Somewhere, inside, was Jackie, Queen of Hearts.
In slot forty-two, there were only a few stray enthusiasts, and Petey Simms and Carey. And Clay.
The girl ran her hand down his blaze.
“Great run, boy.”
Petey agreed. “I thought he had her—but that’s some horse.”
Halfway between them, around stall slot twenty-eight, the two trainers stood and shook hands. They spoke while looking away.
Clay, for some reason, liked that part.
He liked it more than the race.
* * *
—
Midwinter, the horse was spelled, after losing again to his nemesis, this time a total slaughter; this time four good lengths. He was barely ahead of the rest of them. They’d watched that one on TV, in the lounge at the Naked Arms, where it was showing live on Sky. It was a race run up in Queensland.
“Poor old Wally,” she said, then called out to the barman—a guy named Scotty Bils. “Hey, how ’bout a beer or two to commiserate?”
“Commiserate?” He grinned. “She won! That, and you’re underage.”
Carey was disgusted. At the first comment, not the second.
“C’mon, Clay, let’s go.”
The barman looked at the girl, though, and then he looked at Clay; both Scotty Bils and the boy were older, and Scott just couldn’t place him; but there was something, he knew, between them.
When finally he did, they were almost out the door.
“Hey,” he called, “it’s you; you’re one of ’em—a fair few years ago—aren’t you?”
It was Carey who first did the talking.
“One of who?”
“Seven beers!” shouted Scotty Bils, and his hair was almost gone, and Clay came back and spoke to him:
“She said those beers were good.”
* * *
—
And what have I told you before?
Carey Novac could make you tell her things, although Clay was her hardest case. Outside, when he’d leaned on the Naked Arms tiles, she leaned against them with him. They were close, their arms were touching.
“Seven beers? What was that guy talking about?”
Clay’s hand went into his pocket.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that every time you’re uneasy, you reach for whatever you’ve got there?” She was facing him, applying pressure.
“It’s nothing.”