The Backside

Michael Bloom gunned his M3 into the parking lot, looked in the rear view to see a lavender bruise beginning to show. He grabbed his riding kit and ran to the jockey's room.  He was late and his eye was still stinging from where the brass bucket on Mae Rodiker's purse had hit him before she left his hotel room.  Bitch, he muttered as he ran.  Goddamn jock chicks.  When will I learn?  Last one, last one.  I swear!

The jockey's room was all bustle with ten or more jockeys in various stages of dress, most of whom Michael knew. Some waved, some too ramped up about their coming races ignored him, some oblivious with their headsets on. Jerry Dunkle looked up.  "Hey, Mike! Late again?"  A sly smile.  "Looks like she got ya good!"  Michael tossed the finger to his friend.

Dickens Stables silks off the peg. His own too worn boots. Crop. Goggles. Check. Then out to see Madeleine Culpepper, trainer of his mount Kippy's Kat. Maddy was all smiles as usual.  "She's OK," she told Michael.  The vet gave the OK. Seems a little off though today.  See what you think. 

Michael entered the holding stall and seeing him Kip gave a little whinny. "Hey girl. How we doing today?" The filly nuzzled Michael.  She knew him and he knew her. Michael was known as an extremely competitive rider.  What was less well known was how much he loved horses.  He loved horses more than people. And the horses responded to him.  He could get a horse to do anything he asked. Michael had enough prizes to fill a small room.  He had ridden tracks from Santa Anita and Hollywoood Park and many of the other 20 or so California racing venues. 

Coming off a bad spill at Hollywood Park which snapped Michael's collarbone and given him a concussion, now at 32 years of age he was finding it more and more difficult to get a ride.  When Dickens called he took the offer to ride for him even though Michael hated Reg Dickens who cared about the money more than he cared for his horses.  He was known to have run several of his animals to death.

 After that last spill, broken bones and a serious concussion Michael had read the handwriting on the wall. Knowing his racing days were coming to a close he bought a nice parcel of land out between Chico and Red Bluff near the Sacremento River. A small ranch house with a stable in back.  Real fixer-uppers, but his to fix.  He didn't tell a souI besides Tony and Maddy. In the good years he made more than a million dollars a year.  He lived frugally by jockey standards.  A couple of designer suits, a  comfortable condo, 7 year old race-ready M3 were his few indulgences.  He drank little, didn't do drugs, and only rarely indulged in continually offered free sex. Those never stayed around.  He didn't spend his money on their whims. They called him cheap.

 He shrugged off the jokes of the jockey.  Mike the Monk they called him. He salted most of his money away. His dad won the Breeder's Cup and placed 3rd in the Kentucky Derby and a few years later he suffered a horrendous smash-up rendering him wheel chair bound until he died.  His mother died not long after- of depression or mostly of a broken heart. Michael always knew that life as a jockey would be short and uncertain.  He was smart enough to plan ahead for the inevitable.

He thought he must be crazy to have taken Dicken's offer to ride.  The pull of the track, the sights and smells of horses, the thrill of the ride. More like proving to himself that he wasn't completely washed up.  That he still had what it took. All this on his mind he ran his hands down Kat's flanks, and down her legs, paying special attention to how her knees and ankles felt.  Maybe a little tender on the front right.  Kat shifted when Michael rubbed her there.  The vet hadn't found anything. "We'll give it a go girl," he said patting Kat's neck.  Maddy watched from the gate.  He winked at her.  An old friend.  Madeleine Culpepper. She's too good a trainer for Reginald Dickens.

"Yeah, Mike."    Like she read his mind.  "Love this mare.  A beauty.  All heart.  How Dickens got her I can't imagine."  

"How'd you end up training for him?"

"Same reason you're riding for him, I imagine."  She had racing Thoroughbreds in her blood as did Michael. Even with the corruption, bad owners, bad tracks and all, there were good times like no other.  And there were the lovely courageous horses, born to run. End of story. A story told a million times at a million stables. One last hug with Kippy's Kat.  And a word of praise to her groom Tony Vasques. He had her looking shiny as a new penny.  "Could use new shoes," Tony grumbled.  Everyone knew that Reginald Dickens was going down.  His string was down from 30 or more in his fat days to just 5 horses at present- only two of which were any good.  Kipper's Kat and the difficult 2 year-old colt Loose Cannon who could be heard in the stallions' shed making a ruckus as they spoke.

The week wore on at the godforsaken track.  Races run, horses injured, jockeys wrists smashed, bones broken.  Michael actually benefited form jockey spills getting some unscheduled rides. He won a few, Loose Cannon being one of the winners. Michael managed to settle him, just barely. Last race of the meet.  Kippy's Kat went into the gate like a lamb.  She found her feet and began to dig. Michael kept her in third until the last pole.  Then he asked her.  And oh God did she try.  But it wasn't there.  Michael thought in those seconds that he should pull her up, but on nothing but heart she went on to a disappointing second to last.

Showered and changed into a suit, Michael went out to the barn before he went to the after party. Kippy's Kat nickered when he entered her stall.  "You aren't right girl. I know that."  Kat tossed her head as if to agree.  Michael saw she wasn't putting any weight on her front right.  It wasn't a resting stance.

The party was in full swing when Michael arrived. Jockeys, owners, trainers and some journalists by invitation only.  Dickens was in high spirits, loudly talking trash as usual like he owned the place. He hugged Michael.  "Got us some money, Mikey. You showed Canny who's boss!"  

Madeleine was sitting at a table in the corner of the room picking at her food. Michael went over and took a chair beside her.  "So?"

"So?' she answered. 

"So, what next?"

"You tell me."

They ate in silence.  A journalist was chatting loudly at the next table with Reginald Dickens.  He always was a press hound and this Dutworth woman could give him very good and useful press.  She was famous and seldom seen in California. A  Brit who had won numerous prizes for her articles about racing. Liza Dutworth.  Must be slumming, taking a little vacation in California to escape the damp and drear of her homeland. And she was acting very chummy with Dickens, touching his shoulder as she spoke, as he patted her thigh a few times.

Michael and Maddy heard it clearly what she was on about.  "I have no problem with eating horsemeat.  No problem at all.  It's when they lie!  Pass it off as beef which is much more expensive."  Michael and Madeleine kept their eyes on their plates of food and managed to control their faces.  Madeleine's state of mind was only betrayed by the slight tremble of fork she held.

Someone at Dutworth's table spoke up.  "To me it would be like eating dog!"

"Yes. We could eat dog," Dutworth chirped.  "There are enough unwanted ones, but apparently you only want a scabby one! If you're vegetarian, great. But if you choose to eat meat, it doesn't matter which meat, other than taste.  My 10 year-old pet bullock is by far more intelligent than any horse or dog I've ever met, so it's no use drawing the line at 'pets'.  If horse meat is cheaper and easier, why on earth are we still farming cattle?"

Even the most seasoned journalists at her table were looking stunned. Dickens, however, was actually leaning toward her and nodding agreement.  She forged ahead, "The poor old pig is the most intelligent of all domesticated animals and share with humans and great apes the ability to recognize itself in the mirror.  Eat every living creature and wear its fur, or choose not to, but please don't be selective."

At that last one by one her table mates drifted away. Only Reginald Dickens remained seated, his shoulder almost touching Liza Dutworth's. Michael and Madeleine stood and together left the room.  Outside, they stood mute staring toward the stable where the setting sun had set the tin roof ablaze.

"I'm going back to my hotel," Michael said.  "I feel like I'm going to vomit."

"Call me later," Madeleine said.  "I have something to tell you which can't be spoken of here."

Michael showered again when he got back to his room. He let the hot water gush over his head for a long time.  Wrapped in the bath rug he opened the small fridge and took out all the small bottles of whiskey he found in it.  After downing two, he called Maddy.  She answered on the second ring.

"So, what do you have to tell me?  Can't be as bad as what we heard tonight."

"Don't be too sure," Maddy said.  "Good ol' Reg Dickens is selling Kitty."

"Selling? To whom? How do you know?"

"Tony heard him talking to some guy on the backside.  Rough, Tony said. Heard the name Munez mentioned. Ring a bell?"

"Christ!  Jose Munez, the owner of The New Mexico Livestock Auction?!"

"The very same."

"Kill buyer!!"

"Yep.  I know. If you want my opinion that's where our Kitty's going. Word among the grooms is that the vet at this hellhole is crooked.  He's paid off regularly to pass hurt horses."

"I would have known if she was hurt bad!"

"No you wouldn't. Don't be a damned fool!  A couple of shots of phyenibutazone, bute, and no one would be the wiser.  She wasn't X-rayed. And she won't be as she'll be on her way to New Mexico probably by morning, Mike."

"Meet me at the stable at 2 am. We've got to get her out of there," Michael said.

Just before 2 Michael walked the backside to see Maddy and Tony coming toward him from the opposite direction. Michael had called Tony Vasques and explained what was happening.  A horse van they didn't recognize was parked in the lot.  A man was leaning against the truck smoking a cigarette.  Michael approached him and said, "There is no smoking allowed here."  The man looked up in surprise and grunted.  He hadn't seen Michael come up.  As the man ground out his cigarette in the dirt Michael had time to see in the half moon light that the New Mexico license plate. Maddy waited back by the barn.  Tony advanced to stand behind Michael. Having made his living wrestling high strung Thoroughbreds he was built like the Incredible Hulk. 

"Heard you are here to pick up a horse." 

"So?"

"Would you happen to know the horse's name?"

"Maybe."

Michael held out a stack of bills.  "A hundred to tell me which horse?"

The man shrugged, took the money and said, "A filly.  Kipper's Kat. I'm to meet the owner and pick the nag up in an hour."

Figures, Michael thought.  Just before the morning gallops. "How much you pay for her?"

"Boss okayed $500, plus papers."

"What would you take to sell her to me?"

Long silence.  But Michael could see the man was mulling it over, interested. Then, "I could get in a lot of trouble.  Gonna cost ya."

"How much?"

"Three grand.  Cash."

"Deal.  Just give us a few minutes to get to the casino bank.  And you've got your money."

Maddy came up, had a quick word from Michael and grabbed the debit card he handed her.  She dug her own out of her bag and took off toward the casino on the run. Fifteen minutes later she was back with a stack of bills in her hand.

Michael said, "One more thing.  I want the bill of sale Dickens signed.  An extra $500 for it." The driver leafed through his folder and took out a paper which he handed to Michael.

 "Won't be no trouble. Munez don't care about shit, pedigrees, tatoos. All the same to him as long as he gets his money."  The man's expression told that he didn't much care for his job or his boss. "I'll give him more than he asked."  Handing the paper to Michael he said, "Just remember. I lost this somewhere. Or it never existed." Then he counted the money. "Well that's it then.  I have a few more horses to load up here. You get this Kat horse yourself.  I aint paid to do that."

Tony Vasquez was already leading Kippy's Kat out of the barn.  She went docilely if lamely along.  Tony disappeared around the stable.  His voice soon crackled over Michael's cell.  "No problemo. None of the boys said anything when I led her out. Most of them dead drunk. Oh, and I called in a few chips.  Friend lending me a trailer. Where to, boss?"

"Up to my place. Water and feed her there.  Get her into one of the better stalls and wait. I'll be there soon as I can. I've a score to settle."

"Don't get yourself in trouble," Tony warned.

Michael walked back to the casino hotel. The end of his racing career was sealed. He was anxious having the decision more or less made for him.  But most of all he was surprised at how relieved he was.  Maddy fell in step.  "What now?" 

"Just a little unfinished business."

He entered the back door of the restaurant kitchen where the chefs were already beginning to prepare the breakfast brunch.  His good friend Jean Marc greeted him warmly.  "Ah!  The guy who doesn't eat my fabulous food!" 

Michael smiled back.  Had a short conversation with Jean-Marc suggesting what the chef might fix for Reg and Liza'a meal.  From the doorway Maddy could see the chef first scowl, then purse his lips, then nod in agreement. On his way out of the kitchen Michael handed a red envelope to the waiter.

Outside, he told Maddy the obvious, that he was retired from racing.  And that he would be living on the ranch, with his broodmare Kippy.  And did she want a job? At least she hadn't said no.  Michael hugged Maddy hard, gave her a kiss right on the mouth, which rather pleased her. He got into his old M3 and headed to Chico.

Brunch at the casino.  Owners and guests, journalists, mostly still hung over from the party the night before.  Dickens came in about 9:30 his arm around Dutworth's waist and both looking as though they had had a very good night.

The waiter brought them coffee. Reg and Liza tucked into the most delicious looking scrambled eggs with truffles and toasted each other with Mimosas.  As they were finishing their meal the waiter approached and held out a red envelope.  "I have a letter that has arrived for you Mr. Dickens." 

Heads bent together, Liza and Reginald read the message on the paper.  CONGRATULATIONS.  I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED THE TRUFFLED EGGS PREPARED FOR YOU.  I TOOK THE LIBERTY ON MY OWN TO ADD THE HORSE BRAINS SPICED WITH BUTE FOR YOUR EXTRA ENJOYMENT. The note was signed, YOUR FAVORITE JOCKEY

____

Postscript

Reginald Dickens was down to his last horse.  Loose Cannon.  And he would soon have to find a buyer for him. He had briefly thought to reclaim Kippy's Kat.  But there was that goddamned paper with his signature on it, a copy of which had been sent to him priority mail from some town in Utah he never heard of. He thought of suing Michael Bloom and the Casino, but there was the question of the cursed paper he had signed to the kill buyer. Reginald Dickens was well on the way to drinking himself to death.

Liza Dutworth was only too glad to be shed of a loser like Dickens. She returned to Britain and continued her career writing about the glories of Thoroughbred horse racing. Her adoring fans none the wiser, she continued to enjoy horsemeat steaks.

Anthony Vasques stayed at the ranch. He cared for his Kippy's Kat through her surgeries to fix her cracked seisamoid, slept with her at night in her stall. He dreamed of her having her first foal and maybe getting married and having a couple of kids to play with Kitty's future babies.

Madeleine gave Dickens her resignation and joined Michael to live at his ranch before the end of the year.  She was fed up with owners who forced her to drug, bleed, overtrain their horses.  She was sick of the many breakdowns and lies told to cover up the real reason for them.  And she couldn't imagine not being with Michael Bloom for the rest of her life.