A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

“Three. And mine is number two. That’s them in the lead.”

“My horse is wearing a hood,” I said, remembering what Carl Boehringer had told me about Purgatorio. Maybe that was a good sign.

The field rumbled past the clubhouse and the winner’s circle, with Fadge’s Ridan a half-length ahead of my Jaipur. The others were easily three or four lengths farther back. I jumped up and down to see better as the pack rounded the first turn.

“Our horses are still in front,” I said. “It looks as if they’re even.”

“Ridan’s about a neck ahead.”

The track announcer called the order over the loudspeaker. Ridan and Jaipur maintained their lead over the rest of the field, and were head and head with each other at the half mile. Nothing changed on the backstretch. Now I could see the pitched battle for first straight on. I grabbed Fadge’s arm and squeezed a mite too enthusiastically. He wrestled free and said to take it easy.

“Sorry. This is exciting. I got carried away.”

Ridan and Jaipur streaked down the backstretch at a furious clip, holding a strong lead over the rest of the field. They seemed to move as one, and if not for the asynchronous bobbing of their heads, I would have thought there was only one horse leading the way.

Approaching the home turn, Jaipur nosed ahead of Ridan, and the field inched closer to the two leaders. At the top of the homestretch, the entire crowd rose to its feet and roared, and I felt the collective temperature, emotions, and energy swell. The two leaders ran neck and neck, holding off the pack as they coursed toward the wire. Ridan pushed ahead again, with a horse named Military Plume charging hard in third for the final quarter mile. But as the field stormed past our position, Jaipur found some new speed. I doubted he had enough ground left to catch Ridan before the finish. At the sixteenth pole, Ridan maintained his lead by a head. Jaipur rallied one last time, and the two horses were even, the lead changing with each stride and alternating lunge of the head. I froze. Everything went quiet. I was moved by the beauty and courage of the two champions, dueling side by side for more than a mile already, and never more than a neck separating them. I clutched my race program, crumpling it in my white-gloved hands, and beat it against Fadge’s arm. Then the crowd’s roar returned, surging into a deafening din in my ear as the two favorites neared the wire. Ridan and Jaipur, having led from the very start, thundered across the finish line together, leaving clumps of flying earth and the rest of the field in their wake. I couldn’t say which had crossed first. Neither could anyone else.

“Photo finish,” said Fadge. “We’ll have to wait a minute to find out who won.”

The spectators milled about, buzzing and smiling and chatting in edgy anticipation of the verdict. I spotted Freddie in his box, staring a hole into the tote board in the infield. His blonde friend was nowhere in sight. I turned back to Fadge, whose gaze was fixed on the tote board as well.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

“Waiting for the stewards’ decision,” he said.

“Why are you so worried about the outcome? You didn’t even place a bet. Just two dollars with me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told you. I’ve got a bundle riding on Ridan for the win.”

“You dirty liar,” I said just as the entire clubhouse erupted into a chorus of competing cheers and groans. Fadge was among the groaners.

He dropped a packet of betting slips to the floor, turned on his heel, and opened the Racing Form.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Jaipur,” he said and nothing more.

He was already immersed in the study of the next race. If he was upset at having lost out by less than a nose, I couldn’t see it in his expression. Maybe this was a job for him, after all. No room for emotion or could-have-beens.

Since I had no intention of betting again—I had won the only two wagers I’d placed to date, after all—I wasn’t interested in the Racing Form. I chanced a quick peek over at Freddie’s box instead. He and his friends were backslapping and smiling, which I took as a sign that they had bet on Jaipur or were still high from the excitement of the race. Even I had to admit it had been a thrilling duel.

Not far off, Jaipur was being led by a groom to the winner’s circle. He knew he’d won; you could see it in his gait. His hood had been removed, and he looked like a proper Thoroughbred again, not some kind of warhorse in protective armor. A magnificent stallion, he danced lightly, his dark bay coat shimmering in the late-afternoon sun as he savored his victory march back to the judge’s stand. His jockey was still perched in the saddle. Fadge told me later that his name was Bill Shoemaker, who’d already won two Kentucky Derbies and three Belmont Stakes, including the one two months before aboard the very same Jaipur. Lips stretched into a broad grin full of teeth, Shoemaker sat atop the thousand-pound champion and waved to the cheering throng. Once in the winner’s circle, he reached down to shake hands with some important-looking men, and then he slid off Jaipur’s back and set about unfastening the saddle. The groom helped pile the entire kit into Shoemaker’s arms, and the jockey stepped through a gate for the post-race weigh-in. A minute or so later, the crowd roared again. I asked Fadge why, and he indicated the tote board in the infield. He said the result was now official.

“Good,” I said. “Now pay up. You owe me two bucks.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills that would choke . . . well, a horse. After peeling off the two most