suiting, elegant as a whippet. He took off his dark aviator glasses, put them in his top pocket. Then he turned his head, met my eyes, the lowering of the chin.
It was on.
Cam was looking elsewhere. The tiny nod again. I looked.
Cynthia, the commissioner, coming my way. I had the cash in my raincoat pockets, in packs, twenties and fifties, the totals written on the wrappers. Once Cynthia carried the money to the track, passed it to her team, people more closely vetted than judges and much more scared of retribution. But, one Wednesday, without meaning to, her daughter fingered her. Cynthia didn’t know that, we hoped she never would. It would have added to the misery of losing 90 per cent of the sight in one eye. Her jaw, her nose, her cheekbones, they were repaired, almost as good as new, all the expenses met by Harry Strang.
So Cynthia didn’t carry the money anymore. She wanted to, she was unafraid, but Harry wouldn’t hear of it. What happened to her changed both of them, changed us all, probably.
Cynthia was wearing tinted glasses, not dark but close. She came up and stood facing me, elegant in black today, her costumes ranged from understated tweedy to a pink tracksuit and trainers. I took the packs from my pockets and glanced around as I fed them into the maw of the bag she held between us. No one looking at us that I could see.
‘Don’t know how this’ll go,’ Cynthia said. ‘Strickland caught a few in the third, they’ll be jumpy.’
‘It goes, it goes,’ I said.
She nodded and was gone, money to distribute to semi-retired hookers, redundant teachers, a sad-faced kleptomaniac, an aerobics instructor, the mother of the woman who did her hair.
In the yard, the jocks were all up, walking the horses around, ready to go to the line, all male, men sitting on other animals. Lost Legion was edgier and the sweating was more pronounced. Danny DiPiero would be happy to have the horse out of the confined space and on the track, riding it to the start, standing in the irons, letting it feel his weight and his hands, his confidence.
I took a walk, saw the very man Cynthia had mentioned, the punting trainer Robbie Strickland, stubbled head, dark glasses. He was talking to two men in suits, one fat, rolls over his collar. Robbie had one in this, Bold Voter, a nag of whom the tipsters today said, ‘hard to follow’. Privately, they’d be putting a few bucks on it.
The bookies didn’t need to be reminded that many of Robbie’s cattle were hard to follow. There was no knowing what his horses would do: win, win, place, a few bad runs. Then a spell, perhaps another midfield performance or two, followed by a win out of nowhere, sitting off the pace before a sneaky rails run and, at the death, just a noble head and a few inches of cable-veined neck. For the insiders, the rewards were worth the wait: $10-plus on the TAB, around half that on course, and deliciously plump combinations.
From time to time, the stewards gave Robbie the please explain for poor showings that couldn’t be blamed on missed starts, checks, runs blocked. They got the excuse note from his mother: didn’t like the surface, off its feed, pulled up sore. In life, the easiest thing is to find reasons for failure. How many ways is it possible to lose? The bookies’ sensible response was to ignore Robbie’s explanations and the form and keep his horses short.
Exposed form, it was called: the public performances, factors you would take into account when making judgments. But, in racing as in other human endeavours, it was the things unexposed, the private trials, the secret times, the instructions to jockeys, that could decide outcomes.
On the stand, I took the latest device, the VE5000, out of its housing. I pressed buttons and then I was so close I had trouble finding Danny. When I did, I watched him walking the horse around, waiting his turn. Lost Legion looked happier, the sweat had dried.
‘Favourite goes in, Fortunate Son, he’s very short, shorter on course than the tote,’ said the caller. ‘There’s money for Bold Voter, a trickle, an up and down performer. And support for Sum of Things, Queensland visitor, good form in lesser events, and Cold Callista, strong with her own sex, two wins out of three. Lost Legion’s got some support, well named this horse, it’s been a long while, years, since he had his few moments in the sun. Truly appalling record before he went off the radar. No first-up form ever, run a 2400 once for a fifth. Your mystery bet. Hard to see why he’s in city class for his comeback. Hard to see why he’s come back.’
Lost Legion was taking his place in the stalls. He went in placidly. I could see the jockey on Danny’s right say something to him, shark mouth, full of teeth, Danny didn’t look at him.
‘Five or six to come in,’ said the caller, ‘money dumped on Bold Voter on course now, he’s in to three, that’s pushed the rest out.’
Whose money was that? Robbie Strickland’s connections or ours? Harry never talked tactics to me but he loved to catch the bookies.
‘Sum of Things is on eights,’ said the caller. ‘Lost Legion’s attracting some support, he’s shortened on the TAB, paying $12.60 now, in from forty-something a short while ago.’
I looked at what I could see of Lost Legion, his head gleaming, an alert eye, the ears electric, and I thought of the horse in the trodden paddock in Gippsland, hopeless, head down to the compacted mud, the rotten rug on his back, his fearful gaze.
I said to myself, a pledge: whatever happens here, this horse will live out his life in comfort. I will pay the feed bills.
Field of twelve, 2000 metres, drawn in gate number 4, a good position. It was a long run to the first bend and Legion needed to be off the rails, three wide would be fine, race just behind the front-runners, at the start of the long curve go for his life, lead them into the straight, 453 metres.
‘Two to go in, money’s come in for Lost Legion, hope it’s not mug money. He’s shortened to six dollars, $8.40 on the tote and shorter interstate, now someone’s jumped in clothes and all in Queensland, this is taking on plunge proportions.’
They were all in their stalls, some still, some skittish. I saw Danny wipe a finger under his nose, along his cheek under the goggles. He knew Legion, he’d ridden him in a barrier trial, brought him in under a hold five lengths behind the winner, been on him for trackwork for a week.
‘All in, light’s flashing, come out in an even line,’ said the caller.
Test number one passed. Legion had left the barrier. He was willing to race.
‘Cobalt Heaven and Coadestone coming across from their wide barriers to take the lead, Benison’s next on the rails, Tinto Rio outside him and Earth Summit makes a third. Eighteen hundred to go and there’s no pace on, the favourite’s lying five lengths back and inside him is Lost Legion on the rail.’
I throttled back the magnification of the VE5000 to see three lengths of horses, found Legion, Danny looked uncomfortable, he hadn’t found his spot, he didn’t want to be on the rail, he could be trapped in a pocket. Running along the river, no one was urgent, there was a long way to go, some hoop talking going on, Bold Voter’s jockey was loquacious, so was the rider outside him. Danny’s mouth was shut tight, I saw him glance to his right, he wasn’t happy, he was being crowded, getting the verbal. Harry might have been wrong to give him the ride.
‘At the 1600, Cobalt Heaven and Coadestone neck and neck,’ said the caller, ‘Earth Summit wants to have a go now, he’s gone up to them, the jockey’s having a bit of a time with him. Sum of Things is moving up on the outside, he’s four deep and Cold Callista’s coming with him.’
There wasn’t much Danny could do. He had two rows of horses in front of him, two outside him and a horse on his heels. I didn’t like this much. The front-runners were no-hopers. When they wilted, they’d shunt Legion backwards.
‘At the 1400 chute, getting some pace on now, Earth Summit’s the leader, no one wants to go with him, Sum of Things getting a wriggle on, Benison’s pushing his nose through on the rails, Coadestone’s rider doesn’t like his possie, Bold Voter and Lost Legion side by side, Cold Callista’s outside the favourite and a gap’s opened to the rest of the field.’
It stayed like this. The horse wasn’t going to win from there. I was watching Danny. He didn’t think so either, looking around.
‘Lost Legion’s drifting back in the field,’ said the caller, ‘this plunge is a fizzer all right, Bold Voter’s forcing his way through the ranks, 1200 to go.’
I could see Lorna Halsey. Her hands were steepled in front of her face, index fingers against her lips. This wasn’t her fault, it was Danny’s, he placed the horse badly after the jump, the old hands pinned him.
‘Lost Legion goes to the outside now, he’s fifteen lengths off the pace, 900 to go, Bold Voter’s through but Sum of Things turns on the power, moves to the front, shifts across, he’s a length clear…’
This thing was over, all the time and effort and money wasted.
