Product Description

From provocative peeks into the lives of jockeys, trainers, owners, and breeders, to the down and dirty doings of bookies and gamblers, here is a literary tribute to a favorite national pastime. Editors Maggie Estep (Diary of an Emotional Idiot; Flamethrower) and Jason Starr (Twisted City; Lights Out) have brought together original fiction and nonfiction from some of our most beloved writers. Lee Child heads off the collection with a thrilling story about a hit man hired to knock off a horse mid-race. Laura Lippman contributes a vivid tale about a young man who makes money selling parking places at the Preakness and the intriguing woman he meets. Here is Bill Barich on the misfortunes of an Irish gambler, Joe R. Lansdale on one man’s ambition to win a mule race in east Texas, Laura Hillenbrand on the Kentucky Derby, and James Surowiecki on the wisdom of horse-racing crowds. Jonathan Ames adds his unique theory of horse love, Meghan O’Rourke shares her touching recollections of going to Saratoga as a child, and Jane Smiley tells of her experiences raising thoroughbreds. This standout collection on horse-racing featuring twenty authors, from national bestsellers to Pulitzer Prize winners, is as page-turning as it is diverse.

Also includes pieces by Ken Bruen, Steven Crist, Maggie Estep, William Nack, Scott Phillips, John Schaefer, Jerry Stahl, Jason Starr, Charlie Stella, Wallace Stroby, and Daniel Woodrell.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #609500 in Books
• Published on: 2006-09-12
• Released on: 2006-09-12
• Original language: English
• Dimensions: 7.90" h x .70" w x 5.10" l, .64 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 384 pages

From Booklist
The literature of horse racing is the richest in all of sport, or at least it seems so after reading this collection of 20 short works of fiction and nonfiction. Most numerous are the short stories featuring degenerate gamblers and the myriad ways in which their betting coups can go wrong. Bill Barich's Irish punter is undone by an illegible betting slip. Jason Starr's bettor loses the score of a lifetime when a fake security guard mugs him on the way to his car. There is more to horse racing than hard-luck lowlifes, however, as demonstrated by Laura Hillenbrand in her history of the Kentucky Derby and Steven Crist in his analysis of the overwhelming popularity of Smarty Jones. Best of all is William Nack's reminiscence of the summer of 1959, when he was a lowly groom in a powerhouse stable and was torn between the track and college. He chose college and the life of a writer, but he was always drawn back to the track, as were most of the authors in this irresistible collection. It is easy to see why. Dennis Dodge
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

About the Author
Maggie Estep has worked as a horse groom, a go-go dancer, a dishwasher, a nurse's aide, and a box factory worker. She has published five books, Diary of an Emotional Idiot (1997), Soft Maniacs (1999), Love Dance of the Mechanical Animals (2003), Hex (2003, a New York Times notable book), and Gargantuan (2004). She has recorded two spoken word CD's, No More Mr. Nice Girl (1994) and Love is a Dog from Hell (1997), and has performed on The Charlie Rose Show, MTV, PBS, and HBO's Def Poetry Jam. Her writing has appeared in The Village Voice, New York Press, Harpers Bazaar, Spin, Black Book, Nerve.com and Time Out N.Y., as well as in dozens of anthologies including Brooklyn Noir, The Dictionary of Failed Relationships, The Best American Erotica 2002 and 2004. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Jason Starr is the author of six crime novels which are published in nine languages. He received the Barry Award for his novel Tough Luck and the Anthony Award for Twisted City. He has two novels due in 2006: Lights Out (St. Martin's Press) and Bust (Hard Case Crime) co-written with Ken Bruen. Born and raised in Brooklyn, Starr now lives in Manhattan.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
THE .50 SOLUTION

Lee Child

Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward do I set the price. It's about common sense and variables. If the client is rich, I ask for more. If the target is tough, I ask for more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I'm working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote hideout with a competent protection team on his side, I'm going to ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner. Variables, and common sense.

But this time the negotiation started differently.

The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was tall and gray and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took charge.

First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.

He said, "I hear you've used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion."

I said, "You hear right."

"You like that piece?"

"It's a fine rifle."

"So you'll use it for me."

"I choose the weapon," I said.

"Based on what?"

"Need."

"You'll need it."

I asked, "Why? Long range?"

"Maybe two hundred yards."

"I don't need a Barrett Ninety for two hundred yards."

"It's what I want."

"Will the target be wearing body armor?"

"No."

"Inside a vehicle?"

"Open air."

"Then I'll use a three-oh-eight. Or something European."

"I want that fifty-caliber shell."

"A three-oh-eight or a NATO round will get him just as dead from two hundred yards."

"Maybe not."

Looking at him I was pretty sure this was a guy who had never fired a .50 Barrett in his life. Or a .308 Remington. Or an M16, or an FN, or an H&K. Or any kind of a rifle. He had probably never fired anything at all, except maybe a BB gun as a kid and workers as a adult.

I said, "The Barrett is an awkward weapon. It's four feet long and it doesn't break down. It weighs twenty-two pounds. It's got bipod legs, for Christ's sake. It's like an artillery piece. Hard to conceal. And it's very loud. Maybe the loudest rifle in the history of the world."

He said, "I like that fifty-caliber shell."

"I'll give you one," I said. "You can plate it with gold and put it on a chain and wear it around your neck."

"I want you to use it."

Then I started thinking maybe this guy was some kind of a sadist. A caliber of .50 is a decimal fraction, just another way of saying half an inch. A lead bullet a half inch across is a big thing. It weighs about two ounces, and any kind of a decent load fires it close to two thousand miles an hour. It could catch a supersonic jet fighter and bring it down. Against a person two hundred yards away, it's going to cut him in two. Like making the guy swallow a bomb, and then setting it off.

I said, "You want a spectacle, I could do it close with a knife. You know, if you want to send a message."

He said, "That's not the issue. This is not about a message. This is about the result."

"Can't be," I said. "From two hundred yards I can get a result with anything. Something short with a folding stock, I can walk away afterward with it under my coat. Or I could throw a rock."

"I want you to use the Barrett."

"Expensive," I said. "I'd have to leave it behind. Which means paying through the nose to make it untraceable. It'll cost more than a foreign car for the ordnance alone. Before we even talk about my fee."

"Okay," he said, no hesitation.

I said, "It's ridiculous."

He said nothing. I thought: Two hundred yards, no body armor, in the open air. Makes no sense. So I asked.

I said, "Who's the target?"

He said, "A horse."

I was quiet for a long moment. "What kind of a horse?"

"A Thoroughbred racehorse."

I asked, "You own racehorses?"

He said, "Dozens of them."

"Good ones?"

"Some of the very best."

"So the target is what, a rival?"

"A thorn in my side."

After that, it made a lot more sense. The guy said, "I'm not an idiot. I've thought about it very carefully. It's got to look accidental. We can't just shoot the horse in the head. That's too obvious. It's got to look like the real target was the owner, but your aim was off and the horse is collateral damage. So the shot can't look placed. It's got to look random. Neck, shoulder, whatever. But I need death or permanent disability."

I said, "Which explains your preference for the Barrett."

He nodded. I nodded back. A Thoroughbred racehorse weighs about half a ton. A .308 or a NATO round fired randomly into its center mass might not do the job. Not in terms of death or permanent disability. But a big .50 shell almost certainly would. Even if you weigh half a ton, it's pretty hard to struggle along with a hole the size of a garbage can blown through any part of you.

I asked, "Who's the owner? Is he a plausible target in himself?"

The guy told me who the owner was, and we agreed he was a plausible target. Rumors, shady connections.

Then I said, "What about you? Are you two enemies, personally?"

"You mean, will I be suspected of ordering the hit that misses?"

"Exactly."

"Not a chance," my guy said. "We don't know each other."

"Except as rival owners."

"There are hundreds of rival owners."

"Is a horse of yours going to win if this guy's doesn't?"

"I certainly hope so."

"So they'll look at you."

"Not if it looks like the man was the target, instead of the horse."

I asked, "When?"

He told me anytime within the next four days.

I asked, "Where?"

He told me the horse was in a facility some ways south. Horse country, obviously, grand fields, lush grass, white fences, rolling hills. He told me about long routes through the countryside, called gallops, where the horses worked out just after dawn. He told me about the silence and the early mists. He told me how in the week before a big race the owner would be there every morning to assess his horse's form, to revel in its power and speed and grace and appetite. He told me about the stands of trees that were everywhere and would provide excellent cover.

Then he stopped talking. I felt a little foolish, but I asked him anyway: "Do you have a photograph? Of the target?"

He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. Gave it to me. In it was a glossy color picture of a horse. It looked posed, like a promotional item. Like an actor or an actress has headshots made, for publicity. This particular horse was a magnificent animal. Tall, shiny, muscular, almost jet-black, with a white blaze on its face. Quite beautiful.

"Okay," I said.

Then my guy asked me his own question.

He asked me, "How much?"

It was an interesting issue. Technically we were only conspiring to shoot a horse. In most states that's a property crime. A long way from homicide. And I already had an untraceable Barrett Ninety. As a matter of fact, I had three. Their serial numbers stopped dead with the Israeli army. One of them was well used. It was about ready for a new barrel anyway. It would make a fine throw-down gun. Firing cold through a worn barrel wasn't something I would risk against a human, but against something the size of a horse from two hundred yards it wouldn't be a problem. If I aimed at the fattest part of the animal I could afford to miss by up to a foot.

I didn't tell the guy any of that, of course. Instead I banged on for a while about the price of the rifle and the premium I would have to pay for dead-ended paperwork. Then I talked about risk, and waited to see if he stopped me. But he didn't. I could tell he was obsessed. He had a goal. He wanted his own horse to win, and that fact was blinding him to reality just the same way some people get all wound up about betrayal and adultery and business partnerships.

I looked at the photograph again.

"One hundred thousand dollars," I said.

He said nothing.

"In cash," I said.

He said nothing.

"Up front," I said.

He nodded.

"One condition," he said. "I want to be there. I want to see it happen."

I looked at him and I looked at the photograph and I thought about a hundred grand in cash.

"Okay," I said. "You can be there."

He opened the briefcase he had down by his leg and took out a brick of money. It looked okay, smelled okay, and felt okay. There was probably more in the case, but I didn't care. A hundred grand was enough, in the circumstances.

"Day afte...