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The party was too loud for Belmont after dark.
Bill Hartack had always thought racetracks ought to quiet down once the last race was over. Not empty, not dead, just quiet. Horses gone. Crowd gone. The rail holding the last of the heat. A few grooms walking back slow. The kind of evening where a man could hear himself think, whether he wanted to or not.
Instead, the clubhouse was packed with owners, trainers, newspapermen, wives in good dresses, men with wet smiles and whiskey breath. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had watched the Belmont. Everyone had seen Arts and Letters run down the stretch and Majestic Prince come back beaten.
Everyone, Bill figured, had something stupid to say about it.
He stood near a table he had no interest in, holding a drink he had not touched. Somebody laughed too hard behind him. Somebody else said, “Hell of a run anyway, Bill,” in the exact tone that made him want to set the glass down and walk straight out.
Anyway.
That was what people said when they wanted to pat your back without getting their hand dirty.
He had won the Derby. Won the Preakness. Tied Eddie Arcaro’s Kentucky Derby record. Five. That was supposed to mean something. It had meant something for about five minutes before the talk turned into the Belmont, the leg, the decision to run, the loss, the whole thing picked over and cut apart by men who had never sat on the horse.
“Bill.”
He knew the voice before he turned.
Eddie Arcaro stood behind him with a small plate in one hand and a look on his face like he had been watching for a while. He was dressed better than nearly every man in the room, crisp and neat, not a hair out of place. He always had that about him. Like he had been born knowing where to put his hands.
Bill said, “You following me now?”
Eddie glanced around. “You’re standing in the middle of the room looking like you might bite somebody. It draws the eye.”
“I’m not biting anybody.”
“Good. Saves me a speech.”
Bill looked at the little plate. “What’s that?”
“Shrimp.”
“You eating at a party after a horse gets beat?”
“Somebody paid for it.”
Bill gave him a flat look.
Eddie popped one into his mouth and chewed, completely unbothered. “I didn’t say it was good.”
Despite himself, Bill almost smiled. He caught it before it got anywhere useful.
Eddie saw it anyway. Of course he did.
“You going to keep standing there?” Eddie asked.
“I was thinking about leaving.”
“You always think about leaving.”
“I usually do.”
“Then come outside with me first.”
Bill looked past him toward the glass doors leading out to the terrace. Beyond them, the last gray-blue strip of evening hung over the track. The party noise rolled around the room and pressed at the back of his neck. He said, “Why?”
“Because if you leave now, half these people are going to decide what it means.”
“They already decided.”
“Then let them be wrong for ten more minutes.”
Bill watched him.
Eddie lifted his eyebrows a little, waiting. Not pushing. Just waiting. That was the trouble with Eddie Arcaro. He knew how to get a man to move without making it look like he had been moved.
Bill set his drink down untouched. “Fine.”
Outside, the air was better. Warm, but better. The terrace lights were on, and a few small groups stood near the far end, smoking and talking in low voices. From where Bill stopped, he could see the track, dark now except for maintenance lights. The dirt looked dull and flat, like it had nothing to do with what happened on it.
Eddie came to stand beside him at the rail.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Bill pulled a cigarette from his pocket, then patted himself down for matches. He found none. Before he could curse, Eddie offered a lighter. Bill took it. The flame jumped between them. His hand was steady, which pleased him in a mean little way. He lit the cigarette, handed the lighter back, and said, “Thanks.”
Eddie slipped it into his pocket. “You rode him well.”
Bill exhaled smoke through his nose. “Don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I said don’t.”
Eddie turned his head, studying him.
Bill stared out at the track. “I know what kind of race I rode.”
“Yes,” Eddie said. “So do I.”
That shut him up for half a second.
Bill took another drag.
Eddie said, “Horse gave what he had.”
Bill’s jaw moved once. “He gave more than he had.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
Eddie’s voice stayed even. “I know enough.”
Bill looked at him then, sharp. “That supposed to help?”
“No.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because it’s true.”
Bill hated that. Hated it because it was not comfort. It was not a soft little lie. It just sat there between them, plain and heavy.
He looked away first.
Eddie leaned his elbows lightly on the rail. “They’re all talking about five.”
“Let them.”
“They’re saying you tied me. Which of course, you did.”
Bill snorted. “I didn’t do it to tie you.”
“No. You did it because you like winning.”
“That a crime?”
“No. It’s why you’re good.”
Bill glanced at him.
Eddie was looking out over the track now. His face had changed in the terrace light, the clean lines of it softened but not weakened. He did not look like a retired rider so much as a man who had survived being one.
Bill said, “You come out here to congratulate me?”
“I already did that inside.”
“No, you shook my hand inside. That’s fake and you know it.”
Eddie smiled faintly. “All right. Congratulations.”
“Now it sounds worse. Full of bullshit.”
“I can’t win with you.” Eddie laughed under his breath. Not much. Just enough.
Bill tapped ash over the rail. “You mad about it?”
“About what?”
“The record.”
Eddie looked genuinely amused. “You think I’ve been sitting around praying nobody catches me?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“I was worse when I was younger, not stupid.”
Bill gave him a sideways look. “That’s debatable.”
“Careful.”
“There he is.”
Eddie’s mouth twitched.
For a moment Bill could see it, the old temper under the polished suit and careful public manners. The edge everyone talked about like it was history. Arcaro had been fierce once. Mean when he had to be. Mean when he didn’t have to be. People remembered. Bill remembered too. He had been young when Eddie was already Eddie Arcaro, but nobody in racing got to be a legend without leaving marks.
The difference was that Eddie had learned how to hold it.
Bill had not. Or would not. People were always acting like there was a difference.
Eddie said, “Five is a funny number.”
Bill frowned. “What’s funny about it?”
“Nothing. That’s the point. You get there and it’s just a number. Everybody else wants it to be a crown.”
“Easy to say once you’ve had it.”
“Sure.”
Bill expected him to argue. Eddie didn’t.
That annoyed the hell out of him.
He took one last pull from the cigarette, then crushed it into the ashtray on the rail. “You liked being the only one.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I liked it plenty.” Eddie turned his head toward him. “I also knew somebody would come along. I figured it might be you.”
Bill went still in a way he hoped did not show. “You did not,” he said.
“I did.”
“When?”
“First time I saw you ride like you were mad at the finish line personally.”
Bill huffed. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It is from me.”
The party swelled inside again. Someone called Eddie’s name from the doorway, then got distracted and went back in. Eddie did not turn.
Bill said, “They’re going to say I ruined the horse.”
“They say things because the paper has to be filled.”
“They’re going to say I should’ve pulled him up.”
“Should you have?”
Bill’s eyes snapped to him.
Eddie did not flinch. He did not look accusing. That was worse.
Bill said, “No.”
“All right.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You believe me?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
Bill stared at him, almost angry with him for making it that simple.
Eddie said, “You’re a lot of things, Bill. You’re not careless on a good horse.”
Bill looked down at his own hands. They were small, brown from sun, knuckles nicked. Strong hands. Ugly hands, maybe. Rider’s hands. He flexed them once and let them fall. “People don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said.
“No.”
“They think because they can see from the stands, they know.”
“Yes.”
“They don’t know what he feels like under you. They don’t know when he’s trying. They don’t know—”
He stopped.
Eddie waited.
Bill swallowed the rest of it. “Forget it.”
“No.”
Bill let out a humorless laugh. “No?”
“No. Don’t start a sentence like that and then act like I’m the rude one.”
“You are rude.”
“I’m very polite. Everyone says so.”
“Now.”
Eddie looked pleased by that.
Bill shook his head and leaned back against the rail, facing the clubhouse. Through the glass, the party looked unreal. Bright mouths. White napkins. Men retelling a race that had ended less than two hours ago as if they had already improved it by talking.
Eddie watched him. “You hate these things.”
“So do you.”
“I tolerate them.”
“Same thing with better clothes.”
“That’s fair.”
Bill studied him. “Why are you here?”
“Party invitation.”
“No. Out here.”
Eddie’s face went quiet.
Bill regretted asking almost immediately, which made him want to act like he didn’t.
Eddie said, “Because I know what it looks like when a man is standing in a room full of people and taking every word like a slap.”
Bill’s throat tightened in a sudden, irritating way. He said, “That your line?”
“No.”
“Sounds like one.”
“I can make it worse if you want.”
“Please don’t.”
Eddie leaned a shoulder against the rail. “I used to think if I stayed mad enough, nobody could touch me.”
Bill looked at him. “And?”
“And then they still could. So I was just mad and tired.”
“That’s beautiful. You write that down?”
Eddie laughed softly. “You’re a bastard.”
“Everybody says so.”
“They’re right.”
Bill smiled before he could stop it. Smaller this time, but real.
Eddie saw that too. His face changed just enough to make Bill look away.
That was another trouble with him. Eddie could look at a man like there was something worth seeing there, even when the man was doing his level best to be unpleasant.
Bill said, “I’m not you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.”
Eddie nodded. “You’re shorter.”
Bill turned on him. “You son of a—”
Eddie was already laughing.
Bill pointed at him. “You think you’re funny.”
“I know I am.”
“You’re not.”
“You smiled.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Bill looked back toward the track, but the anger had drained out of him too fast to be useful. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“So I’ve heard.” Eddie’s laugh faded, but the warmth of it stayed around his eyes.
A waiter came out with a tray, saw the two of them, and thought better of interrupting. Smart kid.
Eddie said, “Come to dinner sometime.”
Bill blinked. “What?”
“Dinner.”
“I know what dinner is.”
“Good. Then this should be easy.”
“With who?”
“With me.”
Bill stared at him.
Eddie did not look away. He was calm about it, which made Bill feel like he had missed a step on stairs that weren’t there. He said, “You asking me like that?”
“I’m asking you to dinner.”
“That’s not an answer, asshole.”
“It is if you’re not trying to make it difficult.”
“I make everything difficult.”
“Yes,” Eddie said. “I noticed.”
Bill looked at him for a long second, searching for the joke. There was one there, but not only that. Eddie’s face had gone careful in a different way. Not public careful. Private careful.
Bill’s mouth felt dry. “You do this often?” he asked.
“No.”
“Ask riders to dinner after they lose the Belmont?”
“Only the unbearable ones.”
Bill almost laughed again. He caught himself too late.
Eddie smiled.
Bill said, “People will talk.”
“People already talk.”
“They’ll talk different.”
Eddie’s gaze did not move. “Then they’ll finally have something interesting to say.”
That was too much. Too clean. Too easy.
Bill pushed off the rail, restless. “You don’t care?”
“Of course I care.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“I care. I’m just old enough to know caring doesn’t mean obeying.”
Bill stood close enough now that he could see the fine lines at the corners of Eddie’s eyes. Not old. Not really. Older than Bill, yes. More settled. More finished around the edges. But not old.
Eddie looked up at him slightly, though there was barely any difference in their height. It felt like more.
Bill said, “You’re trouble.”
“That’s funny from you.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Bill’s hands wanted something to do. A cigarette, a glass, reins, anything. He found nothing, so they hung there, useless.
Eddie glanced down at them. “Relax,” he said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re deciding whether to hit me or run.”
Bill’s voice dropped. “Maybe both.”
Eddie stepped closer. “Well,” he said, “don’t hit me.”
Bill gave a short breath of laughter. “That all?”
“For now.”
Neither of them moved.
The party noise went soft around the edges. Bill could smell Eddie’s cologne, faint under smoke and summer air. Expensive, probably. Not loud. Like him. Controlled. Bill hated control except when Eddie wore it. Then he wanted to pull at it just to see what happened.
He said, “Dinner where?”
Eddie’s expression barely changed, but something in him eased. “There’s a place in the city.”
“Fancy?”
“Yes.”
“I hate fancy.”
“I know a place that isn’t.”
“You just said there’s a place in the city.”
“There are several places in the city, Bill. It’s a big city, you know.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t.”
Bill looked away, then back. “Not tonight.”
“I didn’t ask tonight.”
“Good.”
“Tomorrow?”
Bill scoffed. “You always this pushy?”
“Yes.”
“Figures.”
Eddie waited.
Bill rubbed at his jaw. “I got things.”
“Everyone has things.”
“I said I got things.”
“All right.”
Again that easy acceptance. Again that infuriating refusal to grab.
Bill looked at him. “Wednesday.”
Eddie’s smile came slowly. “Wednesday.”
Bill pointed at him again, but there was no force in it. “You’re lucky I’m tired.”
“I’m counting on it.”
For a moment, it was almost comfortable.
Then the glass doors opened and the party spilled out in the form of two owners and a racing writer, all laughing, one of them calling, “There you are, Eddie!”
Bill stepped back at once.
Eddie did not. Not quickly. Not guiltily. He simply turned, polite as anything.
The racing writer smiled too wide. “We need a picture. The two five-time Derby boys. Come on, history right here.”
Bill’s face closed. Eddie looked at him once, just a quick look. Permission, maybe. Warning, maybe. Bill couldn’t tell.
Then Eddie said, “In a minute.”
The writer blinked. “It’ll only take a second.”
“In a minute,” Eddie repeated. Something in his voice changed. Not loud. Not rude. But final.
The man understood. They all did. They backed off with little jokes and promises and went toward the other end of the terrace.
Bill watched them go.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know.”
“They’ll think I’m sulking.”
“You are sulking.”
Bill shot him a look.
Eddie smiled. “But they don’t need a picture of it.”
Bill shook his head. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“You make it hard to dislike you.”
“I’ve been working on that.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
Bill looked out at the dark track again. The anger was still there. The loss. The ache of it. Majestic Prince’s heart under him, giving too much. The noise waiting inside. The number five hanging around his neck like a medal and a weight at the same time.
None of it had gone away.
But Eddie was beside him, and the night had widened a little.
Bill said, “Wednesday. Not fancy.”
“Not fancy.”
“And no reporters.”
“No reporters.”
“And don’t talk at me like you’re teaching me how to live.”
Eddie turned his head. “Then don’t act like you need lessons.”
Bill opened his mouth, then shut it.
Eddie’s smile was small and wicked.
Bill muttered, “Pain in the ass.”
“You said that already.”
“I’m saying it again.”
Inside, someone started calling for them. The picture. The two five-time Derby winners. Racing history in suits, lined up and flattened under a flashbulb.
Bill did not move.
Eddie touched his sleeve lightly. Just two fingers, there and gone before anyone could see enough to name it.
“You ready?” Eddie asked.
“No.”
“Good. Come on.”
Bill looked at him.
Eddie’s face was soft now, but not pitying. That mattered. Bill could not have stood pity. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
He said, “You always this bossy?”
“I think I’ve already answered this for you… but yes.”
“Thought so.”
They went back inside together.
The room turned toward them almost at once. Hands reached. Men grinned. Someone put a drink into Bill’s hand and somebody else clapped Eddie on the shoulder. The photographer herded them together near the wall, under the lights.
“Closer,” he said.
Bill stiffened.
Eddie leaned in just enough that their shoulders touched.
“Smile,” the photographer said.
Bill didn’t.
Eddie did, but only barely.
The flash went off.
For the papers, it would be simple. Arcaro and Hartack. Five and five. The old king and the man who caught him. A neat piece of history, clean enough to print.
Bill knew better.
History was never clean when you were living in it.
Beside him, Eddie said under his breath, “Wednesday.”
Bill kept his eyes on the camera and muttered, “Not fancy.”
Eddie’s shoulder pressed lightly against his. “Not fancy,” he said.
And for the first time all night, Bill didn’t feel so angry.