Chapter 19 #3
But I would end his days as an irresponsible racehorse owner.
If I got my way, he would never win another purse as long as I lived.
In the barn, Yuless waited with Alligator Bait, and I hurried to the nearest bathroom, changed into a clean pair of silks, and began the tedious process of undergoing angelic verification, which numerous owners observed.
The scale confirmed my worries the first race might drop some weight off me, and we needed to add several weights to my saddle to make it a fair race for everybody else.
The angel confirmed the weights as well, making my entry into the race unassailable.
Yuless took care with saddling my mare, and once everything checked out, which once again underwent angelic verification, I got into the saddle.
Per our game plan, Yuless led my mare, the cue Alligator Bait required that she needed to pay attention and race like she meant it. While we weren’t the first to leave the barn to make the journey to the track itself, we weren’t the last, which counted as a miracle to me.
I kept an eye on the other horses making a fuss on the way to the gate. A particularly tough colt, who fought his jockey every step of the way, worried me; gate accidents happened, and some of them eliminated several horses in the ensuing chaos.
To my relief, the colt had the second position. His jockey, Maxwell Firo, had immigrated to the United States from Europe after a successful career riding in three day events. Thoroughbred racing had become his passion, and he liked using a heavy hand on his horses.
He’d whip to the maximum allowed.
Sometimes, that could be an advantage. It could also be a disadvantage and a method of cheating.
However, with numerous angels observing the race, one of which had been hired by the track to keep cheating to a minimum, I suspected he’d stay on the right side of the line.
If he didn’t, well, everyone would find out about it sooner than later.
Rather than become tough, as many of the horses did when caught up in the excitement of the impending run, my thoroughbred calmed, just like I’d worked on with her time and time again.
A calm horse wasted no excess energy, which meant she’d be able to give her best when it came to reaching the wire first.
Once at the starting gate, my assistant starter took over, and he directed me to gate six located in the center of the line.
Some viewed the position as a weakness, but I liked the odd mix of advantages and disadvantages.
My favorite was the last gate on the outside; technically, the outside line required more running from the horse, but when I wanted to do a catchup and breakaway, I needed space.
The outside provided space.
Most jockeys fought for rail position, which gave their horses the least distance to run.
While we waited for the final horses to load into the gate, my starter assistant kept a tight grip on Alligator Bait’s bridle, and he patted her neck and cooed to her, praising her for her good behavior.
Under normal conditions, when the horses lived at the track most of the years, the starter assistants were assigned a set of horses, learned the behaviors of each animal, and formed relationships with them so they could do their jobs in safety.
Alligator Bait had, thanks to Lucifer and the forces of his many hells, grown accustomed to someone new handling her before each race.
I’d even set up a single gate to practice on near my track, and I’d started her hundreds of times over the past few months, preparing for the moment we rode real races.
Starting gates no longer excited her beyond the anticipation of competition. Her body betrayed her desire to run, as her ears pinned back in concentration, and she stood ready to surge forward the instant the gate opened.
Alex Dryden in the first gate would be the jockey I paid most attention to near the finish line.
According to all my teachers, he had no scruples about utilizing every gap in the pack of racers.
I’d reviewed numerous videos of his actions leading to accidents, and several of them had cost the opposer’s horse their life.
The third such incident had been verified by an angel as unintentional, but he’d run out of strikes.
One more incident leading to the loss of a horse, either through death or severe injury, and he’d be ejected from the jockey club.
Of least concern was Winston Hall, who battled with his horse in gate seven. With help from his assistant starter, he got the skittish animal settled enough to start the race.
I appreciated the assistant starters; without them, there wouldn’t be any races at all.
As though aware several of the horses were about to lose what was left of their minds, the starter took over, and without fanfare or further ado, opened the gate.
My assistant starter released the beast, and Alligator Bait charged straight to a gallop.
I viewed our gate departure as perfect, middle of the pack in speed and as clean as I could hope for.
Hall’s horse, a black fading to gray, bounced out of the gate but recovered, and I kept my hands high to keep my mare from blowing out all her energy early.
With only a mile to work with, I needed to balance endurance and speed in the first quarter if I wanted the victory.
I worried my caution would cost us, as none of the other jockeys seemed interested in my strategy, instead vying for the precious inside rail and the shortest—and fastest—times possible.
Within three furlongs, the pack had condensed and kept close, crowding the rail and making it hard for any horse except those on the outside to position.
At two horses behind the second to last place horse, Alligator Bait would need to bust her ass to catch up, especially as there were at least six lengths to the three or four horses struggling for first place.
I lowered my hands.
Alligator Bait switched her lead as we approached the turn, gave a single flip of her head, likely to express her irritation there were riders in front of her, and chased after the leading horse.
Through the mass of bodies, I assumed Maxwell Firo did what he did best, claiming what he wanted and holding it at almost any cost.
Alex Dryden rode close to the front, which would be problematic if I made the mistake of getting anywhere near the inside rail.
With luck, my tendency to breeze Alligator Bait in preparation for the Belmont Stakes would pay off, giving her the endurance to go full throttle through the last half.
We passed the next horse, far enough on the outside I caught glimpses of the outriders ready to intervene if needed.
They wouldn’t be needed. I clucked my tongue and whistled to my mare, who viewed the sounds as the most offensive noises she had ever heard in her life.
When I clucked and whistled, I indicated she could give me more.
I’d seen her impress even the Devil when she decided she was going to give me all she had.
My equivalent of a verbal jeer did the trick, and with a single furlong left to go, my mare took the lead.
By instinct, she wanted to head for the inside rail, but I gave her the lightest of taps with the whip, not even hard enough to make noise but notify her I needed her to hold her course and give any bursts of speed she might have left.
She switched leads, and I focused on the finish line, keeping my hands low, my position on her back stable, and keeping out of her way.
I’d been so intent on the prize I had no idea if we’d pulled off the stunt.
Alligator was the only filly in the competition, as most owners viewed colts as the only way to win.
I went to work slowing my filly, and she decided to go tough on me, as she wanted to finish her run.
In her world, we’d ended the fun a half mile early.
As I struggled with my big animal, one of the outriders, on a pretty as a picture buckskin quarter horse, came over and seized Alligator Bait’s bridle, helping to convince her it was time to behave.
I twisted to view the scoreboard screen across the track. The race had taken 1:35:07, and Alligator Bait had crossed the wire a full second before Alex Dryden’s horse. Maxwell Firo claimed third place a split second thereafter.
I patted my horse’s neck, promised her I’d breeze her properly at home, and turned her towards the winner’s circle, where we’d have to deal with a slew of photographs.
As owner, trainer, and jockey, I’d be spared from some of the fuss, as I was the only human required for the shoot.
Alligator Bait would posture as she did, and with a little luck, I’d get her to prick her ears forward rather than keep them pinned back.
She wanted to get back to running, and a mile had only served to whet her appetite.
My filly behaved, and I even convinced her to prick her ears forward, promising her favorite treats for having been a good girl.
Because someone in the field couldn’t believe a woman could ride a filly at such a prestigious race and win, they filed a request for angelic verification I had not cheated in any fashion.
I laughed at that, and I decided to be a dick about it, informing the race’s validator to go over every single rule in the jockey club, owner’s association, and trainer’s association to confirm I had won fair and square.
The validator stared at the three rule books, which were tomes by their own right.
The angel’s wings twitched at my demand.
I smiled my sweetest smile from my perch on Alligator Bait’s back.
“I have all day, ladies and gentlemen. Unless the jockey, owner, or trainer who registered the complaint has a verifiable reason supported by video evidence, I have the right to do mass verification I followed the rules. I would like to remind everyone that within Rules Series 8000 is a section that penalizes owners, trainers, and jockeys should they errantly file complaints against other owners, trainers, and jockeys. Which rule have I been accused of violating?”