by Sasscer Hill
“You’ve never talked about a family or how you got into horses.”
I paused, glancing outside. To the right, the Pentagon stood in a huge parking lot, encircled by looping highways. I stared at the spot where terrorists had crashed a plane, and took a breath. Life was so short. I’d locked up my past, letting it fester. Maybe it was time to crack a window.
“I grew up in inner-city Baltimore,” I said. “In one of those narrow rowhouses.”
“And?”
I sighed and the words tumbled out, an unhappy list. “My father died when I was two. Heart attack. No brothers or sisters, just my mom. She worked for this prissy girl’s school as a cook. Got me a job working in the school’s stable for free riding lessons when I was 10.” I paused. A jet flew behind us, declining steeply for its landing at Reagan National Airport. I could feel my spirits going down with it. “She remarried this . . . person, and then she . . .”
“What?” Apprehension laced Carla’s voice.
“She died when I was 13.”
“I’m so sorry.” Carla chewed her bottom lip between perfect white teeth. “I didn’t mean to push . . .”
“A traffic accident.” We didn’t need the details.
“Sounds pretty rough, Nikki.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” We could both hear the anger in my voice.
Wisely, Carla let it go, zooming up a ramp into the mall’s parking garage. We focused on happier things, like shopping.
* * *
Carla powered into Nordstrom’s like she owned the place, and I followed in her wake, sniffing the perfume-saturated air. Glitzy makeup counters swarmed the entrance, while fashionably dressed women with painted faces lay-in-wait behind elegant displays of cosmetics and products touting high-tech ingredients, all of it Greek to me.
“I could move into this place,” Carla said, bee-lining for the Christian Dior counter.
She grabbed a lipstick and peered at the color. She wore a stretchy black suit, with silver buttons. A silver clip fastened French braids at the nape of her neck.
A cheap Goody band corralled my ponytail, and from there I slid downhill. Wait, my sneakers were clean.
Two saleswomen purred over Carla, while a suspiciously perfect redhead insisted on spraying the blonde with sample perfume. Graciously, Carla extended her wrist. I didn’t mind being invisible; this was entertainment.
Carla purchased more products than I could figure out how to use in a year, then slowly turned her gaze to me. “Can you do a make over for my friend?”
“Certainly,” the two saleswomen replied at once, staring at me. At least they didn’t shudder. They frowned, scrutinized, conferred, and pulled lipsticks, brushes, bottles of foundation, mascara wands, eyeliners, blusher, and powder puffs. They stuck me on a stool and went to work.
Later we rested in the Nordstrom’s coffee bar, inhaling buttered scones and sipping mocha latte. I’d stopped at every mirror along the way, amazed at my dramatic eyes and the illusion of perfect skin. Were those my lips? Surrounded by shopping bags, my head spun from a glut of purchases that included a red dress, a black evening bag, a pushup bra, and three shades of lipstick. Outwardly shocked by the indulgence, somewhere deep inside a thrill sped through me.
Carla finished her coffee and gave a feline stretch. “So now you’re beautiful, which is no surprise to me. But we need to do something about your hair.”
Mentally I resisted. Cinderella gets dragged to the ball kicking and screaming. “Most people think my hair is pretty,” I said, folding my arms against my stomach.
“Your hair’s lovely, the style needs help. Wait! I’ve got the answer.” Her eyes took on an alarming gleam. “Felix Alfonso. He’ll transform your hair.” She inspected her Rolex. “It’s just 2 o’clock. I’ll call now, see if he has a cancellation.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, feeling a sudden sympathy for the racehorse’s fear of those large, electric clippers.
But Carla had already whipped out her cell phone and connected the call. The salon must be on speed dial. The conversation raced to a rapid finish and Carla disconnected. “You’re in. Let’s go.”
I sat in Felix’s pink-and-chrome chair gazing at my reflection in the mirror. Most of my ponytail lay in heaps on the black-and-pink tiled floor. My eyes looked huge, my hair — okay, I’ll admit it. My hair looked fantastic. Carla knew style. Short and spiky with tendrils at the neck, an amazing improvement.
Alfonso tweaked a spike more upright, admiring his work. “Darling, you look divine. But you simply must use my product.” He held up the can of Spike! that displayed a picture of an effeminate bulldog wearing a pink metal-studded collar.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll get some on the way out.”
Carla, appearing way too pleased with herself, examined the can. “My treat. This way I know you’ll have it.”
“Sweetheart,” Alfonso said, shooting a glance at Carla “Make sure she uses it.” He looked sternly at me. “It doesn’t work sitting on your shelf.” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he stroked my hair: “I’m an artist!”
Skinny and dressed in black, I might have taken him seriously, except for the pink shoes. I paid my bill, a major ouch, and we headed out. Collapsing into Carla’s Mercedes, we made tracks for Laurel.
Armor-clad in Spike! and new makeup, perhaps I appeared invincible. Whatever the reason, Carla decided to dig some more. “So you wanna tell me about it?”
“What?”
“Tell me to shut up if you want, but maybe you should talk about what happened, when your mom died.” Carla’s expression grew tentative. “I mean, if you want to.”
Her body held the tension of someone creeping through a mine field. Would you do that for somebody you didn’t like? I exhaled some air.
“I was an orphan, left with a pedophile.” There, I’d said it and hadn’t experienced a mental breakdown.
Carla watched the road. “I’m listening.”
“Stanley, my stepfather, one sick dude. He was after me even before Mom died. I’d probably have run anyway.” I spoke to the dashboard.
“Maybe two weeks after she died . . . I’d been locking my bedroom door at night, sleeping with my clothes on. Then he tried to break in. I went out the window and down the fire escape. That was it.”
“So he never . . .”
“I said that was it!” My voice shook, my hands curled into fists.
“Right.” Carla paid close attention to her driving for a few beats. But curiosity rode her hard. “You’ve been on your own since? How’d you ever avoid social services?”
I sagged into the leather upholstery. “I climbed the goddamn chain-link fence at Pimlico.” I remembered the cold barbed-wire at the top, how it drew blood. “I spent the night, balled up in the corner of a stall, hoping I wouldn’t get trampled.”
“Why Pimlico?”
“My mother loved the race track, she used to take me there. She was crazy about horses and she liked to bet. The first time I went, I fell in love with those horses. They seemed almost supernatural, so beautiful and proud. They gave me a whole other world.”
Carla slowed the Roadster, and pulled onto Route197 from the Baltimore Washington Parkway. “So you slept in a stall?”
I sighed, my body slowly relaxing. “I lied about my age, begged this trainer for work, walked hots.”
“Hots?”
“You’ve seen the people leading Louis’s horses around after they’ve galloped or raced?”
“Right. But where did you live?”
“This groom, he knew I slept in stalls, got me some ID, told me to apply for a groom’s license and backstretch housing. It worked.”
“Jeeez. Weren’t you scared? I couldn’t have done that.”
“Beat living with Stanley. Kind of like running away to the circus. Everyone sort of looked after me.”
Carla appeared dubious. “I think your spinning a rose on this picture.”
Maybe I was, and I still ov
erreacted when guys, like the one in the 7-Eleven, leered at me, but I felt safe now. No one could abandon me, and nothing would ever equal the terror of the night I ran from Stanley.
Chapter 9
I rolled into Laurel Park at dawn the next morning, cut my engine, and headed for Jim’s barn. A light drizzle cooled the air, and a potpourri of molasses, liniment, and neat’s-foot oil hung heavy in the damp air. I ran my fingers through my newly shorn hair and stepped into the shedrow.
Kenny Grimes barreled around the corner and stopped abruptly. “Hey Latrelle,” he said, sounding puzzled. “You look different. You look . . . good.”
“Was that supposed to be a compliment? Never mind,” I said, waving my hand. “Have you seen today’s schedule?”
He had, and we tacked up the horses for our first set. I took out Bourbon Bonnet for her first strong gallop since she’d raced. Jim gave the horses three or four days off after a race, then maybe a couple of easy gallop days before sharpening them up. I pushed her into a two-minute-lick, Kenny right alongside on a bay colt entered to run in four days. I had a pretty good clock in my head and could tell by Bourbon’s rhythm and speed we moved at about 15 seconds to the furlong. There’s eight furlongs to a mile, so at this rate a mile took two minutes, giving it the name two-minute lick. We zipped counterclockwise around the track, staying near the inside rail. Slower-moving horses went the other or “wrong” way. They mostly jogged or walked near the outside rail.
There’s a little lake in the infield at Laurel, and that morning Canada geese swam on its surface and pushed beaks into the damp ground near the water’s edge. A pair of the birds flew in, low, over our heads, five or six goslings flapping and honking in their wake. They splashed down on the lake, wings folding, tail feathers wiggling. A set of three horses, hugging the rail, abruptly blocked my view of the geese. The trio blasted by in a high-speed work, probably going in 12s, way faster than our 15 seconds to the furlong. The sound of their breathing and the cadence of their hooves played my favorite music.
When we’d done our mile, we walked the horses back to the barn. I finished untacking Bourbon Bonnet, and Juan, one of the Mexican grooms, led her away while I leaned my elbows on the shoulder-high perimeter barn wall. A laundry line strung between roof support posts held green, red, and blue horse bandages above my head. I settled beneath some dry red ones and looked out across the way, catching a breather.
Helen’s Dream busted around a corner in Clements’ shedrow, an alarmed exercise boy astride. He yanked her mouth, and she went straight up in the air and fell sideways into the wooden stall wall. The rider shrieked. A groom rushed up, grabbed Helen’s bit. She lashed out with a front foot, knocking the groom to the side. Then she proceeded to buck and leap on down the shedrow, carrying her terrified rider out of sight around the far corner.
I shook my head, feeling bad for the rider. Was Helen’s Dream a hopeless hellion, or did she have some physical problem like an abscessed tooth? Anyone with a bad toothache would go berserk if somebody shoved a piece of metal in her mouth and jerked on it. Equine dental problems weren’t uncommon. Oh boy, here she came, cantering around the near corner, her saddle empty, stirrups flopping. Another groom joined the one she’d knocked aside, and together they managed to drag her into a stall.
Good thing those horse bandages partially hid me, because I couldn’t drop the big grin off my face. The exercise boy reappeared and seemed okay, except Clements followed right behind, reaming him out, his voice loud and angry. This rider guy was having a bad day.
Suddenly he whirled on Clements. “I don’t have to take this shit from you!” he yelled. I quit.”
Clements raised a fist and I cringed, thinking he would hit the boy. But the kid turned and stomped away, cursing and muttering under his breath. Clements moved opposite Helen’s stall, grabbed an empty bucket and hurled it inside. Helen responded by kicking the wall and shoving her head into the aisle way, ears pinned, bared teeth clacking.
I put my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter inside, mentally applauding her. Right then I renamed her Hellish.
Martha Garner emerged from Jim’s office, spotted me and came over. “Honey, are you hiding under those bandages?”
“Oh no, just watching a horse in that barn lying catty-cornered to ours. She’s a bad actor, but gorgeous as hell.”
“My Ed used to have one like that. All the talent in the world, but more likely to misbehave than win. Drove Ed crazy.” Martha stared over to Clements’ barn. “Now there’s a handsome one.”
I felt his eyes even before I found the subject of Martha’s interest. Jack Farino stood outside Clements’ barn in the shadow of a hay truck. This guy always spotted me first, like he was spying on me.
“Look at him. Makes me think of those Gypsies,” said Martha. “Kinda dark and mysterious?”
Farino knew he’d been noticed and eased around the edge of the truck, disappearing from our sight. “That one could steal your heart away,” said Martha, “like a Gypsy in the night.” This last part she sang out loud.
The old Martha had returned. I should have known when she’d shown up in a raspberry jacket.
“That’s the second hunk I’ve seen today,” she continued. “That Clay Reed stopped by here earlier. I think you were out with Kenny. Now he’s a cutie pie.”
“Clay, what did he want?” I didn’t mention I had a date with him Saturday night, afraid Martha might expect girl talk and tell me again how I should put a hook in him.
“There’s a two-year-old colt with two crosses of Destroyer in the pedigree, out of a nice mare. He thinks he can get him for a good price. Jim’s going to look at the horse today, and if he likes him, Clay will seal the deal, and I’ll have a new horse.”
“That’s great, Martha.” I grinned at her enthusiasm and also with relief. We needed another horse in the barn, and I needed to get ready for Coca Mocha and the red dress.
I said goodbye to Martha and passed Clements’ barn on my way to the car, wondering about Farino and what connection he had to Clements.
Chapter 10
I stood before my bathroom mirror, amazed by the rounded cleavage escaping from my red dress, finally understanding why they called it the Miracle Bra. Slippers, fluffy and purring, hopped from floor to toilet seat to the counter, where he inspected the can of Spike! Earlier, inspired by Alfonso’s magical ability to transform mediocrity, I’d groomed my kitty to cat-show readiness, maybe even Madison Square Garden. He’d almost purred himself to death when I did this, then spent time showing off his legs, which resembled feather pantaloons.
I’d done my best with my new makeup and mousse and thought I looked pretty good. I stared at Slippers for a moment, grabbed the Spike! and squirted a little onto my palm. I dabbed it on the top of his head and made a little point, which quickly stiffened, creating the illusion of a miniature knight’s helmet. We both gazed into the mirror, in awe of our appearance.
Carla and Louis were picking me up and driving to Coca Mocha, where we’d meet Clay. This date was excessively arranged. I hadn’t even spoken to Clay since I’d met him at the Laurel Jockey’s Club, and to be truthful, the evening felt awkward. Yet a low level-hum of excitement pulsed in my core as I stuffed some essentials into my new black bag.
Someone knocked on my door, and I peeked through the view hole and saw Louis. I opened the door. Louis stood there wearing a loud blue shirt and gold neck-chain and cologne.
“She made you look gorgeous,” he said. “I heard about the makeover. Carla sure knows her stuff. Is she amazing or what?”
Another one who needed to work on his delivery. Louis came in while I grabbed my bag and a lace shawl. Slippers strolled silently into the middle of my living room and sat motionless, gazing up at Louis.
“Does that cat have a point on its head?” Louis asked.
How do you explain putting mousse on your cat’s head? “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said and closed the door behind us.
We climbed
into Louis’s Jaguar and headed downtown. Carla, who’d been waiting in the passenger seat, wore a leopard-print outfit that appeared painted on her body. Someday I’d figure out how she did this without looking cheap. Maybe the confidence and intelligence radiating from those brown eyes stopped disparaging thoughts cold.
But here I sat in a shiny Jaguar, feeling pretty and rolling into the big night out. Definitely cool. The Jag’s engine purred as we motored downtown, city night lights reflecting off its silver hood. We pulled up to a ruby-colored awning with the words Coca Mocha lettered on the side in fancy gold script. A man dressed in white shirt and pants opened the car doors for Carla and me. A valet took the Jag and we went inside.
The room held a spicy, exotic scent and glowed with low, warm lighting. Club music blasted, and a dance floor pulsed with male dancers in tight pants and women in eye-catching cleavage. Louis conferred with the maitre d’ and we were led away, past tables draped in ruby cloths, with candles burning in glittering red-and-gold jars. A woman in an astonishingly short skirt leaned over one table, using a miniature flame-thrower to light a man’s cigar. I hoped she didn’t lean over any further — I might embarrass myself by gawking. We rounded a corner and there, ensconced in a booth, lounged Clay Reed.
I’d forgotten how good he looked. Tonight he’d dressed in black, dynamite with his blond hair, and those blue eyes lit with pleasure when he saw me. My stomach lurched and my tongue tied up, not that it mattered with the loud music. We settled into the booth, and I sat, thigh to thigh, with a guy that probably broke hearts on a regular basis.
Clay ordered drinks, and the waiter returned with frosted glasses filled with pink foam, amber liquid and floating umbrellas. These things looked dangerous. I took a sip. Smooth and sweet, went down like honey. Definitely dangerous.
The music broke, and a bald man in a white silk jacket approached our table. His eyes bulged slightly over a nose as large as a horse’s, only not as pretty. “Carla, sweetheart. Louis, a pleasure to see you.”
Carla introduced him as Enrique, the Coca Mocha manager, and his gaze swept over us and came to rest on Carla with a look of adoration. Her blond hair tangled with the leopard print that stretched like skin over her chest and shoulders.
