Full Mortality

by Sasscer Hill

  “Darling, you always look so fabulous.” He turned to Clay and me. “This woman keeps our diners hungry for more. Her steaks and chops . . .” He rolled his protruding eyes toward the ceiling. “And her breasts. Carla, your breasts are so delicious.”

  “And for you, Enrique, they always will be,” Carla said, with a slow smile.

  I managed not to spit my drink out, but my eyes watered furiously. Carla glanced at me and burst out laughing.

  “Chicken breasts, Nikki. We’re talking about chicken breasts.”

  Yeah, right.

  Clay grinned. “Such an innocent,” he said. Come on, dance with me.”

  Since nobody has more aerobic stamina than a jockey, I wowed them on the dance floor. Besides, I’d acquired some good moves following my mom when she used to boogie around the rowhouse, where she weaned me on Little Feat and The Rolling Stones.

  Later, sated with drink, laughter, and dancing, I figured I’d never had a better time. Clay had been funny, sweet, and attentive, and had never once looked down the front of my dress. But he moved closer now, caught my eye, and slid one arm around my shoulders, fingers lightly grazing my skin. An electric connection jolted me.

  “You fascinated me the day I met you,” he said close to my ear. “Beauty and bravery is a hard combination to resist.”

  My tongue refused to make words. I think I smiled.

  “I’d like to talk to you, but this music. . . .,” he made a frustrated gesture with his hand. “There’s a place near here. You want to go?”

  Like wild horses could keep me away. “Sounds good.”

  Clay said something to Louis, who sent me a vague wave. I wanted to say goodbye to Carla, but she’d gone to powder her nose and Clay’s hand on my wrist was insistent. Outside a line to get into the dance club snaked down the block and disappeared around the corner. We stepped along the wide pavement, soaking up the cool, smoke free air, and talked about horse racing, a subject my tongue handled with agility.

  A face near the end of the club line stopped me cold. Dennis O’Brien stood there sucking on a cigarette, his arm around a young woman. I hadn’t seen him since he’d whipped a welt onto my face and pushed Flame Thrower into the rail. Maybe Jim thought I should let it go, but a hot eruption of anger produced a desire to tear into Dennis. I took a step toward him, but Clay touched my arm.

  “What?”

  “That guy over there,” I said, my voice almost a hiss.

  Clay scanned the line and his touch turned to a grasp.

  Then Dennis saw me, his stance becoming arrogant, his lips smirking. “Hey, little miss Nikki. Lost any races recently?” He waved his hand through the air like he held a crop, until his eyes slid to my date and he suddenly looked worried. Maybe he should have noticed the stud before he whipped the pony.

  “Look, buddy,” said Clay. “Why don’t you shut up before you get yourself into trouble?”

  I thought Dennis would spout off at Clay — he was that cocky. But he surprised me by shrugging and turning away.

  Clay’s hold on my arm tightened. “Come on, Nikki, let’s get out of here. You’re way above brawling with trash like that.”

  I digested his advice. Maybe I’d continue this fight on the racetrack. I let Clay lead me away. We moved through a canyon of tall buildings, any available stars blanketed by the murky fog of light pollution. Instead, city lights twinkled from the canyon walls, street lamps loomed above us, and car beams bounced and dipped as they swept along the broken concrete of the downtown streets.

  A small, posh hotel stood between two office buildings, an elegant awning and doorman drawing us in. Clay led me into a small, quiet bar with green velvet upholstered booths. In my red dress, I felt like a Christmas card as I sank into the cushy fabric. Clay surprised me by sitting close, on my side of the booth. A waiter appeared.

  “Nikki, let me order you a nightcap?”

  I didn’t have to ride in the morning, but I didn’t want to lose a day from booze indulgence the night before. “I’ve probably had enough,” I said, hoping I hadn’t just committed some kind of date-night faux pas. I’d learned fancy words like that from the rich girls who ate my mother’s cooking at Miss Potter’s School. I’d been exposed to their upscale chatter during riding classes. I’d also been exposed to their derision. My head felt spongy. How much had I imbibed? Imbibed? I giggled.

  Clay grinned. “You are so adorable. One last drink won’t hurt you, and this is a special night.” His fingertips traced a small circle on my wrist.

  The liquor accelerated the sudden eroticism that surged through me, headed south, and pooled as liquid warmth between my thighs. I met Clay’s gaze and noted his quick intake of air.

  “Bring us two champagne cocktails,” he said, his fingers never leaving my wrist, his eyes stroking my lips.

  Our drinks arrived, and I grabbed the glass like a lifeline. I couldn’t remember feeling this aroused. I didn’t even know this guy.

  Clay straightened up, moving away from me slightly, as if sensing my confusion.

  “I met Martha Garner recently. She thinks the world of you, Nikki. A shame about that stakes mare, Gilded Cage.”

  “That hurt a lot of people,” I said.

  “Someone told me you had her for the Venus. You must’ve been upset.”

  When I shrugged and looked away, Clay forged ahead.

  “You’re a talented rider — just need some good horses that’ll let you show your stuff. I’ve got an excellent replacement in mind for Martha. This guy’s a two-year-old with pedigree up the ying-yang. He’s about two works away from his first race and he just threw in a bullet. It’s an awesome opportunity for Martha. You too, Nikki.”

  “I think Martha will get another horse when she’s ready.” She didn’t need a horse pushed on her, not so soon after losing Gildy. And a bullet — the fastest morning work at a given distance, same track, same day — only rated if the competition was good. Suppose the horse produced a bullet work breezing against a bunch of cheap has-beens?

  The waiter appeared with additional champagne glasses effervescing with a concoction that seemed to glow. Clay leaned into me, sort of enthusiastic and bubbly, like the drink the waiter set before me.

  “That’s just it. If she waits, she could lose out. Talk to her Nikki, tell her you’ve heard great things about this horse. Don’t blow this opportunity.” His eyes shone with a driving intensity.

  “Clay, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t be comfortable telling Martha what to do.”

  He looked a bit taken aback, then said, “No pressure, babe. I’ll work another angle.”

  Somewhere nearby a familiar tune played. Wait, I knew that one. The lyrics “we’re in the money,” floated through my head. I watched Clay dig in his jacket pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, and it was still playing that melody. He must really like money.

  He gave me a what-can-you-do look and took the call.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said, then listened. “Don’t you worry, he’s all but sold. Yeah, right.” He grinned, “those two crosses of Destroyer will clinch the deal. Yeah, like we talked about. You’re damn right that’s good money. Super money.”

  He listened some more, a smug expression settling on his face. “Okay. Yeah, later.” He folded up the phone, and it disappeared into his pocket.

  Hadn’t Martha said Clay wanted her to buy a horse with two crosses of Destroyer? Was Clay brokering a deal at both ends, taking his five-percent commission twice? If not illegal, surely unethical? And he wanted me to help him? I pushed the champagne away and glared at him.

  “What?”

  “Martha told me you wanted her to buy a horse with Destroyer in the pedigree. Is that the same horse you’re selling for your buddy here?”

  A wary expression flitted across his face. “Not at all, Nikki. There’s plenty of horses with Destroyer in the family.”

  “Yeah, but two crosses?”

  He looked annoyed. “Nikki, this is my business, how I make a living, not
some Girl Scout Cookie drive.”

  He had that right. “I don’t like that your padding the price to line your own pockets. And Martha’s the one paying. She’s paid enough already.”

  “You’re wrong, Nikki. There’s two different horses. I wouldn’t do that to Martha.”

  Why didn’t I believe him? Maybe the earlier smug look, like a satisfied con who’s pulled a scam. He reached for my hand, but I snatched it away, sad to feel the magic dissipating. I wanted that warm rush, that seductive thrill, but not like this.

  “I want to go home,” I said.

  Chapter 11

  I took a taxi back to Laurel, glad I’d remembered to stuff cash into my black bag. The memory of Clay’s chill expression and irritation was unpleasant.

  “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” he’d said. “You’ve got me all wrong, but suit yourself.”

  I sighed and settled back into the taxi’s bench seat. In the rear-view mirror, the eyes of the cinnamon-skinned driver watched me. Layers of black cloth wound about his head, making me feel like I fled America’s capital with a terrorist disguised as a taxi driver. Of course, this man probably had me pegged as a rich party bitch. How do you know about people?

  I should have seen the con in Clay from miles away, the way he’d schmoozed Janet LeGrange, given her that excited smile. The same smile that danced so recently on my lips. He seemed to genuinely like women — just didn’t mind profiting by their inevitable attraction to his handsome face and flattering ways. Any man who took advantage of a woman like that dragged me right back to my stepfather, Stanley. I shuddered.

  “You cold, missy?” asked my turbaned driver. He started to roll up the window that was cracked about two inches.

  “No, I’m fine.” The car had a peculiar odor, like stale sweat mixed with pungent spice. “Open is good.”

  He grinned at me in the mirror, and we motored out New York Avenue toward the Baltimore Washington Parkway. I arrived at my apartment after midnight, deflated, tired, and glad I didn’t have to show up at the track by 6 A.M. I wasn’t looking forward to relating the last part of the evening to Carla. She’d been so determined to fix me up with Clay. I’d probably downplay the con angle.

  Slippers greeted me at the door, the little point on his head listing to one side, drooping.

  “I know just how you feel,” I said, and scooped him into my arms. We agreed to call it a night, purring and sleep being high on the agenda.

  In the morning, a yearning drew me back to Jim’s barn, a need to soak up those familiar racetrack surroundings. As I drove in around nine, my tension eased, the glitz and uncertainty of the previous night fading.

  A horse van stood outside Clements’ barn, and a reluctant Helen’s Dream, or Hellish as I liked to call her, fought with a groom near the van’s ramp. I parked and double-timed it over to the groom. He wasn’t such a bad guy. At least he didn’t beat on horses.

  “Hey, Charlie. They shipping that filly out?”

  The groom’s pudgy face held a scowl, no doubt put there by Hellish. “Not soon enough for me. You wanna help me get this bitch on here?”

  Hellish emitted a growling grunt and tried to leap backward.

  “Here, let me have her,” I said.

  Charlie handed her over, and I eased up and scratched her neck, cooed a little, and she let me lead her into the trailer like a lamb. I felt smug.

  “Where’s she going?” Now that I’d helped, I knew he’d tell me. Before, maybe not. Clements tended to be secretive. Loose-lipped help received a quick slug of Clements’ anger.

  “Dark Mountain,” he said with satisfaction.

  My hand snapped Hellish’s halter to the trailer tie and froze. A low-level dread spread through me. “Why?” I almost whispered.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” said Charlie. “She’s asked for it, nasty bitch.”

  “No one will buy her at Dark Mountain. She’ll go to the killers.” The town Dark Mountain, up near the Pennsylvania border, had a farm auction notorious for getting rid of unwanted horses. I’d never been there but I’d heard buyers from the slaughterhouses went there regularly to hook horses that couldn’t find a new home.

  “Look, it’s not my problem,” said Charlie. “I’ve got to load another one and drive them up to Dark Mountain for tonight’s auction. Don’t have another sale for two weeks, and Clements’ wants them out of here, so don’t give me a hard time.” He couldn’t hold my gaze and addressed my shoulder. “Could you stay with her while I get the other one?”

  I felt like telling him to shove it, but nodded, realizing I wanted these few moments with Hellish. I scratched her neck some more while we waited in the trailer. Her breath was warm and fragrant. Charlie waddled out with a small gelding that limped.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Ah, he’s got a microfracture on his shin. He’s slower ’n dirt, not worth fixing up.”

  I’d seen this handsome little dude on the track and knew him to be a quiet, sensible type. They called him Silver Box, and he was cute, with a long forelock over a white blaze and showy white socks. A perfect Pony Club horse for a teenage girl, he’d heal with a little time. He might find a good home. But Hellish . . .

  I stepped off the van. Charlie raised the ramp and went around to the cab and climbed in. He cranked the engine, and when he rolled past me, I could see Hellish’s head near a small, open window. She turned, stared right at me, and nickered. Sudden tears fractured my vision. Enough. This one wasn’t going to die. I swiped at my eyes and hurried over to Jim’s office.

  I burst in, agitated, adrenalin pumping. Jim’s gaze left his charts and veterinary records, registering surprise.

  “I gave you the day off.”

  “Would you let me borrow your rig? I have to go to Dark Mountain.”

  “What the hell you want to go there for?”

  I explained about Hellish, how I’d need a stall for her in his barn, how he had to lend me his truck and trailer.

  “I probably should refuse you for your own good, but hell . . . you got enough money?”

  I leapt around the desk and threw my arms around him. He stiffened and gave me a little half-push away. Then shoved his keys at me.

  “You drive carefully now and don’t be wrecking my rig.” His voice sounded gruff, but a smile tugged his lips as I turned to run from the room.

  Jim’s red Ford 250 fired right up. I backed it up to the two-horse trailer, hooked them together, and took off up Route 1, merging onto Route 32, where I headed north. Almost two hours later, northwest of Hagerstown, the ground lost its lush green, rising rocky and bare-patched into low mountains. Jim’s V-8 hummed up the steep inclines, the trailer rattling along behind.

  I pulled into an Exxon for gas and coffee, then studied my map while I sipped hazelnut and bit into a chocolate bar that somehow followed me from the food mart. Heading out of the gas station, I felt the caffeine and sugar boiling in my system. I might tear the auction grounds apart looking for Hellish. Good thing I hadn’t downed a beer — someone could get hurt.

  My bravado and anger dwindled into surprise when I finally reached the sale. A huge circus tent rose behind the parking lot. Small pens holding sheep, donkeys, and goats flanked the tent to the right. A wooden barn, painted bright green, held position on the left. Ponies and horses watched with curiosity over stall doors as children and parents strolled the grounds, eating hotdogs and cotton candy. Wood smoke from a food concession wafted on a light breeze, bringing the smell of sizzling steaks and barbequed chicken, while the scent of popcorn and beer permeated the atmosphere. A musky scent of animal drifted through the grounds.

  Beyond the horse barn, additional pens held cows, some llamas, and even an ox. The air buzzed with anticipation. Two bright-eyed boys rushed past clutching boxes with bunnies. What had I expected? Men in hooded black robes wielding sledgehammers? Well, yeah.

  I fought the urge to rush into the barn to search for Hellish, and instead headed into the tent. I ne
eded to find the office, learn about bidding requirements, auction rules and regulations. Through the tent opening, bleachers rose on either side of a long dirt runway. This path, enclosed by a sturdy post-and-board fence, opened at the far left end, where another tent door led toward the horse barn. An auctioneer’s stand stood at the opposite end. Behind that I spotted a double-wide trailer rolled inside the tent. A sign labeled “office” hung over its door.

  An excessively fat woman wearing a maroon cap and an extra-large Redskins jersey, had me fill out a form for my name and address. Her green-and-red name tag read “Bertha.” She scribbled my driver’s license number in a box at the top with one hand, while the other ferried corn chips from a plastic bag to her mouth.

  “I only need this if you’re paying with a check,” she said, her voice a mumble of chips.

  “No, I brought cash.” Though not armed with Carla’s expertise in per-pound meat prices, I figured Hellish wouldn’t fetch more than $500.

  After scurrying from Bertha’s office into the roundtop, my attention was caught by a small crowd gathered around chickens in cages. Roosters crowed and preened. A man in a green cap led the people from cage to cage, his voice running in the auctioneer’s singsong. I walked over there and immediately fell for a black-and-white rooster with fluffy feathers growing down to his toenails. His soft plumes and pantaloons reminded me of Slippers. An index card taped to his cage identified him as a “Barred Rock Cochin.”

  Time for a mental slap. I hadn’t come here to buy a chicken. I bustled off to find Hellish, got almost as far as the tent door leading to the horse barn when I saw the rodent-like face of Dennis O’Brien.

  He stood next to the bleachers studying an auction program. I didn’t need a confrontation, didn’t want him to see me. I scooted behind a family of five. The tallest two children, girls about 12, talked about the new horse they hoped to find for trail riding. Maybe a little showing. The father towed a small boy by the hand. The mother, in well-worn riding togs, led the way. I eased into the midst of this family as they moved through the door and headed for the horse barn. Dennis never saw me.