Winning Odds Trilogy Read online

  Winning Odds Series

  Book One

  ~ * ~

  Favored to Win

  “Hold it, where’s your pass?”

  Dawn turned, barely awake, and faced an armed guard. She hesitated. It was too early in the morning for this. It was too early in the morning for anything. “My name is Dawn Fioritto, and I write for The Herald. I’m here to do a story about the racetrack.”

  “That’s nice.” The guard glanced down to her legs then back up at all five feet ten inches of her. She had eyes the color of her olive-green shirt, and thick auburn hair braided neatly in a single braid down her back, waist length. Classy looking. “You still need a pass.”

  She had a press pass.

  “That won’t do.”

  “No?”

  “No. You need to go to the secretary’s office.”

  Dawn sighed, hoping to be spared the bother, and made several attempts to dissuade the man. “Timing,” she pointed out, “is so very crucial.” She even tried that old line about holding up the presses. But in the end, it all proved a waste of time. “The secretary’s office...?”

  The guard eased a pipe out of his pocket and pointed over her shoulder. “If you follow that path, it’ll take you to it,” he said. And sure enough she found it, but unfortunately right at scratch time. Everyone there was huddled around a middle-aged cowboy, who was shaking a jar and calling out numbers.

  She walked up behind them and observed for a few minutes. “What are they doing?” she asked a man next to her.

  “Drawing the also-eligibles,” he said, leaning back then and looking her over.

  “What for?”

  The man probably would have ignored her at this point, since he was waiting anxiously to see if his horse drew in, but she was too pretty to ignore. “Today’s racing lineup.”

  Dawn nodded as if that explained everything, and watched as this process gave way to another, “Picking up mounts.” As horses’ names were called out, so then were the names of “available jocks.”

  “They don’t look like jockeys,” Dawn said. Most were of average height or taller, and had what looked like hefty beer bellies.

  “They’re not. They’re agents.”

  “I see.”

  “My boy’ll ride him for you,” one shouted, followed by another, “Billy’s open that race. We’ll ride him. We know the horse.” Then another, “Give Jimmy a try, you get the weight.” And another, “Hey, John, what about Visquel?”

  Dawn lost interest as this went on and on, and looked around the room. Spotting a woman at a desk in the corner, she thanked the man for his time, and approached her. From there, she was directed down the hall, where she obtained her pass. An hour later, she was back at the stable gate, complaining to the guard.

  “They made me wait forever, and then they interrogated me. I’m surprised they didn’t fingerprint me!”

  The guard laughed. “Well, they would have for a permanent pass. Yes, they would.”

  “Wonderful,” Dawn said to herself, “rule number one.” Waving over her shoulder, she headed down through the barn area to the racetrack amid a flurry of activity, and learned rather quickly to not only watch where she was going, but precisely where she was stepping along the way.

  The horses going onto the track went through one gate, those coming off, another...a steady stream back and forth and an array of color, all decked out in leg bandages of green, yellow, red, and blue. Equally colorful, so to speak, were the comments and commands of some of the exercise riders.

  For a while, she was content to just watch them come and go. Some put on quite a show, dancing, bucking, and kicking out. In time though, her mind wandered to something her Uncle Matt said yesterday. “Your signature is only a formality at this point. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “Right.” She’d hardly been able to think of anything else since. She drew a deep breath, then promptly sneezed, and figuring no one would want to read a story consisting entirely of polluted air, rainbow colors and profanity, she decided to ask some questions.

  She approached a young man, who responded with an apparently ever-popular racetrack term, adding how he was new and didn’t know much. She watched a few more groups of horses gallop by, then one or two by themselves, and after that, noticed an elderly man wearing a baseball cap, leaning on the rail and looking at her curiously.

  She walked up to him. “Hi. Nice day.”

  “Not really,” he said. He’d wanted rain.

  Dawn studied his face as he looked out at the racetrack.. “Why’s that?”

  “I got a horse that likes the mud.”

  Dawn poised her pen in her hand. “Really? Why would a horse like the mud?”

  “Some horses just do.” The old man looked at her. “Who are you anyway? You look like you might be lost.”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Oh...” He cocked an eyebrow and nodded. “What are you writing about? Blackwell Stable? They’re big news lately, leading stable by what...nine, ten wins.”

  “No. I’m doing a story about the racetrack in general, and about race people.”

  The old man lifted his hat and wiped his brow on his sleeve as he watched a horse gallop down on the rail. He mumbled something then, seemingly ignoring her now, and started to walk away, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “First thing,” he said, “we’re called horsemen. Not race people.”

  Dawn smiled, thanked him, and found herself watching him from a distance as he walked over to a horse coming off the racetrack. She squinted. When the jockey jumped down, both he and the old man appeared to be focusing on the horse’s right front leg, quite a bit in fact. And the horse was nodding its head up and down, as if it totally agreed with what they were saying as it walked along.

  Dawn spent the next few hours gathering comments from some of the other trainers and grooms, who she got really good at telling apart from the way they dressed and the condition of their boots, and noted their attitudes as well as their pointed observations. When the training activity slacked off around ten, she went into the track kitchen, drew herself a cup of coffee, paid, and sat down to go over her notes. As she looked around the room, not one friendly face gazed back. Instead, she was being eyed suspiciously, an obvious intruder.

  A little while later, she sat in on a meeting called by the HBPA, the Horseman’s Benevolent Protection Association, and observed what seemed to be an affair for venting grievances. The track condition was brought up repeatedly, along with a concern about a drop in purse monies, too many extras being written as favors...whatever that meant, and a need for tighter security. The meeting ended on a light note with a reminder about the annual picnic scheduled the following Monday. Rain or shine.

  Dawn went back to the track kitchen then and took advantage of the daily breakfast special, served all day. A big platter of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast for $1.98 including coffee. By the time she was ready to head back to the paper, the stable area resembled a ghost town. Every few barns or so she would see a marauding cat or hear the sound of distant voices or a radio, but that was it. And she was almost to the stable gate when she saw a familiar face.

  It was the elderly man she’d talked to earlier. She ventured toward him. “Hi, remember me?” When he smiled, she extended her hand and introduced herself. “My name is Dawn Fioritto.”

  He shook her hand warmly. “Ben Miller.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Tell me, was I mistaken or did you look worried when you walked your horse back to the barn this morning?”

  “You plan on putting my answer in your story?”

  Dawn blushed. “No, I was just wondering. You seemed so concerned.”

  Ben shrugged. “Time’ll tell.�
�

  “Is it bad?”

  Bad...? The man wouldn’t say. He didn’t even want to think about it.

  Dawn hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller. I don’t mean to pry. But if you don’t mind, why is everyone so top secret around here?”

  A smile slowly spread across Ben’s face. He liked this girl. There was something about her. “Here.” He handed her an empty water bucket and motioned for her to turn it upside down and have a seat. Over the next hour he told her all about the basics of claiming races, racing conditions, allowances for a horse’s age and sex, lifetime conditions, and allowance races and stakes. A crash course of sorts. And she was thankful she had her tape recorder, as she hung on his every word. She was getting quite a story. Her editor would be pleased, maybe even pleased enough to use it as a Sunday magazine feature.

  “Any questions?” Ben had an amused expression on his face as he watched her change the tape.

  She looked up. “Yes. Claiming races. I still don’t understand.”

  Ben sighed. “Well, let me see. I’ll try and explain it better.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Are you married?”

  Dawn shook her head.

  “Got a man?”

  Dawn smiled.

  “All right. Imagine if you had to put a price on him, to let people know how much he was worth.”

  When Dawn made a face, he laughed. “Oh, he ain’t worth that much, huh?”

  Dawn chuckled.

  “Well then, let’s just say he was a good one, and that he could be taken from you for the price you put on him. Would you go around telling everyone how good he was? Or would you maybe hold back a little, just in case...?”

  Dawn nodded, beginning to understand.

  “Exactly. Then imagine you get one that’s so good, kinda like my wife Meg. Those, the good ones, you don’t risk losing them for anything.”

  “I know.” Dawn smiled at the analogy. “Those are the ones you run in the stake and allowances races. That way no one can take them from you. Right?”

  Ben nodded. “You’re doing good, but they can still be taken.” He held his hand up when she started to object and proceeded to explain. “They can take a bad step. It could be a stone. An off track. They can stumble. The horse in front of them can stumble. They can get sick.” He trailed off, and seemed to withdraw for a moment. “So many things can happen. Which is why the things you can control...” He looked over his shoulder at the horse in the first stall. It was the same horse Dawn had seen earlier up at the racetrack.

  “That’s Beau Born. The best I’ve had in years. Doc says we’ll know more in the morning when we get the x-rays back.”

  “Oh no,” Dawn said sadly. “Was he an allowance horse? One of the good ones?”

  “What do you mean was?” Ben scoffed.

  Dawn chuckled in spite of her red face. “Sorry.”

  Ben stood up slowly and walked over to the stall, with a look in his eyes then that for some reason reminded Dawn of her father when he used to tuck her into bed as a child.

  She walked up next to them and reached to pet Beau’s forehead. “He’s so beautiful. I had no idea racehorses were this big.”

  “Not all of them are.”

  Dawn smiled. He’d said that proudly. “He doesn’t look like he’s in a lot of pain. Maybe it’s not that bad.”

  Ben shook his head and walked back and sat down. “Good horses are funny about pain. They don’t always show it. That’s where class comes in.”

  Dawn ran her hand over Beau’s silky-smooth neck. “How do you know if a horse has class?”

  “How?” Ben couldn’t help but smile. “Now that’s a good one. But I don’t think there’s enough days in the year to explain it. And you little girl, I’m afraid, probably didn’t bring enough tape.”

  Dawn laughed, and walked back to her seat. “Well, tell me something at least.”

  Ben paused. “I can tell you this. If a horse has it, they’re something special.” He swished a fly from his face. “Breeding is the biggest factor, mind you. But I’ve seen my share of common-bred horses with it too.”

  Dawn shifted her weight to get more comfortable.

  “Why, they had a thirty-five-hundred-dollar claimer here a while back, with two of the biggest goddamned bowed tendons I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen my share. But it weren’t nothing compared to the size heart this horse had. He never quit. You gotta have respect for a horse like that. That’s class.”

  “I’m confused,” Dawn said, scanning her notes. “If a common-bred horse can have it...”

  Ben grinned. “Hey, you’re at the racetrack, remember? We’re all gamblers here. It’s what it’s all about.”

  Dawn smiled, hesitating as she put her tape recorder away. “Do you mind if I come back in the morning to see you?”

  Ben shrugged, his thoughtful gaze traveling instinctively to the horse in the first stall. “Sure, stop by. We’ll be here, the good Lord willing.”

  The same stable guard from earlier greeted Dawn with a friendly nod from his bench, arms folded, and his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. “Get your story?”

  “Not quite.” Dawn settled down next to him and went right to work. “But I did get some really good information. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Mr. uh...?”

  “Charlie,” he said, saying it with distinction, yet sounding humble. “I’m known only as Charlie.” He’d been a guard here for more than thirty years now, he told her, and could talk forever. Dawn listened to tales of loose horses at night, attempted thefts, generations of families he’d watched grow up on the racetrack, and numerous drug scandals. Referring to the so-called trainers involved as, “Butchers who’d drug their own horses or anyone else’s to cash a bet,” he sighed in disgust. Then sadly, he recalled the details of a fire they’d had several years back that took the lives of an old groom and five horses, which led right into the speculative talk of new barns. “In the planning now, mind you, for more’n six or seven years.”

  When he paused to refill his pipe, Dawn checked her tape. “Do you know Ben Miller?”

  “Ben? Oh yeah, I know Ben. Me’n him been good friends for years now. Damned good horseman too. Yeah, me’n Ben go way back.”

  Dawn smiled. The two men looked about the same age, same school.

  “Had himself a good one in ‘74. Dandy something. But he broke down in the prep and had to be destroyed. It was the same year his wife Meg got sick and passed away.” He paused as he stared down the road between the barns. “I still find it hard to believe. She worked right with him, you know.”

  Dawn shook her head, staring in the same direction now, and probably should have asked what a prep was, but didn’t.

  “Got himself one this year, though, that’s maybe even better,” Charlie said, with an emphatic nod. “Yep, Beau Born. There’s a big race for him day after tomorrow. He’ll win it too. You wait and see.”

  Dawn lowered her eyes to the ground and thought about her conversation with Ben. How it didn’t sound good for this Beau Born. And how it could possibly turn out just like the other one, this Dandy something...the same year his wife Meg died.

  “Well,” she said, tucking her recorder away. “I have a two-day pass, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Charlie nodded. “You said your name was Fioritto. Any relation to the west-side Fiorittos?”

  Dawn hesitated responding, as always when asked about her family. “Why? Is there someone in particular you know?”

  Charlie shook his head. He didn’t know them, he’d just heard about them, read about them. Then again, who hadn’t?

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Dawn woke the following morning fearing she’d overslept and was surprised to find it wasn’t even five-thirty yet. She showered and dressed anyway, threw several tapes in her purse, and left. She waved to Charlie as she strode past the guard shack, and headed straight for Ben Miller’s barn.

  She rounded the corner feeling positive, convinced
everything was going to be all right, a happy ending for a change. She even had a smile on her face. But her hopes vanished as she stared into the first stall. It was empty. Stripped completely of its bedding.

  She glanced into the tack room and called out for Ben, turned, and looking down the walkway of the barn, called his name again. A young man came around the corner then, leading a wiry, bay horse. “Have you seen Ben Miller?” she asked.

  He motioned for her to come to the inside; horses usually kick out, not in, when walking around a shedrow. She moved quickly so he could pass. “Well,” she repeated, “have you?”

  “Yeah, he was just here with Doc Jake.”

  “All right,” Dawn muttered to herself, following the young man with her eyes until they turned the opposite corner out of sight. So where is he now? And what did the vet tell him? More importantly, where was Beau Born?

  She refused to look into the first stall again, into the emptiness, her heart beating faster, and damned her editor for giving her this assignment. She didn’t need this. Get somebody else, she should tell him. Leave now. Now. But all she could do was stand and stare into the tack room, a lifetime, an eternity, and had to back up and get out of the young man’s way again as he came back around.

  He said something to her, something she couldn’t quite make out, not that she couldn’t hear him. He’d practically shouted. She wasn’t listening. What was it about the old man that made her care? Besides, how much was a person supposed to take? What if he had to put this horse down too? What if...?

  She sighed, pushed the loose strands of hair from her forehead, and walked up to the racetrack. Six-thirty a.m., the sun peeked over the horizon, giving the dew on the infield the appearance of diamonds glistening on a blanket of lush emerald-green velvet.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in the morning air, a mixture of dirt, grass, hay and straw, manure, liniment, and a distinct smell of coffee. A pleasant scent, a familiar scent, as opposed to yesterday. The routine of the horses going on and off the track seemed pleasantly familiar also, as if she’d witnessed their comings and goings a thousand times.

  She leaned on the railing, elbows propped, and with her chin in her hands, just watched. After a while she detected differences in the sounds of the horses’ hooves as they passed. Some pounded the surface like a jackhammer, while others touched as lightly as a pebble skipping across water. And she started playing a game, in which she would try to pick out similarities and then other obvious differences.