by Jory Strong
Goddamn if she wasn’t twisting him all around inside. “Lead on, darlin’.”
Taking a deep shuddering breath, Cady headed toward the grandstand.
They rounded the corner and came to a stop at the sight of the protest in front of them—well, “protest” might be too strong a word. Three women were sitting down, headphones on, listening to music and playing cards. Two others, one man, one woman, were carrying signs that read “End the Race” and “Stop the Exploitation”.
“Reckon they’re protesting in shifts? The three sitting down sure look like they’re on break.”
Cady couldn’t resist saying, “That’s what I thought, too. I’m glad to see that you can think about something besides sex.”
Kix chuckled. “You mean put the big head to use?” He leaned over and brushed his lips against the skin beneath her ear. “Be careful, darlin’. I have a long memory and I’m a believer in seeing justice served—even if it means I’ve got to mete out the punishment myself.”
Cady tried to squelch the erotic images that his threat conjured up—but enough of them got through to cause another round of panty-soaking. At this rate she’d probably end up in the emergency room for dehydration—how embarrassing would that be!
She decided to ignore him. “I’m going to go talk to them.”
“You go right ahead, darlin’. They might take me for a rancher and try to skin me alive or maybe club me with those signs. I’ll wait here.”
Cady snickered. “I thought you said the Kicking A Ranch is famous for fine beef.”
His laugh was smooth molasses. “Sure enough is, but I’m no rancher. Seems like I’ve always worked on the shit-shoveling end. Figure that’s why I ended up a sheriff.”
She grinned and dared a quick look at Kix. God, how was she going to be able to resist him? His sense of humor alone made her want to wrap her body around his and take the ride of a lifetime.
Cady shook her head and resolutely moved toward the protesters carrying the signs. They didn’t seem overly friendly until they spotted the camera bag. “You from the newspaper?” the man asked. He was medium height, brown-haired, with a pencil-thin mustache and eyes that had a habit of darting around like he was afraid he was going to miss some action.
“No. I’m a professional photographer.” Cady watched as the man’s interest in her faded and his eyes flicked away. They only came back when she asked, “What are you guys protesting?”
The woman looked at the man first. When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer and Cady couldn’t help but compare her own suntanned skin to the woman’s ultra-pale complexion. “Do you know what happens to racehorses when they’re washed-up?” the protestor asked.
Cady had a pretty good idea, but decided to play along. “No.”
“They end up overseas on somebody’s dinner table. Or they end up in dog food. But before they get there, they go to auctions where kill-buyers bid on them by the pound. Then those beautiful horses are crowded into double-decker trailers and taken to the slaughterhouse. They travel from here to Texas without food or water. They can’t lie down and they’re forced to stand in urine and feces.” The woman stopped to take a breath.
“How do you know this is what happens to ex-racehorses?” Cady asked. She didn’t doubt that some ex-racehorses probably ended up at the slaughterhouse, but she didn’t know what percentage of them did—the information wasn’t something the racing community readily shared. For that matter, the topic of surplus horses wasn’t something that the equestrian community liked to discuss at all. Cady and Erin had talked about that quite a bit, especially after they’d helped a writer friend by taking pictures of horses being sold by the pound at auction.
The protestor hustled over to where the other three protesters were still on break. There was a green knapsack leaning against the wall of the building. She dug into it and a minute later returned with some literature, thrusting it into Cady’s hand. Cady glanced at it long enough to see that it was put out by the Animal Freedom Front. She shivered. When you sup with the devil, be sure to use a long spoon. No way would she ever tangle with them like Lyric had.
“Would you guys mind if I snapped a few pictures?”
“Why do you want our pictures?” Thin-mustache sounded suspicious.
“I’m a photographer. Today I’m trying to capture images from the racetrack.”
Excitement flared in the woman’s eyes. “Are you working on a book—like one of those ‘Day in the Life of’ books?”
“Well, it’s too soon to tell,” Cady hedged. “I’ll have to see how the pictures turn out.”
“What do you say, Danny?” the pale blonde asked her companion.
He thought it over, then shrugged. “Okay.”
The woman hurried over to the three sitting protesters. They lifted their earphones and listened to what she had to say. A moment later all five of them were holding signs. Cady started taking pictures. When she was finished, she pulled out the release forms.
The protesters weren’t thrilled about signing the forms, but they gave in when she explained that she couldn’t use the photos without signed releases. It was true, and it was also one of the things she loved about combining detective work with photography. Having a shot at fame usually tempted people to turn over all kinds of handy information.
By the time Cady got back to where Kix was waiting, the three women protesters had donned headphones and gone back on break. He shook his head. “Nice work, darlin’, though I figure I’ve seen more passionate protestors at a ’Save The Trees’ rally.”
They paid their admission and pushed through the turnstile.
“Hold on,” Cady said, walking over to purchase a race program from a man who looked like he might fall asleep any minute. She fought against breathing in the smell of stale sweat and alcohol as he took her money and handed her a program. “Busy day?”
The man grunted. “Place is dead. Same way it’s dead every day. Don’t know why I bother showing up.”
Cady turned back to Kix. His eyebrows moved upward. “You planning on gambling?”
“I like to bet on the horses,” Cady said defensively. Not that she did it very often—mark that, almost never.
Kix shook his head. “It’s your money, darlin’. Where to?”
“Don’t you have any detecting of your own that you need to do?”
Chapter Three
“Now darlin’, you’re not trying to get rid of me are you? Won’t work if you are. Today I’m all yours.”
A quick glance at his face and she bit her tongue. He had innocent down pat. Cady shook her head. “Let’s go find Miguel’s friends.”
“After you, darlin’.”
Just as Miguel had predicted, his friends were hanging out in the seats closest to the rail. The feather in Red’s cowboy hat bobbed up and down as its owner made a show of tearing up his betting tickets and throwing them in the air.
Jimmy the Sweep was biting into a foot-long hot dog. Ernie the Weasel had his snout in the Daily Racing Form.
Cady took a seat next to Red and gave all three men a smile before saying, “Hi, I’m Cady Montgomery and this is Kix Branaman. Miguel Hermosa said we should look you guys up. He said you knew everything there was to know about racing.”
Jimmy started cackling. “Got that right.” He stuck out a beefy hand. “Jimmy. But my friends call me ‘The Sweep’.”
“Why the nickname?” Kix asked as he shook the offered hand.
Red started laughing. “’Cause of the way he bets. Man’s got no balls, uh excuse the French, Miss Cady. Always bets to show.”
Cady laughed. “No offense taken.” At the racetrack there were three options—to win, to place, or to show. Betting to show meant that a horse could come in first, second, or third and still be in the money. The few times they’d come to the track, that’s the way Erin had bet. Lyric of course always went for complicated combinations that spanned several horses and several races. Cady bet whatever seemed best at the time, t
hough she usually bet to win or to show, instead of splitting the difference and gambling that a horse would “place” by coming in first or second.
The Weasel offered his hand to Cady. “Ernie, my good lady. That’s my name.” He cast a look at his friends and added, “Others might call me by another name, but in superior company such as yours, I’d prefer to be known as Ernie.”
“Ernie it is.”
Red took his hat off before offering his hand, first to Cady and then to Kix. “Red’s the name.”
“Glad to meet you,” Cady said.
Red grinned. “If you don’t mind, we’ve got to sort out our bets, then we can talk.”
Cady turned her attention to the grandstand. There were more people gathered around the television monitors inside than were out watching the horses race. “There aren’t very many people here,” she said to Kix.
He shrugged. “Adrienne told me that things were tough. You’ve got Indian gaming and some card clubs for starters, plus Internet sites and the entire state of Nevada. Kind of hard to compete against all of ‘em.”
“Who are you betting on?” Red drew Cady’s attention back to the three men. He was standing, program in one hand, a fistful of dollar bills in the other.
Cady glanced down at her program. “Which race are we on?”
Jimmy snorted. “Second.”
There were ten horses running in the second race. Cady scanned the names, then flashed a smile in Kix’s direction as she pulled a couple of dollars out and handed them to Red. “Slick Moves, to show.”
Ernie the Weasel hooted. “My good lady, that colt has never run worth a damn. He’s fifty-to-one.”
Cady looked over at the board displaying the current odds and her smile grew wider as she cut another look in Kix’s direction. “Yep, that seems about right, though his odds of making it across the finish line might still be overstated.”
Kix laughed and retrieved a five-dollar bill. “I think the lady underestimates the stud. I’ll put five on Slick Moves to win.”
Ernie shook his head. “You two should hang on to your money. Next race, we’ll try and help you out.”
The loud speaker announced that the cutoff for betting the second race was only moments away. Red scrambled for the betting windows. A few minutes later he returned with the tickets.
Slick Moves was a liver chestnut that came out of the saddling enclosure prancing and snorting. “Don’t get your hopes up,” Jimmy the Sweep said. “He’ll burn up all his energy before they even get him in the starting gate. Happens every time.” He pointed to his Racing Form as though the information was there, for all to see.
At the starting gate, Slick Moves was in the number five position. Red shook his head. “You need a miracle with that horse. He’s going to have to break well and get to the rail in the lead. Otherwise he’ll end up boxed in, with no way of making a winning move.”
The bell sounded and the announcer yelled, “And they’re off!” From then on it was a second-by-second relay of what was happening on the track.
Slick Moves broke to the rail but was in the middle of the pack at the start of the race. As they rounded the first curve, Cady lost sight of him. But in the backstretch she saw him again and he was making his move.
He’d managed to find an opening and was now closing the gap between himself and the front two runners. Cady stood up and started yelling for him to run.
As the horses hit the home stretch, Slick Move’s jockey used his whip and the liver chestnut colt leapt forward, giving it his all. At the wire he managed to edge out the first-place horse by less than a nose.
In her excitement Cady hugged Kix. He grinned and took advantage of the contact, biting down on her earlobe before whispering, “Reckon the odds are getting better for me. Don’t you worry, darlin’, you won’t need a crop to get this stud across the finish line.” A jolt of searing heat shot from Cady’s earlobe straight to her cunt.
“Jesus,” Red said in disgust and for a moment acute embarrassment raced through Cady. But when he made a show of tearing up his betting ticket and throwing the pieces into the air, she realized that his curse was directed at the race’s outcome and not at Kix’s suggestive comment.
“Behave!” she whispered before disentangling herself from Kix and returning to her seat.
“Hey, hand me a candy bar, will ya,” Jimmy said, pointing to a bag at his feet.
Red shook his head but leaned over. “You gotta stop eating and drinking every time you lose. Already takes a shoehorn to get you in your seat.”
Jimmy snorted. “Luck’s going to change and when it does, I’ll go on a diet.”
Ernie the Weasel eyeballed Cady. “Why’d you make that bet? You know something we don’t?”
She cut a quick glance at Kix. “I liked the name. It reminded me of somebody.”
“Jesus,” Red repeated.
Jimmy snorted, then took a bite out of a king-sized candy bar.
Ernie shook his head and mumbled, “Beginner’s luck.”
“Let me ask you guys something,” Cady said after the three men had decided how they were going to place their bets in the third race.
“Go ahead, my good lady,” Ernie said.
“Have you heard anything about horses turning up with cocaine in their systems?”
Jimmy got a sour look on his face. “Happened Thursday. I had tickets on two of the horses that came in fourth.” He spat on the ground. “Maybe I’d have been in the money if those winning horses hadn’t been running on dope. But the way the track works, betting is done in real-time, so they pay out when the horse wins. The trainer gets in trouble if they find out afterward that the horse was dirty.”
Red gave him a sympathetic look. “Damn fool woman trainer.”
Cady felt Kix tense and automatically put her hand on his arm. For a minute she was distracted by the heat pouring off of him and shooting straight to her cunt. Damn, touching him was like touching molten gold. She shook her head clear of the image. “Why do you think it was the trainer who did it? That seems like it would be pretty stupid.” Cady winked at Red. “Even for a woman.”
The old man actually turned as red as the feather in his cowboy hat. Before he could answer, Jimmy jumped into the conversation, “Something fishy about it, that’s for sure. Never seen anything like it. Five horses in a day!”
Ernie nodded. “The word on the backstretch is that somebody doesn’t like Adrienne McKay.”
Excitement zipped through Cady. “Any idea who?”
Ernie shook his head. “Haven’t heard any names.”
Cady leaned forward. “But you think somebody doped her horses so she’d get suspended?”
Ernie shrugged. “Can’t figure out anything else that makes sense. There’s a rule says that a trainer is a hundred percent responsible for their horses. It’s to keep racing clean. Trouble is, it’s a nightmare for the trainer. Say the trainer sacks some groom for not doing his job. Well, if the groom gets pissed, he could slip something to a horse and ruin the trainer.”
Of course, Cady knew about the Trainer Insurer Rule, but she didn’t let on. “Won’t the racing officials investigate and try to find out what really happened?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not their job.”
“Sounds pretty unfair.” Cady looked at Ernie. “Any guesses who would want to see McKay suspended?”
Jimmy snorted. “Probably happened because somebody don’t like that jockey by the same last name.”
“Yeah, she’s got a real chip on her shoulder.” Red hadn’t gotten his two cents in for a while. “She’s pissed off that she wasn’t born a man. Got the personality of a rabid dog.”
Cady only barely contained her laugh at hearing Kix’s analogy coming out of Red.
Red said, “Fighting ain’t becoming of a woman.”
Jimmy snorted. “But she sure whipped that other jockey’s ass good. What was his name?”
“Valdez,” Ernie answered.
“One thing for certain,�
�� Jimmy continued, “I’m not going to put any money on that Valdez. Getting whipped by a girl jockey. Bad enough when the girl beats ‘em on horseback but when she takes him down using her fists—what’s the world coming to?”
The announcer’s voice interrupted the conversation. The time for getting bets in for the third race was almost over. Since Cady wanted to cash in her ticket, she said, “I’ll take the bets this time.”
Jimmy just handed her a five-dollar bill, “Put it on whatever horse you’re betting on. But go to show.”
Red rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Jimmy, have some bal—guts. Have some guts for a change.”
Jimmy didn’t seem the least bit offended. “Got to stick to my strategy.”
Ernie the Weasel shook his head and handed Cady a ten. “Tom Cat to win.”
Kix chuckled and said, “Mind taking my bet, little darlin’?”
Cady’s eyebrows rose. “Let me guess, Tom Cat?”
“Yeah, I like the sound of him.” Kix handed her his winning ticket. “Cash it in and bet fifty. I’m starting to feel real lucky.”
His smile rolled through her body like an avalanche of ice-hot desire. “In your dreams.”
Kix laughed. “Oh yeah, darlin’, want to know what’s in them?”
She shook her head, beginning to think that maybe the best way to handle him was to just ignore him.
Cady placed the bets then lingered in the grandstand for a few minutes, watching television monitors that were simulcasting races from other tracks. Electronic tellers were strategically positioned so that gamblers could use their ATM or credit cards to place bets on anything running—even the races from Hong Kong.
She shook her head and started back to where the men were, thinking how good it was that early on, when Bulldog had started teaching his grandchildren how to play poker and to gamble, he’d always insisted they use real money. There’d been some painful lessons when a week’s worth of allowance ended up in someone else’s pocket. But in the end they’d all internalized Bulldog’s Golden Rule—figure out how much you’re willing to spend on your gambling entertainment before you pick up the first card—and don’t pay a penny more.
