“You’re telling me this is about an effing groom?” Gorton said when Cullen finally shut up.
“My old groom,” Cullen said. “And Daniel Ortega’s best friend. Hector, the groom’s name is. Got picked up about a few months ago and ended up in a detention center. Been there ever since.”
“I weep for him,” Gorton said.
Cullen told him the rest of it then.
When he finished this time, Gorton said, “You’re telling me that this trainer is that big a threat to you?”
“Is now,” Cullen said. “Whatever he said to her, he managed to get her mind right, at least for one night. And she did look like her old self. So, yeah, she needs him.”
“A trainer can actually mean that much?” Gorton said.
“Not with me,” Cullen said. “Obviously with her.”
Cocky little bastard to the end, Gorton had to give him that. Making no apologies about having as much compassion as a vulture. Or venture capitalist.
“You want this horse that much?” Gorton said.
“More,” Cullen said.
Gorton waved at the tall blond waiter who’d been covering their table. It was like a little competition he ran, here and next door, seeing who could get to him and get his drink back the fastest, all of them knowing the size of the tip usually depended on it.
The new Bloody Bull arrived at warp speed. He tasted the new drink while the kid was still standing there, slightly out of breath.
“Perfection,” he said.
“Happy you’re happy, Mr. Gorton,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Gorton said. Screwing with everybody today. “Did you make the drink yourself?”
When the kid was gone, he leaned toward Cullen again.
“You’re telling me this is the way it lays out,” Gorton said.
“I am,” Cullen said.
Gorton smiled. An old girlfriend once told him his smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
“Or maybe what you say is going to happen is something else that doesn’t,” he said. “At which point you’ve wasted my time and the mommy rides my horse all the way to Paris and I live happily ever after without you.”
“Not if we get her trainer deported,” Tyler Cullen said.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
GUS AND I WERE in the ring at eight o’clock, just the two of us, Seamus and the other groom working inside the barn. I’d just mentioned that while it wasn’t a scientific study, I thought he did more yelling early in the morning.
“You want a hug?” he said. “Call your boyfriend.”
“Daniel’s not my boyfriend,” I said.
“Yeah,” Gus Bennett said. “Go with that.”
We had settled into a solid routine now, as a way of not overworking Sky. There were days when I jumped her, days when I just hacked, not even looking at the jumps in the ring, just easy laps around the outside for half an hour or so. On the days when I didn’t ride Sky, I rode Tiny over at his barn, just because it was clear by now that Gus didn’t give a rip if he overworked me. And was never going to hear me complain about it ever again.
Today was one of those days when he had me saddle Sky myself, telling me it was all part of the process, being as hands-on as I possibly could with my horse.
“I’m surprised you don’t have me muck her stall,” I said.
“Who says I won’t, princess?” he said.
Today was a jumping day. Serious jumping. I’d helped Gus set the rails. At 1.45. The National Grand Prix, what Gus called the beginning of the playoffs, was in ten days. He’d even entered us in an event before that, the following Thursday at WEF, telling me the reps would be good for me.
Gus, as usual, took his position near the last jump, wheelchair angled so he could see the whole course, a travel cup of coffee in the holder on one of the arms. He was wearing the Beijing cap. I wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to be some kind of motivator for him, or me. He still had not discussed his accident with me. By now I’d seen the video of it, his horse coming to a dead stop in the huge observation event in Rome, the one he’d needed to win to officially qualify for the Olympics, in the spring of 2008. I’d read some of the articles about what happened that day, too. Nobody was sure what had spooked his horse and caused it to slam the brakes on the way it did. When they’d tried to ask Gus afterward, when he was finally out of the hospital, he’d refused to talk about it. As far as I could tell, he still never had.
The images were terrible enough to watch that only a couple of times could I bear the sight of him helicoptering through the air, the world so upside-down that he had no chance to get his arms out to break his fall, before his back landed squarely on the top rail. Everybody in riding knew how heavy those rails were. It was the same as falling on a rock.