The Sea Horse Trade

by Sasscer Hill

  “Thirteen years ago. I had a—a baby.” Her words rushed now. “I gave her up for adoption.”

  “What?” This came out of nowhere.

  “You heard me. A baby girl. I gave her away.”

  I heard a small sob. “Oh, my God, Carla.” Why was she telling me this?

  “It’s not something I’m proud of, Nikki. I was only fifteen, still in high school. The father was a jerk, wanted me to abort. I would never do that.”

  “But you gave her away?” The words slipped out before I thought about them. I knew what it was to be motherless. That Carla had done this to her own child lit a flame in my stomach.

  “What the hell is with your attitude, Nikki? You’re lucky you didn’t get pregnant at fifteen. Maybe you’d like to have given up being a jockey and everything else to raise a child!”

  I’d never heard her so angry, and I deserved it. The woman had been a mentor to me, taken me under her wing, like Jim. It wasn’t as if she’d abandoned the baby. Get a grip, Nikki. This isn’t about you.

  “I’m sorry, Carla. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Have you found her?” I asked to fill the icy silence. But Carla wasn’t having it and hung up. Good play, Nikki.

  My mother had died when I was thirteen, leaving me in the care of the monster she’d married not long before her death. I’d been left with some serious issues about abandonment.

  The phone made its robot-tapping-a-tin-can sound. I answered.

  “If you really want to know,” Carla said. “I almost found her.”

  “You almost found her? What happened?”

  “I hired a private detective. He found her family in Florida—in Boca. I was going to meet her soon.”

  She stopped like she’d hit a road block, and I waited.

  “Her name’s…Jade. She’s only thirteen. I just found out that her parents, the Paulsons, are dead. The police think it was a burglary that went bad, and Jade is missing. I’m coming down there. I have to find her! You have to help me!”

  “Jesus, Carla…of course. But how do you know she’s—”

  “She’s alive, I know it, and one of her girlfriends swears she saw Jade in Hollywood last night.”

  “Hollywood, Florida?” Holy shit. I gripped the phone so tight I thought my fingers might snap. “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t even know that.” She paused a beat. “Have you heard something?”

  I exhaled slowly, and chose my words carefully. “No, I don’t know anything. It’s just that Hollywood is right up the road from Gulfstream. She could be…she could be here.”

  She could be dead.

  * * * *

  After we disconnected, I sat on the bed staring at the wall, my mind like a mill grinding the same thoughts out over and over again.

  I shouldn’t have been so hard on Carla. She’d had it tough, too. Her father had gotten involved with another woman when Carla was only sixteen, not long after she’d given up the baby. What a guy.

  Then she’d lost her mother to cancer. Both of us were motherless—a shared emptiness that had bound us a bit tighter.

  Scrambling off the bed, I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. My nap had left me disturbed by vague dreams, and I felt stale and queasy. The story about Jade had left me reeling. I stripped and stepped into the tub again. Even though I’d washed the girl’s blood away earlier, I had an overwhelming need to soap up, scrub, and let the hot water pour over me.

  After pulling on clean street clothes and fluffing my hair with mousse, I grabbed my new cell and accompanying manual. The names and numbers I could remember I programmed into speed dial, then called Carla back to ask her about her travel plans.

  She sounded hurried and nervous. “I’ve booked a US Air flight for tomorrow afternoon. It gets in at 1:30. I’m staying at the Diplomat Hotel. Apparently it’s close to you. Can you pick me up at the airport?”

  “Sure.” I wanted to tell her to calm down, but knew it was pointless.

  After ending the call, I reached Jim.

  “It’s me,” I said. “You still coming down with the horses day after tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Things okay?”

  “Not exactly. Maldonista’s horses showed up this morning. The colt’s a bad actor. He almost killed a guy.”

  “Killed a guy?”

  I explained about Diablo. “Did you know about this?”

  “Would’ve told you if I did.”

  Of course he would have. Jim had looked out for me since he’d discovered me as a young runaway hiding in a stall. He’d given me a job as a hotwalker, and when he saw I had a gift with horses, he’d believed in me, taught me to be an exercise rider, and finally helped me get a jockey’s license.

  He broke the silence. “Horse didn’t hurt you did he?”

  “No,” I said. “But what do you know about these three horses? I thought you’d be here before they showed up. I don’t know anything about them. Don’t even know if I can get that colt saddled tomorrow.”

  There was another brief silence. Then he said, “Maldonista was supposed to send me a packet of information. Hasn’t come yet, but all three won stakes in Argentina. You know I verified that.”

  I did. Under normal circumstances, Jim would never race at Gulfstream. Competition at the Florida track was too tough. The old trainer was shipping down his two best turf horses, and even with them, he’d have to pick his spots. Maldonista’s horses must have looked pretty good for him to uproot like this. He’d have to travel back and forth between Florida and Maryland, too.

  “You got their papers?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But—”

  “Here’s what I can tell you. You’ve got that three-year-old colt, Diablo Valiente, a four-year-old filly named La Bruja—”

  “What does La Bruja mean?” I asked.

  “Look it up. Then the other filly, Imparable. She’s a four-year-old sprinter. La Bruja and Diablo like to go long. When I get more, I’ll either call or bring it with me.”

  Jeez, Jim was in a rare mood. Always spare with words, today he was one step short of rude.

  “Are you okay, Jim?”

  “Don’t like that guy sending his horses in early. He’s got a place somewhere in South Florida, but I don’t have a number for it. Got one of those phones that blocks the ID. Have to wait for him to call me.”

  “Oh.” I knew Maldonista had paid a month’s day-rate in advance. For some trainers it was all they’d need to know. But Jim wasn’t like that.

  “Don’t worry, Nik, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Jim disconnected. He had enough to deal with. I wouldn’t tell him about the girl.

  CHAPTER 7

  Shoving the phone into my tote, I stepped outside and let the door swing shut behind me. The sunlight had faded on the back side of the motel, and the temperature was falling. The empty lot beyond the small paved drive lay deep in shadow.

  On my left, the door to the next room stood open about six inches. A slack chain hung across the opening on the inside. I glanced at the room’s window. Crushed between the glass and yellowing Venetian blinds, a row of potted cacti and tall snake plants lined the inside ledge.

  A dark calico cat with demented green eyes squeezed out through the gap in the doorway. She stiffened, then pounced, and a lizard fled up the wall, its colorful stripes illuminated by a fluorescent fixture hanging overhead.

  The cat swiveled her head to look at me, her pupils such narrow vertical lines I didn’t see how she could focus on anything. I’d had to leave my part-Persian feline in Maryland. Though he was staying with friends who doted on him, with a pang I realized how much I missed him.

  The calico lifted her head and emitted a deep yowl that made me take a step back. She must be unhappy about that escaped lizard.

  “Scat! Stop that caterwauling.” An elderly woman rattled the chain loose and swung the door wide. She stepped onto the concrete walk, wearing a
black nylon track suit. She had straight, chin-length gray hair and a widow’s hump, but her eyes were bright and interested.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Nikki.”

  “My, you’re young.” She looked me up and down. “I’m Stella, and this is Scat the Cat.” Stella glanced at Scat and shook her head. “She’s a real operator. Snuck in one day when we was eating tuna fish sandwiches. Lou here,” she gestured inside the room and I spotted an old man lying on a quilt-covered bed, “went and gave her a bite.”

  “If I hadn’t, you would have,” he said, working to sit up against a pile of pillows.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Stella said.

  “It’s somewhere.” Lou looked at me and broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Say, you want a beer?”

  “Maybe later.” I edged away. Good to have friendly neighbors, but I didn’t see myself sitting on a bed drinking beer with Lou. “Nice to meet you, Stella. Lou.”

  I beat it past the row of rooms to my right, down three steps, and onto the pavement running along the back of the motel. Several small businesses with store fronts next to the motel’s lobby had rear entrances here. Small signs advertised a hairdresser, Harry’s Gym, and a tiny French bistro.

  The warm smell of baking bread and cinnamon drifted around me as my phone rang. Now what?

  “It’s Jim,” he said when I answered. “Mello’s been having one of his ‘I knows things’ spells, and I had to promise him I’d call you.”

  Suddenly nervous, I glanced around, not liking this deserted side of this motel. Mello, the old black groom in Maryland, had a touch of the second sight, and I could guess what Jim was going to say next.

  “I’m in danger, right?”

  “He wants you to call some distant cousin of his down there in Hollywood. A woman named Klaire. Said she spoke to him in a dream last night.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said.

  “You know how he is, Nik.”

  “Yeah.” I knew, and it gave me the creeps. Thing was, Mello had been dead on more than once. I picked up my pace and headed for the lights on Hallandale Beach Boulevard.

  “He says you need to talk to her.”

  Oh, boy. “What’s her number?”

  Jim read out a number, we disconnected, and I saved the number into my new phone before I forgot it. I’d call this person later. It was past time to move to the safety of the lighted street.

  I hurried through an opening in a chain-link fence and onto the sidewalk of Hallandale Beach Boulevard. I only needed to make sure the horses had been fed, and that they’d settled in and were happy.

  Traffic whizzed by in both directions. Night had set in, but plenty of people still walked along the boulevard, some carrying plastic grocery bags, some spiffed up for an evening out.

  Heading toward Gulfstream, I saw the bus stop shelter a block ahead. A piece of yellow tape waved in the breeze of passing cars. My feet became leaden and I realized I’d stopped moving. Was the girl’s blood still there?

  I crossed the street. Keep moving, you have to get past it.

  But what if she’d been Carla’s daughter?

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, I arrived at Gulfstream before six. Low clouds scudded over the Hallandale Beach area, and a sea breeze chased after the warmth created by little bursts of sunshine. Warm in January. I still couldn’t get over it.

  Several doves of a type I’d never seen before perched on the roof of a nearby barn, their calls forlorn and unfamiliar. The mile-oval track opened for training at six, and a few horses with exercise riders aboard walked along the dirt aisle in barn number two. No doubt a brief warmup before they followed one of the paths leading to a racetrack entrance.

  Eight hours of sleeping like I’d been in a coffin had put some life back into me and I was humming a Maroon 5 tune as I stepped onto our shedrow in barn three.

  A dark haired man of medium height, probably in his forties, stood a few feet from Diablo’s stall. I approached him from the side and felt that little thrill I get at the first sight of an exceedingly handsome man. Smooth olive skin, a well proportioned nose and jaw, and a dark eye with thick lashes. Something about his profile suggested a man used to commanding respect.

  The heavy, linked gold around his neck would probably have paid for my by-the-week motel for years. I bet his white shirt, black pants, and reptile patterned shoes didn’t come from Walmart, either.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “This is Mr. Ravinsky’s barn. May I help you with something?”

  He turned, revealing an angry red-and-white scar, long and jagged, through the outside corner of his right eye. His lower lid drooped and fluid leaked from the corner.

  As he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eye, I tried not to stare. He put the kerchief back, and smiled, revealing strong, even teeth. He stepped toward me and held out his hand.

  “I am Currito Maldonista. I see someone takes good care of my horses. You?”

  “Yes,” I said, and told him my name.

  His handshake was firm and quick, but his dark eyes studied me a bit too long for comfort. Stepping back, I returned his smile. Poor guy, he must hate the inevitable reaction to his appearance.

  By now it was six a.m. and Orlando, ready for duty and right on time, appeared around the corner of our barn. His steps slowed as he took in Maldonista’s disfigured eye. Or maybe the gold necklace caught Orlando’s attention. His own hair was pulled into a ponytail, revealing the gold flash of all four of his earrings. I introduced him to Maldonista, handed him the key to the feed room, and told him to get started. Before he unlocked the door, Orlando turned back for another look at the newcomer.

  “Mr. Maldonista,” I said. “Tell me about Diablo.”

  The man’s face lit up. “A powerful colt. Very swift. But you must call me Currito, and I may call you Nikki, yes?”

  “Sure,” I said, hoping for more information.

  Currito turned, and we both looked into Diablo’s stall. The horse stood with his massive hind end facing us, his head busy with his hay rack that hung in the corner.

  “He has the fire,” Currito said.

  Straight from Hell. I forced a bright tone. “Yes, and he’s a stakes winner.”

  Currito’s eyes glowed with pride, but I found the right one extremely unnerving. I tried to focus on his mouth and failed. Damn. It looked like someone had gone after him with a knife. Yet the light in his eyes was a light I knew. This man loved his horses.

  Warming to his subject, Currito relayed a race by race tale of Diablo’s prowess, finishing with, “So, you see, to be a true champion, he must run here. He must conquer the great American horses.”

  Diablo had come to the right place, but Currito hadn’t answered questions about the simple stuff, like how was I supposed to get the colt saddled and out on the track?

  “Currito, does Diablo pony?”

  “Pony?”

  “Will he allow a rider on another horse to lead him? To the starting gate, for instance?”

  “But of course. You must be sure to use a gelding.”

  Did he think I’d use a filly with his horny devil? Smiling, I nodded. I’d learned the hard way that some owners didn’t want to hear anything negative about their horse. You had to work around it, and until I knew more about Currito, I didn’t want to risk angering him and cause Jim to lose this opportunity.

  Diablo shifted from the corner, moved to the stall gate, and shoved his head out. Currito murmured something to the horse in Spanish, but didn’t attempt to touch the colt.

  I hadn’t had a chance to study the horse the day before. Fierce, intelligent eyes stared at me from above the bold curve of a Roman nose.

  “We had some difficulty with him yesterday…” I left it vague, hoping Currito would fill in the gap.

  “You cannot fight him. He will battle you to the death.” Currito nodded knowingly. “You must persuade him.”

  “Or outsmart him,” I said.

  “
Exactly!” He smiled at me. “You will be good with him, I see that.”

  I didn’t, but kept it to myself.

  “So, he will go to the track now?” The man’s expression was childlike in its eagerness.

  “After he’s had some breakfast,” I said.

  Currito appeared disappointed and I thought I might have seen a little tick in his right eye. He glanced at his gold wristwatch.

  “I have an appointment. Perhaps tomorrow I can see them train?”

  “We’ll be here,” I said.

  Currito pulled for his kerchief and dabbed at his eye, then slid on a pair of sunglasses with an interlocking crystal G on the frames. Guccis. He gave me a formal nod and strode away.

  An interesting man. But who had cut him? And why?

  CHAPTER 9

  Orlando poured grain into two feed tubs and set them in the fillies’ stalls. As the taller of the two fillies, Imparable, dug into her breakfast, I removed her water bucket, rinsed it out and refilled it to the brim. I stared into the swirling water and blinked suddenly. For a moment, I’d swear the glimmering eye of the sea horse appeared beneath the surface.

  “Nikki, you spill water!” Orlando said, giving me an odd look.

  “Sorry.” Before I could shut the hose off, water splashed over the rim, down the front of my jeans and eddied in the dirt at my feet. I took a breath. Stop thinking about the dead girl. At least Currito hadn’t stayed around for my water bucket performance.

  I looked at Orlando. “What does La Bruja mean?” I asked.

  “La Bruja. It mean the witch.”

  “Oh.” I glanced over at Diablo, who glowered at me from his stall. How nice. A witch and a devil, just what every barn needs.

  Impatient for breakfast, Diablo pawed at his straw bedding, stirring dust into the air.

  “I’ll get to you in a minute.”

  I stared at the rubber pan still lying in the straw at his feet. How would I remove it? When a brilliant plan failed to materialize, I focused on our equipment problem. Our tack wouldn’t arrive until the two Maryland horses shipped in the next day, but we had to ride these horses today.

  “Do you think you could borrow a couple of saddles and bridles?” I asked Orlando.