And then I waited—waited as the three of them, De Santo, Luther, and the Jockey, glanced at each other and seemed to talk it over (without ever saying a word); waited as Caleb, Maria, and myself did the same. And I suppose my optimism that De Santo could be reached—although how I could think that after what had happened in the stables remains a mystery to me even today—got the better of me, because I was genuinely surprised when he said, simply, after a brief but pregnant pause, “Looks like rain, as they say.” —before completely shrugging it off. “It’s a dirt track—it shouldn’t affect the race. And now if you’re done with all this ... I’d like to make a proposal. That is, if you’re curious at all as to what we intend to do with you?”
I’m afraid I could only stare at him in vexed disbelief
