by Roger Weston
“I don’t know, Edgar. You’ve been drinking. I certainly don’t want you riding a horse today. And frankly, I’m not sure I can depend on you.”
Edgar shook his head. “It’s water. And don’t worry. I won’t drink the whole glass.”
“What?”
“Yesterday, I ate or drank nothing but a glass of water. Today I’ll get by on seven sips. I have to get my weight down before the race. Maybe then I’ll make a smaller target.”
“Oh, alright…that’s a different story. What can you do with that horse in five days?”
“Not much, but then again, all I have to do is finish right?”
“That’s true for both of us. And even that will be difficult enough.”
CHAPTER 34
Santiago, Chile
Jake went to dinner alone. He usually avoided bars, but tonight he drifted in and out of a few. He ended up in a crowded night club featuring visiting Argentinean belly dancers who were moving their hips to complex rhythmic music and an elaborate laser light show. The dramatic production was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and for a moment he forgot what country he was in. Then he recalled the heavy immigration of Arabs to South America during WWI. He had heard stories of the ships that transported displaced Muslim Syrians to Argentina after the French Mandate. The Syrians brought their dance traditions with them and their influence was being felt in Santiago, Chile decades later. While watching the dancers’ mesmerizing swaying of hips, Jake looked over the crowd as they happily breathed smoke-filled air that could choke a camel. He wanted to leave and go for a long walk alone, but instead he walked over and introduced himself to two Chilean ladies. He talked to them for a while and learned that they were army vets—one of them an explosives expert, the other a mechanic. One had wavy brown hair. The other was blond with hazelnut eyes.
After he got to know them a little better Jake said, “I have a job that the two of you look like you can do. It’s a temporary gig, but it pays well.”
“You’re not serious,” the blond lady said, her hazelnut eyes illuminating then vanishing depending on the pulsating light show.
“You’re both perfect,” Jake said.
“Right,” the brown-haired vet said. “I thought I’d heard it all.”
“Look, I’m interested in your military training.” When he told them that he would pay them half up front, they became enthusiastic converts. After the belly dancing show was over, Jake befriended one of the professional Argentinean belly dancers and introduced her to his new friends. He asked her if she would be willing to teach the two vets some of her belly dancing techniques. The women became fast friends. He gave them a wad of cash and told them to go shopping and meet him the next day at Hotel Flamingo Roja.
The next morning the three woman changed in the back bedroom of Jake’s bungalow and then returned to show Jake what they had purchased. The professional belly dancer entered the room first with her long flowing black hair framing her confident eyes. Andrea was her name and she was well versed in the art of sensuality. The two vets didn’t look very confident. Colorful hip scarves adorned with coins, beads and fringe were wrapped around their bodies. Jake was sure with a little time they could do the job. Not only that, their military skills were essential for what he had in mind.
“Andrea,” Jake said. He strolled to a window and looked across the street at Club Sustantivo. The track looked insignificant below the massive Andes mountains that stood in the background. “I need you to teach our friends to be convincing dancers. You are going to put on a private show in a couple of days, and they need to be believable.”
“A private show?” the dancer said. “Where?”
“I’ll explain later. For now, work with them.”
The two vets exchanged glances and puzzled expressions. “Okay then, ladies,” Andrea snapped her fingers. “Let’s get to work.”
She turned on the music, and the lessons began. The three women swayed to the sound of pulsating drums and exotic flutes rolling out of the IP4 boom box. Bracelets, necklaces, and anklets shook and jingled with each shake and sway of their bodies. Andrea shook a rattle in her hand. All three of the women glowed with boldness and sensuality.
Jake left them alone and headed to the street stalls of Santiago where he met another woman who would help him carry out his plan. He left instructions with her and she promised to bring him what he needed.
Two days later, a small shy woman carrying a large wooden box was led into the living area by Ricardo.
“Edgar?” Jake called.
He appeared out of a back bedroom.
“Try this on.” Jake handed him the box.
“Sure, whatever. Any chance I can get a draw on my paycheck?”
“Try this on and show me you can be Rodnell Faust. Then we’ll talk.”
Edgar stared at Jake for a moment without speaking. Then he said, “No problem. I just need to keep the horse on the track, right? Pretend like I’m Rodnell with a hangover.”
“You need to be convincing. Diego Petri is nobody to mess around with.”
***
Edgar closed the bedroom door and opened the box from Jake. Inside, he found an exact replica of Rodnell Faust’s racing silks. Edgar sat down on the bed. He very slowly unfolded the shirt. He straightened out one fold at a time, very gently. He softly ran his fingers up the arm, listening to the swish of the new material. He stood back and looked at the outfit spread out on the bed.
He hurried forward and swooped up the garments. He pulled back the comforter and then once again spread out the clothes, but this time on the clean under sheets.
Edgar jumped when he heard Jake’s voice.
“Edgar, what’s taking so long? Come on.”
“Just a minute.” Edgar very carefully folded up the silks and neatly laid them back in the box. Then he went out into the main room.
Jake threw up his arms. “What’s going on, Edgar? We’re waiting for you. You spent all that time and didn’t even get dressed?”
Edgar smiled.
“We’re doing a dress rehearsal.” Jake shook his head and spread out his arms, gesturing to the belly dancers who didn’t miss a beat. “Would you please put on the outfit?”
“Today, I read Rodnell’s biography. Tomorrow, I get into character.”
“Look, we need to make sure everything is thought out. You need to try them on.”
“I’m not wearing them. Do you hear me? Are you listening? Do you want me to say it louder? I’m not putting the silks on now. I’ll do it tomorrow, and don’t ask me again.”
Jake stared at him a moment, surprised by the outburst. “Fine. I’ve gotta get going anyway. You’ll do the make-up, won’t you?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Just making sure.”
After Jake left, Edgar sat through a lengthy make-up session by a girl with eyelashes thicker than a horse’s mane. When the girl was done Edgar was amazed at the transformation of his face.
The make-up artist held up a photo of Rodnell Faust and compared it to Edgar. The girl nodded her head slightly, batting her lashes.
“Amazing,” Edgar said.
He grabbed the box that Jake gave him earlier and walked out of the bungalow and crossed the street to Club Sustantivo. Running into the tack shack, he stopped suddenly and opened the box carefully. Gently, he removed the orange silks that Jake gave him, then put them on slowly and respectfully. Then standing in front of a cracked dusty mirror that hung next to a line of hooks, he stared at himself for twenty minutes.
Here he was impersonating the great Rodnell Faust. Just out of prison and blackballed from racing, he was playing the part of the greatest jockey of all time. He’d just done three years for participation in an extortion scheme and only got out early based on his good behavior. Fact is, he scammed the warden. Sure, he became a Christian, but it was all show.
Edgar knew he had wasted his life. He’d lost every job he ever got because of alcohol, blowing incredibl
e opportunities. Once during the three years while he dragged out the born-again scam, he was moved to pray. He did it once and got carried away. He hadn’t really thought about that isolated event since, but now he recalled it. For just once in his life—for just one day—he wanted to know true greatness, to run the race to win, and not just any race either, but a race that counted for something more than a paycheck.
Now he had his chance. He wasn’t riding as suck-up-the-dust Edgar any more. No. His life had been a heart-breaking disgrace, too painful to brood on. Now he was wearing a champion’s clothes and playing the part of the champion himself.
Edgar felt honored to get a chance to ride again, even in these dubious circumstances. He’d been hesitant to dress up as the late champion, however, because he felt it was disrespectful, and he felt that the shameless impersonation would only bring more disgrace to his life. But Jake had convinced him that he was not riding for prize money, but to save lives, which was the most honorable reason any race was ever run.
He stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself in the orange silks of the dead champion. It wasn’t just the clothes, either. It was something that he couldn’t grasp that was with him now. Because he wore the clothes, he felt like a champion himself.
Maybe he could win.
He was riding a troubled horse, was on a bad-luck streak, and barely had any time to train. Nevertheless, that horse could fly.
Edgar got out the music box that he’d bought with his advance and the CD he’d had made. He played the disk, and the sound of applause came from the speakers.
Edgar went in the stall and gently stroked the chestnut thoroughbred stallion which he’d named Isa’s Fire.
“I know you’ve had some trouble,” Edgar said, “but who hasn’t? I don’t care where you’ve been or what kind of trouble you’ve had. I believe in you. More than that, I believe in what you can be. You hear the cheering? That’s for you and me. They’re cheering for us. Sure, we’ve had a hard road, but I’m wearing the champion’s silks now. That means we’re running the race to win.”
Edgar felt tears falling down his cheek. He cried like a little boy until the horse’s shoulder was wet.
“I wanna win so badly,” he said. “I’ve wasted my life. I want another chance. I want to do something significant.” He pulled away from the horse and wiped his tears with the sleeve of the champion’s silks. “I can’t do nothin’ alone. I’ve spent my whole life proving that. But I’ve got you, and the champion is with us now, so you get used to the sound of the applause. You’re going to be hearing a lot of it from now on. Get used to it. They beat us unconscious and broke our bones, but we’ve got the spark now. I don’t care if you win or not. You just give me your best run. You give me everything you’ve got, you hear me? Don’t hold nothing back. Then I don’t care what happens. It’s not up to us anymore. Listen to that applause while you sleep. When you race, you’re gonna rise up on the wind like a golden eagle.”
Edgar stepped out of the stall and then set up a cot right outside the door to Isa’s stall. He lay down under his blanket. He played the CD of the cheering crowd all night and throughout the next day. It got so all that Edgar could hear was applause even when the CD was off, and the sound got into his blood. He began to believe in himself for the first time and began to feel like a champion. He also believed in the neglected horse. At every break in training, he had the horse stand in the winner’s circle listening to the cheering over the loudspeakers of the abandoned track.
The next day the horse ran like no horse Edgar had ever ridden. Applause rolled over the loudspeakers. Edgar was walking the horse in circles when Jake and Lorena came over.
“That was very nice,” Lorena said. “Isa just broke the track record.”
“I think he sprained his ankle as he crossed the finish line.”
“Let me walk him.”
“What for? You’re just a… Alright, go ahead.”
Edgar stood next to Jake and watched as Lorena took the horse for a couple turns and then walked back. “It’s not bad. He can run as long as you don’t go all out,” she said.
Edgar turned and walked away. He skulked around the track trying to control his temper and to do that he needed—to walk, just the way he used to walk endless circles around the prison yard as a way of dealing with his humiliation after getting kicked in the face by Pancho Castillo and laughed at by a crowd of rats. He walked a second lap, then approached Jake and Lorena.
“There won’t be any half measures,” Edgar said. “We’re going up against champions with impressive winning streaks.”
“Don’t worry about it, Edgar. Remember, you’re not here to win the race. You’re here to put on a good show.”
Edgar threw down his crop. “What the hell do you know about it? Rodnell didn’t go out there half baked. He ran to win.”
“You’re not Rodnell. Look, you beat the track record. That’s very impressive, but don’t lose sight of our purpose. We’re putting on a show for Petri. You mess that up, and he’ll bury us in shallow graves, not to mention all the other people who will likely die as well.”
“Okay.” Edgar’s back slouched. “I get it.”
CHAPTER 35
Santiago, Chile
The next day, Jake was sitting at a café in the Bohemian neighborhood of Barrio Bellavista nursing a cup of thick crude oil. A clean cut, well-dressed guy entered the coffee shop and sauntered to the counter. Jake figured the man was just a few years younger than himself. He also noticed what looked like the bulge of a holster under his shirt.
The barista said, “Hola, barbero. Quiero un recorte.”
The guy smiled at the barista and said in perfect English. “Sure, Arturo. Come to my shop mañana.” He looked at his watch. “Es diez buenas?”
The barista gave the man his brew and said, “Si, Señor Cody.”
The meticulous man smiled at the barista and walked out of the café.
Jake watched him as he left the store and headed down the street. After a minute, he got up and followed the man down the avenue. An ornate street sign announced that he was traveling down Pio Nono. Eventually, the man named Cody ducked into a plastered townhouse that looked like it belonged in the French Quarter of New Orleans. A red, white, and blue barber pole hung from its wrought-iron balcony. Jake followed the man into the shop.
“Hey, I heard you speak English back at the coffee shop. Think you could give me a quick trim? I’ve got a meeting tomorrow and need to look professional.”
Cody looked Jake up and down for a minute. “Sure, have a seat.” He pointed to a chair that looked like it was the electric chair used in Chile’s last execution.
“Just a trim.” Jake sat down and watched Cody in the mirror. When Cody grabbed a pair of shears Jake noticed that he had a tattoo of a blue eye under his right wrist. Then Jake watched as Cody went about his job with the precision of a salmon gutter on an Alaskan processor ship.
“How about a shave?” Cody said as he whipped out a straight edge razor and twirled it deftly until it met up with Jake’s chin.
“No, that’s okay.” Jake ran his fingers through his freshly trimmed hair. “This is good.” He caught Cody’s eyes in the mirror. “So you ever do any work on the side?”
“What do you mean? What kind of work?”
“I’m in town on some important business. I could use a guy who’s good with tools.” Jake looked around the shop at the stucco walls that were filled with violent scenes in vibrant colors. Apparently the famous mural artists of Bellavista had free reign in Cody’s shop. “I could use a guy who’s good with a .45. Know anybody like that?”
“Maybe. What does the job pay?”
“You interested?”
“Yeah.” Cody set the razor back on the shelf and stared for a minute at a photo that was taped to the mirror. It was of a beautiful woman holding a fair-headed child.
“Well, let’s see. Tell me about your experience.”
“I’ve got plenty.”<
br />
“Tell me about it.”
“Let’s just say that I can hit a milk jug from 300 yards with a 30 aught 6. Never miss. That good enough for you?”
“That’ll do.” Jake filled him in on the details of the job. “Tomorrow there will be a tan motor home with a silver horse trailer parked at Club Sustantivo. Meet me inside the rig at eight a.m.” Jake left two one-hundred thousand peso banknotes on the counter then headed toward the door. He stopped and took one last look at the man. “What did you say your last name was?
“Larkin. Cody Larkin”
CHAPTER 36
Jake’s lungs began to burn, more from smog than exertion as he hiked up San Cristobal. He focused his eyes on the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary which watched over Santiago. Within ten minutes he had reached the feet of the white statue. He rang Ashley. “Hey, there. How you doing?”
“I’m great. It’s really relaxing here. I just got back from a walk at the gardens at Roche Harbor. The flowers were so beautiful.”
“That’s great, Ash. Look, I need a favor. Can you check out the background of a guy named Cody Larkin for me?”
“Sure, I’ll do a quick search and call you back.”
Jake hung up and gazed beyond the dense humanity of the city at the snow-capped peaks in the distance.
He was startled by his ringtone. “That was quick, Ash. What’d you find out?”
“There’s a ton of Cody Larkins. I need details.”
“This guy’s got a tattoo of a blue eye under his right wrist.”
“I’ll try again. By the way, I’m still looking for the Weissenburger.”
“I really appreciate your help. It’s getting close. I’m going to get the confession from Koch if everything goes as planned.”
“I hope you’ve taken the time to work out all the details, Jake. You know what happens when you dive into things before working through all the contingencies.”
