by Sasscer Hill
“Her name's Lorna. Pretty redhead. Did you see her last night, or this morning?"
"Bobby has his own apartment over the garage, so I couldn't tell you." He turned, searching for something. Probably any distraction. "Break's almost over, I have to saddle up two horses . . .”
"Sure," I said. "Me too. And I've only got one rider." The man looked irritated by my retort. Yeah, well too bad.
Next on my list was Hellish and like Stinger, she planted her feet at the entrance to the dirt mile-oval. Only with her it was a "make my day" kind of resistance. She froze beneath me, motionless, tense, an act usually preceding detonation.
"Damn it! I've got four more horses to get out, I'm sore and I don't have time for your shit." I knew better, but wacked her with my crop.
She exploded straight up, all four legs high in the air. When we hit the ground, she bolted onto the track, heading straight for the inside rail, veering away at the last instant. I lost a stirrup and hung to one side, gripping her mane like a lifeline. She plunged her head between her legs, pitched her hindquarters into the air. The ground came at me fast, hard.
I just lay there, not because I was hurt so much as mentally beaten. A man who'd been standing by the rail with a stopwatch ran over to see if I was injured. I sat up, brushing the sandy dirt from my jacket. Told him I was okay and felt tears on my face. An outrider flew by in pursuit of Hellish. Good luck with that.
I began the long trip back to the barn, muttering to myself like a deranged bag lady, especially when the track megaphones blared, "Loose horse on the track, loose horse on the, nope, horse is on the grounds. Near the receiving barn."
That meant she'd ricocheted off the track at the other end, near the racing office and the stable gate. I prayed she wouldn't get out on the main road.
Always embarrassing to walk on the track. People stare, they know you got dumped. They're not unkind, just truly glad it was you and not them.
"The horse is contained, the horse is contained."
Relieved, I kept slogging through the heavy shifting sand, and when I finally dragged myself onto our shedrow, Lorna stood there with a big grin on her face.
"Hey doodarina, need some help?"
I closed my eyes, ready to ream her out, only I realized she'd slurred her words. Beer? I peered at her. No, not beer. Her eyes were round and dilated as saucers.
"Lorna, what'd you do last night?"
She smiled a big slow smile, swaying slightly. "Bobby." She glowed with sensuality. "Oh, man. He's awesome."
"I don't want to hear about that. Did he give you drugs?"
"No, wait. L'me tell you. S'got magic hands. Made me . . .”
Apparently words couldn't describe his abilities. "Lorna –”
"Did me all night long." She shivered at the memory.
"Lorna, shut up!" I glanced at Ramon walking toward us. He didn't need to hear this stuff. She swayed again and Ramon rushed over to steady her.
"Madre de Dios. What wrong with her?"
"Too much beer last night," I said quickly. But Ramon shook his head, maybe seeing what I did. And if Ramon could see it, what would happen if security came by on their regular rounds? Lorna was still on probation and if someone like Investigator Cormack saw her, she'd be peeing in a test cup faster than you could say "screw me."
Lilly Best came around the corner leading Hellish. "I got her," she said. "Doesn't seem like she hurt herself. Think she was just having herself a good time."
"Thank you," I said. Lorna started singing some tune with the refrain, "All night long." She stumbled and giggled.
I had to get her off the backstretch. "Ramon, can you put Hellish away and feed? Don't worry about the supplements, just give them grain."
"I can do. But the horses, they not go to track?"
"I can't help that." Jesus, I hadn't gotten Daffodil out, and Imposter stood there waiting patiently for his turn, and another gray mare.
I grabbed Lorna's wrist and dragged her toward my Toyota. "Get in the car."
"But I have to ride, and Bobby's over there. I was gonna –”
"Get in the fucking car!”
Chapter 14
Lorna's shoulder pressed into the passenger door, her red curls crushed against the window. She'd fallen asleep just outside the stable gate, hardly stirring since. Up ahead, the Cheswick Victorian and the ancient oak growing alongside came into view. The tree climbed to the sky, the leaves dappling green, orange and red as the oak readied for winter. I drove the Toyota under oak’s massive limbs, continuing uphill to the cottage.
"Lorna, wake up. Time to get out."
A plaintive moan, then she seemed to sink into a heavier sleep.
I poked her shoulder. "You've got a bed inside. Come on." I shook her, and not too gently. She grumbled as I pulled her from the car and led her to the cottage. Inside, I guided Lorna to her bed and left her to sleep it off.
In the kitchen, the wall clock's hands crept past ten. No point in rushing back, the track had already closed for training. Good thing Colonial's first races were still two days away. I didn't feel up to selecting and administering pre-race drugs for Stinger, saddling him in the paddock. All that stress. I'd had enough.
I drew a bath, hoping to relax and ease the pain still throbbing in my hip. Soaked there a while, then crawled onto the living room couch, where I must have nodded off. I felt a presence and cracked one eye open. Lorna stood at the end of the couch, her expression wary.
"Guess I screwed up, huh?"
"Pretty much." I sat up, yawning, my glance cutting to the kitchen clock. After one. I'd really passed out.
"Are you, like, gonna turn me in?"
Memories of the morning snapped me fully awake.
"If I was going to do that, I wouldn't have brought you home. Jesus, Lorna. What were you thinking? I had to get those horses out by myself." I took a deep breath. Letting loose a tirade would only make matters worse. "We've got a long meet ahead of us, Lorna. I can't do this by myself. I need to know I can depend –”
"You can, you can. I screwed up last night. Won't happen again." Her fingers jerked and twisted at a lock of hair. Her upper lip quivered.
Jeez, now she was going to cry. "Look, we'll work it out."
She nodded hard and swiped at her eyes. I was trying to think what to say next when my cell rang from the depths of my tote bag. I snatched the bag, rooted around, found the phone, staring at the number. Jim. Probably wanting an update.
"Jim – "
"What the hell's going on? That security guy, Cormack, called me. Said we had a horse loose on the backside this morning. Said he couldn't find anyone but Ramon at the barn. At nine-thirty! Where were you? Who got loose?"
I held the phone away from my ear as Jim's voice grew louder and louder. Lorna, who could hear every word, was hugging herself, her face dismayed. She mouthed, "I'm sorry."
I turned my back on her and started explaining about the mugging and how Lorna'd come down with some kind of flu bug that morning. I hated the excuse and the lie, but the whole truth wouldn't help.
Mollified, but doubtful, Jim said he would drive down the next day. "You still haven't told me what horse got loose."
Cringing. "Hellish."
"That freak. You'd better get her in line, Nikki. Cormack's talking about ruling her off."
"No, he can't!"
"Guess that's up to you. What about this Chaquette woman?"
I gave him a brief account, glad I'd researched the horses and could talk like I wasn't a total screw up, even if I felt like one. Had to do something about Hellish.
"Any chance we could get Mello down here? Ramon's kind of overloaded now we've got two extra horses."
He waited a few beats. "I can bring Mello down with me. If he'll come."
I could hear a smile in Jim's voice. He knew I wanted Mello because the octogenarian had a magic effect on Hellish, and Jim knew the man would follow Hellish anywhere. Mello had it in his grizzled old head that Hellish was a reincarn
ation of 1940s champion Gallorette. Instead of insisting Mello was crazy, Jim had offered the mysterious phrase, "Mello knows things." I was still trying to figure out what that meant. Something to do with "second sight."
"See you tomorrow, Nikki." He didn't need to say things had better be ship shape. For Jim, the horses always came first. He'd given me a chance in Virginia, and I'd paid him back by screwing up. My future depended on the stable sailing smoothly forward. I might not get a second chance.
#
We drove in the stable gate at four-thirty the next morning, and went right to work. We dumped the light breakfasts I'd measured up the night before into feed tubs, then scrubbed out water buckets, filling them fresh.
Ramon showed up at five, his eyes widening to see us both so early. Rolling out the wheelbarrow, Ramon and Lorna grabbed pitchforks, working the shedrow, mucking one stall after another. I loaded up the after-training lunch. Thought about Stinger a moment, then added the body-builder creatine, along with electrolytes and other essential minerals.
The excellent airway-opener, Clenbuterol, would probably enhance the horse's performance, but as a restricted medication, its administration had to be stopped four days before he raced. I didn't expect Stinger to end up in the test barn where state officials automatically sent the first and second-place finishers of each race, but in Virginia they had a sneaky habit of drawing in an additional control horse, testing it for drugs too – usually the-favorite-who-ran-amazingly-bad, or the-longshot-who-ran-shockingly-well.
You never knew for sure, and with my luck they'd pull in Stinger. If he tested positive for Clenbuterol in Virginia, I'd be fined heavily, and given "days." Days I wouldn't be allowed to work or train at the track. Days I'd get no income. Days that would get me fired. If by some miracle the horse won a little purse money, they'd take that away, too.
I put the pricey Clenbuterol back in a locked cabinet. By six, I'd taken Daffodil for a test drive around the shedrow, discovered she had a tender mouth and decided she'd go well on a snaffle bit. Lorna climbed on the patient Imposter, and together we rode the dirt path that wound through the pines to the track entrance nearest our barn.
Daffodil was all class, no questions asked. I put her into a gallop, and she thrilled me. Took her awhile to get those long legs in gear, but once she did she seemed to float across the heavy dirt and sand. Beside us Imposter's hooves churned frantically as he fought to keep up.
Lorna stole a couple of glances. "Wow, is she the real deal, or what?"
Yet I wasn't surprised when after five-eighths of a mile the sink-and-pull action of the deep track began to wear on Daffodil. She struggled for air, losing momentum, confirming my belief she'd prefer the firmer surface of the turf course.
We got seven horses out, leaving Hellish in her stall to think about her evil ways. I'd try her the next day, praying Mello would come and work his magic on her before that. I jogged Stinger a mile and put him away, then hand walked Hellish around the shedrow. Lorna kept glancing at her watch, fidgeting with her hair, asking me more than once what time the boss would arrive.
When Jim showed up around ten, relief settled in as I saw Mello's light brown skin and grizzled mat of hair through the Ford's passenger window. The two men climbed out, Jim tall and stooped, his gray hair covered by the inevitable baseball cap. Mello stood slightly shorter, his frame bent with age.
I snuck a glance at Jim's shaggy brows, a barometer I used to gauge his moods. They didn't look especially thunderous, maybe he'd forgo a lecture. Not that Jim said much. He liked monosyllables. In small doses.
"Miss Nikki." Mello touched his worn felt cap in greeting, then nodded at Lorna and Ramon. A neatly knotted bow tie decorated the collar of his threadbare shirt, the ensemble topped by a shabby jacket, probably manufactured when Gallorette ran in the previous century.
Hellish heard his voice, thrust her head over the stall gate and nickered repeatedly.
A long silence stretched between us until Jim said, "Let me see the new ones."
Lorna's shoulders sagged in relief. Did she think I'd ratted on her? Ramon got busy with the rake. I brought Stinger out first, then Daffodil, explaining my theories, waiting for Jim's comments.
He studied Daffodil a moment as I held her lead shank, then put his hand on the high point of the filly's hip, sliding it down the outline of the long sloping bone. He nodded to himself.
"You've got a good eye, Nikki."
A glow of pride touched me, and I hoped it didn't shine too pink on my cheeks.
"Woman sounds difficult over the phone. Is she?"
"Ms. Chaquette? She's pretty tough."
"Hear she's got money, likes to run her own show." Jim pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes never leaving Daffodil. "Told me she doesn't like turf racing. Brought her stock up from South America to avoid the grass."
Moron. "Could you talk to her, Jim?"
"Nope, you're in charge."
Oh great. I chirped at Daffodil and put her away. When I came out Jim was talking to Ramon and my peripheral vision caught Mello's red bow tie disappearing into Hellish’s stall. How did he know her so well?
Edging over to her gate, I found Hellish with her head stretched over Mello's shoulder, the old man crooning nonsense. Hellish bowed her neck, using her chin and throat to gently pull Mello into her chest, an action that spoke volumes about trust and love. Me, she barely tolerated. Her brief attention after I'd fled Bobby and Lorna the previous evening was a rare show of affability.
Motion caught my eye. A black SUV rolled to a stop next to Jim's truck. The words "Virginia Racing Commission, Operations and Enforcement" were painted on the side. Broad-shouldered Jay Cormack eased out from behind the wheel, using the running board to help his disproportionately short legs reach the ground.
With that southern drawl I'd heard the day they buried Paco Martinez, he said, “I'm looking for a man goes by the name Mello Pinkney."
He caught my quick glance toward Hellish's stall. What was this about?
Cormack's small legs moved him to Hellish’s stall gate faster than I'd thought possible. He peered inside.
"Mr. Pinkney?"
Mello shuffled from the stall. "Yes, sir."
"You working here as a groom?"
Mello's eyes darted from Jim to me, and I didn't know if his trembling hand was age or fear. "Yes sir."
"Mr. Pinkney, you're a convicted felon. Virginia Racing Commission doesn't license employees with priors."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Cormack turned on me. "Miss Latrelle, could I see you over here for a minute?" He motioned me toward his SUV, and after I followed him, lowered his voice so only I could hear.
"You've got a rogue filly on the grounds, and now a convicted felon." The ticking of the vehicle's cooling engine punctuated his words. "Thought any more about what I said outside that church?"
"Not exactly." Hadn't I made it clear I'd never rat on a fellow jockey? What had Mello done?
Cormack gave me his best cop stare. It didn't hold a candle to Maryland's chief racing investigator, Offenbach, but unnerved me just the same.
"Now might be a good time for y'all to think hard. I still need information about cheating. Drug abuse."
He hadn't mentioned drugs before. My imagination, or did something beneath the hard facial exterior plead for my co-operation? Maybe he was new to the job, in over his head. My sympathy evaporated with his next words.
"I might forget about your filly running wild yesterday, unsettling people's horses, causing complaints. Might even overlook the old man's conviction . . . if you was to comply."
"That's blackmail!" My fingernails bit into my palms as heat flushed my face.
Jim, Lorna and Mello stared at us from the barn. Ramon had gotten so busy with his rake he was down at the far end cleaning someone else's shedrow.
A chilly breeze rustled along the gravel path, blowing bits of trash and straw. Cormack leaned over to remove a piece of baling twine
that had hooked itself onto one of his highly polished shoes.
"Not blackmail, Miss Latrelle. This is a deal I'm offering you. But if you accept, don't try slackin’ on me. I'll know it." He made a light whistling sound between his teeth. "You're in a position to help us. Something's going on, something bad."
Mello had moved back to Hellish's stall, and the filly's chin was resting on his shoulder. Oh, for God's sake. I turned back to the relentless gaze of the investigator with his soft voice and metal-hard mind. I couldn't see a way out.
"What is it you want me to do?"
Chapter 15
"First, don't say a word about this to anyone." Cormack's eyes, cold and shallow, flicked over Lorna and Jim where they stood watching us. His cop-stare was improving with use.
Ramon pretended to ignore us from the far end of the barn, and Mello had gone to ground in Hellish's stall.
"You tell ‘em," Cormack gestured toward the barn, "I gave you a warning, that Mello Pinkney's conviction is over 60 years old and we're going to ignore it. For now."
Curiosity drove my tongue. "What did Mello do?"
I didn't really expect an answer, but Cormack paused, appeared to consider my question. "Reckon you've a right to know. This was long before my time, back in the forties."
When Gallorette was piling up victories and winning Mello's young heart.
He continued, "Pinkney's father was a sharecropper here in Virginia. The son, Mellonius, you know him as Mello, was up north working at Delaware Park racetrack and Belmont. There was an altercation." Cormack's gaze shifted to the ground. "The landowner killed Pinkney's father. Mellonius retaliated by beating up the landowner."
Who could blame him?
"Property owner was white. Back in those days he wasn't even charged, but Pinkney received an assault conviction."
"That's disgusting. You'd use that as blackmail?" My opinion of Cormack plummeted.
The man astonished me by grinning. "Nah." Then, with an effort, he wiped off the smile, put the cop face back on. "But I will rule off that crazy horse of yours. She could hurt somebody."
