tea, please,’ said McCurdie.
‘English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Earl Grey…’
McCurdie frowned at the table.
‘Make it the Irish,’ said Harry. He waited until the waitress had gone. ‘Done the paperwork then?’
McCurdie looked uncomfortable, scratched himself under his jacket. ‘Reckon.’
‘Who’s the new owner?’
‘I. and J. Grogan. He’s the wife’s cousin. Had a few horses before.’
‘Any luck?’
‘One run third at Murtoa.’
‘We’ll put that down as No,’ Cam said. ‘He appreciate the finer points of this?’
McCurdie nodded.
‘Explain the rules?’
‘He knows what he gets he gets from me.’
‘Settled in at Devine’s?’ asked Harry.
McCurdie nodded, more enthusiastically this time. ‘Treatin us good, that Karen,’ he said. ‘Knows horses too. Spose you know what happened to the husband.’
‘Some hoons rammed his horse float,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t go near her on the track. She’s the trainer now.’
‘Who’s the jock?’
‘Tommy Wicks.’
‘Mind if I have a word with the jock?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t go near him.’
The tea came in a pot with small jugs of milk and hot water. McCurdie eyed the makings with unease, big hands in his lap.
Harry poured the tea, as if that was his duty. ‘Milk?’
McCurdie nodded.
Harry pushed the sugar towards him. ‘Given the boy the drum,’ he said. ‘Field’s a bit small. Wouldn’t be too bad that. Problem is there’s two dead-uns in it I can see.’
McCurdie drank his tea in two mouthfuls, poured a refill, added hot water, milk, sugar.
Harry nodded encouragingly at him, pleased by his pupil’s progress.
McCurdie swilled tea, looked unhappy.
‘Tell us, McCurdie,’ Harry said. ‘You look like the one didn’t get picked.’
‘Well,’ McCurdie said, ‘I reckon I feel out of it. Like it’s nothin to do with me now.’
Harry leaned across the table. ‘Believe me, son, the investment here, that’s the feelin you want to have. But if there’s doubts, now’s the moment.’
Cam took a mobile phone the size of two matchboxes out of an inside pocket, flipped open the top, looked at McCurdie.
‘Jesus,’ said McCurdie, ‘didn’t mean it like that. I’m solid, I’m happy, I’m…’
‘That’ll do,’ said Harry. ‘Karen fill you in about today?’
McCurdie nodded.
‘He pulls up all right today,’ said Harry, ‘you’ll hear from me through her. Till it’s over, don’t call me. Want to talk, tell Karen, she’ll tell me. Understood?’
McCurdie nodded again. Harry put out a hand and they shook. ‘Full accountin when it’s over,’ said Harry. ‘Things don’t work the way we’d like em to, well, that’s racin. Work, we’ll find a place for a quiet drink. Off ya go.’
Cam and I shook hands with McCurdie and he left.
On our way out, the man in charge of the coffee machine said, ‘Come again.’
‘Make a point of it,’ said Harry. ‘Didn’t know there was a decent black coffee out here in the tundra.’
On the way to Dowling Forest, Harry driving, I said, ‘McCurdie feels left out of it. I, on the other hand, merely feel ignorant.’
‘Sorry, Jack,’ said Harry, ‘shoulda kept ya informed. First thing to do is get some daylight between McCurdie and the horse. Bloke’s got form. Turns up with another retread, no-one’s goin to take a big note on him. Don’t want him to be the owner, don’t want him to be the trainer. So now Mr and Mrs Grogan own this ancient neddy and Karen Devine’s the trainer. Done all the paperwork.’
‘Could all be said to have happened a bit late in the piece,’ I said.
We were approaching a roundabout, a Kenworth semi bound for Adelaide on our right, entering the circle, looming like a two-storey building. Harry slipped down a gear and accelerated. The truck’s airbrakes moaned, the horns on the roof brayed.
‘Frighten easy, these truckies,’ said Harry. ‘There’s that. Can’t get round it. Suggested to McCurdie he might make the sale a bit previous, that’ll help. Any luck, the bastards won’t be interested till it’s too late.’
At the track, we parked under an oak, well away from the gate.
‘Tell Jack what’s happenin here, Cam,’ said Harry.
‘Best thing is Seminary Boy,’ said Cam. ‘Kell Morgan’s horse. He’s run twelve, third, third, four-year-old. Our mate’s got a little eight-year start on him. After that, you’d say Bold Chino, run nineteen for four. Then maybe another old bugger, Killer Serial, he’s eight, four from twenty-six, not seen in action very often.’
‘The dead-uns,’ said Harry.
‘There’s two to watch. Sharpish four-year-olds. Both fourth-up, done nothing. Hughie Hooray and Kukri Dawn. Both won twice at this distance. As I read it, both headin for town, got the times to break through. Kukri’s won four under eighteen hundred, doesn’t run places if he can help it. He can win this, so can Hughie. If that’s what they want.’
‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘the money will tell us what they want.’
I said, ‘How come Tommy Wicks is on Vision? He’s no loser.’
Both heads turned to look at me. I hadn’t grasped something.
There was a pause.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘You wouldn’t want to put a loser on the horse. You want the horse to win.’ He held out an envelope. ‘Do me a favour, Jack. Don’t want it outside the family till the day. Spread it around, mix it, to begin. Ten,
