by Sasscer Hill
“I’ll have to. I can’t give Mars up. He’d kill me!”
His last words shook me. “You don’t mean that?”
“No, it was just a … figure of speech is all.”
But he was right, he didn’t dare give Mars up, not with Rico threatening Lila. I didn’t know how, but I had to fix this. Damn Rico, anyway.
“Okay,” I said, “I understand. But speaking of Mars, you should talk to him about your summons. He can give you some pointers. He’s had plenty of practice.”
Was I really helping Mars and Rico keep their dirty money? By now, the rain was beating down in windswept torrents, and even under the shedrow roof, we were getting wet. And cold.
“Let’s go see Bionic,” I said.
We hurried down the shedrow, opened Bionic’s stall door and went inside. The plain-looking blood bay crowded against us, spreading his warmth. He wanted us to rub our hands on him, and we were happy to oblige.
“He don’t look like much,” Stevie said, “but he’s got pedigree up his eyeballs. Got that Curlin line in his blood.”
“Oh, he can move,” I said. “He showed that in his last work.”
“I can’t wait for him to run!”
A sudden silence hung between us. But we were both thinking, If he’s allowed to run. The rain beat down in sheets outside the shedrow, but on the western horizon the sky had lightened. The storm wouldn’t last.
“It might be okay,” Stevie said. “Mars was talking about the race and he seemed excited about Bionic’s chances. It’s a stake race, too.”
If the kid won a stake, more trainers would try to pick him up, and this was exactly what Stevie needed.
“I’ll be rooting for you.”
“Thanks. You’re pretty cool, Fay.” He blushed slightly.
Outside, the rain eased to a drizzle. Stevie gave Bionic a gentle slap on the shoulder. “Dude, we can’t rub on you all night.” Glancing at me, he said, “I can ride my bike now. I better get home.”
“Time for me to leave, too,” I said.
We left the shelter of Bionic’s stall. Stevie grabbed a small barn towel, and we walked to the bicycle he’d left leaning against a tree. He wiped off the wet seat, and handed me the rag.
As his skinny body pedaled the bike away, the drops of water on its yellow frame glistened like a thousand tiny stars.
12
I sat with Calixto outside a small café on Broadway. A cold front had ridden in with the earlier rain, and brought an evening so chilly I’d slipped a down vest over my long-sleeved tee.
A brown Stetson hooded Calixto’s eyes, and he wore a suede vest lined with sheepskin over a white shirt, with jeans. Two fresh cups of hot coffee sent spirals of steam into the air next to our almost emptied plates. We’d been devouring Angus chopped steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Sometimes there’s no substitute for comfort food.
“So,” I said, “what’s Gunny going to do about the fixed race and illegal betting?”
“He has contacted the FBI. They will send a couple of agents up from Albany to sweat Pizutti and Rico. It is a shame there is not enough evidence to warrant their incarceration. But the FBI will, no doubt, flex their bad cop muscles. Effective to a degree, since it does inject fear and make them more cautious.”
It wasn’t enough. “But we can’t nail them?”
“No, Fia, we cannot.”
I took a sip of coffee and set the mug down hard enough my silverware rattled. “This is just peachy.”
Calixto stared at me, his eyes unreadable. Then, they softened. “You are quite captivating when you are angry, querida.”
In the cool air, I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. It was hard to ignore the effect this man had on me. But I sidestepped it and forged ahead.
“I’d like to captivate Rico right into a jail cell. I’m worried what this clown will do after Pizutti enters Bionic in the upcoming stake. He’ll probably threaten Lila again.”
We were both silent a few beats. Calixto’s long, tapered fingers held his coffee cup, his eyes never left mine.
Nervous, I scooped up the last of my mashed potatoes, swallowed a bite, and took a sip of coffee. An older man came down the sidewalk on Broadway with a leashed dog, reminding me of the old man who rented his garage to Stevie. As the dog padded past us, I could almost hear Lila’s delighted shrieks when she’d played tug-of-war with the terrier Raymond.
“Calixto, did anyone find out why that jockey killed himself?
He looked away from me for a moment. “You mean Jose Fragoso?”
“Who else would I be talking about?”
“Fia, Fragoso’s sister was murdered in Peru. We think he killed himself because he still had two younger brothers at home and didn’t want them hurt. Or worse.”
“That’s horrible!” It was what I’d been afraid of, and made me doubly fearful for Stevie’s little sister. “Can Gunny find a safe house for Lila? Maybe through the FBI?”
“Possibly.”
At times like this, following my mantra is hard. I didn’t want to sit chilly and wait for an opening. I wanted to force one, blast on through, and rescue Stevie and Lila. My knuckles hurt where they gripped the handle of my coffee mug.
“Don’t look so impatient, querida. We’ll find a way to make this work. But following procedure is the safest route, is it not?”
I sighed. “That’s what they tell me.” My phone chirped with a text message. Glancing at the screen I saw it was from my mother. Short and not too sweet.
“Don’t forget party tomorrow night! Wear something nice. Be there by seven!”
“What?” Calixto asked. “You look like you swallowed una cucaracha.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, then said, “My mother.”
“Please, tell me about tu madre. Is she really so horrible?”
I glanced at him, meeting his eyes. They held no sign of amusement, only compassion. For the moment, I decided to believe it was genuine.
I took a shallow breath and exhaled. “She walked out on Patrick, Dad, and me when I was fifteen. Left us for a wealthy man, and wiped out Dad’s bank account when she left. Do you remember the last time she left a phone message?”
“When we had dinner at Rico’s café?” Calixto asked.
“Yes. It was the first time I’d heard from her in seventeen years.”
“Then for you, pequeña leona, her calls are more like swallowing a scorpion, are they not?”
“Yes, and they burn and sting all the way down.”
Calixto leaned forward and placed his hand on mine. “What does she want?”
His touch was comforting, his presence reassuring. “She says she wants to make up for what she did, for the lost years.”
“And you do not believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe. She’s having a party Saturday night and insists I come.”
“You will go?”
“Yes, I’m curious about my stepfather.” The warmth of his hand on mine radiated energy. And courage. “Will you come with me? I could use your support.”
“Yes, querida, I would be honored. Besides, I am eager to meet your scorpion.”
Suddenly, I was looking forward to going to Joan’s soiree. “Thank you,” I said, meeting his gaze. A thrill shot through my gut and I forced myself to look away from his brown eyes, his beautifully formed eyebrows. Those damn lips.
“I am sorry you lost your father, Fia. So often we lose the good and are left with the bad.” His sympathy felt genuine.
“What about you?” I asked. “Your father lives on Fisher Island? Your mother was a fashion model?”
A breeze kicked up, scuttling debris down the sidewalk past our feet beneath the wrought-iron table. A shadow crossed Calixto’s face as if brought by the cold current.
“She was beautiful and sweet. I loved her very much.”
“Was?”
“Cancer. Pancreatic. She was only forty, still working on fashion shoots. She was dazzling.”
; “I’m so sorry.”
We sat in silence a moment, the loss of things loved filling the air between us.
Finally, he spoke. “When she died, my father took it very hard. He never leaves Fisher Island anymore. He has become a recluse.”
“What about his coffee business?”
“Others manage Coyune Coffee for him.”
I knew I was prying and possibly treading on dangerous ground, but I was curious. “And his first wife and your half siblings?”
His eyes widened slightly. “You did perform your due diligence. You know then that they are in Cuba.”
“But have you met them? Aren’t you curious about—”
“Not half so curious as you.” His mouth had hardened. The planes of his chiseled face became more pronounced. “Let us leave them in Cuba, pequeña leona.”
“Okay … sure.” But the cat in me was dying of curiosity. Had he met them? Did they hate him because their father had abandoned them and married a younger woman who had produced a new heir? Did they see Calixto as interloper and thief?
“Whatever you are thinking, Fia, stop it. I meant what I said. Leave them in Cuba. Forget about them.”
Damn the man. He could read my face like a billboard. And I could see a wound in him at the mention of the Cuban family. But this was not the time to pry. Maybe there never would be. “So, um, you’ve been to Saratoga a lot, right?”
His responding nod was so wary, I was glad my next question was innocuous. “Is there a dress shop around here with clothes the scorpion would approve of?”
As much as I wanted to annoy Joan by Goth-bombing her party, the satisfaction would not be worth her acute displeasure. Besides, I was thirty-two, not thirteen.
“If my mother were still alive and as young as you,” Calixto said, “she would probably go to Violet’s. It’s here on Broadway.”
By keeping my curiosity hidden behind a façade of mundane conversation for the remainder of the evening, I avoided the icy slap of Calixto’s cop eyes.
* * *
In the morning, after work, I went in search of Violet’s. As Calixto had indicated, the posh boutique was on Broadway near Lake Avenue. A deep purple awning crowned the display window, and I spotted a rack of pretty dresses before I got four feet inside the door. Their price tags were alarming.
A saleswoman saw my face and, not unkindly, said, “We have a sales rack in the back.”
I started in that direction, when behind me a little bell rang as someone entered the shop. I turned to look. A woman, probably a little younger than I, glided into the store like a queen. Her coffee-and-cream skin was radiant under her long, curly black hair. Her almond eyes tilted up at the corners, her nose was long and slender, her mouth full, and her body a schoolboy’s dream.
She stopped at the first rack of dresses, and another saleswoman rushed to greet her. I kept going toward the clearance rack, and my salesgal whispered, “That girl was Miss Jamaica two years ago!”
“She’s beautiful,” I whispered back.
Leaving Miss Jamaica behind, I passed mannequins displaying elegant pieces of jewelry, richly hued silk tops, scarves, and skirts. Small tables held high-heeled leather boots, shoes, and expensive-looking belts. It occurred to me these “things” were part of why Joan had abandoned her family.
I shook the thought off, found the rack of discounted spring clothing, and spotted a simple black sleeveless dress. My salesgirl, who’d remained hot on my heels, moved to stand beside me, then leaned forward and briefly studied my face. Though her eyes slid down my body with Joan-like scrutiny, there was no criticism in her eyes.
“You’re a size four, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you need a dress for an evening function?”
I nodded, and she whipped a vibrant blue dress off the rack that had laser-cut detail along the V-neckline and hem.
“This will bring out the blue in your eyes,” she said.
Miss Jamaica swept toward us with her saleswoman staggering under a load of clothing on hangers. They disappeared into a changing room.
I reached a hand to grasp the price tag on the blue dress. Reduced twice. From $255 to $95.
The woman had been watching my face as I saw the price. “It’s been here waiting for you. Try it on.”
I did and the dress fit like it was custom-made for me. It made my eyes look an intense blue. It showed a lot of leg, but not too much.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
The salesgal grinned. “How could you not?”
13
I stood outside the Victorian wearing my new dress, strappy black heels, and a choker made of lapis and black onyx. I clutched the obligatory little black bag that contained my cell phone and a few essentials.
Probably, I should have added a small flask of vodka for courage, since I was way too giddy about taking Calixto to meet my mother.
Though I’d kept it understated, I’d gone all out with my makeup, applying four different hair products, three subtle shades of eye shadow, two types of mascara, one rose-colored lipstick. And a partridge in a pear tree? I tried but failed to shake “The Twelve Days of Christmas” that began earworming my head. No doubt, the impending introduction was driving me over the edge.
Glancing up the street, I was relieved to see Calixto’s red, 550-horsepower Jaguar XK cruising toward me. Hopefully, its impressive sound system would overpower the annoying tune in my head. Sleek and shining, the car cruised closer. Being a busybody, I’d looked the Jag up. Its base price started at $132,000. Since he was playing the role of Cuban-American playboy, this was a good car to do it in.
The muscular engine purred to a stop at the curb beside me. Calixto climbed out wearing a black silk suit. His tie and pocket square held brilliant blue accents that matched my dress.
“Did you follow me to Violet’s?” I asked as he approached.
“Of course not.” His eyes narrowed as he took in my appearance. “I wanted to wear something that would match your lovely eyes. I see you did, too.”
Who could believe this man? But damn he looked good. A childish thought hit me. Wait ’til Joan meets this guy and sees his car.… Of course, her Maserati started at $132,000, so maybe she wouldn’t be impressed. At least, not with the car.
Calixto held the door for me before he climbed into the driver’s seat. After I sank into the interior’s smooth white leather, he hit the gas, and we sailed up the street, heading north to Joan’s. When we arrived, at least twenty cars crowded the cul-de-sac and front driveway.
The uniformed maid I’d expected on my first visit met us at the door and indicated we should go to the patio out back. As we walked through the house, Calixto took in the fine carpets and paintings on the wall.
“Very nice. It appears your scorpion stung her prey and sucked him dry.”
“She knows how to do it,” I said.
Outside, the patio was strung with party lights and dotted with unlit torches. Farther along, a large tent had been erected. The evening was clear and warm, but as the eastern horizon grew darker, I could sense the cooler air of night creeping in.
Several long tables were laden with food in silver serving dishes, and bars were set up on either side of the tent. A jazz quartet was playing a Miles Davis tune and everyone was dressed to the nines. Diamonds sparkled, and tanned women with long, toned legs crowded the stone pavers. Men in expensive suits and Rolex watches sipped liquor and wine while layering the air with the scent of booze and cigars. The lilt of conversation, laughter, and the rattle of ice in crystal glasses filled my ears.
Next to me, a cynical smile passed so quickly over Calixto’s face, I wasn’t certain I’d seen it.
“Why do I feel like I’m on a movie set?” I asked him.
“Perhaps you are. We should find our host and hostess, pequeña leona.”
I scanned the crowd and spotted Joan in a long, close-fitting coral dress, slit partway up her left thigh. A photographer with a camera lens the lengt
h of Secretariat took her picture as she draped her arm around a man in a white linen suit. Was he my stepfather? I probably should have googled for pictures earlier, but devoting any time to Joan and her affairs wasn’t on my list of priorities.
“That’s the scorpion,” I said, nodding in the direction of the coral dress. “Let’s do this.”
As we approached, Joan’s gaze swept past us, then darted back, coming to rest on Calixto. Her eyes widened ever so slightly when she recognized me. A confused expression flitted across her face, then disappeared.
Had she expected me to arrive in manure-laden boots with a groom holding a pitchfork?
She stepped away from the linen suit, and approached us with a brilliant smile. “Fia, sweetheart, you look fantastic! Who is this delicious man?”
“Joan, this is Calixto Coyune.”
He stepped forward, took her hand, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gorman.”
“Call me Joan,” she said, holding his hand longer than necessary.
“Where did you find him?” she asked me.
“At the racetrack.”
“Well … how nice.”
While she recovered from meeting arguably the sexiest man in New York, I looked around for the linen suit. He’d disappeared.
“I really want to meet Rich,” I said. “Is he here somewhere?”
“Of course. Over at the bar.”
She waved to a stout man with a florid complexion, who headed toward us. He was a big, beefy guy, whose well-cut beige suit, I suspected, hid a lot of flesh. He had a pleasant smile and a face dominated by crudely formed, heavy bones. His eyes held humor and the crafty look of a man capable of creating a major company.
“Fia,” he said, stretching his hand to take mine, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
When I clasped his hand, he pinned my fingers between a gold signet band and a large diamond pinky ring. His smile revealed slightly bucked teeth.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Gorman.”
Still grasping my fingers, he said, “Call me Rich.”
Turning to Calixto, Rich released my hand. I rubbed my fingers and mentally shook my head as he greeted Calixto. My dad had been athletic and trim from working with the horses and riding the track pony every day. That Joan would leave him for a toad, no matter how much money the toad had, astounded me. But then I’d never understood my mother.
