Eddie Logan began this race about ninety seconds ago on a warm spring night at Scioto Downs racetrack in Columbus, Ohio, along with eleven other drivers and their racehorses. Only in his late forties, Eddie’s face seems much older, weathered from the markings of every grain of sand and dirt that has hit him in thirty years and tens of thousands of miles of driving horses around racetracks. His arms stretch well out in front of him as he holds the reins of his horse, Clancy.

Clancy is a three-year-old colt of average size and speed, dark brown with a blaze of white on his forehead. He’s generally good-natured and doesn’t stand out as noisy or irascible in the barn. But while training Clancy, Eddie found the horse’s hidden talent. If he reaches forward and gives him a slap on his butt, Clancy will burst forth with an explosion of speed that enables him to shoot past the rest of the field. Slap him too early, and Clancy sprints, then tires; slap him too late, and he doesn’t have enough time to catch and pass the other horses. Timing Clancy’s secret sprint is everything.

Clancy is third along the inside of the pack, with a horse in front of him, a horse behind him, and another directly next to him. Trapped. There is nowhere for Clancy and Eddie to go. Eddie gives a shrill whistle at Roy Strong, the driver who has him boxed in. Eddie knows Clancy’s burst of speed will be much faster than any sprint from Strong’s horse. Strong’s eyes are fixed straight ahead. Eddie whistles again, yet Strong does not make room to let Clancy out. As Eddie tries to get around the horse ahead, Strong moves slightly forward, blocking him. Clancy pulls at the reins, signaling that he wants to go faster, but Eddie can’t find a path to the front.

Eddie raises his whip and taps the shaft of Strong’s sulky, making a slapping noise that Strong can definitely hear. Eddie is careful not to touch Strong’s horse with the whip, which would be a penalty and get Eddie fined or suspended. The tap is a last-ditch signal that Eddie wants to move out. Strong’s eyes stay straight ahead, as he deliberately paces his horse to keep Clancy in place.

In a gentle, almost imperceptible motion, the driver of the horse directly in front of Clancy tightens the reins, and his horse slows slightly. The horse loses only one or two steps, not noticeable from the grandstand, but enough to slow Clancy.

With only a few seconds left in the race, Coffee Break, driven by Leo Roberts, comes from well behind and glides past the rest of the bunched field to take the lead and dominate the last few feet of the race, finishing a full horse’s length ahead of the rest of the field.

Clancy has fallen from third to fourth to fifth to sixth and is now finishing in seventh position out of the twelve that started. The odds for Clancy winning were three-to-one, making him the favorite. The odds of Coffee Break winning were thirty-five-to-one. For a two-dollar wager, Clancy would have paid six dollars to the bettor, the kind of return that encourages another bet, and another, and another. These small returns are the currency of hope for inconsequential gamblers. The same two-dollar wager on Roberts driving Coffee Break returned seventy dollars. That’s the longshot that keeps the real gamblers interested. 

Coffee Break turns away from the rest of the horses to go back to the winner’s circle to get his picture taken and receive the accolades for his win. As he goes toward the winner’s circle, Coffee Break stumbles erratically, weaving from side to side. Roberts can barely hold him under control.

Clancy had been picked by the track handicapper and by the bettors as the favorite to win. The colt was healthy, fast, and should have easily beaten the other horses. But it was not to be.

The race was fixed. 

Clancy wasn’t supposed to win. Coffee Break was supposed to win and, in the course of winning, generate a sizable payout to Roberts and the other gamblers who knew to bet him. Roberts and several other drivers in the race ensured that would happen, and Roberts will reward them generously for their collusion.

Jean Logan’s heart sinks as she watches the last few seconds of the race from her seat in the grandstand, seeing Clancy and her husband falter. A petite, well-dressed blonde, Jean chooses to dress slightly upscale in a simple dress and comfortable shoes. She stands in contrast to most of the people in the grandstand who are dressed casually in jeans and sneakers, lettered T-shirts and baseball caps, looking for a good time that includes shouting and cheap beer.

In the winner’s circle, where Eddie should have been standing with Clancy, Coffee Break’s owners gather to have their picture taken alongside their horse and Roberts. As important as winning the race are the few seconds of fame for the driver and owners as they stand, smiling proudly, alongside the horse, for a grainy photograph that will hang on an office wall. A few of the fans watch, but most are indifferent since they’ve moved on to thinking about their wager on the next race. 

Coffee Break is almost uncontrollable, shaking his head and stepping around in a frenzy, nipping at the groom who is trying to keep him steady for the few seconds it takes to snap the picture. The crowd in the grandstand sees Coffee Break as feisty and excited, but Jean sees a horse out of control. 

Jean can see that the fix had been in. It’s happened to Eddie three times in the past two weeks—other drivers conspiring to control the finish of the race. When Roberts, Strong, and the others didn’t have better horses, they created better luck. Why settle for a few thousand dollars in purse money when you can place a wager on a horse with long odds and get thirty-five, fifty, or even one hundred times more?

Eddie stubbornly refuses to participate in manipulating races or illegally drugging his horses. Each fixed race that resulted in a loss for Eddie erodes a little bit of the confidence he once had in himself and the joy he once felt in horse racing. Little by little, racing was passing Eddie Logan by, like it did tonight.

Tom Parker purses his lips in frustration and lets out a sigh. “Damn,” he says to nobody in particular and to Jean specifically. “Eddie should have won this race. The winning horse,” he says, looking at his program for the name, “Coffee Break went in 2:02. Hell, Clancy beat that time in training.”

“He got boxed in, Tom,” Jean remarks, knowing the painful truth that her words won’t change anything.

Tom Parker is a big man, both in height and girth. His casual shirt and wrinkled khaki pants make him seem unsophisticated next to the petite, well-dressed Jean. But Tom is unpretentious, not unsophisticated. He grew up the scion of a wealthy family that owns more Ohio land than anybody but the state of Ohio. He went to Stanford, then got his MBA from Northwestern before coming back to Wilmington.

In only a few years, he parlayed the farm into a spider’s web of successful businesses, expanding the family fortunes into a rural Ohio kingdom. Along with Eddie, he owns horses, including Clancy, for racing and breeding. Tom buys them. Eddie trains and races them. They split the profits.

But not tonight.

In a dramatic gesture, Tom takes the paper betting stubs of the wagers he’d made on Clancy, rips the worthless tickets in aggravation, and allows the pieces to flutter to the ground. Jean sees that many of the torn tickets are worth five hundred dollars each.

“He had the fastest horse on the track.” Tom shakes his head in disgust. “Seems to be happening to Eddie more and more these days,” He shakes his head as he puts his arm around Jean’s shoulder, pulling her close to him in a gesture of friendship. “Hell, I’m just blowing off steam,” he says, kissing her affectionately on the cheek, his anger subsiding. “I’m going to the barns to see Eddie. Want to ride back with me?”

“No thanks. I’ll watch the rest of the races. Tell Eddie I’ll see him later.”

Her mind wanders to their financial plight. It’s still early in the racing season. As the horses develop, their performance will improve, and they will start winning. While she knows they will get through it—they have before—she’s still worried about how they’re going to make ends meet.

At the paddock gate, Eddie is met by Clancy’s groom, Whitey Pierce, who has been around horses for as long as anybody can remember. Other than Jean, Whitey is the only person Eddie listens to regarding horses.

Clancy stops abruptly when he sees Whitey, who leads the colt toward his temporary stall in the paddock, where horses and drivers are sequestered before and shortly after the race so they can be tested for drugs by the state veterinarian. 

“Just wait a minute, Goddamnit,” Whitey barks, as Clancy throws his head against Whitey’s shoulder as if making a demand. “I’ve only got two hands.” Ignoring the admonishment, Clancy slaps Whitey’s shoulder again and puts his mouth down toward Whitey’s chest as he takes a nip at the candy bar he sees in Whitey’s shirt pocket. 

At that moment, Roberts and Coffee Break come through the paddock gate. The first to welcome him is Roy Strong. “Nice job, Leo.”

As Roberts raises his hand in a thumbs-up gesture, Coffee Break, abruptly and without warning, throws his head violently, bellows loudly, and pitches over. As he does, the sulky, still tightly harnessed to the horse, flips over to one side and catapults Roberts a few feet onto the gravel of the paddock surface. 

In maddening confusion, drivers and grooms try to intervene, but after a few moments, most step back from the still horse, its tongue lying on the ground.

The horse is dead.

Roberts stands and brushes off his pants, picks up his whip, and walks over to the lifeless Coffee Break. He looks up the length of the colt’s inanimate body, which is glistening with sweat, shakes his head in disgust, then turns and walks away. He has not touched the horse or shown any grief. 

“I guess Coffee Break’s over,” Roberts says, shrugging his shoulders impassively. His comment is met with nervous and affected laughter from the younger drivers. The older drivers and grooms don’t appreciate the humor.