by Sasscer Hill
“Hey, Latrelle,” Jim called from his office. I went inside. He’d moved to his desk, still covered with charts, and Racing Forms, with the new addition of paper cups and an empty doughnut box. A hoof pick and some bandages littered the floor near his feet. The cap he always wore covered his graying hair but failed to hide the kindness in his eyes. “Got a race for you at Shepherds Town.”
I hadn’t ridden a race for days and needed the extra cash. Rent was due, and an old fear of existing without money shadowed me, especially when times got rough. “Sure, I’ll take anything you’ve got.”
Jim gave me the details and I stepped into the aisle to find Kenny studying the departure of Louis and Carla in the silver Jaguar convertible. Kenny handed me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “That blonde is hot. Louis is one lucky dude.”
“Too much woman for Louis,” I said. “She deals in meat.” I loved Kenny’s startled expression. “Get too close she might grind you up and spit you out.”
“God, I wish she would.”
I got quiet. My hand holding the paper cup was dirty, the nails broken, the skin rough. This didn’t usually bother me. I pulled the band from my ponytail, and felt my hair hang in sweaty, helmet-head clumps.
“You want to watch the Venus Stakes with me this afternoon?” Kenny asked. Then he remembered. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” But I’d visualized gliding Gildy to the wire, far in front, so many times it seemed almost real. Only reality now was an image of her chestnut body spread motionless on the straw.
I did a mental head shake and felt the creepy sensation of someone staring. I turned my head, panning the barn directly opposite, but saw no one. Wait, there, leaning on the painted railing of the barn catty-cornered to Jim’s. Black hair with dark eyes, and they were on me. Prominent cheekbones. His body echoed his face, thin and hard. I felt uneasy. The assessment wasn’t that of a man checking out a woman; it appeared more cold, calculating.
I turned back to Kenny. “Who’s that guy over there?”
“Where?”
My hand rose, finger pointing. “Right . . .” But he was gone, leaving the little hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up.
Chapter 3
Damn it, I was going to be late. I pushed the accelerator, willing the road to reel in faster beneath me, determined to make up time lost in a Washington Beltway backup. The dash clock said I had 15 minutes before check-in time at the jock’s room. My horse had a real shot to win, but if I was late, I’d lose the ride. And the $40 jockey fee. The race came by default, as the regular rider’s ego was too inflated to follow Ravinsky’s horse to a second-rate track like Shepherds Town. No such illusions here.
Not so long ago, before Jim took me under his wing, I’d been a runaway in Baltimore. I still shoved away memories of stealing packaged snacks from gas stations and quick-stop food shops, of sleeping in stalls where my only comfort had been the warmth of the horses. I’d worked hard to boost my life up the ladder, and I’d never slide back, not ever.
The aging Toyota shuddered and balked at my insistent pressure on the pedal. I eased back on the gas, crossing the Potomac River bridge. Far below white water surged over gray protruding rocks, and a lone kayaker struggled against the torrent. I crossed a second bridge over the Shenendoah River and climbed the steep hill past Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. Maybe I’d make it. I didn’t want to let Ravinsky down. A good guy, he hadn’t wasted time commiserating about me losing the stakes race on Gildy. Instead he’d found me this ride at Shepherds Town.
The grandstand loomed ahead. Rubber burned as the Toyota slid to a stop in an illegal parking spot near the building. I ran in, flashed my badge at the ticket-seller, and flew up the steep, narrow steps to the jock’s room.
A round-faced man, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his cheek, sat behind a desk in a cramped foyer. “You Latrelle?”
“That’s me. Did I make it?”
“Just. Sign here.”
I did, then entered the room beyond. A TV monitor sat high on one wall, a race rerun playing in black-and-white. Orange plastic chairs littered the floor beneath, and two guys in racing britches and undershirts played pool in one corner. Vending machines and a battered row of lockers lined one wall. The smell of sweat, steam, and laundry detergent hung in the air.
A short, ferret-faced man, dressed only in white breeches and dirty socks, crumpled the racing charts he’d been reading.
“I see the little piece from Maryland’s here.”
I worked to keep my lip from curling. Dennis O’Brien. I’d run into him before and was careful to ignore him now.
“Don’t plan on stealing the feature race today. Might be unhealthy,” he said.
He fancied himself a tough guy, but the way his small eyes nestled up against the bridge of his nose, I’d always thought of him as a meany-weeny. I walked past him, but he grabbed my arm, his fingers hard.
“We don’t like when outsiders come up here to take our money.”
His breath reeked of onions, and I tried to back away. “Dennis, I wanna make a living like everybody else. Give me a break. Let go of my arm.”
My voice might have grown a little shrill. I thought about stomping my boot on his foot, but another rider pushed between us.
Unlike Dennis, Will Marshall’s green eyes reflected some intelligence. He wore his thick hair cropped short. “I don’t like it when they come in from out-of-town on the favorite, either, but leave her alone, for Christ’s sake, before you get yourself in more trouble.”
I jerked away from them, rubbing my arm, and found a seat in a far corner. I laid down my canvas tote, picked up an abandoned program and turned to my race, the Sunday feature race with a purse of $10,000. Impressive for Shepherds Town. The winning jockey’s share would be $600. Reading on, my breath sucked in. A jockey change since yesterday’s Daily Racing Form. Dennis O’Brien named on Vengeance, with post position number one, in my race. Damn. He spelled nothing but trouble. He didn’t like women, had no regard for racing rules or ethics.
The tinny loudspeaker crackled, then rattled the first call for my race. I found the silks man, grabbed the owner’s racing colors and slipped into a curtained cubicle to change. They didn’t have a whole lot of amenities for women. I shrugged into the shiny fabric, my fingers hurrying to fasten the velcro down the front. The colors were hot-yellow and electric-orange, not exactly flattering to my pale skin and freckles. With the orange against my dark hair, I looked like a psychedelic Halloween cat. I pulled the helmet on, making sure the gaudy cover stayed snug.
My stomach tightened with nerves as I headed for the paddock, so I did my mental mantra. Just another race, like dozens before, no big deal. Jim waited for me in Flame Thrower’s saddling stall, and I hoped the smile I flashed him held the confidence I didn’t feel. Iron rails encircled the Shepherds Town dugout paddock. Above, bettors crowded against the barrier, examining the horses parading below, hoping to pick a winner.
Flame Thrower had drawn post position six in the field of nine, and with those yellow-and-orange blinkers blaring from his face, I picked him right out. The colors didn’t do much for him, either. He was a small bay gelding who habitually displayed speed early in the race. My job was to make sure enough gas remained for the finish.
I knew he had a tough scrappiness and had won over a hundred grand at the Maryland tracks. But five years of racing developed sore hindquarters that Ravinsky couldn’t cure. Though he was an experienced trainer and a good horseman, Jim could only do so much when a horse had that many miles on his legs.
I watched the bay walk around the paddock. I galloped him every morning and knew him well. Today his movement appeared fluid.
The saddling stalls lined one wall of the paddock. I stepped into number six and joined Jim where he stood with Bob Davis, the horse’s owner. Davis appeared to be over 50 and way too fond of the dinner table. He pumped my hand and wished me luck. Sweat trickled down his wide cheeks and left his fingers slick.
“Do you think he’s got a good chance in this race?” Davis asked.
“I appreciate the ride, Mr. Davis. He’ll probably toy with those other horses,” I answered. Well maybe. Davis turned to admire Flame, and I swiped my hand on my breeches to remove his sweat. . . .
The paddock judge called for riders to mount, and Jim gave me a quick leg-up onto Flame Thrower. He touched my ankle. “You know what to do, Nik.”
Flame’s groom, a tall, thin black guy named Ron, led us around the paddock once, then into the tunnel leading to the track. Outside the sun flamed hot, and a heavyset pony girl named Kathy rode alongside us on her dun horse. She waited while Ron pulled a strap through Flame’s bridle.
This West Virginia girl was something. Even squished under a helmet, Kathy’s teased blond hair attained the obligatory “big-hair” look, and her bright orange lipstick complemented the Davis silks. She leaned over, grabbed the strap and broke the two horses into a jog, beginning our warm-up.
The late-day heat cooked my helmet, while a stiff breeze from the backstretch blew the track flags and scuttled discarded paper cups and plastic wrappers along the concrete. We’d just eased into a gallop when Dennis sped by on Vengeance. He steered his horse in close, causing Flame to pin his ears and fight Kathy’s hold.
“Idiot,” I said.
“Yeah, Dennis the jockey menace,” said Kathy.
We snickered, Flame Thrower calmed down, and I got a chance to study the rest of the field. Not much talent appeared in the race, and a little thrill sped through me. I could win this thing.
I lined up with the other horses waiting at the starting gate. O’Brien, with the one hole, went in first. The next four horses loaded right up, and a man from the gate crew took Flame Thrower into number six, then climbed onto the side platform and steadied the bay’s head. Someone shut the bar behind us, and Flame Thrower thrust his nose against the exit door, staring straight ahead, waiting.
“You game old thing,” I whispered, patting his dark neck.
The last horse loaded, and the announcer cried, “They’re all in line.”
I moved forward on Flame’s neck, anticipating the shock of his rocket start. The bell rang, the doors crashed open, but the gate assistant held onto Flame’s bridle for maybe two-fifths of a second.
Stunned, I started to yell, but he released Flame, who burst into action, a good two lengths behind the rest of the field. No choice but to use his early speed and pick up stragglers down the backstretch.
Flame’s acceleration carried us to midpack, past Dennis, definitely startled to see us roll by. Now we lay third. I saw room and angled my horse toward the rail, and then, hating to use him up, I “sat chilly,” reins long, my body and hands quiet, almost motionless. I let him run at his own pace as we raced toward the first turn.
Nearing the tight curve I sensed Dennis asking his horse for more speed, and Vengeance responded by bulleting from behind until his nose drew even with Flame’s. They lay outside us now, and Dennis pulled Vengeance onto Flame, forcing the smaller horse dangerously close to the rail, where he took a bad step in the softer dirt before steadying himself.
“Stop it, you son of a bitch!” I screamed.
Dennis grinned at me idiotically, until I shook my whip at his face.
He yelled, “Bitch,” and cut me across my right cheek with his crop.
Tears from the stinging pain flooded the inside of my goggles, blurring my vision. Rocketing into the turn, the centrifugal force peeled Vengeance away, and Flame moved off the rail and found good footing again.
Screw this.
I flicked my whip forward where Flame could see it. I didn’t need to hit him, just show him, he was that game. His stride extended. The eighth pole flashed by in a blur of green-and-white stripes.
“Go, baby!” I screamed.
We were ahead by two lengths, closing in on the wire, when Flame took another bad step. He stumbled and went down, engulfing me with the panicked dread of falling through space. A flash of white. The rail appeared to flip upside down. Hard, sharp thuds as I hit the track and bounced. I curled up, making myself a smaller target. I could hear Flame beside me, struggling to get up.
The ground shook. Dirt peppered my body as the field overtook us. Jockeys screamed, frantic to stay clear. Flame became a protective barrier until another horse slammed into him. Close to my face, his legs churned in a blur as he fought to climb over Flame.
Something smashed my head. An explosion of noise, lights, then nothing.
Chapter 4
Light pierced my lids. I turned my head away, then stilled as pain stabbed my skull. I cracked one eye open. Floating freckles and curly red hair. A voice.
“Hey, she’s coming around.”
I remained quiet, getting my bearings, while noting the scent of iodine and rubbing alcohol.
“How you doing?” Cool fingers on my wrist. Probably reading my pulse. “Can you tell me your name?”
I realized I was in the emergency alcove in the track security office, a place jockeys hope to avoid. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t woken up in Jefferson County Hospital . . . or worse.
The face beneath the red hair belonged to a guy. He peered at me. “What’s your name?” he repeated.
“Nikki Latrelle.”
I studied the pattern of his freckles, trying to stay focused, while I stumbled through his neurological show-and-tell quiz. Suddenly the track rail flashed by, white and unyielding. The screaming of jockeys, the fear.
“Did we fall? What happened?” I asked
“You got a bonk on your head,” the freckled guy said. His head turned toward the far side of the small, cinder-block room.
Jim Ravinsky sat in a gray metal chair against the cream-colored wall. I squinted at him, confused and disoriented, then the memory surfaced.
“Is Flame Thrower all right?”
A long breath escaped him. “We had to put him down, Nikki.”
My resolve crumpled, and I couldn’t stop the tears. A tissue box sat beside my cot on a metal cabinet. Jim appeared, grabbed one, and pushed it into my hand. I swiped at my eyes with the tissue and struggled for control. “He took a bad step. That Dennis O’Brien pushed us into the rail. I felt it. I should have pulled up. Why didn’t I pull up?”
“Stop it, Nikki. You don’t know that. Don’t beat yourself.”
“But Dennis . . .”
“Let it go, Nik. People like that, sooner or later they get what they give.” Jim’s calm gray eyes rested on me.
I grabbed some air, and a thought crept into my head. “Mr. Davis. Is he upset?”
“Nah, not him. Horse was insured for $30,000. He figures he made out.”
I looked away. A big-hearted horse gives his life for the guy, and Davis figures he made out?
“For some people it’s just business,” Jim said. “And if at the end of the day they show a profit, they’re happy. They don’t get attached to the horses and maybe they’re better off that way.”
I stared at him. For Jim, who didn’t have much to say on a good day, this was a mouthful. His eyes were hollowed, and he put his hand on the metal cabinet as if for support. Guilt over Flame’s death probably rode him harder than it did me.
Two horses dead in less than two weeks. A question flickered in my head. I turned to Jim way too fast and stopped, my head jolted by mesmerizing pain. I waited a few beats and the ache receded. “Did Gildy carry insurance?”
“I don’t know if Mrs. Garner had a policy.”
“How could I find out?”
“Ask.” The sudden creases around Jim’s eyes and mouth signaled his impatience. “Why do you want to know?”
“What you said about Mr. Davis not caring because of the money. They snuff people for 20 bucks, killing a horse would be nothing.”
“Mrs. Garner? You gotta be kidding.”
“She could’ve had it done.” I’d gotten the bit in my teeth and couldn’t slow down.
“Not Martha Garner, no way. Her horses
are her children.”
With great care I moved my legs over the edge of the cot and waited to see what happened. I figured I’d probably live. “Have you heard anything from Security about Gildy? Anyone see something that night?”
“Maybe you should worry about getting home and into bed, Nikki.” Exhaustion shadowed Jim’s face.
I felt kind of bad, the way I’d asked about Martha Garner pulling an insurance scam. “I know Martha loved Gildy. How’s she doing?”
“Upset. Said on the phone she didn’t want to come to the track.” Jim rubbed at one of his brows, leaving a few hairs pointing my way. “Maybe you oughta take a few days off.”
“No way. How many rides will I lose if word gets out I need time off?” I’d nailed that one and Jim didn’t argue. Superstitions haunted many owners and trainers. They’d bolt at the first sign of trouble.
“Gotta get back to Laurel, Nik.” Jim went back to the chair and retrieved his cap. His movements seemed slow and uncertain.
I kept quiet, restraining the urge to ask more questions. The insurance. Who would gain from Gildy’s death — or my loss on Flame? Was it a betting scam? Had someone paid the gate guy who’d delayed Flame’s start? And Dennis O’Brien . . .
The cream wall began to dance and circle before me. I put my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. The head pain blossomed, overruling curiosity, making me think I should take Jim’s advice.
Ron drove my car back to Laurel Park. From there I nabbed a ride home with a jockey who lived in my apartment complex off Route197. The wooden structures where we lived appeared well-made at first glance. My place was on the second floor. An outside staircase with suspect wooden railing led to my door. This close the building looked seedy, stained with mold, the siding warped and peeling away. I’d fought back, lining the landing with terra cotta pots overflowing with cheap-thrill petunias and gaudy pansies.
Inside I got as far as the couch. Slippers, my Heinz-57, part-Persian cat, appeared at my feet. He sat and opened his mouth in a silent meow. I lay down, carefully placing my head on a pillow. The couch, like the rest of my yard-sale furniture, hid beneath blue-and-white batik slipcovers. A bronze statue of a horse — my only home-decorating splurge — stood on the floor at the edge of a straw rug. I loved books, and a collection of favorites stuffed a battered IKEA cabinet. Those books, with the help of a dictionary, had taught me a lot.
