Gargantuan_ A Ruby Murphy Mystery - Maggie Estep [85]
ATTILA JOHNSON
29.
Last Ride
It seems like entire days have passed by the time I start changing into my silks for the fifth race. I move slowly deliberately knowing it’s the last time I’ll do this.
I notice Santarez, one of the particularly unscrupulous young riders, giving me the once-over. I don’t know why he’s eyeballing me and, to be honest, I don’t give a flying fuck.
We file out of the room and into the paddock. Henry and Violet are standing at the mouth of Jack’s saddling stall. Violet seems to be talking to the gelding as Henry pulls his legs out, ensuring there isn’t any flesh trapped under the girth.
As my fellow jockeys stand in the center of the walking ring, talking to owners, I go over to greet my mount. Jack is an exceptionally kind horse but I’d be fussing over him even if he were a cantankerous prankster since he’s the last horse I’ll ever ride in a race.
Violet and Henry both greet me and Violet steps aside as I go to rub Jack’s face. I’m surprised when Jack stands perfectly still, letting me scratch his cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever known a three-year-old that would stand so quietly ten minutes before a race. His eyes droop half shut and he moves his head, indicating that he wants me to scratch his chin and jawline. Jack has a soulfulness that you barely expect to find on a fifteen-year-old school horse, never mind a three-year-old racehorse. I lose track of everything as I stand there, taking in the smell of the horse. I even shut my eyes for half a second, remembering the first time I touched a horse, how the smell reached a place in my heart. Who knew it would come to this?
I take a deep breath, trying to push the gloom away.
As Sophie leads Jack out of his stall, I crane my neck to look at the spectators. I’m vaguely hoping to spot Ruby even though I don’t truly want her to be present should anything terrible befall me. I don’t see her anywhere. The faces all belong to the typical dead-of-winter Aqueduct crowd. Middle-aged and old men. Men clutching newspapers and tip sheets. Men with angry faces, fat faces, lonesome faces. Men who rarely taste happiness.
The paddock judge calls for all riders to go to their horses and Henry gives me a leg up. I feel Jack’s massive body igniting. We walk out onto the track to meet Juan and his pony horse. Jack nuzzles the pony’s neck. Normally, Juan and I would be chatting but there’s nothing normal about this afternoon. Juan’s eyes look puffy. I imagine he’s been mourning Layla whom he’s known for several years. It seems ludicrous that Layla’s dead and I’m here, alive and on a horse, a fine, big-hearted, talented horse. Juan unsnaps the leadshank and I steer Jack into the chute, unaided by the assistant starter. Jack stands perfectly still as the other colts and geldings file in with varying degrees of irascibility.
A few seconds later, the bell goes off and Jack breaks perfectly flying straight out of the gate and immediately finding his stride. At seven furlongs, this race is a furlong longer than what he’s used to running but not long enough for him to dawdle. I see that Ricky Fisher has sent his colt, a second-time starter called Bed of Nails, to the lead. I position Jack neck and neck with Santarez’s horse, a compact chestnut with a lot of white markings.
When I’d watched a tape of Jack’s last race—a six-furlong race three weeks earlier—I’d seen that he’d been left to lag at the back of the pack a little too long. By the time he came on, there wasn’t enough ground left and he ended up third. I won’t let that happen today.
“Keep at it, guy,” I tell Jack, giving him his head a little more. I feel the gelding pulling strength from his core as his massive lungs take in air and distribute it through his body. More than anything though, I can feel Jack Valentine’s willingness.
To our right, a gray long shot named Golden Gizmo has caught us and there are now three of us across the track. A length in front of us,