by Sasscer Hill
“Clements is so cheap,” I’d blurted. “Why is he so well-accepted? I’d rule him off.”
“Clements knows where the bodies are buried, Nikki.”
“What do you mean?”
“Clements ever gets dirt on you, you’re screwed.”
Jim had refused to say more, but I’d heard stories.
Now the man tilted his head back and dripped solution from another plastic bottle into his eyes. He straightened and his glance moved through me and settled on a horse moving down his shedrow, led by a Latino guy with greasy hair and spider tattoos. Clements said something I couldn’t hear, and the groom laughed.
I’d seen this pretty chestnut filly earlier that morning. A tall, strong-boned horse, she’d hadn’t traveled the track surface well, her stride short and choppy like she hurt somewhere. If she needed heal time, she wouldn’t get it from Clements.
None of my business, but something drew me to the filly and I eased over to get a better look. Something about her looked familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Clements disappeared into his office, and the groom led the chestnut toward a stall. She balked, backing away from the dark entrance. The groom cursed and jerked the chain encircling her velvet nose, so she reared. Who wouldn’t? Then the guy whipped out a crop and struck her on the head.
“Stop it, you jerk!” Anger boiled over in my stomach.
“Fuck you, bitch.” He whacked the horse like he was just getting started.
The filly rose again, struck the groom’s shoulder, and twisted away, pulling the lead with her. Instead of the wild, frenzied gallop I’d expected, she jogged toward me, her metal shoes clattering on the pavement. The groom had collapsed against the barn wall, and was busy rubbing his shoulder, no longer interested in me or the filly. A breeze came up, swinging the potted mums near her head. She snorted and shied closer. I grabbed her shank.
Might as well have grabbed a rocket. Oh boy. I tried to go with her as she blasted back toward the chrysanthemums. She brought herself up short, as if deciding where to go next, and I locked my elbows into my sides and rocked back on my heels. Grounded, I managed to pull her around me in a circle when she started up again. I cooed soft nonsense and asked her nicely, through the shank, to slow down.
Those furry ears pricked and dipped toward me and her frantic jig slowed to a walk. Someone in Clements’ barn had left a stable hose trickling and water pooled near my feet. The chestnut filly’s hooves splashed and sprayed me with drops of moisture as she drew closer.
“Good girl, you pretty thing, let’s get a look at you.” Keeping my hand low and slow I touched her shoulder, and she stopped, turning her head to me. A white star with a jagged blaze darting below, like a lightening bolt, decorated her finely made face. Two small white anklets circled her front feet just above the hooves. I stepped in closer, scratched her neck, and read the brass nameplate on her halter . . . “Helen’s Dream.” The shank fell from my hands. I stood rooted.
“You okay?” A man had stepped in close and scooped up the shank. “This is some red devil you’ve got a hold of. She hurt you?”
“No. It’s the name, Helen . . .” I stopped, realizing I made no sense, at least not to this guy. I focused on him, recognizing the man who’d stared at me from this barn the day after Gildy’s death. Up close, his sharp face made me think of a gunslinger. He exuded the kind of self-confidence that brings coolness under pressure. His brown eyes on me were sharp, yet shuttered, covering a hidden agenda.
Another of Clements’ grooms ran up, thanked me for catching the horse, and took the shank. The filly accepted this man, allowing him to coax her into her stall. But just before, I’d swear she turned her head back and stared, like she needed to get a line on me. Just my imagination, stirred by the name on the halter. The gunslinger finished a half-heard sentence.
“. . . a way with horses.” He knew I hadn’t been listening. “I said, ‘You have quite a way with horses.’ I call her the she-devil down the shedrow. She’s gonna hurt someone bad.”
“She’s injured,” I said.
The man nodded slowly, then put out his hand: “Jack Farino.”
We did a brief shake. His hand slid firmly into mine, solid and sexual.
“Nikki Latrelle.” Even as the words came out, I moved a small step back. This guy alarmed me.
His expression softened. He became chatty, said he’d come down from Belmont with a string of horses that weren’t quite good enough for New York. “They should be more competitive down here, probably do well, as long as they don’t get sideswiped by any of the trouble I keep hearing about.”
“What trouble?”
His eyes locked on like I was a target, his voice hardened. “Something bad’s going on around here. Wasn’t it your barn had a horse killed?”
My head came up. I felt cornered — and mad. “Why is that your business?”
“Just heard rumors, that’s all. You don’t have to get all defensive.”
“Look, Mr. Farino. When that mare died, nobody, except maybe the owner, had more to lose than I did. Anyway, I wish you all the luck in Maryland, but I gotta go. Nice meeting you.”
I left him standing there, got in my car, and drove away. Something about him I didn’t trust. Funny how he’d shown up in Laurel right when Gildy died. Yet I liked the way he’d stepped in to help. God, that name: Helen’s Dream. My mother. . . . Helen Latrelle. My mental shields weren’t up and pain blindsided me.
I pulled the car into a gravel lot where horse trailers parked, sheltering in the shadow of a blue-and-silver four-horse rig. Damn, I didn’t want any emotional storms, but the memories gathered big and black, like thunderheads. My mother standing in the narrow kitchen inside the Baltimore rowhouse. She’d had so many dreams for me. Dreams tarnished by my father’s early death, smashed by her misguided choice of a second husband. And finally, dreams that died with her. An accident on an icy street, an express bus speeding too fast. Helen, my mother, suddenly gone, leaving me with no protection.
My ragged breath jerked me back to the present. My hands covered my face, and sobs racked me. Get a grip. I really needed people asking why I hung out in the Laurel parking lot weeping. Then I felt the old unreasoning fury at being abandoned. I rammed the car into gear and left the racetrack.
Chapter 7
Martha Garner finally appeared early Wednesday morning. The sight of her forlorn figure hanging outside Gildy’s empty stall stopped me cold. Her clothes were drab shades of gray that added a dismal aura to the petite, elderly woman. Startling not to see her in her usual pink or lavender nylon jog-suit, the colors she’d habitually worn when Gildy would prance into the winner’s circle carrying a beaming jockey decked out in Martha’s lavender-and-fuchsia racing silks. Now she swiped ineffectually at the tears that spotted her lined cheeks.
“I miss her too, Martha.”
“Oh, Nikki. Hold these.” Martha pulled her thick, pink-framed glasses from her face, thrust them at me, dug a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
“That insurance investigator, Beakfeather? He won’t return my calls. First he accuses half of the county of murdering Gildy, and now, with them not finding criminal evidence, he doesn’t want to talk about my payment.” Martha’s cigarette cough took center stage for a moment, and then she fidgeted with her glasses, settling them on her nose.
I knew Martha’s husband, a successful developer, had left a substantial inheritance. Gildy had been the last of a string of quality racehorses Martha inherited after Ed Garner’s heart attack.
“I hope you won’t give up on the horses, Martha.”
“Everybody says that. Even this nice agent I met, Clay Reed. He thinks I should get back in the saddle, so to speak. And of course Jim thinks I should buy one —”
“Clay Reed?” I asked. Boy, he sure got around these older widows.
“Yes, polite young agent, a real charmer.”
“That’s the one.”
“You should put your hook in him, see if
you can reel him in.” A familiar spunk had returned to Martha’s voice and a smile worked the corners of her lips
“Not looking for a man,” I said. Was that true? “But if you want a horse, Jim knows how to pick ’em.”
“We’re supposed to look at a couple of two-year-olds, so I said I’d come by.” Martha’s expression darkened. Probably Gildy’s death haunting her again. “I don’t think I’m ready,” she said slowly. Then she touched my arm and headed for Jim’s office.
I tacked up my next horse, a gray colt, joined Kenny Grimes on a bay filly and we all headed for the dirt path leading to the track.
“What’s old-lady Garner up to?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Martha and Jim, rolling by on the paved road in Jim’s truck.
“Jim’s trying to get her another horse.”
“Hope he hurries up — we got two more empty stalls this morning.”
“What?”
“Mr. Crockett fired Jim last night. Sent his two colts over to Arthur Clements.”
“Clements?” I almost shrieked. “He’ll ruin them.” Like Helen’s Dream. “Why did Crockett do that?”
“Something about too many things going wrong for Ravinsky, and he likes Clements’ win percentage.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Clements runs a slaughterhouse the way he goes through horses. He gets wins, but he breaks horses down doing it, and then throws ’em out like trash. I thought Crockett was smarter than that.”
“It’s business, Nikki.”
Some business. Suddenly my hands were full of my colt who’d spooked at a rooster perched on the rim of a nearby trash barrel.
“Damn chickens,” Kenny said, as his filly stared bugeyed at the bird, then plunged sideways. “Why does anybody want a chicken?”
The rooster puffed himself up and flapped his red wings, causing my colt to bolt forward and a few swear words to escape my lips. I stood high in the stirrups, and after reining him in, felt the laughter bubbling up inside me. The rooster crowed, the early morning sun warmed my back,and Kenny broke into a verse of “Camptown Races.” I loved this world.
But when we rode into the barn it hit me. We’d lost Gildy, Flame Thrower, and now the two colts. If Jim lost any more horses, he’d have to cut our salaries. After dismounting, I sank onto a bale of straw. With those colts gone, I’d have even fewer race rides in the upcoming weeks. I hoped Martha found a horse, but a moment later she emerged from Jim’s office, looking weary,and disheartened. I left my straw bale and moved toward her. “Good thing I’m not ready for a new horse. Jim didn’t like those two-year-olds.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Jim said one looked crooked as crap, and the other’s top line’s all screwy.”
I could picture Jim exasperated by a horse with misaligned leg bones, and another lacking the pleasing proportions in the head-to-tail line denoting a potential runner. Some trainers would have a client buy any horse, just so they could charge their owner the day rate. But Jim suffered from honesty.
When I’d finished for the day I stuck my head into his office, trying to gauge his mood. He sat at his desk, shaggy eyebrows drawn in concentration, writing entries in a log book.
“He ain’t never going to believe all this stuff.” Jim refused to look up and continued muttering to himself about the costs of getting a horse to the starting gate.
Maybe this wasn’t the best time. He hated book work, but had to charge the day rate, then bill out separately for blacksmith fees, medicines, special equipment, and even procedures as exotic as acupuncture. I pulled a wooden chair over, scraping its legs on the floor.
Jim’s head came up and he glared at me. “You want to explain this bill to Mr. Why-is-it-so-expensive Peterson?”
“Not really. Just talk about cutting-edge technology, how his horses should get the same stuff the other trainers use.”
Jim’s glare eased into a slow smile. “That’ll work.”
“Jim, what’s with this new guy in Clements’ barn — Jack Farino?”
“Came down from New York?”
“Yeah. Him.”
Jim’s unruly brows climbed in question. “What’s your interest?”
“He asked me about Gildy, made me nervous. And why would anybody want to move into Clements’ barn?”
Jim’s smile disappeared with the mention of Clements and his shoulders sagged. “People are gonna talk, Nikki, and probably that barn space got allocated by the stall manager. Far as I know, Farino’s just another trainer hoping for better luck in Maryland.”
Probably smarter not to ask, but I couldn’t ignore the problem. “Kenny told me about Crockett taking his colts from you. I can’t believe he did that.”
Jim’s head turned away and he held up his hand, refusing to discuss it. Jim avoided subjects that might pierce his shell and draw blood. Maybe I followed his example too closely. He stabbed his log book with the pencil. “Anything else?”
I stood up and stepped near the door. “Yeah, you know anything about a horse Clements has, called Helen’s Dream?”
“Nope.” Jim glared again. A quick exit might be wise.
* * *
I went looking for my buddy with the unlikely name Lorna Doone. She galloped horses for a trainer who had an office computer and online racing and pedigree accounts. I jogged over there and found her in the trainer’s office with a bag of doughnuts. Her frizzy red hair haloed her face, and a gold ring pierced one auburn brow. A tattoo of Pegasus engraved her left forearm. She might have been short and a bit round, but no one would mistake her for a shortbread cookie. Why would parents name their kid after a Nabisco product?
I’d met Lorna about a year earlier. Jim had sent me to the track near the 10 A.M. closing time to exercise the stable “pony.” Always a treat to take out an older, sensible track pony like Mack that has a big old western bit in his mouth, knows he can’t run off with you and rarely wants to.
Lorna had been out there on a two-year-old colt. Trainers send these unseasoned, often volatile youngsters out late when the track is less crowded and most of the speedy breezing’s finished. I’d jogged Mack about a mile, stopped him and dropped the reins, his signal to just stand and watch a bit. Mack loved to loiter about, feeling superior as he watched the shameful antics of some of the uneducated two-year-olds.
A big colt blew past us, eyes wild and fearful, a broken rein dangling uselessly from his bit. A girl clung to his mane, her face tight with panic.
“Yah,” I’d yelled at Mack, gathering the reins. Being a track pony, he knew what to do and took off in hot pursuit. In his day he’d been a useful sprinter, and with his quick acceleration we drew alongside the colt in no time. I grabbed the dangling rein, then stood in my stirrups, leaning back slightly to get leverage on both horses’ bits. We’d rocked and careened a little, but eventually I’d pulled the horses down to a jig.
“Wonder Dude, you saved my life,” the girl said after struggling for her breath. Lorna’d been a loyal buddy ever since.
Now she grinned up from her chair and held out the bag of doughnuts. I peeked inside. Fresh, fragrant, and chocolate-covered. Oh boy.
“Can I pull the past performances on a horse?” I asked, taking a bite of doughnut.
The way her brow ring rose up I could tell she was curious, so I told her about Helen’s Dream.
“This sounds like a karma thing,” she said, licking chocolate from her fingers and firing up the computer. The filly’s life history materialized on the monitor, and we got busy tracing Helen’s story in Daily Racing Form charts listing information like breeding, racing dates, speed figures, and order of finish.
“Dude, this filly’s bred like a queen.” Lorna’s finger pointed to the sire, Dream Boat Special. “Like, he’s a Kentucky Derby winner. And look here, your Dream’s dam earned over three hundred grand. Whoa dudarina, the dam’s name is “Helen’s Last Wish”
I got blind-sided again, emotion welling up.
“Nikki, baby dude, you
crying?” Lorna’s voice quivered with concern. “You want more chocolate?”
I shook my head and fingered away tears. Lorna stared at me, curious. “I was thinking about Gildy,” I lied. No, we weren’t going to ponder my mother’s dying wish. Not going there with Lorna. Instead, I pointed to the monitor, hoping to distract.
“Look how they treated her,” I said. Helen’s first trainer had run her three times in five weeks, maybe too much for a two-year-old. She’d had a second, a third, and gotten her first win. Nine days later, she was entered in a stakes race. At Belmont.
“Ignorant trainer,” Lorna said, indignant. “Why not just shoot her?”
We stared at the page. In the stake the filly led most of the way around, then died in the stretch. After that, a long layoff.
“Bet she cracked a cannon bone,” I said.
“Pulled a suspensory ligament,” Lorna offered. “Some of these guys’ll cut off their own foot to make an extra buck.”
We shook our heads, thinking about greed and stupidity. Fortunately, many trainers lived for their horses, lavishing them with the best feed, conditioning and love.
Helen’s next start listed a new owner and a cheaper purse. We read comments like “unruly at the gate” and “fractious at the start.” Her story went downhill through the claiming ranks, where one trainer after another bought her, then ran her back for a cheaper price. Finally she hit bottom, claimed by Clements.
Chapter 8
Carla’s black Mercedes sped over the Potomac River on the I-95 bridge, while Cheryl Crow sang “My Favorite Mistake” on the radio. We’d left the capital city’s marble testimonials to our forefathers behind in a haze of heat and pollution. Ahead lay the air-conditioned shopping-extravaganza of the Pentagon City Mall. I’d never been there, but I’d heard about Nordstrom’s, our apparent destination.
Carla eased back the volume and pointed her Gucci sunglasses at me. “Nikki, I’m curious about something.”
When wasn’t she?
