Hooligans

MAGIC HANDS

“Just listen,” Callahan said as we drew fresh cups of coffee, though I hadn‟t so much as cleared my

throat for the last thirty minutes.

“Every day of the season, Willie the Clock judges the top three horses in each race and sets the

opening odds. His choice is printed in the program as a service to the bettors. No guarantees, of

course, but that doesn‟t matter. The players are always pissed at him. He‟s maybe the best

handicapper in the business, but it‟s a thankless damn job.”

“Why?”

“Because favorites lose more than they win. They get a bad break out of the gate or get caught in a

traffic jam in the backstretch

and can‟t find a slot. Here comes a long shot paying thirty to one and the players yell „boat race.‟

Everybody wants to lynch Willie.”

We sat down next to the square little man, who was about sixty, had a face the texture of weatherbeaten wood, wore the same coat, rain or shine, winter or summer, and had a black cap pulled down

hard over his eyes. His binoculars were as big as he was. He didn‟t talk much and was very cautious

about his clipboard, which is where all his information was scribbled.

He peered suspiciously from under the peak of his cap, recognized Callahan, gave him what I assume

passed for a smile for Willie, and scowled at me.

“This‟s Jake, Willie,” said Callahan. “lie‟s on our side.” Willie grunted and returned to his breakfast.

“What‟s lookin‟ good?” Callahan asked.

The little man shrugged and ate a while longer. We sipped coffee while Callahan eyeballed the room.

He nudged me once and nodded toward a wiry little guy, obviously a jockey, who came into the

restaurant and sat by himself in a corner. The newcomer didn‟t look a day over fifteen and wouldn‟t:

have weighed a hundred pounds in a diving suit.

“Ginny‟s Girl looks good in the fifth,‟ Willie said finally, then closed up for another five minutes.

Callahan didn‟t press but finally said, “How about Disaway?”

Willie looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“Something special?” he asked.

Callahan shrugged. “Just wondering, y‟know, after he dozed off in the stretch Sunday.”

“He‟s lookin‟ fair.”

Another minute or so of silence, then:

“Not too crazy this morning; clocked cut at 3:22. Not bad since they opened him up at the threequarter and he‟s usually a stretch runner..

He washed down a piece of dry toast with a gulp of black coffee, searched for something in the corner

of his mouth with a forefinger, then added:

“Track gets a little harder later in the day, he may tiptoe around. Right now I‟d say he‟s a toss-up to

place behind Polka Dits, who was kinda wild at the workout.”

“Talk at ya,” Callahan said, and we moved on again.

“You get all that?” he asked when we were a respectable distance from Willie.

“I think so,” I said. “If the track‟s hard, Disaway‟ll probably fold in the stretch again. If it stays soft,

he could come in second.”

“Very good. You‟re learning.”

“The little guy you gave me the nudge on,” I said. “What was that all about?”

“That‟s Scoot Impastato. Out of Louisiana. Started racing quarter horses when he was thirteen. Moved

up to Thoroughbreds when he was sixteen, if you believe his birth certificate. He‟s a seasoned jockey,

great legs, magic hands, and he‟s all of twenty, soakin‟ wet.”

“Very impressive,” I said. “So why the nudge?”

“He was riding Disaway on Sunday,” Callahan said, and headed toward the little guy.

The jockey, Scoot Impastato, was a man in a child‟s body, with a voice that sounded like it was still

trying to decide whether it was going to change or not. Right now it was kind of low choirboy. But the

boy had hands made of stainless steel.

“Hey, Mr. Callahan,” he said as we at down.

“How they runnin‟, Scoot?” Callahan asked.

“So-so,” the youngster answered. “You know how it goes— some days it don‟t pay to answer the

call.”

“Still upset about the race Sunday?” Callahan said. He was fishing. I don‟t know much about horse

racing but I know fishing when I hear it.

The kid chuckled. “Which one?” he asked. “1 was up four times and I ran out of the money four

times.” He seemed to be taking it in stride.

“Well, maybe it was some little thing, y‟know, maybe you handled them a little different than usual

and they got pissed. You know Thoroughbreds.”

He laughed aloud. “I oughta,” he said. He poured half his cup of coffee into an empty water glass and

filled the cup with cream until it looked like weak chocolate milk, the way New Orleanians like it.

He added some sugar and kept talking as he stirred it up. “Once at Belmont I was up on Fancy Dan,

fifty wins in two seasons, the horse couldn‟t lose. He went off a three-to-two favourite. The bell rings,

the gate pops, he just stands there‟ I‟m whackin‟ him with the bat, I‟m bootin‟ hell outta him, I‟m

cussin‟ him, I‟m sweettalkin‟ him. He ain‟t goin‟ nowhere, he just stands there lookin‟ at the crowd

and smellin‟ the grass. For all I know, he‟s still standin‟ there.”

“So what happened with Disaway?”

Definitely fishing.

“Crapped out,” he said with an aimless shrug. “He came outta that three stall like Man o‟ War and led

the pack all the way around the backstretch; then we come into the clubhouse and all of a sudden he

starts fallin‟ asleep on me. Midnight Star comes by like we was stopped for gas, then half the field

passes us. I guess he just decided to walk home. I was yellin‟ at him just to keep him awake.”

“How‟d he look in the morning workout?”

“Fine. Not too spooky. Ran good. Two-tenths ahead of his usual speed.”

“Well,” Callahan said, “at least he got out of the gate.”

“Sunday was like that. Seems every horse I rode wanted to be someplace else for the day. Well, it‟s

Thoroughbreds for you, like you said.”

His breakfast came. Steak, three eggs, and grits, and he dove in. I wondered how he stayed so small.

Callahan kept fishing.

“You up on Disaway today?”

“Nope. No more. Cot me another ride. Chigger Bite.”

“How come?”

“Me and Smokey had it out. After the race he starts chewin‟ my ass for lettin‟ Disaway out early.

Finally I says, „Hey, it wasn‟t me, it was Mr. Thibideau,‟ and he looks at me like he thinks maybe I‟m

lyin‟ or somethin‟. Who needs that shit anyways? The owner says let him loose at the five-eighths, I

let him loose at the five-eighths.” And he laughed again. “Maybe he thought the seven-eighths pole

was the wire.” He kept talking while he ate. “It ain‟t like it was some big surprise. Hell, we been

talkin‟ about it. Mr. Thibideau wanted to try a change-up, letting him out at the five-eighths „stead of

the stretch, maybe cut a coupla tenths off his time. He just didn‟t have anything left for the stretch.

Anyways, I never argue with the owners.”

“You didn‟t disagree with Thibideau, then?”

“Not out loud. Hell, he comes up just before post time, tells me boot him on the backstretch, and

that‟s what I did. I just figure you want to try a change-up, why do it when you‟re the favourite? I‟d

rather wait until we‟re not on the board—nothin‟ to lose that way.”

“Well, he probably had his reasons.”

“Afterwards he comes up, says he‟s sorry, and gives me a double century, make up for the purse. „I

made a mistake‟ is all he says.”

“He had the exercise boy break him out at the three-quarters again this morning,” Callahan said

casually over his coffee cup.

“Disaway‟s a marginal. Put him in a field with a bunch of heavyweights he might pull in third if he‟s

feeling just right, it‟s been raining, track‟s soft, like that. Give him a little mud, a slow field, he takes

the money.”

“Thibideau ought to handicap him a little better.”

“Mr. Thibideau, he keeps tryin‟, y‟know, hopin‟ the horse‟ll show a little more stamina. You wanna

know what I think, the pony‟s a stretch runner. He won‟t have it t run wide open them last three

furlongs. Also he was favouring his left front gam. Anyways, I got another ride.”

“When was he favouring the leg?”

“Just after the race. Probably got a pebble in his shoe. I told Smokey about it.”

“Well, good luck today,” Callahan said, and we moved outside. The fog had burned off and left

behind a beautiful day, with

a cool breeze under a cloudless sky.

Callahan said, “That was probably Greek to you.”

“I followed it pretty well. I just don‟t understand the drift of it

As we walked around the corner of the cafeteria, I got my first good look at the track and whistled

between my teeth.

“Impressive, huh?” Callahan said.

Impressive was an understatement.

It sprawled out in the morning sun, a white structure framed against a forest of trees. It was three tiers

high with cupolas on each end and a glass clubhouse that stretched from one end of the top floor to

the other. The designer had modelled the building after Saratoga and other venerable tracks. It looked

like it had been there for fifty years. There were azalea gardens to give it colour and giant oak trees

standing sentinel at its corners. Great care had obviously been taken to remove only those trees

necessary. The parking lot even had freestanding oaks and pines breaking up the blacktop. It was a

stunning sight arid, I had to admit, a tribute to Harry Raines‟ taste. The clubhouse windows sparkled

in the morning sun, and in the infield the grass was the colour of emeralds.

“Wow!” I said.

“Some nice operation,” Callahan agreed.

The Mercedes was gone.

I decided to get back to the subject at hand.

“Why are you so interested in Disaway?” I asked.

“He was two horse in the third race Sunday.”

“Is that good luck or something?”

“Remember the tape Sunday night?”

“How could anybody forget it?”

“You forgot something,” Callahan said. “Tagliani told Stinetto it was a fix for the four horse in the

third heat.”

“I still don‟t get the point.”

“The four horse was Midnight Star. He went off as place favourite, eight to one, won, paid a bundle.

The favourite was Disaway. Wasn‟t set up for Midnight Star to win, was set up for Disaway to lose.

No sense any other way. Sunday, everything was A-one for him, up against a weak field, track was

soft, he went off a five-to-two favourite. Strolled in eighth.”

“Eighth!”

“It can happen. We all have bad days.”

“So the trick was to slow Disaway down?” I said.

Callahan nodded. “Midnight Star romped first, paid $46.80. You bet Midnight Star, you got $46. 8 for

every two bucks you put down. Figure it out, bet a thousand bucks, go home with $23,400

smackers—not a bad day‟s work. My way of thinking, Disaway wasn‟t just having a bad day

Sunday.”

“Supposing Midnight Star had a bad day?”

Callahan smiled. “That‟s horse racing,” he said.

“How did they do it? Make him lose, I mean?”

“Lots of ways. Legal ways.”

“You think the jockey was in on it?‟

“Maybe, not likely. Scoot doesn‟t like Thibideau or the trainer. He‟s a straight-up kid; like to think it

wasn‟t him.”

“How about the trainer?”

“Smokey? Maybe again, but he was pissed because he thought the boy booted the horse early. Didn‟t

know Thibideau told him to.”

“So that makes it the owner?”

“Looks that way. Thing is, Tagliani knew about it. Tagliani got wasted couple of hours later. Maybe

there‟s no connection, but got to think about the possibilities.”

“So what do we do about it, go to Raines?”

“Can‟t. Illegal wiretap. Dutch can‟t afford to have anybody know about it. No tape, all we got‟s

guesswork.”

“So we forget it?”

“I don‟t forget it,” he said ominously. “Happens once, it‟ll happen again.”

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