Something for Nothing (9 page)

In truth, Martin liked the harsher humor better, Don Rickles especially. He loved it when Rickles picked out people in the audience and abused them. He and Linda had gone to see him in Reno a year or so ago. The guy was a genius. Imagine making money off of ridiculing people like that. Martin remembered one line in particular. Rickles had picked out a guy and started in on him: “Who picks out your clothes? Stevie Wonder?” It was a line he'd heard before, either on one of his comedy albums, or maybe on Johnny Carson. It didn't matter—it was better hearing it live. He hadn't been able to see the guy Rickles had targeted, but he could just imagine the look on his face. Martin had practiced the look he'd have on his own face if Rickles chose him. It wasn't one of those big, stupid smiles. No, he'd just sort of fold his arms and chuckle, nodding, as if saying “Okay, okay, you got me.” Rickles would like that better, he thought. A little more self-contained—that was always better.

Val's house was in the foothills. It was built into a steep part of the hillside on three different levels—very modern and Frank Lloyd Wrightish. Sunken rooms, big windows, high ceilings—the works. The view from the living room was really nice, especially at night, when you could see the lights of Pleasanton (and the fair when it was under way in the summer). Linda loved the place. She really went for the “nice lines,” as she put it, and the slick furniture.

Martin liked Val's house, too, though he'd predicted more than once that the whole thing was going to come sliding down the hill someday, after the next big earthquake hit the Bay Area.

“Before the year 2000,” he'd say to Linda. “Mark my words.”

“Okay, Martin,” she'd say. “If you say so.”

He knew she thought he was jealous of Val and his house . . . and maybe he was. But he really did think that someday a huge quake was going to show up people like Val, who had their houses perched in impossible places, hanging there as if in defiance of gravity (to say nothing of the San Andreas Fault).

However cool and modern Val's house was, Martin was actually most taken by the eucalyptus trees. They surrounded the house and ran throughout the whole of his property. He had about twenty acres. It was split into two parcels, one at street level, where he kept most of the horses that he worked with, and then another section up higher, on a sort of plateau that was either natural or that had undergone some serious grading at some point. This was where his house was, and where he did a lot of training work with the horses. All of it had a forestlike feel, but not the kind you got up at Tahoe, surrounded by pine trees, or maybe in Muir Woods, surrounded by 200-plus-foot redwoods. This was different. Val had explained to Martin the way eucalyptus trees had been imported to California from Australia as a possible substitute for pine trees and redwoods, and whenever he went to Val's, Martin felt as if he were stepping into a kind of exotic forest. The long, thin eucalyptus leaves were all over the ground, some in piles one or two feet high, and they smelled incredibly sweet, almost like some sort of spice.

Martin drove up and parked just past the carport and next to the big wire fence that ran along the house—around the pool and lawn area, reaching back to a couple of work sheds just shy of the stables. Val had put the fence in a few years ago to keep his scary 190-pound Great Dane from attacking unsuspecting guests. Its name was Rex. It was one of those tiger-striped things. And it was huge—easily the biggest dog Martin had ever seen. He'd seen it stand and put its paws on Val's shoulders, and when it did, it was taller than Val.

The dog was also vicious. Martin had heard over and over that Great Danes were gentle, but that was a bunch of bullshit, at least when it came to this dog. When Martin or anyone else came to the house, it barked and slathered and generally made it clear that it wanted to bite your face off. Val had told Martin about the time the dog had actually gone through a sliding glass door after some landscaper who'd been teasing it. According to Val (who heard it from the landscaper's boss, who'd heard it from another worker who'd been right there), the guy thought the dog couldn't get to him, and so he'd really been teasing him. The dog had barked like crazy, and then it had run right through the door. It plowed into the guy, glass flying everywhere, and tore into his arm like a big leg of lamb.

That's how Val put it. “Like a leg of lamb.” That was the punch line when Val told the story, and Martin had laughed on cue. It was a good story, and it was believable, because the dog seemed genuinely unhinged. Martin's own opinion was that the dog should have been put down after the attack, regardless of whether or not it had been provoked. Wasn't it just a matter of time before Rex decided he wanted to show someone else how badass he was, or before he decided he was sick of dry food and wanted a chunk of human flesh again?

“Martin Anderson,” Val said when he came to the door. “The man with the plan.” He squeezed the shit out of his hand and smiled, showing off his not-very-good teeth, and Martin smiled as well. Val was a little scary, but his smile was usually genuine, and it was sort of hard to resist—infectious, even.

“That's me,” Martin said. He regretted the line the second it came out of his mouth. It seemed a little off . . . maybe even a little weak. Somewhere toward the back of the house the dog was barking.
Woof, woof. Woof, woof, woof.

“Listen,” Val said. “I think that horse of yours has got the stuff. He's been having some great workouts.”

Then half an hour zipped by as they talked about Temperature's Rising and the upcoming race at the fair. They walked outside, and then ambled (that was the word that popped into Martin's mind) down the long, wide path that led to the stables on the upper lot. It was lined with walnut trees on either side and banked with big juniper bushes. Higher overhead were the eucalyptus trees, and so this was a little tunnel under the broader canopy. Martin had seen Val and his guys walking horses along this path, and it always made him think of the film clips he'd seen on TV of horses at their stables in upstate New York or Maryland or wherever as they prepped for the big races—the Travers Stakes or the Belmont or maybe the Preakness.

He thought for a second about walking along here with Val and Temperature's Rising, and chatting with Jim McKay for a segment on
Wide World of Sports
.

“You know, Jim,” Martin would say. “I'm not gonna lie—the money's great. But really, I'm more interested in the sport of it. I know it sounds hokey, but it's almost a spiritual thing for me. Being there at the track, watching him run. . . . I don't know if I can put it into words.”

“What about it, Val,” McKay would ask. “What's next for Temperature's Rising?”

“The sky's the limit, Jim,” Val would say. “There's just no stopping this horse.”

Of course, most of this would be total bullshit—which was okay, because guys like Jim McKay were full of shit, anyway. But Martin actually did want to tell someone how he felt about horse racing. About what it was like when you were standing right next to the track, leaning on the rails, and you could feel the power and energy of the horses
as they pounded past. It was amazing, and knowing that one of those horses was yours . . . Martin wasn't sure if he'd be able to convey how that felt, but he thought it might be worth trying.

Val was in a chatty mood, which was unusual. He talked the whole time they were in the stables looking at Temperature's Rising. He told Martin that his weight was just right, that the problem with his foot was all better (Val had even pulled him out of a race four or five months ago because of it), that his splits were fantastic, and on and on.

“He's really on right now. He knows there's a big race coming up. You know what it is? He's confident. Cocky, even. You can just tell. He can't wait to get out there. On Monday we took him out to the track at the fairgrounds, and when he walked out there you could tell he was really into it. Jose said he had to pull back on him a little, make sure he didn't overdo it.”

Val was stroking the horse's mane as he talked, and holding his face up to his own, nuzzling him. In between comments to Martin he muttered little baby-talk sentences to Temperature's Rising. The horse jerked his head back a little bit, but he didn't seem nervous or put off. You could tell that he was used to this with Val, that there was a connection there. Plus, Val had an apple in his hand, and Martin knew Temperature's Rising was waiting for Val to give it to him.

“I'm telling you, Martin,” Val said, patting the horse on the shoulder. “If he keeps up this way, forget the Pleasanton Fair. That'll be a breeze. I'm talking about taking him down to Santa Anita, getting him into a couple of serious races down there. And I mean Grade One.”

“Really?” Martin said. “You think?”

Val patted the horse again and rubbed his cheek against his muzzle. Temperature's Rising jerked back again, but only a little.

“Sure,” Val said, still looking at Temperature's Rising. “Absolutely. His times are right there. And he's tough. This is a lot of horse, Martin.”

Val leaned close to the horse and changed the tone of his voice, like someone talking to a two-year-old. “Aren't you tough, TR?” he said. “You can handle a little jostling, can't you? Those jockeys down there
play rough, but you can handle it, right?” The horse took a step backward, but Val had his harness, so he didn't try to move any farther. Val laughed, and then, still holding onto the harness, he stepped back and held out the apple to Martin.

“Here,” he said to Martin. “Give him this. He knows he's about to get it, and he really wants it.”

Martin hesitated for a second, but then stepped forward and took the apple out of Val's hand. Val always had him do something like this—feed him something, or hose him off or brush him down. Maybe even put a little hay in his feed box. It was Val's way of having him connect with the horse, make him feel like he was investing in something he knew more intimately. But Martin also knew he was being tested—that he had to show Val he wasn't afraid to be close to a racehorse.

The problem, though, was that actually he
was
afraid. In fact, horses scared the shit out of him. He just wanted to own them and watch them. No intimacy required. And he could tell they didn't like him. Gunpowder, Uncle Jack, and now Temperature's Rising. He was convinced they wanted to bite his hand off or kick him, maybe knock him out and then stomp him to death. “This is what you get for making me race around a dirt circle with some crazy guy on my back, thrashing me with a whip.” That's what they'd say just before finishing him off with a hoof to the head.

Martin stepped forward, holding out the apple to Temperature's Rising. He reached his head toward Martin's hand, bumping it with the top of his nose. Martin pulled his hand back a little bit, and this made the horse jerk his head back and neigh, sending spit all over Martin's hand.

“Come on, Martin,” Val said. He was still holding on to the harness. “Don't be shy. Just step up and hand it to him. He won't bite you. He's only nervous if you are.”

Martin glanced at Val and then at Temperature's Rising. The horse was leaning forward again, intent upon getting the apple out of Martin's hand. Martin took a step forward and held the apple right
under the horse's mouth. He felt the big sloppy gums on his hand as he bit into the apple—felt him bite through about half of it, swallow, and then suck the rest of it up into his mouth.

Martin looked at Val and smiled, and then wiped his hand on the back of his pant leg. It was disgusting, and he thought immediately of taking his pants to the dry cleaners.

Val laughed, showing off his bad teeth again. “I always knew you were an animal person.”

Martin nodded. He was trying now to contain his irritation. “Okay,” he said. “So it turns out I'm not Marlin fucking Perkins. Jesus. I just want to own them, not be best friends with them.” He wiped his hand on his pant leg again and gave Val an exasperated look. “So are you going to offer me a beer, or what?”

O
N THE PATIO, SITTING
by the pool, Martin watched Val's wife Angela as she handed them two beers and walked away. She and Val were both in their early fifties, but he'd have believed it if she said she was ten years younger. She had thick dark hair and a full figure—she looked great. He remembered for some reason that her father was right off the boat from somewhere in southern Italy. Maybe that's what it was: her Italian blood.

Val was still talkative, but he'd shifted tone. He was more serious now, really looking at Martin and making sure he was listening, taking in what he was saying.

“It's totally corrupt down there, you know,” he said. “These peasants grow the opium up in the Sierra Madre, which are a couple hundred miles away, and then they use mules to carry it to the villages. I mean, imagine—that's how primitive this shit is when it starts out.”

Val shook his head, looking at Martin, incredulous. Martin wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond. He fiddled with his bottle.

“And
that's
when the big drug guys come in,” Val went on, taking another sip of his beer. “They come in to the villages and buy it up, and then take it to some other place where they process it. The police
and the military are all on the take, and so the drug guys—Alvia Perez, that's the main guy—they just run these local villages all over Baja and the northern part of the country. Everyone works for them. One of them just snaps his fingers and suddenly twenty people are running around, moving shit, keeping watch, whatever. Women and little kids, even. It's fucking crazy, but it works, I guess. I mean, they're super poor, these Mexicans. And this is money for them, right?”

Martin shrugged. He couldn't tell if Val was arguing that the drug trade was bad for these Mexican peasants and villagers, or good. Maybe he was saying both. Or maybe he didn't know—didn't even know what the hell he was talking about.