“What is it, Natalie?” he snaps at her, not even turning around. The dog whimpers.
“You have a new message from the Director of—”
“Shh!” he cuts her off. “How many times have I told you not to give me my messages in public?” he scolds and the dog whines again. “And shut that damn dog up!”
She looks flustered, and pushes up her glasses. “But sir—”
“Shut it,” he glares. “If you can’t do your job quietly, I’ll find someone who can.”
Natalie makes a whimper like the dog but doesn’t say a word. I send her a sympathetic look, but she quickly looks away, flushing red.
Crawford turns back to St. Clair. “You running a horse today?”
St. Clair shakes his head, his jaw tense.
“I am,” Crawford says. “Care to make a friendly wager, despite us not being friends?” He hacks out another awful laugh that makes me cringe.
St. Clair smiles icily. “Not with you.”
“Learning from your father’s mistakes, huh? I can respect that.”
It’s a low blow, and I feel St. Clair tense up even more. I take his hand. “I could use a drink, Charles,” I tell him, ignoring Crawford. “Let’s go.”
I practically drag him away. He’s got a look in his eyes like he wants to knock Crawford out, and although I wouldn’t blame him, that kind of attention is the last thing we need.
Once we’re clear, St. Clair lets out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, glaring back at where Crawford is berating his poor assistant.
“For what? He’s the asshole.”
St. Clair gives a sharp laugh. “I wish that’s all he was. But he’s cunning, too. It’s how he gets ahead, finds his opponent’s weakness, then uses it to get the upper hand.”
“Is that what he did with your father?” I ask carefully.
St. Clair nods. “Everyone knows my father has a gambling problem. The gentlemen in town won’t take his bets, but Crawford is no gentleman. He let him get deeper and deeper into debt, until he went to desperate measures.”
“And stole your mother’s painting to pay it all off,” I finish, feeling a surge of anger.
St. Clair collects himself. “It’s in the past. Don’t let him spoil our day. How about those drinks?”
“Sounds great.” I kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll meet you at the bar. Restrooms?”
“That way.” St. Clair sends me off with a light tap on my ass.
I find the luxurious bathrooms across the main marquee area, and splash some water over my wrists to cool down. A couple of older women are settled in on the silk settee, gossiping with gleeful expressions. Snatches of their conversation drift over as I touch up my makeup.
“And did you see Muffy? I heard her youngest ran off with her Latin tutor…”
“….Of course, she served the scallops practically raw…”
“…all those funds, just vanished. Crawford’s got a lot to answer for.”
Crawford? I perk up, and pay attention.
“I’m just glad my husband had the sense to put our money in gold,” one woman declares, sounding smug. “You can’t trust the markets anymore. Do you think he’ll face charges?”
The other woman laughs. “Of course not. It’s all perfectly legal, the investors knew the risk. He’s covered himself.”
“Didn’t he buy that new pied-a-terre in Cannes the other month?”
“And a yacht to match. Our Crawford will be just fine.”
They finally look up and see me lurking there, so I quickly snap my purse shut and head back outside, pondering what I’ve just heard.
I find St. Clair on the main balcony, with two glasses of champagne. “What happened with Crawford’s company?” I ask. “I heard people gossiping in the ladies’ room.”
St. Clair scowls. “His investment company went bust. It’s a racket—thousands of people lost their pensions, their life savings, but Crawford and his partners won’t lose a dime.”
“That’s so unfair!” I exclaim.
“He’ll get away with it, unfortunately.” St. Clair looks downcast. “It’s the way the world works, especially for people like Crawford.”
We walk back to the box, arriving just as the race gets started. I want to shoot daggers at Crawford’s sweaty back all day, but I’m distracted by the starting pistol. It’s exciting when the gun goes off and the horses jet out of their gates, legs pounding the ground in a fury of hooves, jockeys hunched intently over their saddles.
Crawford cheers loudly for Thundercloud, his horse, as the thoroughbreds take the first curve. “Go go go go go go go gooooooooo!” he yells, pounding his fist on the ledge so hard he spills everyone’s drinks.
The race is thrilling, horses inching ahead by their noses, small gasps from the audience, and intermittent cheers for certain horses, but it is much more subdued than American sports. Crawford would probably fit in better at a football game.
The horses. They race down the final stretch of the track and for a moment, Thundercloud noses ahead, literally, and then Buttercup, the predicted winner, shoots up at the last second and crosses the ribbon first.
Cheers erupt from the bleachers below, but Crawford’s loud booming “No! God damn it!” echoes off the walls and everyone turns to look at him. A few women fan their faces like they’ve been scandalized, but Crawford pays no mind. He storms off, his poor assistant and the dog trailing behind him like cartoon sidekicks. It would be funny if it wasn’t real life.
St Clair and I mingle for a while longer. “You want a closer look at the horses?” he asks.
“Can we?”
“VIP all the way,” he winks, and takes me down to the paddock.
Buttercup is surrounded by press and photographers, having his photo taken with an arch of roses draped around his neck and proud jockey and owner at his side. Buttercup looks almost as happy as his handlers, munching on alfalfa.
Thundercloud, on the other hand, looks miserable. When I get to the stalls, leaving St. Clair to speak with some of his associates, I see the second place horse whinnying and pawing at the ground in his stall as Crawford yells at his jockey. I take a few steps back.
“You tiny, worthless rider!” Crawford screams. “You’re about as useful as this horse.” Crawford looks at Thundercloud, a dappled bay, neighing and pacing in circles. “What? You think you deserve praise? Second place is still a loser!” He punches the door to his stall. Natalie and the jockey jump, and so do I. What an asshole.
“Mr. Crawford, sir,” the jockey starts, but Crawford doesn’t give him a chance to speak.
“You’re fired! And I want this horse shipped off to the knackers yard! I’m not paying for this thing anymore. What a waste of my time.”
He kicks the stall again, and his dog starts barking, straining at his leash as if he can’t wait to get out of there. I sympathize.
“This is a magnificent creature, Mr. Crawford. You can’t just—” The jockey tries to argue, but Crawford is relentless. “Dismissed! Get out of my sight before I ship you off, too.”
Natalie looks like she has tears in her eyes but she keeps a straight face as the jockey storms off and Crawford looks at her. “You too!” he bellows.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaks, starting to move away.
“And shut up that damn dog!” he yells but the dog just barks more rapidly.
Natalie trembles. “I don’t think he likes the horses—”
Crawford swiftly kicks the dog in its ribs, lifting it off the ground with the force of his foot. The poor dog yelps and cowers around Natalie’s legs, shaking now, but it stops barking. “There,” he snorts. “Now go do your damn job before I have to fire you, too.”
Natalie looks like she’s about to burst into sobs as Crawford stomps past her and out of the stables in a cloud of dust.
I watch him go, overcome with rage. It’s not fair that men like Crawford can do whatever they want and get away with it. Where’s the justice for the lives he’s ruined?