Parts North

By Kevin Cohen

"Parts North" is the answer to a question. If you're from certain parts of Maine and a stranger asks where you're from, or where you're going, "Parts North" might be the answer you share when you're on the run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IndieReader
• Release date: Jul 16, 2011
• ISBN: 1463595654

Book preview

Parts North

by

Kevin Cohen

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Kevin Cohen

This work is fully protected by copyright. No alterations, deletions or substitutions may be made in the work without the prior written consent of the author. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, videotape, film, and digital or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. All rights, including, but not limited to, motion picture, radio, television, videotape, foreign language, tabloid, recitation, lecturing, publication and reading are reserved.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Quinton Deane had a reputation around the paddock. The other grooms usually shot their horses up with diuretics or mixed drugs they got separately from Virgil Mackey, the track vet. Quinton had his own method of coaxing a sore horse. On race nights Quinton would pump air into the horse’s skin with a needle. He’d poke the horse about fifty times, all around its head. After awhile Quinton would let the air back out. When his horses raced they forgot about the pain. Most of the time they forgot about the race, too.

The Maine circuit seemed to attract all manner of broken down horses. Their legs were bad or they had fluid in their lungs and couldn’t breathe. The drugs helped. Old grooms taught the young ones how to shoot up their horses. It was one of those secretive things that grooms judged each other by. Of course Quinton knew how to do it. Sometimes he’d even take a young groom aside and administer the shot for him if the guy had it all wrong. Quinton would look for a vein in the horse’s neck, draw out some blood to make sure he’d caught it, then shoot the stuff in.

Quinton kept to himself most of the time, though. He didn’t trust the other grooms. So many people who wound up in the stables were fugitives, running from something wrong. The races were a safe haven, like a carnival in a sense, always moving from Lewiston and Scarborough Downs to all those state fairs in between.

Lately harness racing wasn’t doing so well. Some said higher purses were needed but it was more than that. The sport was just not growing. Quinton noticed it at Lewiston this spring, then at Scarborough. Now it was late September and even the week long Cumberland Fair was far down from the numbers posted last year.

What bothered Quinton was to be a part of something that was dying. It hurt his pride. Quinton had always felt above his job. He carried himself quietly around the stables, in a tempered way that suited his manner. He had a large, graceful frame. His red bangs were floppy and hung low like something off a sorrel pacer. He didn’t think much of his smile but his long cheeks swelled up whenever he caught a good mood. No one reminded him that he was a forty-eight year old man with limited skills. People deferred to Quinton.

Quinton tried to hide his doubts but it was hard with a physical job. He carried the track with him, especially in his hands. That was where he hurt the most. His staph infections jumped from one hand to the other and left deep creases and cracks along his blistered knuckles. His index fingers were swollen and arthritic from the pressure of his grooming tools. Quinton couldn’t afford the prescription on Feldene so the pain stayed with him at night, in his sleep. It centered on the far, semi-circles on the backside of his eyes. It got to the point where it wasn’t pain anymore, just something he felt before anything else... a part of his optic nerves.

Quinton hoped for a light workload tonight. He didn’t figure to be too busy. The fair had been calm all week except for Joe Darr’s bitching. Quinton’s boss was a fat, cranky horse trainer. Darr walked around the track madder than a wet hen. It upset him that the rich owner who’d hired him wouldn’t give him any horses to race.

Jeffers Royale owned twelve horses but only had one horse running tonight and that was in the first post. By all rights the horse would lose, seeing how she’d been stubbornly breaking stride her last few races. There were so many X’s; in her chart that some people were convinced the horse was one of those special dancing horses from Europe instead of a thousand dollar claimer.

The horse’s name was Thistle, a fair description of its attitude ever since Quinton started caring for her last spring. The Amish hanging around Lewiston had bought the mare in Saratoga for five hundred and talked Jeffers Royale into double that. The Amish men would come to the track in groups of ten to thirty to get horses that were lame. They’d work them in the fields, doctor their legs and if they were well enough for racing give them back to the racetrack in exchange for more horses. Thistle was sore and needed a lot of patience but Quinton had brought her around. A good showing tonight might put Thistle in with the $1500 claimers running in Fryeburg next week.

Closing up his jean jacket from the night breeze, Quinton pulled Thistle from the stables for a little exercise before the race. The wind had picked up and threatened to bring the storm in Gray down to Cumberland sometime during the night. Quinton didn’t pump the mare’s head up tonight. He hoped the horse would lose. If Thistle lost he’d only have to blanket and water her, then walk her till she was dry... an hour’s time at the most.

Quinton collected his gear from the tack room and fastened Thistle’s harness and knee boots. He hooked the horse up to the sulky and rode her in the opposite direction the race would be run, along the outside fence of the track. Joe Darr was also on the track, near the hub rail, working on a new three year old. Quinton went by the colt as it was pissing so he gave it a few sharp whistles, getting the young horse acquainted with the ways of the track.

Freddie’s waitin’ on you, Joe Darr called to Quinton on his next lap. Quinton eased up on the reins slightly, for Thistle’s sake. Harness driver Freddie Coombs didn’t have much subtlety when it came to horses. The joke around the track was that the basic difference between Freddie Coombs and a traffic light was that Freddie had four dim bulbs instead of three. Anybody who watched harness racing would probably agree. Freddie usually got boxed in on the rail early and then thrashed his horse mercilessly trying to move to the outside. He hardly ever won but his horses occasionally showed if it were a mediocre field.

Quinton let go of Thistle at the one-eighth mile gate and watched Freddie settle his heavy rear into the buggy. Freddie spat a mouthful of Big Red onto Thistle’s clean mane. For luck, Freddie said.

While Freddie joined the other drivers on the track for the first race Quinton turned up the collar of his jacket against the sprinkling rain just starting to fall. Quinton had let some duck grease thicken last night to waterproof his old work-boots, but he’d forgotten the stuff in the paddock. Just as well though. Dogs followed him all over the stables the last time he duck-greased his Wolverines.

The drag car made one final pass with the harrow and chopped up the dirt before the rain turned the track all to mud. Then the first race began. Quinton paid minimal attention as the horses rounded the track on their way to the quarter back stretch. He had trouble getting excited about a race that wasn’t fixed.

One lap later on their way to the three quarter mark the order hadn’t changed. Freddie Coombs and Thistle pulled up the rear as expected. Then Freddie made his usual fool-hardy move and went four wide leading up to the final turn. This time though, he apparently thought it through. Kicking his right stirrup Freddie jumped the right wheel so he had the angle on the rest of the field. Freddie then whipped a surge into Thistle and squeezed ahead around the home stretch. The finish was a blur from Quinton’s view, but a roar from the grandstand made it official. Freddie Coombs had driven Thistle for a win.

Quinton cursed as he ran with a couple of horse blankets along the perimeter of the already muddy track, the rain having developed into cold, steady drops. Quinton was soaked to the skin. His thick red hair felt like wet moss, soft and springy, as the rain whipped hard all around him.

Quinton waited at the open stable gate to take over and lead Thistle to the spit box inside the paddock. He was glad there was no inquiry or photo finish on the race. All that was left was for Jeffers Royale to get his picture taken next to the trainer, Freddie Coombs and Thistle.

The rain was too daunting for Royale, though. The owner settled on waving his congratulations from the protection of the stands. Freddie dragged things out for the picture just the same, acting all redeemed after one big race.

At the gate to the stables Quinton unhooked the check strap from Thistle’s bridle and blanketed her quickly. Unable to pull Thistle’s head back, Quinton had a difficult time controlling the horse. She shook all her blankets off into the mud. Quinton knew it was nothing personal. The rain always spooked Thistle something fierce.

As Quinton led Thistle to the spit box he heard the track announcer guarantee the continuation of the evening’s program through the inclement weather, even though the big carnival rides were shutting down for the night. No one expected the races to cancel. The races couldn’t afford to shut down.

In the cold, empty stable that made up the spit box Quinton met up with Virgil Mackey to collect the samples for testing. Blood and urine were all that was needed these days—it had been years since a spit sample was taken.

Quinton and Virgil couldn’t get started until John Darling, the Racing Secretary, showed up. After ten minutes Darling finally arrived, holding his young boy and a large stuffed toy from the midway.

Everybody’s a winnah tonight I guess, Darling said. Even you, Quinton. Darling practiced the condescending attitude that most of track management had towards the horsemen.

Quinton smoothed Thistle’s coat with a bumblebee brush, acknowledging her achievement. I’d rather listen to this horse than I would you Darling, and she’s miserable and wet.

Virgil straightened his back and ran his fingers through his wet, gray hair, readying himself for what could be a long night of bickering between two stubborn men. He collected the blood sample but couldn’t get Thistle interested in the urine test. Need some help from you Quinton, Virgil said.

Quinton started to whistle, followed by Virgil. Darling couldn’t whistle better than a toothless five year old but he too joined in, trying to coax the horse along. Of course she won’t piss, Darling said finally, stamping his feet in the cold. Damn horse is all messed up in the head the way you fill ’em up with air. They ain’t bicycle tires. Quinton.

Where’d you learn about that, anyway? Virgil asked. Puffin’ their heads up, I mean.

Up to Thomaston, Quinton answered. Guy in my cellblock used to groom back in England. Someone from Wales taught him.

Sounds like something you’d learn in prison, Darling said.

Virgil went back to whistling, trying to keep the peace.

Darling can’t whistle, Quinton complained. His mouth’s too damn big. No matter how hard Darling tried the best he could muster was something between a wheeze and the church organ sound you get when you blow across the mouth of an empty bottle.

Here we are, three fools whistling in the rain to a horse that’s stone deaf, Virgil said.

Speak for yourself, Virgil, Darling said irritably. The only real fool out here is Quinton. Maybe Royale will ship him out to the Amish with the rest of the horses.

Where’d you come up with that garbage? Virgil laughed. Christ, Quinton groomed a winner. I’ll bet there’s someone up to the Racing Association ‘bout ready to claim her.

Darling held his son up close to Thistle so the boy could feed her some buckeye candy. Royale wouldn’t even take a picture with this mare and he ain’t seen a winner in months. Shows how much Royale thinks of you, Quinton. You’ll get your fifteen bucks for the win and that’ll be it.

Don’t we have enough trouble out here tonight? Virgil reasoned. You tryin’ to start more, Darling?

Quinton shushed everyone and whistled softly in the horse’s left ear. The horse pulled away and rolled her head. She had lop-ears because her first groom cut her tendons trying to make her look better. Quinton wished someone had tried to change the important things, like how stubborn she was. Soon though, with little clouds of steam, Thistle began to piss. Virgil dropped down to get the sample he needed.

How’d you do that? Virgil asked. Virgil sometimes thought he could learn everything about horses by watching Quinton move among them.

I just did it like you’re supposed to, Quinton said. Damn idiot Darling was throwing her off.

Darling absorbed the insult patiently and hummed a little song to his son. Whistling to a horse is a talent, Quinton. You’ll probably find lots of jobs with skills like that.

Virgil forced the collected samples on Darling and hurried him on his way, tired of the stooping match.

I wouldn’t worry about what he said, Virgil offered.

Quinton eyed the horse instead of Virgil and worked to get focused again, brushing Thistle dry. Her reddish brown coat sparkled in a mixture of cold rain and sweat.

Quinton picked out whole pieces of tobacco still caught in Thistle’s mane. I spent half an hour on her mane with a curry comb tonight, Quinton said. You wouldn’t know she’d just won a race.

Virgil thought the horse looked especially out of sorts. Even the buckeye candy hadn’t set well with her. Virgil took a quick look inside Thistle’s mouth and frowned at what he saw.

You don’t have to rush off anywhere, do you? Virgil asked. He sorted through his bag for a file with a soft edge to it. Teeth aint too pretty. Ought to be floated, don’t you think? Virgil settled on a long file for the job, not waiting for Quinton to weigh in. It wouldn’t hurt the horse to file her teeth down. Some older horses could barely eat, their teeth were so long.

Quinton took a quick look to satisfy himself. It’s worse than that, Virgil. There’s one tooth in the back that’s shot.

Let me get my whacking tools then, Virgil sighed. I’d better get a tube of Ace ready too.

Quinton led Thistle to a stall with more room. The mare was hooked up by its harness with ropes strung between a pair of cross-ties, the posts anchored sturdily in the ground.

This girl’s what you call high maintenance, Virgil said. He had a sleepy dose of Ace Promazine ready to go. You know all about that, I guess... thought I’d heard you had a teenager or somethin’...

I got a boy out there somewhere, Quinton said. Hell, they’re all high maintenance, don’t matter if it’s a boy or girl.

Your family’s out in Western Maine, right? West Paris, Nezinscot?

Someone else’s problem now, Quinton huffed. See, you and me both know we’re gonna fix this horse. You can’t ever... fix... a family. You got to pretend you fix and heal, then pretend things ain’t broken, Quinton said. He never strayed too far past the surface with Virgil. It kept their conversations brief and established an easy footpath for their friendship.

The track’s kept a hold on me too, Virgil said. He had accepted that his part of the friendship was to look for ways to agree. I get into trouble when I drift too far.

Most everyone here would turn criminal without the track, Quinton said.

Virgil nodded his small, grayish head and rubbed the sharp bristles of his razor-cut hair. Lord knows I wouldn’t want you on the wrong side of it all.

Crime’s a funny thing, Quinton said. The wrong side’s no different from standing over here, except when you’re stepping over the law you know from the start that everyone’s against you. Ninety percent of life is just guesswork, so the things you’re certain of tend to matter more.

Quinton banged the head of a long chisel with a leather-bound mallet he’d just found, trying to get a comfortable feel for what kind of swing he’d need to take. Virgil cleared his throat and raised both his eyebrows. He slowly pressed a sharp-edged rock into the drying mud with his heel, covering it up for the horses’ safety.

There’s something else, Quinton, Virgil said. I saw Joe Darr this morning walking by the beer garden in the grandstand. He was with Jeffers Royale. Virgil paused. Neither one looked too happy. Royale saw me getting coffee and asked my opinion on his horses’ condition. I told him he had a walking glue factory on his hands, same as all the other owners. Virgil waited for a moment for Quinton to reply. I just thought you should know, Virgil added, moving to help Quinton with the mare.

Quinton digested Virgil’s news with annoyance. Royale’s probably just writing things off his taxes for next year. Quinton gestured to Virgil to tend to the horse with his syringe. In the meantime Quinton took another few practice swings with the chisel and mallet.

A tooth that protruded in the back of the horse’s mouth was usually knocked out with a long punch and a mallet, since there was no way you could file it down. You didn’t want to put the horse under. It upset the horse’s organs to have her lay on her side for too long. There were some horses Quinton had been around that didn’t care how long you filed their teeth. No horse liked having a tooth chipped off, however.

You want the twitch, too? Virgil asked, holding up a long stick with a chain loop on the end of it. You twisted the chain around the horse’s nose when you worried for your safety.

This ain’t brain surgery, Virgil. Just stand back. Quinton readied himself with a deep breath then finally swung the mallet. The horse kicked and bucked so much Quinton had to talk it down from afar for five minutes before he could get close enough to see if he’d chipped the tooth right.

You shoot her with pain killer or Kool-Aid? Quinton said, teasing the old vet.

Virgil dug his fingernails into his knees to scrape off the mud he’d caked onto his jeans. I’ve got a pregnancy test and an abscess to remove tonight after the races, Virgil said wearily. I’m gonna be a mess if every horse is like this one.

Naah, Quinton said with a friendly voice, looking quickly into the horse’s mouth. This old bitch is just fine. She’s got the mouth of a filly now.

Good, I trust you, Virgil said with relief. He watched Quinton’s manner with the horse and was again impressed with Quinton’s tall grace and ease. He wondered whether Quinton took that way naturally to horses or whether it was something he’d learned from the beasts directly.

Talk with you a minute, Quinton? a voice called from behind the men, by the vet truck. It was Joe Darr, the trainer. Darr rubbed his stomach in broad circles with his left hand and sipped on a Styrofoam cup of coffee from his right. His overweight belly kept his Polo shirts from ever staying tucked in, and he was so self-conscious about it he always rubbed his stomach whenever he spoke to you.

Behind Darr was Jeffers Royale, Darr’s employer. Royale wore his usual white linen slacks, his dress clothes. It was what he wore as an executive with Nezinscot Paper. He moved his wing-tipped shoes back and forth while standing in place, trying to keep the mud from drying on his soles.

We racing tomorrow, Joe? Quinton asked, replacing the mallet and chisel in the open bed of the vet truck.

If it were up to me, sure we would Quinton, Darr said in frustration. He finished with his coffee cup and rubbed both hands on his stomach, as though he were burning off flab this way. Jeffers wants out, Darr explained. Quinton waited for more elaboration from either Darr or Royale but got none. Royale was still moving his feet back and forth and looked ridiculous to Quinton.

You got cold feet, Mr. Royale? Quinton finally said, risking a sharp tone. Royale looked at Quinton in surprise, as though he didn’t expect Darr to lose his intermediary position so quickly. Royale’s eyes looked bluer than they would if they weren’t in such contrast with his silvery fringe of hair. He stood stock still for a moment and absently brushed the seat of his pants. His friendly back home manners got the better of him and he laughed finally in his wheezy, coughing style, like a snow shovel scraping on ice.

Why yes, Quinton, Royale said. I suppose I do. His already thin face suddenly firmed up even tighter in a let’s-be-frank look. I don’t know if you’ve been to Nezinscot lately but the strike’s turned ugly back home. Money’s tight everywhere. The union says they’re in it for the long haul and I’m too impatient not to be worried. Royale’s face suddenly turned looser. I got no time to play with ponies; if I can’t watch ’em I don’t want ’em. Darr saw Quinton’s brow darken and decided he’d better jump back into the fray.

The Amish will take Jeffers’ twelve, Darr said. The horses need rest anyway, we all know that. Virgil led the mare he and Quinton had worked on back into the box stall inside the stables, just to keep out of the way, though he listened hard so he wouldn’t miss a word.

You lettin’ me go, Joe? Quinton said abruptly. Because if you are you got a way of sayin’ it that’s rounder than that belly of yours. Joe stopped rubbing his stomach and thrust his hands into his jeans front pockets.

It’s possible, Joe said evenly. He stiffened up and rocked his feet once to solidify his position. End of the season corning up. I’ve got too many grooms as it is. You handled Jeffers’ horses mostly and now that they’re about gone I’ll have more help than I need.

Joe looked at Quinton to see whether he should offer him bit work cleaning up out at the training stables. He decided he’d leave that up to Quinton and see if he wanted that kind of work bad enough to ask. I can give you a recommendation to the other trainers, Joe continued.

Quinton looked curiously at Darr, wondering if the fat man was really estimating his importance in Quinton’s life to rank as high as he obviously thought it did. What makes you think the other trainers give a shit two ways what you think, Joe? Quinton said quietly. I worked hard for you and listened to your promises about how you’d show me the business side of things as soon as I was tired of the stables. I was tired of the stables right from the start but you had all these cheap hands I had to keep looking after... what the hell do I want to start all over as a groom for? Quinton asked, trying to keep his voice from rising. That’s what you are, Quinton, Darr said apologetically. ’Round here that’s all you are. Darr had hoped to lay all the blame with Royale and been done with Quinton clean and easy. Now Darr was turning out to be at fault.

I may have something for you, Quinton, Royale announced, clearing his delicate throat with care. We have a real need for workers out at the mill. I’ll go so far as to offer you a job in the lumber yard starting Monday morning. We got trailers on-site, you won’t even have to leave the mill. Royale ventured another throat-clearing to encourage Quinton. We’ll be restructuring the company. If my authority counts for anything we’ll promote from within. Royale waited for some reaction but Quinton’s eyes looked like stagnant gray pools, easy winners in a staring contest. What do you think about a job working for me? Royale finally said, glancing down at the mud solidifying on his nice dress shoes.

Darr looked away, not wanting to give Royale the impression he supported this recruiting tactic.

The silence was broken by an amazed laugh from Quinton.

Hey, I get it, Jeffers. I guess you figure if I’ll stand in horseshit for you out at the track I won’t mind scabbin’ for you down to the mill, Quinton said. He looked back and forth between Darr and Royale. Virgil came up quietly to the vet truck and Quinton eyed him too. You believe this shit, Virgil?

Royale winced at Quinton’s harsh tone and laughed that wheezing, scratchy laugh. Scabbing doesn’t seem to bother people who truly have the need of a job, Royale said. The money’s damn good and it’s a legal way to make a living, Royale continued, A shit job’s still a job and you’re lucky to get one. Ex-cons don’t start at the top.

Hold on now, Jeffers, Darr broke in, evening things out again. I got family back in Oxford County too and you can’t say it’s that easy. Darr waited a moment to let everyone catch up with their tempers. You heard Mr. Royale, Quinton, Darr finally said. You want a job, you got one, but you better make up your mind -I’ll need that storage room you’ve been sleeping in by the end of the weekend, just so you know.

Quinton toed the ground in silence. His boots were starting to hurt now so he tried to loosen the wet leather by flexing his toes. His sore feet were the only things anchoring his thoughts to the present.

Offer ends Monday, Royale snapped, eager for the final word. He motioned for Darr to join him and plotted out the course to the grandstand, which involved the least traversing through mud.

The hell with both of ’em, Quinton, Virgil said. "Next spring you