Chapter 8: CHAPTER SIX (Part 1)

Chapman called him Wednesday afternoon and he had no choice but to tell him that Dawny Lee was recuperating from an injury.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chapman said, but his voice indicated anything but.

“That doesn’t mean I’m giving up. I’d like to postpone the race until next year.

“There won’t be a race.”

“Why not?”

“You were outvoted.” Papers shuffling. “It was a narrow margin.”

“How narrow?” What did it matter now? One vote, two votes...

“One vote.”

“Who?”

“You know him.”

Duncan Reynolds. “I should have guessed,” he said.” He’s always had it in for me.”

“He’s on the board,” Chapman said. “He’s entitled to a vote.”

“Maybe he’s scared my horse will beat his horse, or any of your artificial horses.”

“He said you’d look out of place. He compared you to David walking among a herd of Goliaths.”

He wanted to tell Chapman if Reynolds made that comparison he should read the Bible.

He was almost ready to admit defeat, but that was something he couldn’t do, wouldn’t do.

“Why don’t you come over to our side, Dave? I’ve got a couple of good-looking two-year-old colts, and I’m looking for a buyer.”

“Colts. Two-year-olds.” he bit off the words, spit them out. “Listen to yourself, Chapman.” He switched the phone to his other ear. “They are colts only because Equine Electronics stuck a cock and a pair of balls on them. And they’re two because they say they are.”

“We’re moving ahead,” Chapman said. “You’re living in the past.”

“Just remember, it was real horses that got you started in this business.”

“Times change, I wish you’d realize that. This is the last third of the 21^st century, not the 20^th.”

“Go to hell.” He clicked off the conversation, stared at the phone as if something prophetic was printed on the screen. He wanted to call Duncan Reynolds, decided against it. He’d talk to Reynolds face to face.

“I shouldn’t have ridden her,” Tony said in the living room. He had that guilty look on his face, as if he were responsible for more than Dawny Lee’s injury.

“Damn it, Tony,” he snapped, “stop feeling sorry. It could have happened to anyone.”

“I guess I won’t be much use around here now that she’s out of commission.”

“You can clean her stall.”

“I’m a rider.”

“Right.” He looked at the young man closely, wondered if maybe it wasn’t Tony’s fault Dawny Lee couldn’t run more than seven furlongs. Maybe another rider might have been able to handle the filly better.

Maybe he should be on her back, checking how she feels under him, checking for any abnormalities in her stride. Anything to find out why the filly wasn’t running up to expectations.

All that would have to wait.

“Muck out her stall,” he said. “She’s standing up to her knees in shit.” A hyperbole, to be sure, but something had to be done about her stall.

“Sure,” Tony muttered. “I’ll get the fork, I’ll get the wheelbarrow, and I’ll pick up the shit.”

“It’s not the end of the world.” He headed to the door. “I’m going to see Reynolds.”

“Why? You don’t like him, and he doesn’t like you.”

“This isn’t a social call.”

“Oh.”

“Have you heard from your girlfriend?”

“Janine? She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a good friend.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“Not yet.”

“And after you clean her stall give her a good grooming.”

Reynolds’s farm was huge, about three times the size of Gilbert’s two hundred acres. It hadn’t always been that way. Once upon a time, when horses were flesh and blood, Reynolds’s farm was a mere dot on the landscape, a sixth of its present size. When Reynolds switched to the artificial horses and won a number of major stakes races he expanded his property, buying out neighboring farms, taking over abandoned acres.

Reynolds had even acquired a secretary who told him her employer was busy at the moment and couldn’t be bothered. He told her he hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

The door marked D.M. Reynolds – Private opened, and Reynolds stepped out of his office. Just short of sixty, tall, heavier than when Gilbert saw him last, white hair departing from his head.

He tried to keep his anger under control. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” He ignored Reynolds’s offered hand. I’m a guest here, he thought, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed off.

Reynolds lowered his hand, eyed him contemptuously. “You’re wasting your time coming here. I have nothing to say to you.”

“You’re a long way from being a losing owner, aren’t you?”

“What’s past is past.”

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What’s past is past, and you’re so damn grateful for the future, and Equine Electronics. The thought clung to his mind, refused to die.

“You voted against me entering Dawny Lee in a race.”

Reynolds opened the door to his office. “Let’s talk in here.”

The office was huge, immaculate. Walls adorned with photographs, paintings of horses. Champions from the past and present. None of these animals are real, Gilbert decided. Reynolds, like Chapman and so many other owners, had abandoned the real thoroughbreds once the virus spread.

“Sit down,” Reynolds said, remaining on his feet.

He sank into the chair in front of Reynolds’s desk. Reynolds stood beside him, hands behind him, looking out out the window, looking at something outside.

He waited for Reynolds to make the first move, but silence hovered over them. He stared at the desk, neat and well-arranged, signs of an orderly man or an efficient secretary.

“You know you can’t win,” Reynolds said. “I’m just trying to save the heartache.”

“I don’t want to win,” he said. “Dawny Lee wants to win.”

“Every owner except you has stocked their farm with computerized horses. Sure, they were stubborn at first, just like you, but they saw the light. We’re into the ‘70’s but you’re so far in the past you’re mind is still on horses from fifty, sixty years ago.”

“I believe in reality.”

“Everything is computerized these days.” Reynolds moved behind his desk, finally sat down. “I had to vote no because once someone gets his foot in the door with their meager herd of real horses – if they even have a herd – others will want to get in too.”

“You said every owner except me has artificial horses.”

“Almost everyone,” Reynolds said. “I’m sure there are some... Europe... Asia... I don’t know. Maybe they’re as stubborn as you.”

“You know I’m not going to give up,” he said. “Dawny Lee wants to run and she is going to run. She could beat any of your man-made horses any day of the week, including that machine of yours you call The Tigress.”

Reynolds burst into laughter. “I doubt that,” he said when the laughter died down.

“Any horse can get beaten at any time.” He glanced at the wall to his left. Photos of Reynolds and his family in the winner’s circle, accepting the trophy, the winning horse in the center of the picture, a wreath of flowers draped around its neck.

“I won my share.” The pride in Reynolds’s voice was hard to ignore. “As you can see I’ve become much more successful with computerized horses.”

“You couldn’t handle the real ones.”

“They’re stubborn bitches... sons of bitches. Fillies so damned temperamental when they’re in season. They lift their tails for any male that comes along. And speaking of males, unless they’re cut, all they think about is sex, sex, and more sex. He’s thinking, I’d sure love to fuck that hot filly over there. You don’t get that with the horses I have now.”

“No hot mares? No horny colts?”

“Damn right. As far as I’m concerned they should have left the cocks and balls off the horses. Why not make them... unsexed? You know what I’m trying to say, Gilbert?”

“Why are your horses so successful?”

“Ah, now we come to the question you’ve been dying to ask since you got here. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

Reynolds pressed his hands together, separated them again, laid them on the desk. “How do I explain my success? Good horses... good trainers... good staff. What else do you want to know?”

“You’ve won a lot of stakes races. Maybe more than the average.”

“I’ve picked some good horses, that’s all. No magic formula, just... luck.”

“Do you pay someone to tamper with the horse’s program?”

Reynolds straightened up, slapped a hand on the desk. “Now just a minute.”

“You didn’t know anything about real horses, but suddenly you seem to know quite a bit about the artificial horses. I’d sure like to know who’s behind your sudden success. You know, if I was with the Jockey Club I’d sure be asking questions.”

“Nobody’s behind my success, as you put it. I told you, I’ve picked some good horses.”

“Your winning percentage is close to forty. When you owned real horses it wasn’t even ten percent. You were a blip in the standings.”

‘That shows you computerized horses are much more reliable than the real ones.”

“One of your horses, Alien Dream, I believe, reeled off twelve wins in a row, seven of them stakes wins.”

Reynolds’s hand toyed with the hair at the back of his neck. “So you’ve been checking up on me... on my horses. So what?” The right hand came to the front to scratch the chin. “I told you.”

“I know. Good horses... good trainers...” He stood up. “Dawny Lee will race, mark my word. Maybe she’ll win, maybe she’ll lose, who can say? All I want her to do is run, that’s what she was born to do. If she beats one of your... horses, it’ll show Equine Electronics real horses have as much right on the track as your so-called computerized horses.” He headed for the door without waiting for Reynolds to get up. “Now if you don’t mind, I can find my own way out.”

He left angrier than when he had walked into Reynolds’s office. Reynolds made him feel inferior, like a stable hand, yet his nemesis was far less knowledgeable than half a dozen owners in this area. Seemed rather odd that the Jockey Club didn’t question Reynolds’s sudden success. Sure, his stable was filled with artificial horses, and on the average, they should be doing better than real horses, but still, the winning percentage – especially in stakes races – stood out like a lighthouse beacon.

He returned home, checked on Dawny Lee. The filly stood patiently in her now-clean stall. He thanked his lucky stars that she was a quiet horse. Any other horse might have injured herself further. Ruffian, an exceptionally filly that raced about a hundred years ago, entered his mind.

“She’s fine,” Tony said behind him.

“I told Peter Chapman I wanted a match race. Said it had to be anything over seven. She won’t be able to do that.”

“Janine called.” Tony came to his side. “She’s found something interesting.”

“Uh huh. Don’t want her standing in this stall the whole time...” He looked at Tony. “What did you say?”

“Janine will be here in half an hour.”

“Why am I knocking my brains out trying to get this filly on the track?”

“Sir?”
“I can scrape together five hundred thousand, but if Dawny Lee loses it’ll probably ruin me.” When she loses.

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