Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [45]
And above them all, above the gamblers and the fans and the millionaires, high in the thinner air of the upper stands, were the aged trainers—the ones past their prime. They sat watching the horses with the naked eye, without binoculars or stopwatches, having no need for either. They were measuring not just the speed of the horses, not just their start or their endurance, but their courage and carelessness too—knowing as precisely as one can what was going to happen come Saturday, without it ever occurring to them to place a bet and improve their meager lot.
The one thing for certain at Belmont was that on Wednesday at 5:00 A.M. there was no place for the common man. This was like the circles of Dante’s Inferno—populated with men of varied sins, but also with the shrewdness and devotion of the damned. It was a living reminder of why no one bothers to read Paradiso. My father hated wagering, but he would have loved the runarounds.
—Come on, Peaches, Grubb said taking her arm. I see some old friends.
Grinning with outsized pride, Peaches handed me her binoculars. As they walked away, Johnny looked up hopefully. I ditched him, saying I wanted a closer look at the paddock.
When I got there, I turned Fran’s binoculars back on the silver-haired admiral. There were two women in his box gossiping and drinking from aluminum cups. The absence of steam suggested that the cups were filled with liquor. One of them offered him a sip; he didn’t deign a reply. He turned instead to confer with a young man who held a stopwatch and clipboard.
—You’ve got good taste.
I turned to find Tinker’s godmother at my side. I was surprised that she had recognized me. Maybe a little flattered.
—That’s Jake de Roscher, she said. He’s worth about fifty million dollars, and self-made. I can introduce you, if you’d like.
I laughed.
—I think I’d be a little out of my depth.
—Probably, she conceded.
She was dressed in tan pants and a white shirt. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. She obviously wasn’t cold. It made me feel self-conscious about having the blanket over my shoulders. I tried to shed it casually.
—Do you have a horse in the race? I asked.
—No. But an old friend of mine owns Pasteurized.
(Naturally.)
—That’s exciting, I said.
—Actually, the favorite rarely is. It’s the long shots that are exciting.
—But I suppose it can’t hurt your bank account if you own the favorite.
—Perhaps. But in general, investments that need their own food and shelter don’t amount to much.
Tinker had implied at some point that Mrs. Grandyn’s money had originally come from coal mines. Somehow that added up. She had a self-possession that could only be secured by the more immutable assets like land and oil and gold.
The next horse was on the track.
—Who’s that? I asked.
—May I?
She held her hand out for my binoculars. Her hair was barretted back so there was no need to clear it from her face. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes like a hunter—turning the lenses directly on the horse, having no problem finding her mark.
—It’s Jolly Tar, the Witherings’ horse. Barry owns the paper in Louisville.
She lowered the binoculars but didn’t hand them back. She looked at me for a moment and hesitated, the way some will when about to ask a sensitive question. Instead, she made a statement.
—I gather that Tinker and your friend are getting along. How long have they been living together? Is it eight months now?
—Closer to five.
—Ah.
—Do you disapprove?
—Certainly not in the Victorian sense. I have no illusions about the liberties of our times. In fact, if pressed, I would celebrate most of them.
—You said you didn’t disapprove in the Victorian sense. Does that mean you disapprove in a different sense?
She smiled.
—I need to remind myself that you work at a law firm, Katherine. How did she know that? I wondered.
—If I disapprove, she continued after weighing the question, it’s actually on your friend