He stood and watched Carey, then Clay.
“Who the hell is this?”
The girl was sweet but defiant.
“Mr. McAndrew, this is Clay Dunbar.”
McAndrew smiled, a scarecrow smile, but something nonetheless. “Well,” he said, “enjoy yourselves, kids, because this right here is it. Next year—” and he spoke more gravely now, and motioned to Carey, about Clay. “Next year he gets the chop. You have to cut the dead wood out.”
Clay would never forget.
* * *
—
The race that day was a Group Two called the Plymouth. For most horses, a Group Two race was massive; for Matador it was only a warm-up. His odds were 2-1.
His colors were black and gold.
Black silks. Gold arms.
Carey and Clay sat in the stand, the first time all day she’d been nervous. When the jockey was aboard, she looked down into the mounting yard, and saw Petey waving her toward him—he was standing with McAndrew, at the fence—and they made their way through the crowd. When the gates opened, Clay watched, and McAndrew wrung his hands. He looked at his shoes and spoke.
“Where?” he said, and Petey answered.
“Third last.”
“Good.” Next question. “Leader?”
“Kansas City.”
“Shit! That plodder. That means it’s slow.”
Now the announcer confirmed it:
“Kansas City from Glass Half Full and a length to Woodwork Blue…”
Now McAndrew again. “How’s he look?”
“He’s fighting him.”
“That fucking pilot!”
“He’s handling him, though.”
“Bloody better.”
At the turn there was no need to worry.
“Here. Comes. Matador!”
(The announcer knew his punctuation.)
And just like that, the horse hit the front. He opened up, and extended the lead. The jockey, Errol Barnaby, glowed up high in the saddle:
&n
bsp; The relief of old McAndrew.