Hex: A Ruby Murphy Mystery

by Maggie Estep

  She gives a return smile and tells him, “Not tonight.”

  The guy nods and walks on past us.

  “Who’s that?” I ask Ruby.

  “Rite of Spring Man,” she tells me again, and leaves it at that. I don’t ask any more questions.

  We get back to Ruby’s. The cats, appeased by their raw meat, are off sleeping somewhere. I’m about to collapse onto the couch but Ruby takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom, closes the toilet lid and sits me down, then starts running steaming hot water in the tub. Apparently, after spending the day helping bathe a bunch of horses, she now wants to bathe me. And I can’t say I mind.

  I sit watching the water run as Ruby busies herself, bringing a shitload of candles, ripping open the bathroom cabinets and pulling out all sorts of strange bathing unguents.

  The tub’s almost full now, and I’m about to point this out to Ruby but she flits off again, and next thing I know, there’s music piping in from the living room. Very lovely piano music. My diabolically possessed hostess returns again to the bathroom, which is now so thick with steam that I can barely see her. Ruby makes me stand up. She starts peeling my clothing off. I apologize for my thinness and she grins a rueful grin, saying, “You look pretty damned good to me.”

  “Forgive the sci-fi appendage,” I say, indicating the feeding tube, an eight inch stretch of clear plastic tubing that I have to feed myself through when I’m too nauseous to eat. It sort of looks like a hard-on, actually. A long plastic hard-on. Thinking this makes me laugh a little, and Ruby, not sure what I’m laughing at, frowns up at me and orders me into the tub.

  I do as I’m told. And watch as my lovely friend takes her own clothes off, shimmying out of her tight skirt in a way that would give ninety-nine percent of the population a heart attack and is actually giving me some stirrings in the groin area.

  She gets in the tub behind me, wedging her legs around mine, her stomach and breasts pressing into my back. I would really like to fuck her. In theory. And then she starts bathing me. Rubbing unguent into me and sponging me down with a huge sponge that in fact looks like it could be used for horses, though I wouldn’t guess she’d be stealing stuff from work her first day on the job.

  A lot of time passes. Periodically, Ruby adds some hot water or dashes out of the bathroom and into the living room to put on a different CD. Eventually, when we’ve both long turned to prunes, she tells me to get out of the tub.

  She wraps me in a soft white towel and dries me. Tenderly.

  We go into the bedroom and get under the covers. I wrap my arms around her.

  The phone rings.

  “Phone,” I say in her ear.

  “The machine will get it.”

  A moment later, the voice of Ruby’s friend Jane comes floating out of the answering machine. “I’m sad. Speak to me,” the voice implores.

  “Talk to her,” I command my lovely friend.

  Ruby moans a little then dutifully throws off the covers and trots into the living room. I hear her pick up the phone and ask her friend what the matter is.

  I close my eyes and envision Jane naked. Though she keeps her black hair cropped short and wears modest, loose yogi clothes, Jane has a pronounced natural beauty and radiates understated eroticism. I’ve often imagined yanking down those loose yoga pants and giving her a little spanking.

  Thinking about this doesn’t get me anywhere, though. I empty my mind and just breathe, trying to feel as calm as possible.

  Eventually, Ruby comes back in, gets under the covers, and sighs heavily.

  “Something wrong with Jane?”

  “No no, she’s fine. Just the usual. Her husband’s upset because she’s proposing to go to India for three months to study with Guruji, live on shaved fruit, and shit into a hole in the ground. But they’ll work it out. The problem is Ariel. She called while I was on with Jane.”

  “Oh?” I prop up on my elbow and look at Ruby. “Anything good?”

  “No. Frank came over to her place and she said he seemed agitated. She didn’t know about what, though. Then she made me give her exacting details about that Little Molly person. Ariel wasn’t very happy about that. She wants me to stay at the track, find out whatever I can. Then she went on this long tirade about hybrid orchids.”

  “Who?” I say.

  “She breeds orchids or something and is in the middle of developing some new rare orchid. She talked about this fucking flower for ten minutes, telling me she’d invested most of the money her father left her in this orchid and how soon she’d be rich. Then she’ll pay me to follow Frank for the rest of our natural lives.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, you’ll be rich.”

  “I doubt that very deeply.”

  “You’ll buy us a horse.”

  “Yeah. Joe. Who hates racing. I’ll put him in the yard.”

  “You don’t have a yard.”

  “I know. I’ll get one.”

  “Okay. And now can we sleep?”

  Ruby agrees to this. She flicks off the light and spoons behind me. Sleep comes.

  Ruby Murphy

  17 / Ever Still

  I feel something wet and raspy on my face and wake up fully to find Lulu licking my forehead. I look over at the alarm clock and see it’s nearly time to get up. I remove Lulu from my head then get up slowly so as not to disturb Oliver—who’s sleeping on his back, mouth open, snoring a little.

  I pad into the living room, turning on the light and finding Stinky curled on the couch, blinking. It’s so early he doesn’t have an appetite yet. I tromp into the kitchen, make coffee, slap meat into the cats’ dishes, stuff a banana down my throat, then go back in the bedroom to quietly forage for clothes. I’m naked, about to slip into some durable unsexy cotton panties, when I hear whistling behind me. I turn to find Oliver staring at my nude ass.

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell him. “I’m leaving keys for you on the dresser. Lock up behind you. Or you can stay if you want. You want to?” I say, suddenly insecure, like he’s a new boyfriend I’m asking to move in. Naked.

  “Can I? I swear I won’t puke everywhere,” he says.

  “If I’m not back by six, will you feed the cats? You saw the whole routine last night, right? The meat? You just add a scoop of vitamins and maybe shred up some vegetables. It’s very easy. If you get stuck, go get Ramirez, he’ll make a big stink about it and tell you how much he hates cats but he’ll help.”

  Oliver stares at me like I’m a lunatic. Then smiles his small mischievous smile. He throws off the covers and follows me into the living room. I put on a heavy sweater and combat boots and stuff some things in my bag.

  Oliver kisses me good-bye. I go out into the hall and down the stairs two at a time, hauling my fatigued ass over to the subway.

  X

  BY MID-MORNING I’m soaked with sweat. We’re having the first hot day of the year, and horses, hotwalkers, grooms, and trainers alike are all wilting like exhausted flowers. Even the numerous cats and goats—who serve as barn mascots and sometimes friends to the horses—are lying low.

  I’m draping horse laundry on the clotheslines in front of the barn, bandages and rub rags that are drying almost the moment I put them out. My back hurts a little and I’m tired but I don’t feel horrible and I’m just contemplating sneaking off for a cigarette when Sebastian accosts me. “Give Joe a walk around the shedrow please,” he says, motioning at Joe’s stall.

  “Oh yeah?” I say, surprised. Joe will be racing this afternoon, and I figure there’s some very serious prerace protocol that I, as the new hotwalker, wouldn’t be ready to handle.

  “What’s the matter?” Sebastian frowns at me.

  “Nothing, nothing at all, I like Joe,” I say, like an idiot.

  “I heard.” Sebastian rolls his eyes then favors me with a small smile. Then, disgusted with himself for smiling, he says, “Don’t just stand there, get the horse. Walk him ten minutes then take him back to his stall.”

  I nod emphatically then go ov
er to the bay colt’s stall, where I stand for a minute, peering in at him. Joe nickers at me and I feel wildly pleased. I go in and put my face close to his nose. He blows on me then nuzzles my forehead, licking the salt from my sweat. I put his halter on, loop the shank over his nose, and lead him out into the aisle.

  The shedrow is very quiet and peaceful right now. One of the barn cats, Aloisius, a delicate orange beast that most of the horses seem to love, is asleep on top of a trunk. Joe very gently puts his nose down to sniff the cat, who opens his eyes, stretches, and stares at the colt.

  After visiting with Aloisius, Joe tries to stop in front of a gray mare’s stall, but I encourage him to keep walking as the mare pins her ears back and throws her head in the air, clearly not pleased at Joe’s attentions. Two roosters dart in our path, but Joe, who seems to know he’s racing today, is in a very focused frame of mind and just snorts perfunctorily, not letting it get to him.

  As we come to the other side of the shedrow, where the Murray brothers keep their string of claimers, a very small man wheeling a very large wheelbarrow full of manure asks me if I’d like to have his children.

  “No thanks,” I tell the guy.

  “What’s the matter, baby, you got something against Latin men?” he says.

  “No, just ugly men,” I say, immediately regretting it.

  The guy seems to like this, though. He laughs, then picks his wheelbarrow up and wheels it away.

  I bring Joe back to his stall. The colt goes in, turns around twice, then buries his nose in the ground, where his flake of hay should be. He truffles for a minute, and then, when he can’t seem to make any hay materialize, picks his head up and looks at me.

  “Sorry. You can’t go racing on a full stomach.” I shrug.

  Joe looks at me a moment longer then turns his hind end to me. I pick a piece of straw out of his tail and pat him on the rump. As I walk out of the stall, I notice Frank, emerging from a stall down the aisle. The blond man strides away purposefully. I look around, making sure no one’s watching, then follow him.

  He walks to the far reaches of the backstretch where a pair of abandoned barns stand. He disappears behind one of the empty barns. I walk closer to the empty barn then carefully peer around the corner. Frank is standing just a few feet in front of me, talking to Little Molly. The woman has her back to me, and Frank is staring down at her so intently he doesn’t notice me. I turn and go back to the front of the shambled barn, trying to figure out a way to eavesdrop.

  Most of the stall doors have fallen off or been ripped down. I walk into one of the ghostly stalls, reach in my pocket to turn the cell phone off, then put my ear to the wall. “… someone’s been following me, Frank,” Little Molly is saying.

  I glue my ear to the half-rotten planks, surprised to be overhearing something this dramatic.

  “I doubt that, Molly,” Frank is telling her.

  “You doubt that? What are you implying? I’m an idiot? you’re mixed up in a big fucking mess, Frank, and now you’re dragging me into it by default. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

  Now I’m really surprised. And slightly worried.

  “I’m getting out. I told you,” Frank is saying, “it’s going to take a little time. I wish you wouldn’t get so irrational.”

  “Irrational?” she screams. “You want to see irrational?

  Stone silence. Apparently Frank does not care to see irrational.

  “Say something, Frank,” Molly urges after a few moments.

  “There’s nothing to say. If you’re not happy, then that’s that.”

  Silence.

  “Christ, it’s almost one,” Molly says. I imagine her looking at her watch. “I gotta ride a fucking maiden filly in the third race.”

  Frank says nothing.

  “Can we talk about this?” Molly seems contrite now. “Will you meet me back here right after the eighth race?”

  There’s a grunting sound out of Frank. Then: “Okay.”

  The two then evidently walk away from their rendezvous spot. I wait a few minutes before emerging from the stall and turn my phone back on. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell Ariel. I head back to Gaines’s barn.

  I’m so distracted over the Frank and Molly drama that I walk straight into Ned. “Where are you going?” he says, catching me by the shoulders.

  I look up and blink.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, keeping his hands on my shoulders.

  “Matter? Nothing. Why?”

  He squints at me. Inspects me head to toe like I’m some well-built but difficult filly he’s got to figure out how to train. “Can you stick around this afternoon?” he asks after a moment. “We need extra help. Got horses racing. You mind?”

  “Oh. Sure,” I say, flattered, but also disappointed since I’m already exhausted.

  “Thanks. you’re doing a good job.” Ned grins at me. “Take a coffee break now if you want.”

  He pats me on the shoulder, grins again, then suddenly looks awkward and walks away. I stare after him.

  I jump when the phone chirps in my pocket. I take it out, flick the Talk switch, and greet Ariel.

  “Well, you’re right,” I say, cutting to the chase. “I think Frank is carrying on with that vicious apprentice jockey.”

  “What? What do you mean?” she asks, sounding very much like a woman on the edge.

  I relay Frank and Little Molly’s conversation.

  Ariel is quiet for a long time, and as I stand there allowing her this prolonged moment of silence, Arnold Gaines materializes and frowns at me. His radar has apparently picked up on the fact that one of his lowly workers is making phone calls on his time.

  “What are you doing?” he demands. “If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to pull your weight.” His chubby face is bunched up, making his small eyes disappear into pockets of fat.

  “I have to go,” I say into the phone.

  “Ruby, no!”

  “I’m going to get fired,” I say, and click off.

  I shove the phone in my pocket and look at Gaines.

  He is not an attractive man. There’s a light sheen of grease over his thin, mousy hair. His eyebrows are bushy and threatening. “You think we hired you to fuck around?” he snarls.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as genuinely as possible, even though I am rarely sorry for anything and every cell of my being wants to tell Gaines to fuck himself twice. I try to look humble and apologetic. Evidently with some success. He grunts—presumably accepting my apology—then skulks away.

  I stand there for a second, deliberating about calling Ariel back, until Sebastian appears, takes me by the elbow and leads me into the tack room. The skinny man tells me to run a sponge over Joe’s racing bridle then come hold Joe while he wraps his legs. I do as I’m told, carefully going over the bridle. I’m still inspecting it, making sure it’s perfect, when Sebastian hollers for me to get out there.

  “You gotta move faster around here, lady,” he tells me as he foists Joe’s lead shank at me.

  I talk to the colt, trying to keep him happy as Sebastian crouches down near Joe’s hind legs and starts meticulously pulling thin bandages around the legs. When he’s done with the bandaging, Sebastian stands up and pats the colt’s neck.

  “All right, Joe.” He stares into the colt’s right eye. “Be a racehorse for once, show us your stuff. You got it in ya.”

  Joe flicks his ears and shakes his head, as if agreeing.

  Ned and Gaines materialize and come over to inspect the colt. Gaines has a cigar stub propped in his mouth as he runs his hands over the colt’s wraps, double-checking Sebastian’s work. I watch Sebastian’s face tighten. Gaines straightens up, shoots a filthy look at the bunch of us and says, “Let’s go.”

  In the distance the track announcer calls the fifth race as we make a tense, hopeful procession up to the saddling paddock. I walk behind Sebastian and Joe. Gaines is behind me, barking at someone on his cell phone.

  We reach th
e paddock, where a dozen or so owners are standing around the statue of Secretariat, chatting idly, talking at their jockeys and trainers. A bony man in a dark suit detaches from this group and approaches Gaines.

  Ned leans close and, indicating the bony man, tells me his name is Duncan Munchinson, one of Joe’s owners—the only vocal one.

  “Total Jerk,” Ned says as we lead Joe into stall number seven and proceed with the prerace protocol.

  I stare with fascination and horror as Sebastian ties the colt’s tongue down—to prevent his swallowing it. I watch Ned put Joe’s saddle on and tighten the girth. Joe pins his ears back, nips at the air in front of him, and kicks once, just for show, not actually aiming at any of us humans.

  Sebastian leads Joe out of the stall and around the ring once, with the other horses. Then, as the paddock judge calls “Riders up,” Ned gives Joe’s jockey a leg up. The jockey, Louis Jimenez, is a prickly, self-assured man with crazy blue eyes. He gathers the reins and settles his diminutive rear end in the saddle.

  A few spectators are yelling out unwelcome suggestions to some of the riders. The only comment addressed to Jimenez and Raging Machete is an encouraging, “You gonna wake that nag up, Jimenez?” from a middle-age fat woman in a baby blue sweat suit.

  I head inside, to the grandstand, weaving my way through packs of dissolute-looking individuals. I go to a betting window and smile at the clerk as I put twenty to win on Joe.

  “Good luck, kid,” he tells me.

  I tuck my betting slip in my pocket then head over to the rail where Sebastian is standing, Joe’s halter looped over his shoulder.

  “I put money on him,” I tell Sebastian.

  “I didn’t,” Sebastian says grimly.

  It’s a short race—six furlongs—and the starting gate is on the far side of the track, difficult to see from where we’re standing. I tell Sebastian I’m going inside to watch on the video screen. He grunts noncommittally, not seeming to care if I fall through a hole in the earth.

  I plant myself among the other spectators, craning my neck up to the immense screen, staring transfixed at the horses loading into the gate. Though one chestnut colt is making a big fuss, Joe is completely poised, amiably letting one of the assistant starters lead him into chute number seven.