“Hey, Pete.”
Clay got a better look now, and the horse was bright chestnut; a white blaze, like a crack, down his face. He flicked the flies off his ears, and he was smooth but rich with veins. His legs, like branches, were locked. The mane was cut back, a little shorter than most, for he somehow attracted more filth than any other horse in the stable. “Even the dirt loves him!” That’s what Petey used to say.
Finally, the horse blinked, when Clay came closer, his eyes so big and deep; an equine kind of kind.
“Go on,” said Petey, “give the big bugger a pat.”
Clay looked at Carey, for permission.
“Go on,” she said, “it’s okay.”
She did it herself first, to show him to be unafraid; even touching him was a front-on tackle.
“Bloody ’orse bloody loves her,” said Petey.
It was different from patting Achilles.
* * *
—
“How’s the big fella?”
The voice from behind was desert-like.
McAndrew.
Dark suit, pale shirt.
A tie he’d been wearing since the Bronze Age.
Petey didn’t answer, though, because he knew the old man didn’t want one; he was talking only to himself. He wandered in and ran his hands along the horse, he went lower for a look at the hooves.
“Spot-on.”
He stood and watched Carey, then Clay.
“Who the hell is this?”
The girl was sweet but defiant.
“Mr. McAndrew, this is Clay Dunbar.”
McAndrew smiled, a scarecrow smile, but something nonetheless. “Well,” he said, “enjoy yourselves, kids, because this right here is it. Next year—” and he spoke more gravely now, and motioned to Carey, about Clay. “Next year he gets the chop. You have to cut the dead wood out.”
Clay would never forget.
* * *
—
The race that day was a Group Two called the Plymouth. For most horses, a Group Two race was massive; for Matador it was only a warm-up. His odds were 2-1.
His colors were black and gold.
Black silks. Gold arms.
Carey and Clay sat in the stand, the first time all day she’d been nervous. When the jockey was aboard, she looked down into the mounting yard, and saw Petey waving her toward him—he was standing with McAndrew, at the fence—and they made their way through the crowd. When the gates opened, Clay watched, and McAndrew wrung his hands. He looked at his shoes and spoke.
“Where?” he said, and Petey answered.
“Third last.”
“Good.” Next question. “Leader?”
“Kansas City.”
“Shit! That plodder. That means it’s slow.”
Now the announcer confirmed it:
“Kansas City from Glass Half Full and a length to Woodwork Blue…”
Now McAndrew again. “How’s he look?”
“He’s fighting him.”
“That fucking pilot!”
“He’s handling him, though.”
“Bloody better.”
At the turn there was no need to worry.
“Here. Comes. Matador!”
(The announcer knew his punctuation.)
And just like that, the horse hit the front. He opened up, and extended the lead. The jockey, Errol Barnaby, glowed up high in the saddle: The relief of old McAndrew.
Next was something Petey said, more ember than cigarette: “He ready for the Queen, you think?” and McAndrew grimaced and left.
The last note, though, belonged to Carey.
She’d somehow put a dollar on, and given the winnings to Clay—well spent on the way back home: Two dollars and change put together.
Hot chips and a mound of salt.
* * *
—
As it turned out, it would be Matador’s last year of racing, and he won everything he ran in, except the ones that counted.
The Group Ones.
In each Group One he was up against one of the greatest horses of this or any era, and she was big and dark and stately, and all of the country loved her. They called her every everything, and compared her to the lot of them: Kingston Town to Lonhro.
Black Caviar to Phar Lap.
Her stable name was Jackie.
At the track she was Queen of Hearts.
* * *
—
Sure, Matador was an exceptional horse, but he was likened to another one: a powerhouse bay called Hay List, who lost all the time to Black Caviar.
For Ennis McAndrew and the owner, they had no choice but to run him. There were only so many Group Ones at the right distance, and Queen of Hearts would always be in them. She, too, was unbeaten, and unbeatable. She’d conquer other horses by six or seven lengths—two if she was eased to the line. Matador she would beat by a single length, or once, by half a head.
Her colors were like a card game:
White with red and black hearts.
Up close, she made Matador look boy-like, or at best, an ungainly young adult; she was the darkest brown you could imagine, you could be fooled she was actually black.
On TV there were close-ups in the barriers.
She towered over other horses.
She was ever-alert and wakeful.
Then the jump, and she was gone.
* * *
—
The second time they raced that autumn, in the T. J. Smith, it looked like he might have had her. The jockey let him out well before the turn, and the lead looked insurmountable. But Queen of Hearts had eaten him up. In five or six gigantic strides, she hit the front and kept it.
Back at the stables, a giant crowd surrounded slot fourteen.
Somewhere, inside, was Jackie, Queen of Hearts.
In slot forty-two, there were only a few stray enthusiasts, and Petey Simms and Carey. And Clay.
The girl ran her hand down his blaze.
“Great run, boy.”
Petey agreed. “I thought he had her—but that’s some horse.”
Halfway between them, around stall slot twenty-eight, the two trainers stood and shook hands. They spoke while looking away.
Clay, for some reason, liked that part.
He liked it more than the race.
* * *
—
Midwinter, the horse was spelled, after losing again to his nemesis, this time a total slaughter; this time four good lengths. He was barely ahead of the rest of them. They’d watched that one on TV, in the lounge at the Naked Arms, where it was showing live on Sky. It was a race run up in Queensland.
“Poor old Wally,” she said, then called out to the barman—a guy named Scotty Bils. “Hey, how ’bout a beer or two to commiserate?”
“Commiserate?” He grinned. “She won! That, and you’re underage.”
Carey was disgusted. At the first comment, not the second.
“C’mon, Clay, let’s go.”
The barman looked at the girl, though, and then he looked at Clay; both Scotty Bils and the boy were older, and Scott just couldn’t place him; but there was something, he knew, between them.
When finally he did, they were almost out the door.
“Hey,” he called, “it’s you; you’re one of ’em—a fair few years ago—aren’t you?”
It was Carey who first did the talking.
“One of who?”
“Seven beers!” shouted Scotty Bils, and his hair was almost gone, and Clay came back and spoke to him: “She said those beers were good.”
* * *
—
And what have I told you before?
Carey Novac could make you tell her things, although Clay was her hardest case. Outside, when he’d leaned on the Naked Arms tiles, she leaned against them with him. They were close, their arms were touching.
“Seven beers? What was that guy talking about?”
Clay’s hand went into his pocket.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that every time you’re uneasy, you reach for whatever you’ve got there?” She was facing him, applying pressure.
“It’s nothing.”
“No,” she said, “it’s not.”
She shook her head and decided to risk it; she reached down.
“Stop.”
“Oh, come on, Clay!”
She laughed, and her fingers touched the pocket; her other hand went for his ribs—and it’s always something awful and anxious, when a face ignites, then changes; he’d taken her and shoved her away.
“STOP!”
His shout like a frightened animal.