Kermit stepped out of Mahoney’s and heard the lock snap behind him.
One o’clock. Cold. No blue Caddy. No pedestrians. Nothing moving. The only sound the metronomic click of the traffic light flashing amber-amber-amber. He pulled on his new gloves and started across the street. Then he stopped.
There were three of them. The sodium lamps threw their shadows onto the fresh snow like oil slicks.
All four streets out of the intersection were blocked, three by the men now converging on him, the fourth by a construction barricade. Kermit cast a hopeful look back at Mahoney’s. There was still light showing inside. He ran to the door and began pounding.
“Leo, open up! For God’s sake, let me in!”
The bartender’s pale, neon-streaked face appeared at a window.
“Leo, it’s me, Froggie. Open up. I’m in trouble here.”
Leo’s impassive eyes swiveled left, then right, noting the three men, the desolate streets beyond, the snowy halos shrouding the street lamps.
With a quick motion, the shade was pulled down.
Kermit sagged, then turned, looking for a way out, finding none.
The last of the lights in the tavern went out. The snow was slanting down now, driven by a bitter east wind.
The three men closed in, faces eclipsed by hat brims and upturned collars.
Kermit put his back to the wall and waited.
Trumpeter Swan
by John F. Dobbyn
It’s post time.
Four years I’ve been a jockey, and it still rings my bell every time. Every nerve in my body sends its own wake-up call. I don’t think about it consciously, but my subconscious goes on full alert to the fact that one wrong shift of weight could put me under the cleats of every horse behind me. Consciously, I have just one thought. Win.
The clang of the doors of the starting gate behind me sent shivers through the body of the black three-year-old colt I was riding. I could feel him jackhammering the ground with his front feet. I grabbed a fistful of mane in case the noise of loading the horse beside me sent my colt exploding through the gate. The trainer, Marty Trait, warned me that it happened last time out. Forewarned is forearmed.
I wasn’t used to the quirks of this colt, Trumpeter Swan. I was usually up on Fair Dawn, the horse they were loading in number six. He’s another coal black three year old. The two could be brothers. They’re both owned by Mr. Fitzroy and trained by Marty. It’s what they call an “entry” when two horses of the same stable are entered in the same race.
I heard Marty tell Bobby Pastore, the other jockey, to take Fair Dawn to the lead before the first turn and set a blistering pace. He told me to hang about fifth until we reach the end of the backstretch, about three quarters of the way through the mile and an eighth course. Swan has late speed and staying power. I figured to breeze past the horses that wore themselves out trying to keep up with Dawn. It had rained the evening before, but by dawn the track had dried out and it was lightning fast.
When Marty gave me the instructions, I asked him why he switched me off of Fair Dawn and onto the Swan. He just said I have better hands than Bobby for the drive down the stretch. News to me, but I’m just the jock.
Just before I slipped the race goggles down over my eyes, I caught a look at Mr. Fitzroy holding the rail in the front of his owner’s box. Even from there, his face looked bloodless and strained. I knew how much this race meant to him and the whole stable. For one wrenching moment I let myself think of where I’d be if Mr. Fitzroy had never been born. I was determined to win that race for him if I had to carry the horse across the wire.
I heard the “All in.” Swan dropped his head. I pulled it up straight and braced. The bell screamed and sent nine horses strung tighter than piano wire firing out of the gate.
Bobby gave Dawn two quick slaps of the whip, and he catapulted with a speed that I always found miraculous to the front of the pack. He cleared the second horse by enough to rein Dawn in close to the inside rail. This is where the leader would usually settle down to a pace that kept him just ahead of the pack in a distance run, but I could see Bobby turning it on. One more smack of the whip and he hand-rode him into the first turn as if it were the home stretch.
I could see the next three horses, the major contenders, driving to prevent Bobby from getting too big a lead. I hung back a comfortable fifth. I’m thinking, “Go ahead. Knock yourselves out.”
I hit thirty yards before the first turn. I was just easing my horse to the right to get him on firmer ground a few feet off the rail. I looked up to see Bobby leaning into the turn, and then bam. One second he’s in total control, the next second he’s spilling to the left, arms and legs flailing as he’s caught in the grinder of the horses’ hooves behind him. Thank God I was far enough off the rail to be able to avoid him, but I felt a shivering sickness.
My first instinct was to rein up and run to him, but I heard the wail of the ambulance flying across the track. I knew they’d do what they could for Bobby. In the meantime, nothing stops a race.
I’m sitting in fourth place as we cruise around the turn and down the backstretch. I pass the six furlong pole, and that alarm goes off in my gut that says “Now!”
I’ve watched Bobby ride Trumpeter Swan a half dozen times, and I know what this colt’s made of. He’s half speed, half courage, and one hundred percent heart. I shift my weight low and forward until I’m practically one with his neck and give him the call.
“C’mon, Swan. Give it to me.”
I swear, he knows what I want. No need for the whip. It’s like slipping a Maserati into high gear. I have to adjust my balance for the shock of the speed.
I see a bit of daylight as the horses ahead of me go a bit wide into the final turn. I take him to the rail to save ground, and he drives. The cleats on the hooves of the horses we pass come inches from his fine-boned legs, but he gives me what I ask for. He explodes through the hole like a driving halfback.
We straighten into the homestretch on top by half a length. It’s a cruise from here to the wire. Then we hit the eighth pole. I can feel an almost imperceptible shift into a lower gear. The heart and the drive are there, but the speed is noticeably coming off.
I glance back, and the pack is coming. I go to the whip, and I can feel the Swan strain to give me more, but it just isn’t there. We go under the wire in fifth position.
I could feel my heart torn out in two directions. I couldn’t imagine what Mr. Fitz must have been feeling. I knew the stable was on a losing streak that was breaking its back. This was the purse that could have set it right. I’d have given anything to hand it to him. But a deeper concern was Bobby Pastore.
I cantered Swan back to where the groom was waiting to take him. The trainer, Marty, was with him, glowing red as a beet.
“What happened out there, O’Casey?”
“I don’t know, Marty. Bobby just went off to the left. I couldn’t see why. How is he?”
Marty flipped out.
“Never mind that. What happened to the Swan? You rode him like he was running in cement.”