Peter Temple - White Dog

‘Let’s go,’ I said.

We walked down the street, Cam behind us. At the corner, I looked back. Haig and Massiani hadn’t moved, eyes on us.

In the car, I rang Barry Tregear.

‘It’s about some murders,’ I said. ‘I’m bringing someone to make a statement. There’ll be another witness arriving tonight. They’ll both need protection.’

He coughed, a cigarette cough. ‘What about you?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘not now. I know for certain now.’

Hands on the mounting yard rail at Flemington, windy day, I looked at Lost Legion. He was sweating a little, a gloss on his neck, on his chest, moving his feet as if finding the soft surface painful.

The jockey came out, Danny DiPiero, an apprentice, nine wins, first ride in the city, claiming three kilograms. Just a boy, he’d probably had the treatment in the room from the veterans, small men whose bodies were contour maps of vein and muscle and sinew, no subcutaneous fat, young men with faces aged by too little sleep, no food, too much food, induced expulsion of food, cooking in steam. And the drugs, some taken for their designed purposes, others not.

Danny stood earnestly before Lorna Halsey, silken arms folded, looking up at her, nodding. Harry Strang had chosen him, he had seen something in the boy at his fifth ride as he piloted a hopeless nag through a pile-up in a maiden in Murtoa to steal third place. ‘Little bugger can ride,’ he’d said. ‘Learns the game, he could be useful.’

I hadn’t seen Harry. You sometimes glimpsed him in the crowd, the sharp face under a hat and above a buttoned-up raincoat bought in England when Harold Wilson was prime minister. By now, he’d be somewhere on the public stand with his equally old binoculars.

I looked around for Cam. He would be taking the decision. The sweating would be worrying him, it could get worse, the horse wasn’t happy, sometimes they ran their race in the mounting yard.

Down the rail, I saw forearms, snowy cuffs, long sallow hands with fingertips touching. I leaned forward and I saw the profile. Cam felt my eyes, looked my way briefly.

I stood back from the rail, stood in the jostle, saw Cam again through the people. He was in light-grey suiting, elegant as a whippet. He took off his dark aviator glasses, put them in his top pocket. Then he turned his head, met my eyes, the lowering of the chin.

It was on.

Cam was looking elsewhere. The tiny nod again. I looked.

Cynthia, the commissioner, coming my way. I had the cash in my raincoat pockets, in packs, twenties and fifties, the totals written on the wrappers. Once Cynthia carried the money to the track, passed it to her team, people more closely vetted than judges and much more scared of retribution. But, one Wednesday, without meaning to, her daughter fingered her. Cynthia didn’t know that, we hoped she never would. It would have added to the misery of losing 90 per cent of the sight in one eye. Her jaw, her nose, her cheekbones, they were repaired, almost as good as new, all the expenses met by Harry Strang.

So Cynthia didn’t carry the money anymore. She wanted to, she was unafraid, but Harry wouldn’t hear of it. What happened to her changed both of them, changed us all, probably.

Cynthia was wearing tinted glasses, not dark but close. She came up and stood facing me, elegant in black today, her costumes ranged from understated tweedy to a pink tracksuit and trainers. I took the packs from my pockets and glanced around as I fed them into the maw of the bag she held between us. No one looking at us that I could see.

‘Don’t know how this’ll go,’ Cynthia said. ‘Strickland caught a few in the third, they’ll be jumpy.’

‘It goes, it goes,’ I said.

She nodded and was gone, money to distribute to semi-retired hookers, redundant teachers, a sad-faced kleptomaniac, an aerobics instructor, the mother of the woman who did her hair.

In the yard, the jocks were all up, walking the horses around, ready to go to the line, all male, men sitting on other animals. Lost Legion was edgier and the sweating was more pronounced. Danny DiPiero would be happy to have the horse out of the confined space and on the track, riding it to the start, standing in the irons, letting it feel his weight and his hands, his confidence.

I took a walk, saw the very man Cynthia had mentioned, the punting trainer Robbie Strickland, stubbled head, dark glasses. He was talking to two men in suits, one fat, rolls over his collar. Robbie had one in this, Bold Voter, a nag of whom the tipsters today said, ‘hard to follow’. Privately, they’d be putting a few bucks on it.

The bookies didn’t need to be reminded that many of Robbie’s cattle were hard to follow. There was no knowing what his horses would do: win, win, place, a few bad runs. Then a spell, perhaps another midfield performance or two, followed by a win out of nowhere, sitting off the pace before a sneaky rails run and, at the death, just a noble head and a few inches of cable-veined neck. For the insiders, the rewards were worth the wait: $10-plus on the TAB, around half that on course, and deliciously plump combinations.

From time to time, the stewards gave Robbie the please explain for poor showings that couldn’t be blamed on missed starts, checks, runs blocked. They got the excuse note from his mother: didn’t like the surface, off its feed, pulled up sore. In life, the easiest thing is to find reasons for failure. How many ways is it possible to lose? The bookies’ sensible response was to ignore Robbie’s explanations and the form and keep his horses short.

Exposed form, it was called: the public performances, factors you would take into account when making judgments. But, in racing as in other human endeavours, it was the things unexposed, the private trials, the secret times, the instructions to jockeys, that could decide outcomes.

On the stand, I took the latest device, the VE5000, out of its housing. I pressed buttons and then I was so close I had trouble finding Danny. When I did, I watched him walking the horse around, waiting his turn. Lost Legion looked happier, the sweat had dried.

‘Favourite goes in, Fortunate Son, he’s very short, shorter on course than the tote,’ said the caller. ‘There’s money for Bold Voter, a trickle, an up and down performer. And support for Sum of Things, Queensland visitor, good form in lesser events, and Cold Callista, strong with her own sex, two wins out of three. Lost Legion’s got some support, well named this horse, it’s been a long while, years, since he had his few moments in the sun. Truly appalling record before he went off the radar. No first-up form ever, run a 2400 once for a fifth. Your mystery bet. Hard to see why he’s in city class for his comeback. Hard to see why he’s come back.’

Lost Legion was taking his place in the stalls. He went in placidly. I could see the jockey on Danny’s right say something to him, shark mouth, full of teeth, Danny didn’t look at him.

‘Five or six to come in,’ said the caller, ‘money dumped on Bold Voter on course now, he’s in to three, that’s pushed the rest out.’

Whose money was that? Robbie Strickland’s connections or ours? Harry never talked tactics to me but he loved to catch the bookies.

‘Sum of Things is on eights,’ said the caller. ‘Lost Legion’s attracting some support, he’s shortened on the TAB, paying $12.60 now, in from forty-something a short while ago.’

I looked at what I could see of Lost Legion, his head gleaming, an alert eye, the ears electric, and I thought of the horse in the trodden paddock in Gippsland, hopeless, head down to the compacted mud, the rotten rug on his back, his fearful gaze.

I said to myself, a pledge: whatever happens here, this horse will live out his life in comfort. I will pay the feed bills.