Now it was impossible to conceal the disappointment, and the trainer looked oddly at her. "Thank you," she managed to stammer, then turned and walked rapidly away, feeling close to tears. Reaching the bar, she sat her purse down on the teakwood decking and tried to figure out what she should do.
A white-coated bartender moved down the bar and asked, "Yes, Ma'am?"
Grace really didn't feel like drinking, but ordered a dry martini anyway, thinking it might help her relax a bit. When it came, it tasted differently than last night's. She only then began to sense the vast and overwhelming loneliness of the track. There were almost ten thousand spectators present, but she felt completely isolated and alone. Idly, for lack of anything better to do, she ran her eye down the listed entries of the upcoming race. Suddenly her body stiffened and her heart felt as if it had stopped beating. Number five was a horse called Jim's Hopeful II. It was a message from the Gods; the name coupled with her dream was just too much to be coincidence… too much to be ignored. Obviously her extra-sensory-perception had been working. She looked out toward the tote board and was not at all surprised to discover that the odds were hovering between nine and ten to one which meant the horse would pay $21 or so if it won.
Abruptly then she felt the return of heat in her face, the weakness around the knees. She drained the remainder of her martini in one swallow and resolutely made her way toward the $50 win window.
"Bet with their money," Jim had said, and Grace had six hundred dollars of their money. That, of course, was far too much to bet; that would be sheer greediness. No, she decided, I'll bet, only two hundred dollars… that will give me two thousand.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, she shoved two $100 bills through the cage and said, as casually as she could, "On number five to win, please." The machine hummed four times and spat out four yellow tickets.
Shoving them into her purse, she hurriedly made her way out to the deck overlooking the track. A solid wall of spectators were in front of her, she couldn't see a thing.
"It is now post time," the public address system announced.
Frantically, Grace craned her neck and moved in first one direction and then the other in an effort to see the track.
"They're off!"
Like a little girl trying to view the circus parade, Grace began jumping up and down. The scream of the crowd made it obvious that several horses were battling for the lead. Then the thunder rose to one gigantic cacophony before fading away to disappointed murmurs and shrill cries of delight.
"Who won! Who won?" Grace tugged at the coat sleeve of the man in front of her.
He didn't even turn toward her, merely said, "The nine horse."
"But… but…" she felt like tears, "What happened to the five horse?"
Now the man faced her, obviously irritated at her persistent questioning. "Christ, lady, I was too busy watching my horse to give you a run down on everyone in the race." He softened when he noticed how attractive she was. "Five was back in the pack someplace." He nodded toward the tote board, "He didn't make the first four." Grace, not believing him, stood on tiptoe and saw the numbers: nine, three, two, six.
Blindly, she turned away, walking once again toward the bar. She stopped at the same spot she had been before. The same bartender came down from his post. "Another?" he asked, smiling.
Grace took a deep breath, then nodded. She sipped her martini; it tasted like acid in her mouth. What had gone wrong? She still didn't believe she had lost the two hundred dollars so rapidly. Where had she erred? Gradually, bits of Jim's information came back to her. Another axiom he had stated had been never to bet unless you're sure your information is reliable and the horse is in top shape.
As she stood there, sipping her drink, she decided that the entire problem really was simple. All she needed was the information, and she knew where to get that… from the owners and trainers she had met the night before.
Moments later, Grace was drifting aimlessly through the Turf Club box section. She nodded pleasantly to several people whom she had served champagne to the night before, and felt a stab of hurt as it became obvious that most of them did not recall her at all. No one invited her to stop for conversation or to share their box. As the time for the next race grew closer and she still had received no information about the race, she was becoming almost frantic when she finally spotted the trainer she had spoken to earlier talking to a man she recognized as an owner.
Pretending to be deeply engrossed in her racing form, Grace slowly inched closer. She felt no guilt about eavesdropping, only a feverish excitement and almost intolerable sense of suspense.
Then she heard the very thing she had been praying for. The trainer scratched his head and said in a quiet voice, "That makes sense. I know the horse can do it. I was talking to Dan this morning. He says the horse is ready for a big race."
The owner glanced quizzically over toward Grace who rapidly averted her eyes. He lowered his own voice and asked the trainer, "You taking a flyer on him?"
"Yep. He should win by a length."
"That's good enough for me."
Grace moved away from them to a spot where she could keep the two men in sight. When they went to the betting window, she planned to be right behind him. She watched, waiting impatiently as they exchanged gossip with several other men. To Grace it seemed as if they all were in agreement. She followed close behind as they began moving toward the seller's cage about two minutes before post time.
The two men got in the small line in front of the $100 win window. Before Grace could move in behind them, a fat, bleached blonde older woman joined the line. Above the hub-bub of the crowd, she could barely hear what was being said at the window. She attempted to twist her way close to the trainer, and was rewarded by a scowl from the blonde, who turned and said sarcastically, "Don't shove, sweetie. There's plenty of tickets for everyone."
As she was speaking, Grace saw the owner pick up his tickets from the seller. She hadn't heard what horse he had bet on. Now the trainer was at the window. Just at that second the public address system began blaring, "It is now post time."
Between the words, however, Grace heard the trainer say, "Six." And a split second later heard the rest, "five times."
Now the familiar fever was on her so badly that she could hardly stand it. The woman in front of her placed her mammoth handbag on the window sill and went through an elaborate stage production of opening the purse, looking for money, and scrunching up her eyebrows as though she didn't know what quite to bet.
"Hurry, please," Grace pled, breathing rapidly, fearful that the race would start before she could place her bet.
The woman, who was holding a hundred dollar bill between thumb and forefinger as if it were a wiggling worm, looked back in disgust. "You again? Well, now, you just wait your turn like everyone else."
From behind Grace came a gruff angry voice, "Lady, if I miss getting a bet down on this race because of your yapping, and my horse wins, I'm going to kick… your… butt."
"Well!" Outraged, the bleached blonde bent down and stared in at the pari-mutuel clerk. "Number three, please."
Grace was almost rude in her effort to push past the window to get her money down. "Number six… six times." The tickets were coughed out of the machine, and Grace ran toward the terrace in an effort to see the race. She got there just as the announcement was made, "They're off." It was only then that she realized she didn't know either the stable colours or the horse's name. All around her people were screaming, shouting encouragement to their horse. Grace, though, was silent… praying. The race lasted 21.3 seconds. As the horses flashed past the finish line, a big powerful gray gelding was at least a length in front. Squinting, she made out its post position number, and her heart stopped beating when she saw the black figure, "8". Vainly she looked for the six horse, and finally she saw it somewhere near the back of the pack.