The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  With his cute dimples and blue eyes, his face was the soul of innocence, which immediately made me suspect him. I’d found cynicism to be an unfortunate by-product of law enforcement.

  Paxton opened one of the boxes built into the sides of his truck and started setting a few vials of medicine onto a tray. He added some needled syringes and began drawing liquid from the vials.

  “Prerace time,” I said, figuring the vet would be injecting Glow West and Dodger with vitamins, permitted painkillers, and the diuretic Lasix, which was still legal in New York. These additives would give the two runners an edge, the same edge that every other horse in the race was probably receiving.

  Unless, of course, Pizutti had one of those magic, as yet untraceable drugs, like Dermorphin had been when it first appeared, delivering a painkiller up to a hundred times stronger than morphine. U.S. racetrack labs worked hard to stay on top of this stuff. It was especially difficult since the rules kept changing, not only from state to state, but from year to year. Fortunately, the labs, for the most part, were successful.

  “I think I’ll go see if Dr. Paxton needs any help,” I said, as the vet stepped into Pizutti’s office.

  Calixto nodded, and I stuffed my empty gift box into a pocket and strolled past Paxton’s pickup. Glancing into the compartment Paxton had left open, I saw more rubber-topped bottles, vials, and jars of pills than you could shake a stick at.

  Hearing Paxton and Pizutti talking inside the office, I slowed to read some of the labels. Lasix. Corticosteroids, like the muscle-building synthetic testosterones stanozolol and boldenone. The anabolic steroids were there, too, like the anti-inflammatories prednisone and hydrocortisone. As long as these steroids were administered no closer than thirty days before a race, it was okay, but Pizutti’s horses had tested positive on race days before.

  If my suspicions were correct, and Savarine expected Dodger to provide his shareholders with a big paycheck, then Pizutti would be doubly anxious for the horse to score. Would he rely on Dodger’s hidden speed to secure a win? Or something else?

  I’d asked Brian at TRPB to check on Paxton a week earlier, and he’d found no dirt. But Paxton was working for Pizutti, and Pizutti had committed more infractions and received more suspensions than any other New York trainer. Remembering what Becky Joe had said about the angry fans on Facebook, I did a mental head shake. Why had it taken the New York Racing Association so long to call in the TRPB?

  Paxton emerged from Pizutti’s office and went inside Dodger’s stall. I followed, stopping outside, where I snuck a peek at Dodger and Paxton.

  Javier held Dodger’s shank as Dr. Paxton inserted the needle of a syringe into the large vein that ran down the side of the horse’s neck. He pushed the plunger, then flicked a glance at me. “Fay, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You need any help today, Dr. Paxton?”

  He flashed his dimples. “We’re good.”

  “He getting Lasix?” I asked, making conversation while I stared at the other syringes poking from the top of Paxton’s breast pocket.

  “You bet.” He whipped another shot from his pocket and shoved it into the neck muscles that lay just to the front of Dodger’s withers.

  I hung around until he was finished with Dodger. No way to prove what the injections were without grabbing the empty syringes and having them tested by a lab, but Paxton’s relaxed attitude made me doubt he was administering illegal drugs. I almost wished he’d loaded Dodger with some kind of jet fuel. Without it, the win hung on Stevie’s ability to stop Glow West.

  Without getting caught.

  11

  When Pizutti called me to his office later that morning, I found the calico stable cat sprawled across the top of the desk. She’d settled herself on a copy of the Daily Racing Form and was purring mightily as the trainer stroked her fur.

  Despite my cop experience, a part of me still wanted to believe that animal lovers aren’t bad people. But even angels can fall for the lure of easy money, and Pizutti was no angel.

  He stopped petting the cat. “Listen, Fay, I want you to run Glow West this afternoon. Okay? You can do that, right?”

  “Run” was track parlance for taking the horse to the paddock and keeping him under control until the jockey mounted and rode him onto the track. Nodding, I said, “Sure.”

  If you’ve never done it, it’s hard to imagine the difficulty of leading a fired-up, thousand-pound Thoroughbred past a crowd of excited racing fans. Your legs struggle through the pull of deep, heavy sand on the track or in the paddock. Inevitably, the horse seems hell-bent on dragging you into the next county.

  As soon as I left Pizutti, I walked to the other side to confer with Calixto. His plan for the race was to hang near the betting windows in the section reserved for box holders. Pizutti would be there, too, sitting with the horses’ owners. The TRPB agent, Turner, planned to float. While Glow West was racing, I’d be stuck on the rail with the other grooms holding halters and lead shanks.

  After the race, I’d take the colt back to the barn, unless he won, in which case I’d lead him into the winner’s circle, making sure to turn my face away from the photographer. I didn’t need my picture on the internet.

  * * *

  But late that afternoon, when the jockeys entered the paddock, I knew the winner’s circle was not in Glow West’s immediate future. Stevie’s face was flat, his eyes staring into the distance at something no one else could see. He kept lifting his hand to his mouth, worrying a hangnail on his thumb.

  He stopped next to me, where I held Glow West, who was being saddled by Carl and Stevie’s valet. Stevie avoided my eyes as he licked a drop of blood from his thumb.

  Moments later Carl tossed him in the saddle, and Pizutti, who was two stalls down, lifted another jockey onto Dodger.

  “Good luck, Stevie,” I said, but the boy didn’t seem to hear me.

  The field paraded onto the track, the horses with bowed necks, the jockeys a rainbow of colored silk. The board showed Glow West a solid favorite. But Dodger’s odds were twenty-to-one, a dream for bettors who were in the know.

  I glanced around the apron, through the crowd of people holding beer cups and hot dogs. Rico and his mobster buddy, Alberto Rizelli, stood near the rail. Though the day was warm with high clouds and bright sunshine, the two old men wore nylon vests with big zippered pockets over their shirts.

  As the horses jogged past the crowd at the rail, the two men drifted apart. A number of mostly young people materialized from different directions and eased toward the two mobsters. These ordinary-looking and easily forgettable newcomers took turns standing close to Rico or Alberto. Each time one conferred with a mobster, he’d hold out his or her program, like they were handicapping the race or trading tips. The old guys would dip into a pocket and slide a small envelope into the person’s program.

  No doubt the envelopes were stuffed with cash, and these folks were running bets on Dodger for Rico and Alberto. The bets would be low enough their payoffs wouldn’t exceed the $9,000 limit that raises a red flag for the IRS.

  Running bets was still one of the best ways for crooks to remain anonymous. Though online betting is widespread, it’s hard to hide when you have to list your Social Security number to open an account. Sure people could and did supply false information, but running unidentified cash bets at the track worked better.

  Pretending I had a phone call, I shot dozens of pictures of the young runners and the arthritic mobsters’ hands dropping cash into racing programs.

  Watching the young people’s movements, and glancing at the time on the tote board, I realized they were waiting to place their money until the last possible moment. They played a fine line. While they risked the windows shutting down before they placed their bets, they couldn’t alert the crowd that the “smart” money had jumped on Dodger. At least not until it was too late for anyone else to bet on the horse.

  No doubt these old mobsters had people running bets in New York City at Aqueduct, spreadin
g cash in New Jersey at Monmouth or the Meadowlands, and retired mafia cousins spending money at Gulfstream Park and Tampa Bay Downs in Florida.

  When I had enough pictures, I put my cell phone away, but continued to watch Rico and Alberto. They had the pumped-up, sly look of criminals about to make a score. I sent a text to Calixto telling him what I’d seen.

  He texted back, “Some of Rico’s boys are up here, too. Watch the odds.”

  I heard a low rumble of voices around me, and glancing at the tote board saw Dodger’s long odds had shrunk from twenty-to-one to ten-to-one.

  Seconds later, the field loaded into the gate, the starter sprang them loose, and the betting shut down. If Dodger won, the mobsters would make a killing.

  Out on the track, a dark bay long shot rushed to the lead. Dodger and the bright chestnut, Glow West, followed close behind.

  After a quarter of a mile, the jockey on the dark bay eased his horse into a more sensible pace, trying to save him for the finish, maybe trying to steal the race after gaining the early lead. Though Dodger’s rider sat chilly, the ten-to-one long shot moved up, thrusting his head level with the dark bay’s flank.

  Glow West sailed a length behind Dodger. The remaining six horses rolled along in the wake of the three front-runners until the last turn, when everyone got busy making their moves.

  Stevie and Glow West weren’t supposed to finish in the top three, a tall order since the colt looked like he was blasting along with a ton of firepower left in the barrel.

  Holding my breath, I watched the field come out of the turn into the stretch. Dodger shot past the dark bay and took the lead. Glow West tried to go with him, but Stevie hit his horse hard, two times, left-handed, making the chestnut lug into the path of the horses coming up from behind. Two of these had to check sharply to avoid clipping Glow West’s heels. I could imagine the obscenities their jockeys were screaming at Stevie for his erratic move.

  Even though Stevie had smacked Glow West halfway over to the parking lot, the game chestnut spurted forward and gained ground on Dodger and the dark bay. If Stevie was only pretending to ride, he did a darn good job of flashing his whip and gyrating his body to mimic a hard finish to the end. Maybe it didn’t matter where he finished.

  The three front-runners flashed under the wire with Dodger a clear winner, the dark bay hanging on for second place, and Glow West rushing up so fast, he would have beat them both had his sideways movement not lost so much ground. A moment later, the board flashed with an objection raised against Glow West for interference. Somewhere in the grandstand the stewards were reviewing tapes of the race, and I prayed they’d take Glow West down.

  As Stevie galloped his horse back to me, I saw him glance anxiously at the board. Suddenly, I realized the kid had planned on a disqualification. Glow West’s number was lit up in the three spot, but flashing with the objection. Bettors held their tickets, stared at the board, and grumbled. I held my breath.

  With cheers from some patrons, and groans of anguish from others, Glow West’s number came down and was placed last. I let out a long breath, and as Stevie approached me on Glow West, relief flooded his face.

  Pizutti walked past with Dodger and Carl, on their way to the winner’s circle. He glanced at Stevie, and said, “You did good, kid.” He kept going, not waiting for the boy’s reply.

  On the apron, near the winner’s circle, Rico and Alberto held plastic cups with ice floating in amber liquid. Their lips clamped on smoldering cigars, and they both wore crooked smiles. Rico said something, and Alberto chuckled and slapped the other man on the shoulder. He even did a little dance and didn’t seem to mind when part of his drink sloshed onto the pavement.

  Assholes.

  The afternoon heat had risen and the sun was radiating off the track surface beneath my feet. Slogging through the heavy sand and dirt had built up my appetite. The aroma of fried food drifting across the track from the burger, fry, and hot dog stands made my mouth water.

  Next to me, Stevie slid off Glow West, removed the saddle, and hurried off to weigh-in at the scales. I slid the halter over the horse’s bridle and led him back to the barn. Because he’d been disqualified, he wasn’t required to go to the test barn for blood and urine samples. Waiting for my horse to pee in a jar is not how I wanted to spend the afternoon.

  * * *

  When I got back to our shedrow, Javier took Glow West and gave him a bath. As rivulets of sweat and dirt sluiced from the horse’s coat and pooled at his feet, the scent of damp earth and salt filled the air. When Javier shut the water off, I led the colt around the shedrow until he was cool and dry. “You should have won,” I whispered, rubbing my palm against his face.

  My phone chimed with a text from Calixto. “Call me.”

  Thinking I’d give Glow West another turn around the barn while we spoke, I hit Calixto’s speed dial, and he answered.

  “How much black is on my favorite Goth’s face today?”

  “Enough,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I talked to Fair Hill. The betting analysis tech says dozens of bets were placed up and down the East Coast, all cash. No accounts were used. There were some placed with offshore bookmakers, but through third parties.”

  “Can any of this be traced back to our mobsters?”

  “Not easily. Did you get pictures, Fia?”

  “Yes. But the money was hidden in packets,” I said.

  He sighed. “In my photos as well, and first reports indicate the packets were opened out of sight of the track video cameras. By the time it got to the betting windows, the money was transferred to wallets.”

  “Well, they are connected to the mob…”

  “This is what I like,” he said, “a painted woman with annoying observations.”

  “Listen, Stevie’s here. Can I talk to you later?”

  When he agreed, I ended the call. Stevie stepped onto the shedrow, and I studied his face as he walked toward me and Glow West. I could still see relief, but his frame seemed to sag with exhaustion, as if the emotional load he’d been saddled with was breaking him down.

  “Hey, how’s he doing?” he asked as he reached us and slid a hand down Glow West’s neck.

  “Good,” I said. “He’s ready for his stall. Help me put him in.” I led Glow West into his stall and removed his halter.

  “What about Bionic?” Stevie asked. “I think Mars is gonna enter him soon.”

  “He’s good, too.” But would Pizutti let the kid ride Bionic to win? “How about you?” I asked as we left Glow West in his stall.

  Stevie glanced around and lowered his voice. “Better than I was. There’s two trainers up here might want me to ride for them. They liked my win on Wiggly Wabbit and that bullet work on Bionic.”

  “Do you have a written contract with Mars?”

  “Nah. I didn’t sign anything.”

  “Good. It would be terrific if you could get out from under him and Rico.”

  But there was his sister, and she was more binding than any contract. I kept the thought to myself, and said a silent prayer for both of them.

  “You know Lila liked you,” he said. “She’s still doing okay, and maybe after today, those guys will, you know, leave us alone. Anyways, I appreciated your offer about driving us somewhere, but I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Hope so,” I said, watching a cloud bank that had formed on the western horizon drift toward us. It would bring rain; I could smell the moisture in the air.

  A car I didn’t recognize drove up to the shedrow in a hurry. It stopped abruptly, and a guy I’d never seen before got out and strode quickly toward Stevie. The man was maybe forty, had a hard face, and a radio clipped to his belt. When he got close enough, I could read his badge. FITZGERALD, NYRA INVESTIGATIONS.

  “Stevie Davis?” he asked.

  Stevie’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir?”

  The man held a clipboard. He pulled a form off and handed it to Stevie. “Mr. Davis, this is a summons. You need to appear before the r
acing stewards tomorrow morning at ten A.M.”

  Stevie’s thumb slid to his mouth and his teeth went to work on the ragged hangnail. “Is this because of my horse lugged out?”

  “Don’t know. I’m just delivering the summons.”

  Fitzgerald was being a prick. Of course he knew.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald,” I said, “it would be nice if Mr. Davis was told what this is about so he can prepare for it, don’t you think?”

  The man gave me a cold look, then shrugged. “You can call the stewards’ office and ask.”

  “We’ll do that,” I said, watching the sky darken.

  A cool breeze hit my face, and the rain began to fall. The investigator left, hurrying through the drops to his car, and when I turned back to Stevie, his lip was smeared with blood.

  I called the track operator and asked for the stewards’ office. Their secretary, who was pleasant enough, told me since I wasn’t the kid’s attorney, she had to speak with Stevie. I put him on the phone. As he nodded his head and said, “Yes, ma’am,” his jaw looked tight enough to crack a bullet.

  The secretary spoke some more, then Stevie said, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be there. Thank you.”

  He handed the phone back, his eyes anxious, his shoulders hunched with tension. “They know I stopped the horse.”

  “They don’t know that,” I said, dismayed to realize I was helping Stevie find a way out. “You hit the horse left-handed by mistake. As soon as you realized he was veering into the path of those behind, you stopped, right?”

  “But it was too late. I’m, like, totally screwed.”

  “Listen to me, Stevie. You tried to straighten him out, right? And you rode him to the finish with everything you had, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head miserably and didn’t answer.

  “I watched the race, it looked like you rode the hell out him. Right to the wire.”

  “It did?”

  “Yes, it did. And that’s what you tell them, okay?”