“I think it’s time to wager,” I whispered. “What can you spare?”
“I’m insulted!”
Sal Gag looked up.
I smiled, stiff as a corpse, whispering again, “I didn’t mean to insul—”
“If hanging around this place is going to ruin your Southern gentility,” she trumpeted, “I’ll send you back to those people who mangle the English language.”
Please. I closed my eyes, praying. Please let the Mob guy think “those people” are Southerners. Not Feds full of malaprops. When I opened my eyes, Sal Gag seemed to be holding himself much too still. And Eleanor was lifting her chin again. I braced myself.
“You can be young without money but you can’t be old without it. Who said that?”
I sighed.
“Maggie the Cat,” she said. “Scene one. The critic in Toronto noted my purring.”
Our dry toast arrived, doing its best imitation of cardboard, and I choked it down with the skim milk while Eleanor passed me her wallet under the tablecloth. I counted out $2,000, then excused myself.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” she said.
“Don’t worry.” I placed my napkin on my seat, an etiquette signal for Raoul, letting him know I would be back. “I’ll be fine.”
“My dear,” Eleanor said, “I doubt that very, very much.”
From the grandstand’s upper level, I watched the numbers flash on the light board in the track’s inner circle. The first race’s flickering odds were solidifying, but the numbers would keep shifting until the starting gate blew open at 11:00 a.m. I saw several names on the board that looked familiar, in particular SunTzu from Eleanor’s barn. And Cuppa Joe, from Sal Gag’s. The long shot that beat Solo in Seattle on Monday. But now SunTzu was marked for long odds, mostly because of the barn fire. Betting people were superstitious, and Solo’s death was chalked up to Hot Tin’s “curse” of “bad luck.” Meanwhile, Cuppa Joe was the new favorite. If he lost, Sal Gag would make a bundle as a bookie. If he won, the bundle would also go to the bookie—as the horse’s owner.
It was an ingenious setup, and from what the Bureau could fathom, Sal Gag was offering three percentage points more than the track. Betting on a winner with the bookie meant potentially more money. Of course, losing meant you owed him more, but gamblers always thought of themselves as lucky—that’s why they kept gambling. But Sal Gag was smart enough to hire a numbers runner to handle his illegal operation.
The runner’s name was Anthony Pilato. Otherwise known as Tony Not Tony.
On this wet morning, Tony Not Tony was standing on the second tier of the grandstands. A former jockey, he had narrow shoulders that drew forward and a tendency to walk on his toes, making him look like a mouse on its hind legs. The tassels of his oxblood loafers touched the floor, his navy slacks were pressed, and his silk shirt was the color of the silver rain. His small hands, veined with strength, held betting receipts in some attempt to appear legitimate.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I said.
He looked over. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you.” I made a mental note: He never acknowledged sending flowers. I wondered if he suspected my identity or if he habitually worried about surveillance wires.
“I heard the horse kicked you,” he said. “Or maybe not. And something about arson, but is that possible?”
Eleanor had told me Tony got his nickname for hearing and yet not hearing things. Perfect for a Mob guy. But even if I was wearing a wire, our whiz kids would have a tough time picking up the voice. Rather than speaking, he aspirated his words. And here among the concrete floor and metal ceiling, with a crowd murmuring around us like a busy river, his words barely registered.
“Yes, arson,” I said. “Somebody also closed the stall’s door. And locked it.”
“Frightening,” he breathed.
I nodded. “But I know what would make me feel better. Making some money.” I smiled. “Some serious money.”
He glanced away. For several moments we stared over the seats. Down below the light board sparkled with illuminated greed, and the air smelled of hot dogs and morning beer and some kind of human-generated electricity.
“I enjoy wagering,” I said in a low voice. “But Aunt Eleanor doesn’t approve, so I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”
“Me?” The narrow shoulders came forward. “What would I know? I’m a simple jockey’s agent.”
Yes, that was the cover. Tony Not Tony worked as a jockey’s agent, matching horses to riders and collecting a percentage of the winnings. Just like he collected a percentage on the bets that went through Sal Gag.
“Two grand,” I said. “Cash on the spot.”
“Cuppa Joe.” The words floated from his mouth. “To win. He’s a mudder.”
“Mudder?”
“He likes to run in the mud. Doesn’t mind the rain.”
I reached into my purse. Tony Not Tony turned to face the track. His left hand dangled at his side. If the race-fixing pattern held, Cuppa Joe would lose. These guys would take home a bundle. I leaned toward him, as though speaking over the noise of the crowd, and surreptitiously laid twenty $100 bills in his open palm. Almost imperceptibly the money moved to his pocket.
“Ferragamos?” he said.
I stepped back. “Pardon?”
“Your sandals. Ferragamos?”
I looked down. The brown leather sandals were purchased for Raleigh David by Lucia Lutini, our profiler. But when I looked up, Tony Not Tony was smiling at me like we shared a family bond.
I smiled back. “How nice that someone recognizes true quality.”
“What size?”
I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “Nine . . .”
The smile stretched to the finish and revealed the former jockey’s bridgework. “You know where my office is?”
I shook my head.
“Panel van,” he breathed. “Backstretch parking lot. Meet me after the final race. We’ll celebrate.”
Chapter Seven
With sixteen minutes to post, the atmosphere felt like the moment between lightning and thunder. The moment when life seemed to balance on the brink, anticipating an uncontrollable force. Thrilling, almost frightening, it reminded me of the minutes in DeMott Fielding’s pickup truck, when snow silently fell around us and he asked if I would ever consider marrying him. They were the moments when the very next thing will change everything, forever.
Running down to the bottom of the grandstands, I flipped open my umbrella and jogged along the white rail. The announcer’s voice crackled above me on the loudspeakers.
“In lane one, we have that brisk brew from Abbondanza, Cuppa Joe. Monday’s big winner. And in lane two, Loosey Goosey, a fine fresh filly from Manchester Barn.” His voice sounded vaguely British, like a fake English accent. “In lane three, it’s the mighty warrior known as SunTzu from the Hot Tin Barn.”
I glanced across the oval. The eight horses were walking single file, heading for the starting gate. The jockeys hunched their shoulders against the soft rain.
“And in lane four, Bubba’s Revenge . . .”
I glanced at my watch. Eleven minutes. Eleanor expected me back in the dining room by post time. I hurried down the backstretch and stepped around a clutch of smokers who stood outside the Quarterchute Café, faces as lined as topographic maps. Closing the umbrella and giving it a shake, I opened the door. And smelled heaven.
Fries. Cheeseburgers. Grease.
“Freddie,” said a tiny woman behind the counter. “Love of my life, pay up.” She turned to the man working the grill. “Raleigh’s here.”
On my first day out here, after Eleanor reordered my breakfast, I ran into this place like a beagle following a scent. By my second day, I had learned that Birdie Bidwell and her husband, Freddie, had opened the Quarterchute Café thirty-plus years ago, providing cheap food for the backstretch trainers, grooms, pony riders, and an assorted clutch of old gamblers whose wagers had won them small
percentages of racehorses, just enough to qualify them as part-owners. The jockeys came in too, but only to drink water.
Birdie was a preternaturally tiny woman, almost childlike, with tourmaline-blue eyes and a round face. The cash register almost touched her chin. She held a Sharpie in one hand, carefully writing the day’s word, which she hung daily on a birch tree beside the entrance. Spanish-to-English translations, for the track’s many Hispanic workers. Today’s sign read Relaciones = Relationships.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I said.
“Honey.” She capped the pen. “We were so worried about you we had to start a pool.”
I took a jumbo cup from the soda dispenser. “What was the wager?” I hit the button for Coca-Cola. Breakfast of champion liars.
“The wager was ‘Would Eleanor Anderson set foot inside the hospital?’ That woman hates anything medical. But you know that.”
I didn’t, but I nodded.
“Then I remembered something,” Birdie said. “When your uncle Harry got sick, that pneumonia killed him? Eleanor went to the hospital every single day. So I took long odds—and I won!”
“Congratulations.”
“Ah, it was easy. Any idiot can see how much your aunt loves you.”
I looked away, staring at the heat lamp on the counter. Underneath it, two foil packages waited, each labeled Raleigh’s BnE. That acronym used to stand for breaking and entering. Now it was bacon and egg. I picked them up, feeling the warm, soft foil, and decided the worst part of being undercover was lying to the nice people.
“Thanks, Birdie.”
“Those are on me.”
“No, really—”
“Don’t ruin my luck.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Thank you.”
But she had already turned to the television opposite the cash register. A man dressed like an English beefeater raised a trumpet and began playing the opening tune. The Café fell into a reverential silence, as if the Pledge of Allegiance was being recited. The television shifted views, showing the track, the grandstands, the people, and a final shot of the inboard lights. The odds were almost locked in. The last shot was of the starting gate. In their confined spaces, the jockeys looked both compact and loose, straddling the horses. The trumpeter stretched out his last notes, extending that moment between lightning and thunder.
I checked my watch and walked over to the gingham-covered tables. If I ate fast, I could still get back to Eleanor. There was an open seat next to the old guy everyone called the Polish Prince. He was circling names on the betting sheet, slashing through others.
He looked at my food. “That stuff will kill you.”
“Aunt Eleanor already told me.”
“She would.”
He glanced up at the screen, waiting for the race to start, and I bowed my head to give silent grace, then unwrapped the first sandwich. One hundred percent pure American grease, God bless it. I took my first bite as the starting bell rang and looked up to see the gates bursting open and horses leaping out.
“What the—?” The Polish Prince stood up.
Five horses splashed down the muddy track. But the camera flashed back to the starting gate. Three horses hadn’t left, but one was jumping out. A bay horse. A second—black as night—reared inside its small space, then leaped like it was clearing a hurdle.
But the third horse . . .
I stood up.
The Polish Prince looked at me, pointing at the television. “Hey, ain’t that your aunt’s horse?”
Despite the wide-open gate, SunTzu refused to move. The jockey was whipping his crop, over and over. But the horse stood like a statue. Standing in the saddle, the jockey whipped some more. The horse stumbled forward.
But suddenly the camera returned to the race. The announcer was calling the front runners. When it returned to the gate, SunTzu had taken several steps, ponderous as a Clydesdale. His head was drooping and the jockey stood again, yanking on the reins. But the horse was already coming down fast, crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been slashed. And in one horrifying second I realized the jockey was stuck. He was trying to get his foot out of the stirrup. The animal listed to one side, going down, taking the rider with him. And pinning him underneath.
I ran for the door.
Chapter Eight
It’s Brenna Beauty running ahead of—of—of—” The announcer stuttered through the race, and I ran down the backstretch, jumping over puddles. “In the back, far back, we have, uh, uh—”
A crowd was gathering at the white rail fence, streaming from the grandstands, pointing across the infield to the starting gate. At the front end of the backstretch, a security guard stood at the gate that led to the oval. His green rain poncho was soaked and he held a walkie-talkie to his ear. I lifted my owner’s badge, panting.
“That horse.” Every breath feeling like a knife in my ribs. “That horse belongs to my aunt.”
He shook his head and pointed the radio’s antenna over my shoulder.
I turned around. A white van careened down the backstretch, heading straight for the gate.
“Nobody gets out there before the vet.”
A dented fender hung from the van’s grill like a drunken grin, and despite the rain, its side panel door was wide open. Behind the wheel, a man punched the horn, blasting people out of his way. Doc Madison. The vet.
Just before the van reached the gate, the guard pulled back the metal barrier. The van headed for the dirt oval.
And I jumped in front of it.
“Hey!” the guard yelled. “What’re you doing?!”
Planting my Ferragamos, I stretched out both arms. The pain in my side almost doubled me over. But I heard the brakes squeal. The van skidded into a puddle. Whipped forward on its rollers, the side door slammed shut with a bang. I stared at the old man behind the cracked windshield. He looked murderous. I ran forward and placed one hand on the hood, gritty with dirt.
“That’s a Hot Tin horse out there,” I hollered. “I need to go with you.”
The vet bared yellow teeth.
Keeping one hand on the hood, I scooted to the passenger side and jumped into the seat. It was covered with newspapers, so dry they crackled when I sat down. The vet hit the gas before my door was closed and shot past the guard, still holding the gate open. I felt a bump as we left the pavement. The vet clunked the gearshift into low. Wet soil splatted the undercarriage like strafing gunfire.
“You ever get in the way again,” the vet growled, “I’ll euthanize you.”
He was a large man, in his late sixties, with a full head of pale curly hair that looked like it might once have been red. His fleshy face carried a small nose and mouth and lucent blue eyes. A Celtic face. And right now, a face that looked one beat away from an aneurysm. The meaty hands gripping the steering wheel jerked back and forth as he plowed down the turf.
“Radio!”
“Pardon?”
He took one hand off the wheel and pointed at the floor, at my feet. “Give me the radio!”
I didn’t see it but kicked through another mound of newspapers and greasy paper bags from fast food restaurants until my foot touched something hard. I picked up the black radio. He yanked it out of my hand and pressed his thumb into the side button.
“This is Doc Madison. I want blue screens! On the track—pronto!”
He threw the radio to the dashboard, where it slid down to the cracked windshield. With each crooked swipe of the wipers, I saw more people streaming out of the grandstands. They stood two- and three-deep along the rail, oblivious to the rain, while the track’s security force tried to contain them.
Swerving to a fishtailed stop, the vet jumped out. We were fifteen yards from the starting gate and the bay horse that had jumped out first now pranced in agitated circles. Two men tried to grab her dangling reins—the jockey and a tall, lanky guy who moved like a goofy rodeo clown.
The vet headed straight for SunTzu.
Climbing out of the van, I tried to
take a mental photograph of the scene. It had a simple horrifying focus. Like a drawing by a traumatized child. A man riding a horse. But everything was happening in a one-dimensional plane. On the ground, the jockey’s torso rose perpendicular to the colossal horse, while his legs disappeared under the saddle.
“Radio!” the vet yelled.
I turned back automatically, grabbing it from where it was wedged between dash and cracked glass. The vet snatched it from my hand again and pressed the button.
“Brent! Where are you? Get over to the starting gate—pronto!”
His barrel chest was heaving, his large face florid, as he waited for a reply. When I finally heard the assistant vet’s reply, his voice sounded calm. Studiously calm. Like he knew the vet needed steadying.
“I’m getting my—”
The old man cut him off. “I don’t care what you’re doing. We need an ambulance. I don’t see the track’s EMT out here. Something must’ve happened in the stands. Call 911—now!”
Brent replied, something about the equine ambulance on its way, but the vet shoved the radio at me. And I wasn’t listening either because the jockey was staring at the rain, unblinking.
His riding helmet was still clasped to his head, the chin strap cinched for a race that never came. But his head was rattling from side to side with the spasms in his neck. His Moorish skin was turning a sickly yellow.
“Son.” The vet moved toward him carefully, like somebody approaching a land mine. “Just hold still. Help is coming. Ayuda. Coming.”
The rain pinged the man’s dark eyes. But the jockey didn’t blink.
“Son?”
The lanky man resembling a rodeo clown rushed toward the vet. His emerald-green vest with the track’s gold emblem hung askew. “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Everything looked normal. So I hit the buzzer. But the horses, the horses. They wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”
The vet pushed him aside and began waving his arms. Four green trucks tore down the turf from the backstretch. The vet pointed at the white rail and the trucks swerved toward the infield, coming to a stop. A dozen men wearing maintenance coveralls jumped out, then pulled long PVC pipes from the truck beds, carrying them to the rail and stabbing the spiked ends into the soil. Another pipe was attached, and when they drew it away, a blue curtain unfurled, at least twelve feet high. The grandstands disappeared from view.
The Stars Shine Bright Page 5
