The grounds for the Tropicana Sands extended for several dozen acres to the South, West, and East of the Arena proper. All total, the property encompassed over three hundred and eighteen odd acres upon which stood the stands, several paddocks, a few stables, and housing for the house jockeys. After all was said and done, there was still several woodland acres circling the land; shielding the massive medieval stone structure from view.
With a property of such size, Tropicana Sands employed many different people. There were jockeys and apprentices?though they were called ?Bugs? more often than not?as well as the flagmen, clockers, and mutuel clerks . The ?house? stable had grooms, valets, hot walkers, and trainers. There was a man to check the lip tattoos (the Pegasus Identifier he was formally called) and another to weigh the riders (the Clerk of Scales) before each race. Then there were the various stewards and other officials that kept the races on the up-and-up. On the non-racing aspects of the business there were groundsmen, wait staff, cooks, janitorial staff and management. Even if a person didn?t actually see one of those elusive beasts, they were bound to stumble on at least one posted missive that signaled their omnipotence signed quite simply: sincerely, the Management.
But for all the individuals employed by Tropicana Sands, the pure numbers were not truly visible except for two or three of times each month. One, the most obvious, was during the twice monthly hair pulling by the pencil-pushers who cut the pay checks. Another was during the preparations for the monthly big purse races. Pegasi from all over the region were shipped in for sale or to run in the high stakes races. The overflow paddocks and pens were stuffed to the gills with feathers and anxious pawing hooves. Every bed in the jockey boarding house was full (as was some of the nearby inns), and everyone worked overtime. It was all hustle and bustle. Everything had to be just right. Salvatore Martingale demanded it.
It was his own personal drive for excellence that drove Sal to visit the paddocks personally each day of the month as the June Jamboree approached. This gave him an opportunity to update the ledgers to more accurately account for each copper, silver, and gold spent. It also gave him an opportunity to scope the new pegasi flesh. Whether it rained or shined, he was out with his fedora tipped over his eyes, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and his pen handy as he scratched names into his books. Only after the lists were finalized could he deliver them to Vinnie, and through him, make them available to the various freelance and stable owners. The sooner that was done, the happier Sal would be.
With a property of such size, Tropicana Sands employed many different people. There were jockeys and apprentices?though they were called ?Bugs? more often than not?as well as the flagmen, clockers, and mutuel clerks . The ?house? stable had grooms, valets, hot walkers, and trainers. There was a man to check the lip tattoos (the Pegasus Identifier he was formally called) and another to weigh the riders (the Clerk of Scales) before each race. Then there were the various stewards and other officials that kept the races on the up-and-up. On the non-racing aspects of the business there were groundsmen, wait staff, cooks, janitorial staff and management. Even if a person didn?t actually see one of those elusive beasts, they were bound to stumble on at least one posted missive that signaled their omnipotence signed quite simply: sincerely, the Management.
But for all the individuals employed by Tropicana Sands, the pure numbers were not truly visible except for two or three of times each month. One, the most obvious, was during the twice monthly hair pulling by the pencil-pushers who cut the pay checks. Another was during the preparations for the monthly big purse races. Pegasi from all over the region were shipped in for sale or to run in the high stakes races. The overflow paddocks and pens were stuffed to the gills with feathers and anxious pawing hooves. Every bed in the jockey boarding house was full (as was some of the nearby inns), and everyone worked overtime. It was all hustle and bustle. Everything had to be just right. Salvatore Martingale demanded it.
It was his own personal drive for excellence that drove Sal to visit the paddocks personally each day of the month as the June Jamboree approached. This gave him an opportunity to update the ledgers to more accurately account for each copper, silver, and gold spent. It also gave him an opportunity to scope the new pegasi flesh. Whether it rained or shined, he was out with his fedora tipped over his eyes, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and his pen handy as he scratched names into his books. Only after the lists were finalized could he deliver them to Vinnie, and through him, make them available to the various freelance and stable owners. The sooner that was done, the happier Sal would be.