The Sea Horse Trade

by Sasscer Hill

  I might recognize a Chinese or Vietnamese accent, but Chakri’s was unknown territory. I gave him my best fake smile.

  “Is racing popular where you’re from?”

  “Not really, no.” He turned to Currito. “We should go.”

  “You must pardon Tau,” Currito said. “He just flew in from Bangkok, and is eager to attend to business.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I need to get La Bruja out, anyway.” I spotted the smaller filly-bridle hanging outside Imparable’s stall and moved to grab it.

  “Nikki, wait. There’s a matter I need to discuss.”

  I was really short on time, but turned back to Currito with my expression set on pleasant-mode.

  “The jockey’s agent called me,” Currito said. “Eduardo is in the hospital. Crushed ribs, a dislocated shoulder.” Currito paused, and studied me a moment. “You would not have been my first pick to ride Diablo.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “But after the way you handled the…situation this morning—”

  Situation? Eduardo and I could have been killed!

  “…I want you to ride him in the race.”

  His words caught me off guard.

  “Um, really? I mean, that’s great. I’d love to ride him!”

  Wow, a ride on a really good horse. Who might kill me in the gate.…

  Currito pulled a fancy stopwatch from his coat pocket. “Diablo worked five furlongs in fifty-nine and three. He went the last furlong in eleven flat! He will get the bullet!”

  I understood Currito’s excitement. This was a really good horse! The best dirt horse I’d ridden. Working five-eighths of a mile in under a minute was excellent. If he got the bullet on the charts, it meant he’d run the fastest five-eighths of any horse working that distance at Gulfstream that day, and—

  “So,” Currito said. “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  I could feel Chakri’s stare. A weird light in his eyes intensified as if feeding off my excitement. I shrugged, grabbed the bridle, and double-timed it to La Bruja’s stall, anxious to escape Chakri’s creepy gaze.

  * * * *

  When I returned to the barn after galloping La Bruja—a spooky, long-striding gray filly with plenty of stamina—Currito and his buddy were gone.

  Orlando, with a little help from a groom named Afilio—the guy who had scrounged up feed and hay that first morning when Currito’s horses had arrived—had the barn spic and span. Imparable had been put away, and Diablo was bathed and walking the shedrow.

  I handed La Bruja over to Orlando and sighed, almost content. We’d gotten through the morning and were establishing a nice rhythm to our routine.

  Around me, the scent of sea water, the tang of horse liniment, and the sweet smell of molasses floated in the warm air. I wanted to lie down on a hay bale and sleep forever. But I had to feed and—

  Carla strode around the corner in silver designer sneakers, shrink wrapped in a sleeveless black top and matching capri-length pants. She didn’t have any of those don’t-look-at-me-I’m-having-a-bad-day ensembles like other gals.

  “Nikki!” She closed the gap between us, silver hoops swinging from her ears. “George called. A contact in the Boca Raton police department got a hit on Jade and an agency called White Sand Careers.”

  “What kind of agency?”

  “They do career development for women—like marketing, modeling, and name branding,” Carla said. “Jade’s name was on their applicant list. “I have to go there, see what I can find out. Today. Now. Will you come with me?”

  This sounded like a good lead. Color flushed Carla’s face and purpose pumped her body. This was the old Carla, and I was glad to see it. She’d done so much for me. I couldn’t turn her down. Maybe I could ask Orlando—

  The noise of a motor interrupted my thoughts. Jim Ravnisky drove his Ford pickup truck and trailer toward our barn. Now? As he got closer I could see how tired he was. Had he always looked so old? His hair beneath his cap so gray?

  I had to help him with his horses. And make sure the bandages were washed and hung to dry. The tack cleaned, the water buckets topped off. The shedrow wet down with spray to settle the dust. I twisted the ring on my finger until it burned.

  “Carla,” I said, pointing at the truck, “that’s Jim. I have to help him unload and stuff.”

  “Oh,” Carla said, and some of the energy drained from her face.

  “I’ll go with you a little later. I just can’t right now.”

  “I could really use your support,” she said, her expression starting to tighten.

  “Carla, I’m sorry—”

  Her lips parted and she held up one hand. “My daughter’s not waiting on your schedule.”

  “Carla, let me talk to Jim. Maybe—”

  “Forget it! I shouldn’t have wasted time coming to ask you.” She turned and stalked down the long shedrow aisle.

  I started after her, but Orlando stepped out of a nearby stall, blocking my path.

  “Is Imparable,” he said. “She got heat in her leg. You wan’ to look before I put the bandage?”

  All that riding her in circles behind the starting gate. Had I injured her leg?

  “Cold-hose it for 20 minutes,” I said to Orlando. “If there’s heat in the tissue, we have to get it out before it does more damage.”

  Orlando gave me a “who doesn’t know that” eye-roll as I heard the creak of Jim’s truck door. He climbed out of the cab. And now I had to tell him his new owner’s horse was injured?

  “Jim,” I called, “you’re here just in time. Can you look at Imparable’s leg before we do her up?” I referred to the liniment, poultice, and support bandaging we still needed to put on her legs.

  “Yeah.” The lines on his face creased sharply. He knew I wouldn’t ask him to look at the filly’s leg unless something was wrong.

  Just then, Carla, her back stiff with anger, reached the far end of the shedrow and disappeared around the corner of the barn.

  Sometimes I hated my life.

  CHAPTER 18

  Later that morning, Jim and I sat at a laminated tabletop in the “kitchen” at Gulfstream Park eating an early lunch. Jim worked on a burrito smothered in salsa, while I munched on a grilled cheese.

  Like all track kitchens—or cafes—this one was doing a brisk trade, the Latinos behind the counter baking tortillas, stirring pots of chili, rice, and refried beans. On the grill, hamburgers sizzled, and fries crisped in the hot oil vat nearby. Yogurt, salads, and cold sandwiches lay behind fogged-over glass in a refrigerated case.

  I’d just brought Jim up to date about Currito and his three horses, and one question niggled at me. “It wasn’t your decision to put Diablo in that allowance race so soon, was it?”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so.” I took a sip of cold water.

  He frowned, brows drawing closer. “Sure you want to ride him, Nik? I can put somebody else on him.”

  Jim had always looked out for me; he knew I could get hurt on Diablo. But I didn’t want to ruffle Currito’s feathers. The Colombian could pull his horses in a second. There were plenty of other trainers at Gulfstream. Top ones, too. Riding a horse like Diablo was a hell of an opportunity for me. And we needed the income.

  “Yeah, I’ll ride him.”

  Jim nodded. After we finished, he pushed his chair back.

  “How did you find this Currito Maldonista guy, anyway?” I asked.

  Jim hesitated a moment. “Friend of a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  He emptied his water bottle, then stacked it on his plate with his plastic knife and fork. He fidgeted with his napkin, wiping some crumbs into a pile.

  “Jim, what friend?

  “Amarilla knows a guy who knows Maldonista.”

  “Well that’s a great reference. Most of her buddies are in jail.”

  I’d met and last seen Amarilla when I’d worked a meet at Virginia’s Colonial Downs. I’d nicknamed her Yellow Jacket, bec
ause of her stinging personality and her fondness for yellow clothing.

  Jim pushed his pile of trash to one side, pursing his lips. I could tell he was getting nervous. “She paid her bills, Nikki. You won good money riding her horses.”

  Hard to argue with that. We’d both made money, and deadbeat owners are no fun. At least Amarilla wasn’t one of those.

  “Yeah. But who was the other connection? Anyone I know?”

  “Doubt it. Fellow named Anthony DeSilvio.”

  “What? I met him. He’s an arrogant piece of crap. Thinks women exist to please him!”

  The way Jim was tapping his lip with one finger made me suspect he knew more about DeSilvio then he was letting on.

  “Nikki, what’s eating you? Has Maldonista done something?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s fine. He really loves that colt. He’s been nice to me.”

  “Then what?”

  I didn’t want to involve Jim in Carla’s problems with her daughter, or for that matter, me with a murdered girl at my feet. I looked about the room, searching for a little white lie. The glass doors opened and Orlando walked in.

  “Hey, there’s our new groom,” I said. “He’s working out great.” I waved him over and introduced him properly to Jim. We’d all been like high-speed launches passing each other in the shedrow earlier. I didn’t think they’d done more than nod at each other.

  Orlando flipped his long hair back, and the sun shining through the glass doors lit the gold in his ears. His white teeth flashed above his moustache.

  “Mr. Ravinsky, I am honored to meet you. Nikki is good assistant, but is better to have a man in charge.”

  His moustache twitched. Was he smirking?

  “You know,” I said, “it’s a relief for me, too. It’s been tough not having a man around until now.” I smiled at Orlando.

  * * * *

  Outside my motel room, I set my plastic grocery bag down and worked my fingers into the inside pocket of my tote for my key. Next door, where Stella and Lou lived, the door opened as wide as the inside chain would allow, and Scat the Cat flew out the opening in a flash of orange-and-black fur.

  I needed a quick nap, didn’t feel like talking to anyone, and pushed my key into the lock before Stella or Lou unlatched that chain and came out. I slung my tote over my shoulder, but before I could grab the grocery bag, Scat sidled over and bumped it with her forehead.

  “Stop that.”

  I grabbed the bag before the cat could knock over the sea horse box I’d carefully placed inside, sitting atop a loaf of bread, three oranges, and two cans of tuna fish. Could the cat smell fish inside a sealed can? I opened my door; she darted into the room.

  “I’m not sharing,” I said. “Forget about it.”

  After putting the groceries away, I scooped up Scat and set her outside my room. Her tail twitched, and she threw me a resentful stare.

  “Check back later,” I said, and closed the door.

  A reflection from the sea horse box drew me to where I’d left it on the small kitchenette table. I picked the box up and turned it slowly. I traced the starfish and shells on the sides with my finger and looked for a way to get in.

  This was stupid. This Klaire character had to be a charlatan. How could a box help me find Jade, or help Carla? A jab of guilt prodded me. I should have gone with Carla, but then I would have left Jim to do my work. I grabbed my phone and tried to reach her for the third time since she left that morning, but again it went straight to voice mail.

  I carried the box to the bed, where I set it next to me before stretching out and closing my eyes.

  * * * *

  I woke up with a narrow shaft of sunlight on my face. The beam had slipped through the crack between the window frame and the closed blinds as the sun slanted toward evening. The digital clock said three p.m. I’d slept for almost two hours. When I stretched and sat back against the headboard, the wood frame bumped the blinds and freed a slice of light to illuminate the sea horse box. Vivid, and in suddenly bright relief, a seam on the side just below the lid revealed itself.

  I grabbed the box. After several frustrating attempts and a bad word or two, I discovered that by pressing on the starfish inlaid on the side, I could move the whole panel forward. A four inch, black velvet bag lay inside. Turning the box over in my hand, I shook it gently. The bag slipped into my palm and a tremor of apprehension zinged me. Maybe there was poison or something inside. Stop being ridiculous. I pried open the drawstrings at the top and dropped a carved figure onto my pillow.

  An exquisite jade mermaid clung to a rock as curling waves swirled around her, trying to sweep her away. This was no knickknack; the detail was incredible. I was certain if I touched her hair, my fingers would come away wet. Her skin would not be the cold of stone, but the cold of fear.

  I leaned over and stared at the young face. Her eyes were wistful, not yet without hope. Was this how I’d looked to Jim at 13 when he found me hiding in a stall in his barn at Pimlico?

  I stared into the stone face and felt my heart pounding. She looked like the murder victim.

  I scrambled off the bed, putting distance between myself and the mermaid. What if I’d opened the box with Carla in the car? I grabbed my phone and called her again. Once more it went straight to her voice mail.

  I paced the room with the phone for a moment, feeling anger build. Damn this Klaire woman. She’d set me up with this box business, and if she knew anything, she’d damn well better tell me!

  As I scrolled through my address list, my phone suddenly vibrated and rang so loud, I almost dropped it.

  “Carla?” I said.

  Slow and breathless, a voice said, “Your friend Carla is in trouble. You must help her.”

  “Is this Klaire?” I didn’t try to keep my tone civil. “Where are you? I have questions for you. I want to know—”

  “I will be right there,” Klaire said.

  “But you don’t know where—”

  A distinct click sounded in my ear. She’d disconnected. Damn it. I called her back and went straight to voice mail. Didn’t anyone answer their phone anymore?

  From across the room, the mermaid stared at me.

  CHAPTER 19

  Klaire drove us down the exit ramp of I-95 in her black Jaguar XF and headed into the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale. I’d never have guessed her rickety garage housed a fifty-thousand-dollar vehicle.

  Like the unexpectedly nice furniture in her house, the car furthered my suspicions she made plenty suckering people with hokey information and false hopes. But she’d known that Carla had gone to the White Sands modeling agency. Unless, of course, someone had told her.

  She hooked a sharp left, making her bronze-and-silver bracelets clink and her long beaded hair swing.

  Clutching onto the leather handle by my head, I said, “So you’re saying you had a vision of Carla at this White Sands place, and she was in some sort of trouble. Can you be more specific?”

  “I told you,” she said, swerving to avoid a Cadillac whose white-haired driver had stopped in the middle of an intersection for no apparent reason. “Things come to me in a powerful wave, and then they are gone. I know what I see in that instant, no more.”

  “Are we on a rescue mission at this White Sands or what?” I asked.

  “I told you, we will help your friend if we can. The vision was strong; she should be there.”

  Great, and I should be at the track soon. We passed alongside an industrial park with warehouses and boat-repair yards. Even here, palm trees sprouted from concrete planters and soared over the flat-roofed commercial buildings. I didn’t think it would be wise to ask Klaire again exactly what she’d seen. The most I’d gotten from her since I climbed into her car was “Carla frightened, Carla grabbed by a man, Carla taken away.”

  If I wasn’t so spooked by the recent events in Florida, I wouldn’t have given two dead flies for Klaire’s “vision.” Or her suggestion I find a sea horse box.

  I blinked and gav
e myself a mental head slap. I’d been so busy trying to worm information from her, I’d forgotten to mention the mermaid.

  “I found the sea horse box, Klaire. But you probably already know that, right?”

  “Yes. As soon as you opened it, I sensed your fear. I believe that prompted my vision of your friend, Carla. I told you finding the box would help.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. This is—”

  “And when you opened the box, you saw Jade.”

  “Jade? You’re saying Carla’s daughter is drowning in the ocean? You know what? This whole thing feels like a set up. Conveniently finding a carving that matches your vision about a girl in—”

  “Listen to me,” she said sharply as she turned the Jag into a long concrete driveway. “Maybe I tell people things they want to hear. It’s not hard, they give so much away when they are searching for answers. But I figure they might as well give their money to me, right?”

  Just like I’d thought. A charlatan. And now that she’d stepped out of her closet, she’d dropped the breathy, soothsayer voice.

  She glared at me. “Don’t look at me like that. Some people are happier—more at peace—if they can speak to a loved one on the other side. Fine, go ahead and roll those blue eyes. Believe you know everything.” She paused, as if to get control and spoke more softly.

  “But sometimes I do get visions. I can’t control them, I can’t make them come, they just do, especially when there is someone receptive involved—like you. Your mind is similar to a radio tower. You pass things on.”

  Oh great, now I was a radio tower.

  Up ahead, several two-story buildings blocked the horizon. One, stuccoed in a cream color, displayed a black-and-white sign—“White Sands Agency.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I get that sometimes you see things. But so what? Why are you helping us? I mean, what’s in it for you?”

  “Nikki,” she said, “I’ve seen your childhood, how you struggled to avoid wrong turns in the road. I…failed to avoid those turns.” She stopped speaking, and her hands gripped the steering wheel hard as she stared at the building ahead.

  A Broward County police cruiser was parked in front. A dark sedan with numerous short antennas sat next to it, and parked haphazardly before the entrance to the modeling agency was a big white van. “Broward County Vice Unit” was emblazoned on the side.