by Roger Weston
“I am. Don’t worry about me. Is Wan-Si keeping a good eye on you?”
“When he’s not smashed he is.”
“Tell him that I said if he picks up the bottle he won’t be taking the helm of the Wolverine again.”
“I will.”
“Take care. I’ll call you after I get Koch to confess. Once I give the Coast Guard his signed statement, I’ll be done with this mess. Then I will treat you to a vacation.”
“Sure, Jake.”
“Just wait. I will.”
CHAPTER 37
Edgar was grooming Isa at 4 a.m. when Lorena looked into the stall. “How is he?”
“Just fine,” Edgar said, reaching over and turning off his applause tape.
“We need to talk strategy.”
“Okay,” Edgar said. “But let’s get one thing straight. I’ve got years of experience, and you’re greener than spring grass. You just sit back and watch and maybe you’ll learn a few things.”
“You mean like how to lose?”
“What?” Edgar’s voice cracked under an edge of anger.
“I’ve seen your record,” Lorena said. “You’ve got the wrong kind of experience.”
“You don’t talk to me like that, and especially in the presence of Isa. I’m teaching that horse to feel like a winner, and that can’t happen if you’re disrespectful.” Edgar looked at the big red thoroughbred and patted him on the neck.
“I heard your applause tape. You may be on to something, but that’s not enough. We’ve only got a few days to prepare for the race, and right now you don’t even know the horse or the field.”
Edgar shook his head. “That doesn’t bother me at all. A while back I was riding four hundred mounts a year and won plenty of races on horses that I met the first time in the paddock just minutes before the race. That kind of thing happens all the time.”
“Right, but we’re going up against champions.”
“So you think we can win?” Edgar said.
“I think Isa has amazing potential, and he’s well conditioned.”
“Didn’t Jake tell you that he doesn’t expect a win?”
“Yes, but he also said it should at least be close.”
“I’m not interested in second place,” Edgar said. “I want to win.”
“Then we’ve got work to do.”
Edgar shook his head. “Look, you’re a kid who got hired off a poster. How random is that? And you think you can walk in here tell a veteran like me how to win?”
Lorena smiled. “I was an assistant to Alvaro Cruz for four years. I’ve worked my way up from stable hand, hot walker, groom, and exercise rider.”
Edgar was quiet for a moment. Alvaro Cruz was a legendary trainer with a stable of great horses.
“I called on the ad,” Lorena said, “because I was curious, and I took the job for the challenge.”
“Tell me what you really think of Isa.”
Lorena smiled. “He’s the best horse I’ve seen. He loves to run, and he’s got the speed.”
“What about his record?”
“Just about as bad as yours,” Lorena said. “That’s how I picked him up cheap from Pablo Nava. Isa got off to a bad start, and Pablo ran him into the ground on top of it. Typical Pablo. Still, the horse got in the clear once and set a track record. Since then he’s lost over and over again to inferior horses.”
“I think Isa’s a bit immature.”
Lorena shook her head. “He’s been run into burnout. He’s run so many races in such a short period of time that he needs to be treated right and ridden with a winning strategy. First, we’re going to baby this horse. We don’t overwork him. We save something for the race. Second, you don’t show him the whip at all today, and only use it in the top stretch tomorrow. This is the best horse I’ve seen, and we’re going to treat him that way.”
“If we’re too easy on the horse, he won’t be ready for the race.”
Lorena frowned. “He’s overworked already. Are you going to listen or not?”
Despite her age, Edgar was already impressed with her experience and her approach. “Go ahead.”
“I want all the equipment in top condition and the stalls clean. I was the best groom in the business, and this horse will get nothing but royal treatment. We’re going to get his attention and let him know that things are different now, just like that tape you’re playing. We’re going to let him do what he wants out on the track.”
Edgar held up his hand. “Hold on a second—”
“Just for now,” Lorena said. “We’ll make adjustments as necessary, but this horse loves to run, and we’re not going to fight him. To win, above all, we need an exceptionally fast horse. We have one. He’s set a track record for six furlongs and also for a mile. Those accomplishments have been buried under a huge string of losses. But the fact is, he has the speed.”
“But will he use it during the race?”
“If we give him affection and respect. Pablo didn’t understand that, and he ruins more good horses than anyone in Chile. We will show the horse great affection. That’s how I know you’re the right rider, Edgar. You’re already doing that.”
CHAPTER 38
Three days later
Jake sat with the belly-dancing vets in the kitchenette of the motor home. “Are the packages ready?” he said.
The brown-haired dancer nodded.
“Be low key and natural when you place them.”
“We will,” she said. “The magnets will make it fast work.”
The other girl’s head bobbed in agreement.
Just then there was a knock on the flimsy fiberglass door of the motor home. Jake answered it, and Cody Larkin stepped in. Jake shook his hand and offered him a seat at the tiny table. Cody pulled a .45 out of his pocket and put it on the table before he sat down.
“You’ve come well-prepared.” Jake’s phone rang. “S’cuse me while I take this call. Why don’t you all get acquainted?”
Jake jumped out of the rig. “Hey, Ash. What do you have for me?”
“I don’t like this guy at all. He’s got a rap sheet as long as the Wolverine’s riggings. I don’t even know where to start. For one thing, his name’s not Cody Larkin; it’s Dwayne Lynch.”
Jake kicked the freshly harrowed dirt of the track and walked around its outer lane. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
“He’s got twenty-nine charges against him in the U.S. The list starts with Domestic Assault Battery and ends in Murder. Murder of his own child and wife. What kind of man does that?”
“Not good.”
“You need to find someone else to help you carry out your plan. I wouldn’t trust this guy with my laptop, much less my life. He’s a complete loser.”
“It’s too late. He’s in the motor home chatting up my belly dancers.”
“Belly dancers? What exactly are you doing down there?”
“Don’t worry. It’s all part of a well-thought out plan. I don’t have time to explain it all now. Diego Petri is expecting us in an hour and I’ve got to get Cody or Dwayne or whatever his name is to cover my…uh, to do his job.”
Jake noticed Lorena leading Isa out of a stall. She handed the halter rope to Edgar, who coerced the stallion into the horse trailer. Then Edgar came around the side of the motor home and patted Jake on the back before hopping into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve got to go,” Jake said.
Ashley hesitated for a moment. “Take care, Jake.”
“I will. I’ll call you just as soon as I get that confession.” Jake glanced over at Lorena and gave her a good-bye wave then jumped in the passenger seat of the tan beast. “Good-bye, Ash.”
In the bathroom of the motor-home, Jake took a few moments to transform into Lee Butler. He got out a make-up kit and applied gum spirits to his upper lip, then fixed a human hair moustache against his skin. Pulling a baseball cap on, he lowered the brim and slapped on a pair of Diesel sunglasses.
***
Charles Richter’s compound was thirty minutes from the small town of La Serena. It was situated in the center of a bare valley with brown scrub-bush hills rising on both sides. At the far end of the valley, dark mountains rose from a lush vineyard. Grape vines clung to trellises that snaked their way up the foothills marking the ascent into the darkness of the peaks.
A white stucco, mission-style estate with a tiled roof dominated the valley. Three of its sides surrounded a courtyard the size of a soccer field. A sprawling pasture with ostriches reigned over acres of bare ground that edged up close to the north wing.
A hundred yards west of the mansion, the metal tube fence of a horse corral gleamed in the sunlight. Beautiful black creatures with haunting eyes milled about the enclosure. Cowboys, called huasos in Chile, leaned against the steel in flat-topped hats, and black fringed leggings, their hands hidden under multi-colored ponchos.
Jake’s gaze drifted. Pristine white rails lined a well-groomed race track. Lush grass filled the interior circle, and a set of bleachers sat outside the ring under a canopy of bended wood. A jockey was galloping a beautiful bay thoroughbred around the course. The animal’s muscles rippled and swelled. The jockey was running the horse all out, and Jake looked over at Edgar. He noticed him wipe sweat from his brow.
The horse was faster than a jet boat. Jake hoped Isa’s Fire could at least stay within a furlong. If the legendary Rodnell Faust and his prize stallion got blown out, Petri would suspect he’d been set up.
Before exiting the motor home, Jake consulted with his dancers. “You ready to go?”
The brown-haired dancer smiled. “We’re ready.”
“Good. Stand behind the cars, and when I take off my hat, slap them into place. They should easily attach to the undercarriages. Be discreet. The huasos will be watching you.”
“We will.”
As Jake stepped out of the motor home, he saw the double doors to the main entrance of the mansion open up. A thick guy with a broad face and a head that could have doubled as a battering ram walked out of the complex, squinting his eyes in response to the sun. The sleeves and pant legs of his suit had evidently been tailored to accommodate his tree-trunk limbs. He was flanked by two equally brutal-looking thugs and a couple more buff dudes straggled behind. The big man approached Jake and his piercing, threatening eyes bore down on him. Jake wished he had never hatched this mad plan.
“You must be Lee Butler,” the man shot out forcefully.
“Yes, I am.” Jake extended his hand.
Diego Petri grabbed Jake’s palm then released it. “Join me at my table.” Petri spoke with the authority of a man whose wishes were always granted without question.
The table was adorned with silver utensils and chargers and backed up by an elaborate buffet.
“Sit down, my friend.” Petri gestured toward a chair. “Have a pisco sour before the race. It is a special reserve blend made from the Muscatel grapes of Elqui Valley. The best in all of Chile.”
The bodyguards stood a ways off, and Jake saw the holster bulges under their loose shirts.
“Quite a facility you have here,” Jake said. “The grounds are beautiful.”
“Yes, it is magnificent. The owner goes to great pains to maintain his properties. So, you say you’re new to the horse racing game?”
“Yes, until I met Faust I never considered the sport.”
“Why would Rodnell Faust get in touch with you of all people?”
“Purely by chance. I was staying at a nice hotel in Rabat, Morocco. That is where I met him. We got to talking about the hippie movement in the sixties, Jimmy Hendrix, and various artists who became ex-patriots in Morocco. I had no idea who I was talking to except that he was one of the smallest men I’d ever met. He said his name was Max Lighter, and he asked if I wanted to go hiking in the desert. Of course, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. He told me about himself, except that everything I learned about him was made up. He claimed he was a retired software designer who was traveling the world. I never doubted him. We talked business, and then out in the desert he told me who he really was. He said he would rather be dead than retired and soon would be if he didn’t get back into racing. He missed it so much that he was suffering from a deep depression.
“I told him a good publicist could take his situation and turn it into a world-class publicity event. He asked me if I wanted the job. He said I had good instincts and could learn as I went. Here I am.”
Petri sighed in a whimsical way. “I think he made a good choice. Calling me was a smart move.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
Out on the track, a harrow finished grooming the dirt and drove off through a side gate.
Petri gestured toward the buffet where a man in a white apron and black pants was arranging grapes, kiwi, apples, and pears on silver platters. Another waiter arrived carrying a platter full of sandwiches. “Help yourself, my friend. You are an honored guest here.”
“Thank you.” Jake loaded his plate with fruit and a round pork-filled roll. He joined Petri at a shaded table.
“Where is Faust?” Petri interrupted Jake’s first bite into his sandwich.
Jake pointed toward the stall complex on the backstretch. With his mouth full he said, “There he is.” Jake swallowed. “I’m sure he’ll come over after he rides. He’s always focused. Thinking about the win. I’ve never seen a guy with such laser-like focus.”
Petri raised a pair of binoculars and trained them on Edgar.
“Doesn’t look like Faust.”
“Like I told you, he’s had plastic surgery.”
Petri lowered his binoculars and turned to Jake. “How’s the Lomito?”
“The what?”
“The sandwich, señor. How’s the sandwich?”
“Great. Yeah, it’s great.”
“The owner insists we serve everyone the Lomito.” Diego picked a piece of the thinly-sliced pork off his plate and put it in his mouth.
The sound of an engine sparking to life startled Jake. He swung around to take a look.
At the top of the front stretch, a truck was backing a starting gate across the track. Jake saw two horses emerge from the far-off stall complex, stunning black creatures being led along by trainers. One of the colts reared and whirled around, giving his trainer a major workout.
“That horse has got some spirit,” Jake said.
Petri spooned fresh fruit on to his plate and grunted.
“What’s his name?”
“Vatar’s Return,” Petri said as he took a sip of his pisco.
They sat in silence under the umbrella-covered table for several minutes. Then Petri checked his watch and said, “Follow me. It’s time.”
He led Jake to the bleachers, which had about ten rows of seats. A dozen of Petri’s men sat at intervals on the benches.
From his perch in the stands, Jake trained his eyes on the starting gate. Then he saw him. Koch was standing by the rail of the track. He was at an angle where Jake could only see his back. But Jake knew it was the man he’d come to find. He’d know him anywhere. As soon as he got the chance he’d make his move. He’d get his signed confession. And then he’d get the hell out of Chile.
He trained his attention back to the horses. Vatar’s Return, the black colt, was still rearing and giving his trainer a ton of trouble. He finally settled down long enough to enter the gate with the other two horses where Edgar on Isa’s Fire and another horse and rider were waiting. After a moment of quiet, a bell tolled, and the three beasts rocketed out of the gate. The horses streaked down the front stretch with such power that Jake gasped with awe. Petri’s black stallion edged into the lead and then pulled ahead by two lengths. The other horse came forward and rushed inward to cut off Isa on the rail.
Come on, Jake thought, make it look close. Don’t let him blow you out!
Then Isa moved to the outside and thundered over the track, Edgar looking like an orange blur on his back. The third horse trailed behind the tw
o leaders.
Careening around the first turn, Isa followed a few lengths behind Vatar’s Return. Coming into the backstretch, Vatar’s Return sailed ahead by five lengths, and Jake started to sweat. As the thoroughbreds streaked down the backstretch, the third horse made a move on Isa, closing the gap and coming alongside.
Come on, Edgar, at least come in second!
Watching through binoculars, Jake couldn’t believe what he saw next. With Vatar’s Return out front and Isa’s Fire and the other horse fighting for second, the other jockey reached across the void and began whipping Edgar.
Petri’s bodyguards laughed.
Jake watched the race in shock. Clinging to the reins, Edgar tried to wave the whipping fanatic off, but with no luck, and he fell behind the leader by another length. As they streaked down the backstretch, the third jockey continued to whip Edgar like he was an English mutineer on an 18th century tall ship.
“What’s he doing?” Jake said.
“Horse racing can be a rough sport,” Petri said with a smirk.
As Jake watched, Edgar tried to whip the other rider back, but the jockey wouldn’t back off, so Edgar swung in close and punched him in the face. The rider spilled off his horse’s back and rolled on the track like a barrel.
Petri stood up and cursed. The muscles in his bull’s neck tensed like gigantic ropes. “What the hell do you call that?”
“It’s a tough sport sometimes,” Jake said.
Petri waved at the huasos who raced down the track in a truck to help the rider.
Petri sat back down, but his face was dark with anger.
Jake focused on the race. Now running without a jockey, the third horse continued to race for all it was worth. Nevertheless, Isa’s Fire pulled ahead and tore around the bend with frightening speed. As the two leaders swung into the front stretch, Isa inhaled the track, blazing across the dirt and closing to within three lengths.
He’s going to do it, Jake thought. He’s going to come in second!
Edgar tapped Isa with the whip. The horse responded like TNT and exploded forward like a bullet flying upon the leader, closing the gap and taking the lead. As the horses blew past the stands, Isa screamed ahead by seven lengths.
