Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [60]
"Park over there," I told her, pointing at a blacktop road that runs behind the paddock. "Leave the nose pointing out."
There are a couple of hundred acres of gravel behind the road. Pitch–dark. Belle turned off the road, stomped the gas, blasting straight into the darkness. She floored the brakes, feathering the gas at the same time, spinning the Plymouth into a perfect bootlegger's turn right into the spot I'd pointed to. She turned off the engine. A whirlwind of dirt and dust flew outside the windows, settling on the car.
"What'd you think, honey?"
"You're a natural," I told her.
Her face went sad. "No. No, I'm not."
I took her hand, squeezed it. "Don't disrespect your mother," I told her.
She gulped. Took a breath. "You always know what to say, Burke."
"I know what to do too," I promised her.
I walked her past the paddock, holding her hand. The black–and–white stripes swayed in the night. I bet some of the mares were jealous.
61
I PAID our way past the turnstiles. Stopped in the open area to toss a dollar at the guy selling programs from behind a little desk. There was a box of tiny pencils next to the stack of programs. Belle reached past me and took one.
"That's a quarter for the pencil, lady," the guy called out.
Belle looked at him like he was deranged. "For this little thing?" She tossed it back into the box.
"Behave yourself," I told her, taking her hand to lead her outside. A booth about the size of a one–bedroom apartment was set up outside, open along the sides, canvas across the top. Barbecue grill inside. "Want something?" I asked her.
Smart move. She ordered four hamburgers with everything, two beers. The guy behind the counter finally stopped staring and barked the order over his shoulder, not moving his eyes from her chest.
"What're you getting, pal?" the counter geek asked me.
"He gets it later," Belle assured him.
The guy's jaw went from gaping to unhinged.
I paid the money, carrying a beer in each hand, motioning for Belle to climb the stairs ahead of me, admiring the view. We found seats in the outside grandstand, right near the top of the stretch.
Belle put her hamburgers on one seat, took some napkins, and thoroughly cleaned off two more. She took a slug of beer, then handed it back to me to hold for her while she worked on the burgers.
"You see that guy's face?" she asked innocently. "Michelle was right about the makeup."
When she finished eating, I stowed the refuse under our seats, lit a smoke, and opened the program. Belle slouched against me, her head on my shoulder, holding the last beer in one hand.
"What do all those little numbers mean?"
"They all mean something different. You really want to know?"
"Yes," she said, sounding injured.
I went through it quickly, just once over lightly. Showed her how you could tell the horse's age, sex, color, breeding, all that kind of thing. I was up to the comparative speed ratings at the different tracks and she was still paying attention.
"What's the most important?" she wanted to know.
"What d'you mean?"
"Like, all that stuff. It can't all mean the same thing."
"Belle, that's the trick of it. It all means different things to different people. Some people like speed, some people like breeding, some people…"
She cut me off. "What about you? You think breeding is important?"
I looked at her face against my shoulder. "Class is what's important to me. Heart. Going the distance. Breeding don't mean a thing."
"But breeding has to count for something, right? Or they wouldn't put it there," she said, pointing to the program.
"They put everything on the program, girl. Because the gamblers want to know, see? What possible difference could a horse's color make? That's on there too."
"But it must..
"It does mean something, Belle. I've been looking at horses since I was a kid—I'll tell you what it means—you want to tell if a horse has real class, you look at its mother."
She tilted her head up to me, a smile growing. "Truly?"