The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  “Patrick?”

  “Fia, I have a great surprise for you. You’re in Saratoga for the summer, right?”

  “Yes.” My foot started to jiggle. This happens when I’m nervous. “Why? Are you coming up here, or something?”

  “No, of course not. But you needn’t sound so thrilled with the idea. Besides, you know how hard it is for me to leave the office. I’m about to close a huge deal. It involves—”

  “What’s the surprise, Patrick?”

  He hesitated a moment, then his words rushed at me like a runaway manure spreader. “I know you two had a falling-out when she left, but she is your mother and she’s in Saratoga. She’s dying to see you, Fia.”

  I was not dying to see her. Why did Patrick stick up for this bitch?

  “I’ve given her your number,” Patrick was saying, “and she’ll be calling you. Thought I’d give you a heads-up. You really need to see her, Fia. She’s your family.”

  An old, familiar rage swept through me. “For God’s sake, Patrick, she’s the woman who walked out on us for a wealthier man, the gold digger who cleaned out Dad’s bank accounts. She’s the reason Dad had to sell the farm, yank me out of private school, and shove me into probably the worst public school in Baltimore. That was fun. Of course by then, you were at the University of Florida, which she paid for, right?”

  “Jesus, Fia! I can’t change what happened back then. You should move on. She’s your mother. You should see her.”

  Trembling with rage, I disconnected the call, raced down three staircases, and burst out the front door, inhaling fresh, cool air. I scrambled into my starlight-blue Mini Cooper, too pissed off to admire its shiny black roof and bonnet-stripes. After firing up its surprisingly powerful four-cylinder engine, I cranked up the volume on Nirvana and McCartney’s “Cut Me Some Slack,” and laid rubber on the way to the park.

  * * *

  I spotted Gunny’s fading red hair behind the Daily Racing Form. The newspaper hid his face where he sat on a bench facing a landscaped pond. At its center, a small fountain sprayed cool water into the air, and a duck hen paddled lazily across the pool’s ruffled surface. Six ducklings followed in her wake.

  Watching their leisurely pace, I took a mental deep breath as the flock swam past an ornate, marble folly that rose from the shallow pool. I was grateful my brain was quiet now, and no longer playing the echo of gunshots or the screams of a man as feral hogs ripped him apart. I’d had a terrible experience in Florida a few months earlier, and for a while these sounds had been so loud, I’d thought they were real. Healing from the emotional trauma had not been easy.

  I breathed in the calmness of the park, focusing on the historic beauty of Saratoga. On the far side of the pond, manicured trees and bushes dotted a sweep of green lawn that led my gaze to the 1870s Canfield Casino. In its day, the casino was considered the “Monte Carlo of America,” notorious for high-rolling gamblers, entertainment stars, and the occasional mobster. These glory days had stopped abruptly in 1907 when anti-gambling, Bible-toting reformers shut the casino down.

  Still walking toward Gunny, I pulled my iPad from my tote bag, and pretending to study the screen, sat a few feet from him, where I caught a familiar whiff of his Old Spice cologne.

  He flattened his Form, took out a red pen and scribbled on the page listing Belmont’s races, as if marking his bets for the day. Not looking at me, he said, “How you doing, Fia?”

  “I’m good.”

  “No more flashbacks?” He did look at me now. A quick search of my face, a careful study of my response. He’d been a cop a long time and was deft at reading people’s expressions. Even better than the cops I’d worked with in Baltimore.

  “No flashbacks, no hallucinations.” I held his gaze a moment, than looked back at my iPad. “I will admit that if a truck suddenly backfires, or I hear any unexpected loud noise, I’ll jump. But that’s about it.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear this.” His lips curved in a smile. “How’s Pizutti doing?”

  “He’s a piece of work,” I said. “But I’ve found no illegal activities in his barn. Yet. He’s putting some kind of pressure on his stable jockey, Stevie Davis, but I don’t know why.”

  “Keep a watch on that. And an eye on one of Pizutti’s owners, a guy named Al Savarine. He seems determined to start up an unusual investment group that could be troublesome.”

  “That’s the guy who owns Ziggy Stardust,” I said.

  “Right.” Gunny twirled his pen before tapping it against the Form for emphasis. “Apparently he wants to start a company called Savarine Equine Acquisitions or SEA for short. Possibly a racehorse hedge fund.”

  “Oh, that’ll work,” I said.

  Gunny caught my sarcasm. “Exactly. Bad idea. You and Calixto need to keep your ears open and let me know what you hear.”

  The ducks had circled and were heading back toward us. I googled SEA on my tablet and nothing came up. Then I put in Savarine. His picture appeared. I didn’t like his face. Dark lids hooded his eyes and he’d avoided looking at the camera. He was a Wall Street investment broker.

  “Savarine looks like a New Jersey thug,” I said. “Who would fall for an equine hedge fund, anyway?”

  “Anyone chasing get-rich-quick schemes. Think of the people who got sucked into the tech bubble of 2000 and the mortgage scams of 2008.”

  We sat on the wooden bench for a few beats without speaking. A sudden strong breeze kicked up the surface of the pond and brought the odor of water, mud, and barnyard fowl. The gust must have disturbed the hen, who quacked noisily and paddled briskly toward us. The ducklings motored hard to keep up with her.

  “Maybe Savarine plans to have Wall Street meet the backstretch,” I said.

  Gunny’s only response was a snort of derision.

  The duck and her chicks reached the shore, marched up the bank to our bench, and stared at us with beady, expectant eyes. Like everyone else, they were looking for a free ride. I did a mental head shake. Maybe Savarine’s idea would work.

  “You know,” I said, “Ziggy Stardust has made so much money, and Pizutti’s runners are doing really well. Maybe the idea isn’t that crazy. What would burn me is if people invested because they know Pizutti’s crooked.”

  Apparently it was already burning Gunny, because he pulled a packet of orange-flavored Tums from his pocket and tore it open. At the sound of crinkling plastic, the ducks, who lingered nearby, rushed to his feet.

  I reached for the oyster crackers I’d left in my pocket, crumbled some up, and threw them to the birds. The hen quacked, the chicks peeped, and the flock gobbled up the cracker bits as Gunny chewed his Tums.

  After swallowing, he said, “Knowing Pizutti’s bent would be a strong draw for a number of owners.”

  “Sometimes, I just want to smack these people.”

  “Easy, Fia. Procedure may be slow and tedious, but you can’t go back to your hotheaded ways.” His voice had taken on a sharp edge. “That cost you your last job, remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.” The internal affairs division of the Baltimore Police Department had pushed me off the force, accusing me of being an “avenging angel” when I’d shot and killed a man who was trying to strangle a woman to death. The IAD guy had made it clear he didn’t want me in the department. I was a liability that could bring lawsuits, and claims of police brutality. I’d been lucky Gunny had taken me into the TRPB.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Same as always. Keep a low profile and your eyes open wide for illegal substances in Pizutti’s barn. And keep track of anything you hear or see about Savarine’s intended operation.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

  “And,” he continued, “I won’t be meeting you again. You funnel your information through Calixto. Okay?”

  “Sure. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What do you know about the jockey who committed suicide?”

  He p
aused before answering. “The county police are investigating. The jockey, Jose Fragoso, wasn’t being treated for depression. Nor did they find prescription or illegal drugs in his room. There’s no indication of foul play, and no reason to think it’s anything beyond a straightforward suicide. If I hear anything, I’ll tell Calixto. You sit here awhile. I’m heading out.”

  The ducks scattered when he stood and walked away from the bench. His stride was long and easy as the sun hit the remaining red strands in his fading hair, momentarily turning them the color of molten metal. He must have been a real pistol when he was young.

  By now, the breeze had calmed, and the ducks waded into the water and drifted toward the fountain. I thought about Jose Fragoso. I’d seen his body, smelled his blood, and I was sure a darkness the police couldn’t see had driven him to his death.

  4

  Opening day at Saratoga arrived on the third Friday in July. By Wednesday of that week, racing fans had crowded into the town’s hotel rooms and the Victorian bed-and-breakfasts on Union Avenue. Cash registers in restaurants and clothing boutiques on Broadway were spitting out purchase receipts like confetti, and the air held a buzz of anticipation I hadn’t felt before.

  After finishing work on Friday, I walked up Union toward my rental, enjoying the sunshine and blue sky arching overhead. The fans moving with me on the sidewalk held racing tip sheets and some, like me, carried copies of the Daily Racing Form for the afternoon’s races. At the corner of Union and East Avenue, a red light halted our flow.

  Beside me, a heavyset guy with a cigar turned to a man holding a tip sheet.

  “Hey, what do you think of Lightning Lily in the fourth today?”

  The tip sheet guy stared at his paper through drugstore cheaters. “Not much. Don’t like her. She’s a sprinter. Why would they put her in for a mile-and-a-sixteenth?”

  A woman in jeans and a sweatshirt moved closer to the tip sheet guy, pointing to his paper. “But look at her pedigree. I know that dam. She won at a mile-and-a-quarter. Her daughter should go long.”

  He shook his head. “I’m telling you. She won’t. Her sire was a stone-cold sprinter. Never go the distance.”

  The guy with the cigar frowned. “So, who do you like?”

  “Daisy Do Right. Look at her last work.”

  The light turned green, I stepped forward, and their discussion became muffled behind me. Stevie was riding a filly named Wiggly Wabbit for Mars in that race, and I liked her. Though I’d kept my eyes and ears alert, I’d found no trace of drugs in Pizutti’s barn, and I thought the filly could win on her own ability. I might lay a bet on the horse, so I wasn’t about to voice an opinion to the people behind me. I felt a smile curving my lips. Racing fever had infected me, just like everyone else.

  I’d watched Stevie ride in the mornings. He knew his way around a racetrack, had a good timing clock in his head, nice hands, and confidence, but he’d only ridden at second-rate tracks. Mars must have seen something in the kid to bring him in as the stable jockey. Though Stevie’s stats were good at smaller tracks, Saratoga was a whole other universe, and I was anxious to see how the kid measured up that afternoon in the fourth. No doubt Stevie was, too. As third choice on the morning line, Wiggly Wabbit and Stevie had a shot to win.

  * * *

  When I got to my rental, I ate a small carton of yogurt and a package of trail mix. After showering, I darkened my eyes with black shadow and liner, then pulled on a T-shirt with a graphic of bleeding red roses on the front. I added ankle chains to my black boots, and was about to head for the track when I saw my Racing Form on the floor and leaned over to pick it up.

  The paper had opened to a page I hadn’t read before and a headline caught my eye: SARATOGA JOCKEY COMMITS SUICIDE.

  So the police had ruled it a suicide. My eyes raced through the article. Jose Fragoso was from Peru and had been in the U.S. for only two months. I searched for an indication of why he would have taken his own life, but found none. The reporter had used an interpreter to interview a friend of the dead jockey. Named Oscar Mejias, and also Peruvian, he’d said, “Jose was very happy to be in America. It was his dream to ride here.”

  Some dream. How hard it must be to ride here if you spoke no English. Who could these young Latinos rely on? I read further, but the article provided no clues to Fragoso’s state of mind when he shot himself. I folded the paper, tucked it under my arm, and headed for the track.

  * * *

  The third race had gone off by the time I walked through the entrance gates. I hurried, since our filly would be coming into the paddock soon. The huge wooden grandstand, built in 1864, stood to one side of the path I followed, the paddock area on the other. The mile-and-one-eighth track and its stadium seating hid on the far side of the grandstand.

  Kiosks selling programs, food, and beer crammed the paddock grounds. Red and white awnings sheltered these crowded concessions. The smell of grilled chicken and french fries teased my nose, while the lines of customers slowed my progress. I didn’t mind—people were having fun, and their electricity put a positive charge in the air.

  After slipping between a couple eating hot dogs and a family negotiating two baby strollers and a pizza, I finally reached my destination.

  When I leaned against the white-painted rails surrounding the paddock, two guys in their twenties stood next to me. They held mostly empty beer cups and wore military-short haircuts. They stared at my Goth tee, skull earrings, and blackened eyes.

  With a derisive look, the guy closest to me said, “Funeral parlor’s over on North Broadway, lady.”

  “Why?” I asked, giving him my dead-eyed cop stare. “You need a ride?”

  His buddy smothered a laugh, and spilled his beer onto the bed of red begonias beneath the rail.

  “Let’s move,” the first guy said. “This one gives me the creeps.”

  “Roger that,” his beer-spilling buddy said. “But she is kind of hot.” His last comment elicited a glare from his friend as they moved away.

  Two young women in short dresses immediately filled the space, and the closest one, a bubbly blonde, gave me an appreciative smile. “Love that Goth thing you got going.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She opened her program. “Who do you like in the fourth?”

  I liked her open, friendly face and the fact she’d been nice to me, so I gave her a tip. “That one,” I said, pointing to where Becky Joe Benson had just entered the paddock leading Pizutti’s horse.

  The blonde glanced at the numeral three printed on Becky Joe’s vest, then at her program. “Wiggly Wabbit? Seriously?”

  “Yes. I’d box an exacta with her and Starlight,” I said.

  She frowned. “Box an exacta?”

  “You know, bet them to come in first and second, in either order.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  By now, Becky Joe was leading Wiggly Wabbit past me on the other side of the rail. The gray filly looked good and Becky Joe did, too. She’d shined up her cowgirl boots and put on a newer hat. Beneath her numbered vest, she was wearing what she called her “special occasion jacket.” The fringed-leather piece appeared to have seen a few too many such occasions, but Becky Joe wore it with pride.

  I called to her, “What do you think?”

  She grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.

  My rail neighbor said, “Oh! Do you own the horse?”

  “Nah. I work in the barn.”

  The two women nudged each other, and knowing they had inside information, rushed off to find the nearest betting window.

  About the time they returned with their tickets, Pizutti, wearing a shiny gray suit with a floppy red tie, strutted into the paddock, reminding me of the annoying rooster in Maggie Bourne’s barn. He waved at the fans lining the rail who called his name and wished him luck.

  To the ones he knew he yelled, “Hey, babe, how ya doin’?”

  When Mars thought he was being cool, he liked to call people “babe,” be they male or female. Some peop
le cast disparaging looks in his direction and muttered to their companions. Probably, their remarks weren’t complimentary. People either loved or hated Pizutti.

  He crooked a finger at Becky Joe, then waved her and Wiggly into the number three stall of the saddling enclosure. Built from whitewood panels, it stood beneath one of Saratoga’s signature red-and-white-striped awnings. The colorful design was all over the track and provided a county fair atmosphere. I almost expected a barbershop quartet or an old-fashioned beer wagon to materialize at any moment.

  But it was time to check out Wiggly Wabbit’s competition. As the horses paraded past, I studied each animal, looking for alertness, a shiny coat, good muscle tone, and proper weight. When I’d studied the Form at the barn that morning, I’d told Stevie he should worry about the two favorites, Starlight and Daisy Do Right.

  “At least,” I’d told him, “they look fierce on paper.”

  It doesn’t always happen, but for this race, the horses’ appearances agreed with their written form. Starlight’s copper coat was on fire with vitality. Her eyes held a determined look. Daisy Do Right, a solid bay, was close to seventeen hands in height and looked like she’d have a stride that would devour the track.

  Remembering the discussion about Lightning Lily I’d heard earlier, I gave her a hard look. She had a blaze on her face shaped like a bolt of lightning and was close coupled, with solid muscle and weight, the mark of a sprinter. If she could steal the lead and hold on to the wire, she might have a shot. These three horses were carrying jockeys with high win percentages. Stevie would have his hands full trying to beat them.

  The remaining eight horses weren’t much to write home about, with the exception of Wiggly Wabbit. Her gray coat blossomed with silver dapples, her muscles were pumped with blood, and the veins stood out on her coat. Sometimes, you can look at an animal and know they intend to win. Our filly had her game face on. I left the rail and went to place my bet.

  When I came back, a glance at the tote board told me the bettors liked Wiggly Wabbit’s appearance as much as I did. By the time Stevie’s valet entered the paddock with the saddle and two girths, our filly was bet down to second favorite.