Vernon Fix Book 1: The Michael Butler Saga

VERNON FIX

by

Peter P. Sellers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Peter Sellers

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.  

Prologue

"I believe it was the summer of ’72. I was thirteen. My father was racing a full stable of harness horses, eighteen of them, with several grooms working for him. We were in DuQuoin, Illinois, at the State Fair. My father drove horses in four races that day. He won one of them. I was in the winner's circle picture with him. He didn't win the other three but every horse that raced, win or lose, had to be cooled-out after its’ race. I was young enough to think walking hots, ya know, cooling out the horses, was fun. The grooms who worked for my father were happy to let me. So in the broiling sun of a ninety-degree afternoon I was cooling out a horse that was wearing a heavy blanket and only allowed five sips at a time from the water bucket. He had to be walked until he wasn't sweating under the blanket, an hour, at least. Some of the grooms that worked for my dad were sitting on trunks, in the shade, under the shed row near the water bucket. They had all been up since five and were just laying around bullshitting, waiting to feed. I heard one of the grooms, Flicker, talking to anyone who would listen, He held her way too long, man, he was holding that bitch.

And then another one asked him, Don't that horse always come from da back of da pack, anyhow?

Flicker was irritated, Shit, muthafucka, that bitch can pace but she can't come no last half bein' parked all the way on the outside and get the big check. He was holdin’ her, man, and time he let her go, she had no shot...he was holdin’ that horse back. Then when da’ Man pulled to go at the three quarter, that two-horse, you know, the one that dude from Ohio, DeVeb was drivin'...he pulled out and bout backed in to him, blocked him bad .... made da Man go three wide and then he got no shot. That fuckin six-horse coulda walked home an won then.., shit the six-horse paid forty dollars.., you know they some shit goin on in that race.., that shit ain't right. I was on da’ Man for ten, he got fucked.

Flicker looked over at me and yelled, Keep going with that horse, he ain't ready yet.

The rest of the grooms laughed. They thought it was real funny that I was doin Flicker' s job for him. I wanted to ask Flicker what he was talking about because they all called my father "Da Man'' when he wasn't around, so I knew it had something to do with one of my father’s races. They were all drinkin' wine out of little pint bottles so I kept it to myself.

At dinner I asked my father about what I’d heard. He said, Oh, a couple of fellas tried to do something a little unfair, I think.

What, I asked. What did they do?

He didn't really want to talk about it, as I remember, Well, I’d say they fixed the race.

Fixed the race how?

Fixed the race so's a horse who couldn't win it fair, could win, and pay a high price if someone had a bet on him.

Is that what, DeVeb, the guy from Ohio did?

Yeah, it sure seemed like it.

Flicker said somebody was holdin his horse too long. What's that mean, Daddy?

My dad grinned and said, Well, I think he means that the guy drivin' the favorite was in cahoots with DeVeb and he just kept his horse back long enough that he couldn't win no matter how fast he was. He didn't really do anything wrong just gave his horse a bad drive. But when I pulled out to let my horse go, the fella in front of me, Carlton DeVeb, just pulled out and blocked me so I couldn't get going. It sure helped that horse who was on the lead go on and win. He paid forty dollars. Somebody had some money on that horse somewhere.

That ain’t fair, I whined.

My father nodded in agreement, No, Michael, but they more than likely got away with it this time. I complained but nobody's gonna do anything about it. It's an old trick and DeVeb and his buddy are good at it. They didn't try to win themselves, they pick a long shot, work it out so it wins, and they get part of the money won on the bets.

My mother had been sitting at the table listening. When my dad got up and left the table I asked her if he ever fixed a race.

She said, No, honey, people who fix races are not horsemen, they' re criminals. Your father would never have anything to do with that.

I never forgot that day….or that name…Carlton DeVeb."

The summer of 1977

The bed was uncomfortable and my ears were still ringing from the noise of the gunshots.

I wondered what time it was. I didn’t have a watch. They took mine when I was put in the room, or cell. I had a bagel and black coffee for breakfast. Mr. Collins said I would only be there for a few days. He said I needed to tell the whole story and it was going to be recorded and written down, but it would be filed away and there would never be a record of it.

I was led into an office with dark paneling, a desk, an armchair, a couch, and a window with the shade down. The guard, or attendant, maybe, because he was dressed in white, told me to sit on the couch. He stayed with me until another man I’d never seen before came in. He introduced himself as Dr. Groden, and the guy in white left.

Dr. Groden was about forty, he wore a corduroy sportcoat and blue jeans. He had a mustache that he kept smoothing out. When he sat down in the chair next to me he pulled out some glasses and put them on, then, reached over to his desk and picked up a file folder and a note pad, the kind with the twisty binding on top. He opened the file, took a pen from his coat pocket and told me to lie back on the couch.

He said, Mike or Michael, what do you like to be called?

I said, Michael.

He said, You’re from Illinois, right?

I said I was.

He said, How did you get to Vernon?

I told him by bus.

He said, And you were looking for a job?

I said, No, I already had a job with Mr. Ervin.

He said, kinda like I was a little lost boy, Tell me about the first day. Don’t leave anything out. I want to hear everything just the way you remember it. Every thing you can remember that got you here. Even if you think it’s not important. Start with a scene set. Where are we as your story starts?

I heard his ballpoint pen click, like he was standing by to start writing.

I said, "I was at Vernon Downs. That’s where Mr. Ervin has his stable. Some of the grooms who worked at the Ervin Stable slept on cots in tack rooms at the end of the shed rows."

DG: What’s a tack room?

MB: The room where all the harness and equipment are kept.

The stable occupied a whole two sided barn, a row of twelve box stalls on each side; a total of twenty-four-horses. The rest of Mr. Ervin’s grooms rented rooms in the three- story cinder block dormitory located on backside of the track. By the time I got there, on June 13, 1977, two days after I graduated from high school, the tack rooms and the dormitory were filled. One of the assistant trainers told me to look for a place in town.

Vernon, New York was small and it shared a border of manicured lawn and a row of really big beautiful old oak trees with Vernon Downs, the racetrack. The town and the track were inseparable, like a set of non identical twins. So, the afternoon I arrived I went looking for a room.

Vernon catered to horse people, especially in the summer, and about two blocks from the backside's entrance there were several motels and guest houses that rented by the week or month. I spotted a house with a big wraparound porch with wide front steps that had a room for rent sign hanging off the mail box. As I went up the steps to the front door I saw a weathered green glider on the left that looked very comfortable, like my grandmother’s porch had.

I knocked. A short gray haired woman answered the door. I introduced myself and told her why I was there. She said she was Mrs. Galena. She gave me a friendly smile and invited me in. I followed her upstairs and down a wide, high ceilinged hallway to the last door on the right. She opened it and gestured I should go in. It was a corner-room, big and bright. It had a double bed, yellow painted walls, and windows on two sides that looked out onto the street. But, the best was that the room had it's own bathroom…. with a shower. She said, twenty-five dollars a week with towels. I took it. I told her I was going to work for Frank Ervin. She knew who he was. My pay at the stable was to be 75.00 a week. After deductions and rent, that left about $30 a week to eat on. Mrs. Galena let me out of the first week in advance. I had about $100 to my name. The first thing I did was hide $80 under the mattress in my new room.

DG: So you had a place to live. What was Frank Ervin like? What’d he look like?

MB: Mr. Ervin’s tall, lanky, and lean, about sixty. My dad said he looked like a young Abe Lincoln… he’s a great driver/trainer. He’s won every major race in the country at some point in his career. He’s the most highly respected trainer in harness racing, my dad says. Owners stood in line to give him horses. He’s very calm and soft spoken. I’ve never seen him get mad.

He stabled at Vernon in the summer for a couple of reasons. First, most of his owners were from New York State and wanted to race their horses in the New York racing program. My dad said it paid the best purses in the country. Secondly, Vernon' s good location made it convenient to ship to tracks all over the state. The New York State Thruway goes right by Vernon Downs and you can be in Buffalo, to the west, in four hours, or to the South, Monticello in three, or Yonkers in four. Saratoga is north an hour and a half. The stable van can leave Vernon in the morning, race somewhere and, usually, be back the same day.

I had been told working for Mr. Ervin would be like working with my father, which I had done since I could handle a manure fork. My job, grooming, was to feed around seven a.m., clean the stalls, and get my horses harnessed up, for either Mr. Ervin or one of his second trainers to exercise. After their jog I wash them off and walk them until they’re dry and stopped sweating. I clean the harness and sweep up my area. The idea was to be done with the horses before the heat of the day. Then I’d go back to the stable and fed at five. When one of my horses raced in the evening I’d be in the paddock with it.

DG: What’s the paddock?

MB: The paddock is like the holding area where the horses are taken from the stable to held just before they go on the track to.

Mr. Ervin raced mostly stakes horses that had been nominated to certain races by their owners as much as a year in advance, and always had a barn full of two and three year olds. The new grooms, like me, got the two year olds and didn't ship until late June or early July. Stakes racing didn't start until summer and shipping was a good deal; you got to go somewhere else, you only had one-horse and if it won, the owner might tip you. In early summer the two year olds were green and untested, but if Mr. Ervin had a three year old it meant he liked it and it had shown more than a little promise the previous year.

When the stable had several horses racing on the same night at Vernon the grooms would take turns helping each other out in the paddock. To keep it fair, a schedule was posted for the week that told every groom what nights you were in the paddock.

DG: What did you do at night when you weren’t in the paddock?

MB: At first I’d hang out in my room and listen to baseball on the little red radio I had brought with me. The Yankees, the Orioles, and the Red Sox were in a battle for the pennant. I'd sit in an old armchair by the windows that opened out to the street and listen to the games. Sometimes I was kind of home sick and lonely.

Mr. and Mrs. Galena are very nice. He’s a retired former superintendent of the county highways; she’s a retired school teacher. Although I tried to stay out of their way I would see them on the porch as I came and went. I usually was up before them but when I came back from feeding at night they would almost always be sitting out on the porch, swinging in the green glider. About ten days after I had gotten to Vernon, coming back from the barn one evening, I met their daughter Barbara. She was leaning against a post on the porch near the front steps, talking to her parents, who were swaying back and forth in the glider.

DG: What’d she look like, that first time you saw her?

MB: The first thing I noticed about her was her great smile, she had been saying something to her parents that had made them laugh and when she turned to look in my direction her smile showed how much she was enjoying the moment. She was wearing very short shorts. I guessed her to be 26 or 27. She was about five-seven, very sexy looking with blonde shoulder length hair, long slender legs, big green eyes and a great rack. One of the new movies that I had seen just before I left Illinois was The Deep starring Nick Nolte and Jacqueline Bisset. Except for the hair color, I thought she looked a whole lot like Jacqueline Bisset.

Her mother introduced us as I came up on the front steps. She said, Michael, this is our daughter Barbara. She and her husband, Tommy, are staying with us for awhile.

I stepped onto the porch and shook her hand. Hello, nice to meet you, I said.

She was still smiling; she had beautiful teeth. As she shook my hand with a firm grip she looked me right in the eyes. She said something like, Why, baby, if you aren't a looker. Mother, don't he look just like a young Paul Newman?

She never looked away from me as she spoke to her mother.

Mrs. Galena said, yes. She winked at me and said, I'd say he does.

I could feel myself blushing so I tried to change the subject. Is that your car, ma'am, it's a beauty? I turned and looked over at the car.

She turned, too, and looked out at the red Bonneville convertible parked in front of the house, well, yes, she said, mine and Tommy's.

Mrs. Galena said, Tommy's upstairs, honey. Would you like a piece of pie?

No thank you, ma'am, really, I just ate. If you'll excuse me...nice to meet you, Barbara.

Barbara looked right at me and nodded. She might have been the best looking woman I'd seen in a while.

DG: Where was Tommy?

MB: As I was goin up to my room that same evening I noticed the door at the top of the stairs was open. It hadn’t never been before. As I climbed the last few steps I could see in the room. A man with odd shoulders was sitting with his back to me at what looked like my mother's bedroom dressing table; three attached mirrors that were angled to show three views of the person looking straight on at the center mirror. I could see his face in the center mirror and his profile in the mirror on the left. He had long black hair combed back on the sides and he was kind of chubby.

He looked up as I was finishing the stairs and starting to pass by the doorway. He caught me looking in. It seemed to surprise him and he yelled, Who the fuck are you?

I stopped and leaned my hand against the doorframe.

I'm Michael Butler, I said, I'm renting a room down the hall for the summer. I work for Frank Erwin at the track.

I noticed that he was holding a deck of cards in his left hand. It looked like he might have been dealing them out in piles around the dressing table.

He turned back away from me and said, nice to meet you, kid, I'm Tommy.

As I turned to walk away I said, I like your car, Tommy.

He looked into the center mirror on the dresser and nodded, Yeah, it' s sweet. He was picking up the cards as I walked away.

In the morning the Bonneville was gone, and I didn't see Barbara or Tommy for the next few days. Then, I shipped to Buffalo Raceway, with one of my two year olds, the weekend of the Fourth of July. Her name’s Merinque; she’s a trotter.

DG: What’s a trotter?

MB:A trotter means that her racing gait was a trot. Horses have three natural gaits; walk, trot, and canter, or run; thoroughbreds race at a run, Standardbreds, the official breed name for harness horses, race at a trot or a pace.

At a trot the horse’s left front leg moves forward with its' right rear leg and then reverses to complete a stride, right front with left rear. At a pace, the other gait used by harness horses, each set of the horse's front and rear legs, move forward and back in unison; left side legs are going backward as right side legs are coming forward, and vice versa. A trot is a natural gait for a horse, the pace has to be taught. To help the horses stay pacing when you’re training and racing they wear restricting hobbles made of plastic tubing formed in oblong hoops that hang down from their harnesses and encircle their legs above the knee, the front and rear hobble is attached. When a horse is pacing at a slow speed he bobs awkwardly from side to side but under race speed he becomes very fluid and graceful.

So, Merinque was scheduled to be in a New York Sire Stakes’ elimination race. The top three-horses would be eligible for the final the following week. It would be her first stake race. Three-horses shipped down with one other groom. We all rode in the back of the van together. A couple of catch drivers, local guys who drive horses that ship in if Mr. Ervin didn't come down, met us in the paddock.

A pretty good racer, Joey Mays, was going to drive Merinque. When we met in the paddock the first thing he said was, How’s Mr. Ervin? I liked him right away.

All harness races are a mile long. Buffalo Raceway is a half mile track, so the horses go around the track twice. I was leaning on the closed paddock gate just on the outside of the fourth turn when the grandstand public address announcer yelled It’s now post time.

I could hear the starter call for the horses with his portable loud speaker. The start gate is mounted on a big convertible and it’s a rolling start. I could see Joey Mays talking to Merinque. She looked very calm, as she and the seven other trotting fillies turned up the track. They were already breathing heavily from their pre race warm up and I could hear them drawing deep breaths as they sped by me. Merinque was in the middle of the line in the four hole. They picked up speed as they came up on the start gate. I could see that Merinque was throwing her head a little, not a good sign. Then, they all get side by side in perfect unison. Their noses were inches away from the gate. It’s a cool sight.

The bright lights of the tote board, flashing the odds and the other betting information about the race, come into the driver's periphery as the Cadillac convertible carrying the start gate begins to cross in front of the grandstands. It’s also at the moment when the driver--- he’s sitting behind his horse on his sulky, a small padded seat supported by an axle, two bicycle tires, and the two shafts connected to the horse's harness--- really has to grip the lines attached to the bit in the horse’s mouth. Then, with his legs outstretched and his feet resting in the small open stirrups, he takes over the destiny of the race horse. He’s off on a rocket ride, lasting somewhere around two minutes, where he has to make a lot of decisions that will result in success or failure. A great driver is a smart guy who somehow knows when, where, and how to use patience and intuition with experience and luck. But, just before the start, his focus is on the starter and what he can feel through the lines connected to the horse’s mouth.

I never get used to the moments before the start. If you have a horse in the race that you care about or a driver, or trainer, for that matter, you can't help but get a small knot in your stomach. The nervousness of what's to come, I think a driver always feels it….it never seems to go away. My dad said it's always with you no matter how long or much you have raced.

DG: What’s so important about the start?

MB: The start gets everything off fairly….everybody has an equal chance. The starter is constantly looking right and left down the row of horses as they come abreast in a perfect line. He’ll be checking to see if all horses are on gait and in their racing lanes free of any interference. As the horses approach the start/finish line, if all is well, he’ll signal his driver to accelerate away and fold the two wings into the car.

Once they’re off, it’s then up to the dozen or so officials, called stewards, located around the track, to observe the race. Harness racing is governed by a strict code of conduct aimed at insuring the safety of the horses and drivers and the integrity of the race. Anything unusual or illegal will be reported immediately and upon completion of the race an inquiry can be called for. Videotapes are reviewed and a decision is made whether to allow the results as they stand or declare a new winner. The inquiry light can

quiet a race crowd mighty fast because winners might all of a sudden become losers.

The starter, his voice---he uses a megaphone (although the crowd can't hear him), speaks to the drivers requesting they move up, back, left or right. He’s trying to get as fair a start as possible. The horses are all at racing speed as they flash under the start/finish line. The nose of the lead horse electronically starts the time clock as they pass the winner's circle at the center of the grandstand. The pounding of the horses’ feet and their exhales create a rhythm that almost sounds like musical instruments as they go by. The start gate accelerates away to the outside of the track. The race announcer usually blares over the speaker system, they' re off and trotting, and the crowd all turn toward the track to watch the race. At the start you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Imagine what the driver’s feeling?.

DG: How’d she do?

MB: Merinque finished fourth, she made a break and started to gallop at the quarter pole and Joey had to pull her up until she got back trotting. However, she got back on stride quickly and showed some good speed catching the pack to get fourth. I was proud of her. The other two-horses we brought down were in the same type elimination race, only for two-year-old pacing colts. They got third and a fourth. Third put that colt in the final the following week but he wasn't mine so I didn’t go back that next week..

Anyway, it was nine o'clock when I got back to the house. As I started up the steps Mr. and Mrs. Galena were on the porch and Barbara was just coming out the front door. She was wearing a v-neck tee shirt and short shorts with her hair pulled back from her face. She smiled at me and handed her mother a glass of tea.

We all said hi and they asked why I looked so whipped. I told them and headed for bed.

Dragging myself up the stairs I saw light coming from Tommy’s open door. Before I reached the top of the stairs I heard his voice, Babs, get me a Pepsi, will ya, baby?

I said, I'm sorry, sir, it's Michael. I was at his door by the time I said my name.

He was seated in front of the mirrors with his back to me and without turning he said, Come here a second kid, I need your help.

I stepped in the room. It was much bigger than mine and it had an unmade king size bed against one wall. Two suitcases were opened on the floor with clothes scattered about. Tommy was dressed in a tee shirt and jeans. His hair was uncombed and he looked like he'd just gotten up. When he turned in the chair to face me I got a good look at him. His face was puffy and unshaven, his hair had fallen forward, almost covering his eyes. He was holding cards in his left hand and I noticed his left arm was much smaller than his right.

DG: What was wrong with it?"

MB: Polio, kid, he said, and pointed to his left arm with his right hand, he said, get that chair and sit here so you face me.

I did what he said, sitting at the end of the small table with the mirrors beside me.

He said, I'm going to deal you some cards, you pick them up one at a time. I tell you what card it is, you say yes, or no--- got it?

I said, yes, sir.

He said, Not sir, it's Tommy. He dealt me a card and said, eight of clubs.

It was. I said, yes.

He dealt another and said, four of diamonds

Yes, I said.

As he kept dealing and calling the right card, I noticed his deformed arm. The deck of cards seemed to be wedged into his closed left hand. Every once in a while he would reach across his body with his right hand and pick up his soda glass that had only melting ice in it. He would drain the ice and set it back down on his left side. Then he would deal me one, two, or three cards at a time and say what they were…he was always right.

Eventually he musta noticed my concentration slipping.

Whata’ya been doing? he asked.

While he collected the cards and reshuffled I told him about my day.

Go to bed, kid, he said.

I nodded and got up to leave but I had to know so I asked him how he knew what each card was.

He said, I'm just reading each card, kid. Everytime you look at your card I read what's comin... He held up his left hand and turned the deck on an angle so I could see what he was doing. As he flipped the cards down one by one, calling out the number and suite, he would pinch the top left corner of the next card with his thumb. The pressure slightly buckling the right corner, and he could see the number and suite.

I stopped in the doorway and watched for a second. Why are you doing that? I asked him.

Practice, kid, I'm just practicing.

DG: He was a card shark?

MB: Oh yeah---big time.

Anyway, Barbara came up the stairs carrying a bottle of Pepsi. I stopped to let her go passed me into the room. She smelled like flowers. She smiled and patted my arm with her free hand as she went by.

I thought about Tommy and the cards while I got undressed for bed and then thought about Barbara until I fell asleep.

DG: What did you think about in particular when you thought about her?

MB: Her breasts…I couldn’t stop thinking about her breasts.

As the days went by I became a kinda member of the Galena family. Mrs. Galena would often offer me tea or a piece of pie, and sometimes, I'd sit on the porch glider and visit in the evening. Barbara was always very nice to me. She wore clothes that helped her stay cool and didn't seem to worry much about what parts of her might be noticed, or not. It was hard to keep from staring at her. Tommy never came out on the porch when he was at the house. He stayed in his room and sat in front of the mirrors, I guess.

I got invited into his room every so often when I was coming back from the track. I just took the cards from him as he dealt. He asked me about the track and stuff about the drivers and if my horses were gonna win or not. One afternoon, as I was headin' for a nap, he called me in.

Hey, kid, come here a second and help me.

He was sitting at a little card table he'd set up next to the mirrors and he pointed to the chair across the table from where he sat. Barbara wasn't in the room but I could smell her.

You play gin rummy, kid?

I said I didn't.

Okay, quick lesson, he said.

He dealt me a bunch of cards and told me to pick them up.

Put all the same kinds together or any that are the same suite in order...like 7,8,9...got it?

I nodded and tried to hold all the cards and do as he said.

Okay, it's simple. You keep the same number of cards in your hand and draw one at a time and discard one. The idea is to get groups of three or four 6' s, let's say or 4,5,6,7 of clubs...got it?

I said okay but I didn't really get it. He put the remaining deck of cards face down in the middle of the table; picking his cards up, he reached out and straightened the deck.

Go ahead, he said, draw a card.

I did       it was a jack, Jack of Clubs.

Jack of Clubs, he said, right?

I kind of laughed, Yeah. How'd you know? Are they marked

He frowned at me and said, No, for Chris’ sake, it’s a brand new deck.

But I watched you deal, I didn't see you doing that squeeze thing with the cards.

He drew a card from the top of the deck. Placed it in his hand, then pulled a different one from the group he held and discarded it face up next to the deck, Come on, your draw.

I did, but, it didn't seem