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S p o r t s m a n ’ s by "The Jimmy Wynn Ensemble" Dale Barrigar, Michael Antonucci, & Garin Cycholl There
are only two live pasts. Your
own. And one which we
don’t yet have the vocabulary for.
But how to tell about Doc Hoyt? He
asked, “How would you like a job, Big Tim?
Driving. Not some
old cop car, but a Lincoln?” He
didn’t tell me that it’d be pulling a horse trailer. Not that he needed me. Doc
Hoyt told me that to my face. He
said, “If you’re not interested, I could get Rupp to help me—” “No,”
I said. “I’ll help
you.” And
so we began our rounds. He’d
inject the horses with I don’t know what the fuck all.
And I’ll be damned if they didn’t pay. “What’s
he pump into them horses?” Rupp’d asked me. I
could only shake my head. The
Greek loved one horse in particular.
Of it, he said, “Do you see that animal?
We are all going to ride that beautiful fucking animal to wealth
and glory.” We’d all
nod, asking one another if there was anything that the Greek loved more
than that horse. We’d
stand around the stable, Rupp and me, while Doc Hoyt would examine it
post-race. Rupp shuffling
back and forth on his heels, jingling the change in his pockets. “Yes
sir, that is one beautiful animal, isn’t it Doc?” Hoyt
gave no recognition of the question as he ran his hands along the
horse’s flank. Carefully
inspecting the horse’s mouth, he fixed the needle. “Well,
I’m goin’ to cash out, check on them other boys,” Rupp said,
backing out of the stable. The
Doc laughed. “That
rube. He’s more afraid of
you than you are of Katsimbalis,” he said. “Maybe
we should all show the Greek a little more respect,” I said. Hoyt
said nothing. The horse
started as he buried the needle. $ Sometimes,
if a guy from the State Racing Commission was hanging around, looking
for spare change, horses’d have to disappear for a day or two.
We’d drive out to Sportsman’s and haul them down to Peoria. We hid them in a stable there on the east side of the river,
tell the state boys that the horse was entered in the seventh in the
matinee down at Ellis. Doc
Hoyt would call me at ten in the morning, say there was trouble that the
Greek was too fucking cheap to pay for like a reasonable fucking
gangster, and I’d be back on the road to Peoria.
We’d call the stable about halfway there.
He’d use the same worn-out joke every time. “Is
there room at the inn?” Doc’d
ask, then he’d listen, nodding seriously.
He’d wink and I’d be back on that fucking road to Peoria. I
don’t even know what kind of doc he was, a vet or a medical doc.
He and the guys hanging around the stables, drinking booze from
paper sacks while the Doc’d quiz them on a horse’s anatomy.
With all the fucking junk that was handed around at the track
among the stableboys and the assistant trainers, he had to have a hand
in it. Pills in bags.
Shit in envelopes. Greenies.
Things the trainers called “blue racers.” Did I try some? Hell,
yes. What would you do?
I did some weird shit back in those days—too many weird things
to describe—but I’ll tell you a couple. Raced
up on the shit, Katsimbalis and I would play a quick nine on the
trackside course in the late summer afternoons, the Greek giving me two
strokes a hole. We’d
discuss the card game, the inevitable debts, the Doc’s attachment to
shooting off his mouth. Striding
across the green in his seersucker pants, Katsimbalis would lecture. “.
. .This is what happens when men don’t trust one another.” “What
does it take to get a man to be honorable?” I asked. The
Greek thought for a moment over his putt. “I
would use a five iron,” he said. $ “I
did some weird shit back in those days—too many weird things to
describe—but I will tell you a couple. . .” James
Earl could never keep quiet, even if I told him how close he’d come to
taking a bullet in the head. Everything
pointed back at his stumpy ass, but the play was all Katsimbalis. On
the way out to the stables, James Earl wanted me to know how good he had
it back in the day—whatever and whenever that was.
The bullshit about Detroit was more than I could take. I kept my
eyes on the dark two-lane. Horses
are beautiful animals. Taking
matters out on one never made sense to me.
There was no honor in it. Big
Tim agreed with me about that. Breeders’
or no Breeders’, pulling a down tick on a high roller like Nakamora
was a screwball move. Sticking
to a story about ninety percent of bets being placed on a horse to win
was bold. But refusing to
take care of the people who took good care of you was pure stupidity.
Bennett should have known better.
Katsimbalis would be his reminder that his people were getting
greedy. “Yeah,
I did some weird shit back in those days—” James
Earl was into another round when we crossed the county line.
I pulled the piece of map from my shirt pocket and passed it to
him. That stopped him
mid-sentence. “You
know dag well that I can’t this read without my glasses, Rupp.” “Didn’t
know you had glasses.” “‘Course
I do. I just don’t often
wear them.” I
forgot he didn’t read. “You
been to the Bennett place before?” I asked. “Sure!
Back in May. You
need to get on about another three to five miles before we take that
right,” he explained and strapped on an old jockey’s helmet. Willoughby
Road was four and a quarter miles past the county line.
We took the right and cut the headlights.
The truck would probably get us within a few hundred yards of the
stable. After there, we
were on our own. Two hands
were sitting watch on the front porch as we pulled up.
One was a Mexican. The
other, a Hilltopper. Both
were drunk. “Can
I help you?” the Hilltopper asked. “Yar.
Got a feed load for Bennett Stables.
This the place?” “Yar.
But you boys is a might late for offloading grain bags. Who sent you?” The
two men came off the porch, the Mexican close behind the Hilltopper. “It’s
from the track,” I said. “They
send us up special-D. This
load is on account of the new management’s commitment to excellence
and the rewards program. You all had that winner yesterday, right?” “That
we did.” The Hilltopper
nodded. “But no one said
nothing to me about a delivery coming in so late.
Why don’t you and your partner hold in the truck and I’ll
call the boss lady.” I
grunted in agreement. Waiting it out in the truck, James Earl lit a smoke and I
tried to get the Hilltopper’s confidence with a little track chatter.
He wouldn’t bite. He eyed James Earl to let us know he was on this case until
the boss lady said different. It
was sad, specially since it really did not involve these two. It was way over their heads.
If Bennett was any kind of a sportsman, he’d have fed all the
hands a steak dinner after the big win.
That Hilltopper had no idea what he was getting into. I wished he and the Mexican had stayed on the porch and let
us have our meeting with the Greek. Katsimbalis
stepped out of the barn, the boss lady not far behind.
James Earl made his move and she stopped quick.
The Mexican went down before he knew what hit him.
The Hilltopper was next. I
was not proud of either. Then
James Earl was all over Katsimbalis with the baseball bat. On the ground with a hard swing to the knees.
I said something, keeping the boss lady back.
James Earl moved in using his feet.
Kat was paying now. Sick.
James Earl’s heavy breath.
The Greek moaning into the pea stone drive.
Kicks like loose change. Jangled.
James pulled out his crop. All
the while, I kept waiting to hear her scream, but she held it.
I wanted her to do something, but frozen, she must have realized
that the man in the jockey’s cap was giving quite a performance for
the group. $ After
awhile she realized, he wrote, that the man in the jockey cap was
standing up and giving a performance. . . She
was waiting on the porch for him when he arrived.
Katsimbalis saw her there from the road, sitting on the steps,
barefoot in her white dress. When
he saw her first, she was leaning forward, touching the toes of one foot
with the opposite hand. He
felt in his breast an enormous surge of life and love for her.
It was a genital love, and he felt it there, but it was more than
that too. His swollen,
rubbery, blood-tasting upper lip pressed against his teeth.
He realized he was limping from a stabbing pain in the ankle.
Blood flecks were all up and down the front of his shirt.
He was thirsty. His
throat was dry. His ribs
ached. He needed a drink of water. When
Sallie saw Katsimbalis coming down the road, she rose immediately
knowing they’d gotten to him. She stood and watched him coming, her hand resting on the
railing of the porch. She
wanted to run out to the road and take his hand so that the two of them
could keep on going. If you
wanted to leave, there was no better man to do it with.
He knew the road like no one else.
He’d been running a long time.
He could guide her on the road, away from here, toward a new
life, and she knew that he would never leave her.
When the time came, when her new life had begun, somewhere, and
the two of them were over, she could look to the strength of her
ancestors about which she had always heard so much, and do what she had
to do, and turn around, and leave. She
stepped down off the porch and took tentative steps toward him.
Her chest was filled to bursting with an urge toward the open
road. She
was stepping toward him. Katsimbalis
limped toward her. He went
down into the ditch and came up on the other side, into the large yard
of the house. He would be there soon.
She would take his hand. He
had fought for it. He had
taken the Doc out, Big Tim and Rupp too.
His eyes were stained with salty tears.
Salty tears were staining his eyes.
She’d wash them. She
would take him into the house, give him water and cleanse his wounds.
He was about to collapse; he kept going because he knew that when
he got into the house he could collapse.
He would rest. He
was home. With her there
beside him as a reason, he would be able to find another way of making a
living without the horses, which had been the twisted dream of the old
man. They
were almost together in the yard now.
They were only several steps away.
She was ready to go, as ready as she would ever be, her young,
full body poised, in the white dress, and aching for flight; she was
loathe to turn around and reenter the house for even a second, to go
back into that house for even a single moment, or to get a single thing. He
shouted up at her, “I was standing up there counting the money you
know. . . white chick. . .there was a purple bill. . .” $
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