named Lush Life, in fact, that had come between Jack and Joey and had brought Early into the picture.
Joey had desired that the filly win the last race of a Pick-Six, which would have resulted in Joey’s bagging a half-million dollars and Lush Life not only breaking her maiden but becoming a rising star. Forget the details, the bottom line was Joey passed the responsibility for said scenario along to Jack, who not only understood the subtleties of such a delicate operation but also loved horses. Jack meticulously explained the game plan to one of his men out at the track, Doc Miller, who’d in turn explained it to Speed McKay. They’d fucked up (Speed from stupidity, Doc out of avarice, trying to cut his own angles) so ignobly that the end result was not only did Lush Life lose, but she literally died in the stretch due to the enormous amount of phenylbutazone pumped into her—bute not having been part of Jack’s game plan at all.
Early had been broken-hearted. He’d loved that filly. Nonetheless, when he came stumbling into his backside barn after the race and found three of Joey the Horse’s men about to club Jack’s brains out, he thought three against one plus the tire iron was chickenshit odds, no matter what the big silver-haired man had done. So he’d mounted a horse named Caliban and, with a ferrier’s tool, whacked each of the three upside their heads as neatly as if they’d been polo balls.
Jack had reached in his pocket on the spot and counted out 5,000 dollars in hundred-dollar bills as a thank you. A few months later he’d called Early up, said, Come guard my body, be my man-of-all-trades, I’m going into the casino business. I’m up in Hot Springs, that being where Joey the Horse has decided he’ll allow me to continue breathing.
Early wasn’t sure. It would be tough to trade in the dawn smells of freshly farrowed track, manure, new-mown grass for cigarette smoke and booze in some casino room where you never saw the light of day. Especially after the time he’d pulled in the state pen in Angola, Louisiana, for a seriously dumb mistake, Early didn’t fancy anything that felt like lockup. But, on the other hand, Hot Springs was home. His birthplace.
Jack said, “Oaklawn’s up here, you know. Awfully sweet track. We’ll buy us some horses, run ’em. First one, we’ll call her To Lush Life.”
That did it. Early had hung up his manure-caked rubber boots and overalls, got himself fitted for a neat navy blue double-breasted suit complete with bulletproof lining. He’d taken a quick course in target shooting, for which he found he had a natural aptitude, as he did for the martial arts, and he began to shadow Jack Graham, who quickly set up undercover casino operations in Hot Springs as if the town were ripe for sin. Which, not having had much to speak of since the feds shut down all the fun back in the sixties, it was.
And things had been good, except Jack had been steaming since the day Lush Life was put down. It wasn’t even so much his exile. He said the mountains were a nice change from the swamp. It was that that perfectly beautiful filly had died for no good reason, Doc’s cupidity not being a good reason.
That’s what Jack had said to Doc when he’d called him out on the matter. Jack wasn’t one to blindside you with a tire iron. He’d called him out like a man, the last day he was in town before he shipped out for Hot Springs. Early hadn’t been there, but he’d heard it wasn’t much of a fight, at least not on Doc’s part. Jack, who’d grown up with knocking around the ring in the Irish Channel, had stepped right up to Doc and started punishing him with his jab, put a couple of combinations together before he staggered him with a short left hand to the head. Doc fell facedown like a redwood. When he got to his feet, he didn’t say a word, but there was murder in his eye.
Jack had brushed himself off and gone on his rounds to say his good-byes around town.
But that
Joey had desired that the filly win the last race of a Pick-Six, which would have resulted in Joey’s bagging a half-million dollars and Lush Life not only breaking her maiden but becoming a rising star. Forget the details, the bottom line was Joey passed the responsibility for said scenario along to Jack, who not only understood the subtleties of such a delicate operation but also loved horses. Jack meticulously explained the game plan to one of his men out at the track, Doc Miller, who’d in turn explained it to Speed McKay. They’d fucked up (Speed from stupidity, Doc out of avarice, trying to cut his own angles) so ignobly that the end result was not only did Lush Life lose, but she literally died in the stretch due to the enormous amount of phenylbutazone pumped into her—bute not having been part of Jack’s game plan at all.
Early had been broken-hearted. He’d loved that filly. Nonetheless, when he came stumbling into his backside barn after the race and found three of Joey the Horse’s men about to club Jack’s brains out, he thought three against one plus the tire iron was chickenshit odds, no matter what the big silver-haired man had done. So he’d mounted a horse named Caliban and, with a ferrier’s tool, whacked each of the three upside their heads as neatly as if they’d been polo balls.
Jack had reached in his pocket on the spot and counted out 5,000 dollars in hundred-dollar bills as a thank you. A few months later he’d called Early up, said, Come guard my body, be my man-of-all-trades, I’m going into the casino business. I’m up in Hot Springs, that being where Joey the Horse has decided he’ll allow me to continue breathing.
Early wasn’t sure. It would be tough to trade in the dawn smells of freshly farrowed track, manure, new-mown grass for cigarette smoke and booze in some casino room where you never saw the light of day. Especially after the time he’d pulled in the state pen in Angola, Louisiana, for a seriously dumb mistake, Early didn’t fancy anything that felt like lockup. But, on the other hand, Hot Springs was home. His birthplace.
Jack said, “Oaklawn’s up here, you know. Awfully sweet track. We’ll buy us some horses, run ’em. First one, we’ll call her To Lush Life.”
That did it. Early had hung up his manure-caked rubber boots and overalls, got himself fitted for a neat navy blue double-breasted suit complete with bulletproof lining. He’d taken a quick course in target shooting, for which he found he had a natural aptitude, as he did for the martial arts, and he began to shadow Jack Graham, who quickly set up undercover casino operations in Hot Springs as if the town were ripe for sin. Which, not having had much to speak of since the feds shut down all the fun back in the sixties, it was.
And things had been good, except Jack had been steaming since the day Lush Life was put down. It wasn’t even so much his exile. He said the mountains were a nice change from the swamp. It was that that perfectly beautiful filly had died for no good reason, Doc’s cupidity not being a good reason.
That’s what Jack had said to Doc when he’d called him out on the matter. Jack wasn’t one to blindside you with a tire iron. He’d called him out like a man, the last day he was in town before he shipped out for Hot Springs. Early hadn’t been there, but he’d heard it wasn’t much of a fight, at least not on Doc’s part. Jack, who’d grown up with knocking around the ring in the Irish Channel, had stepped right up to Doc and started punishing him with his jab, put a couple of combinations together before he staggered him with a short left hand to the head. Doc fell facedown like a redwood. When he got to his feet, he didn’t say a word, but there was murder in his eye.
Jack had brushed himself off and gone on his rounds to say his good-byes around town.
But that
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