"Better to go down with, er, the horse?"
"Exactly. So what do you say, Pit?"
"No.” It didn't add up.
"Why not?"
"Because you aren't telling me the whole truth.” I knew him too well. “Your story doesn't match your personality—or your finances. So have fun with your pet, and leave me out of it."
I hung up. Did I have another bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet? Yesterday hazed over in my mind. I could have finished it in bed. But maybe not. I hobbled in to see.
The phone rang ... and rang...
Nothing in the cabinet but a single can of tomato soup. Which meant I'd need to get dressed tomorrow and walk to the state store for more. God, I hated leaving my apartment.
Still the phone rang. Fifteen times. Twenty.
He wasn't going away. And if I didn't answer, he'd drive out and bang on my apartment door. He'd done it before.
At last I grabbed the receiver. “Yes?"
"What do you mean,” he said as though I'd never hung up on him, “about my story not matching my personality?"
"Or your finances."
"Yeah. That too."
I sighed as I sat at my tiny kitchen table. “I have more than a vague idea of your net worth, Davy. Two hundred thousand is pocket change. You probably have that much lying around your house."
"Uh, maybe,” he said. “But if I did, I'd keep it locked in a safe."
"Now,” I continued, warming up, “let's assume you bought Bailey on a lark. You're rich; he's a new toy. Your golf club pals are pitching in too. But suddenly you panic. Why?"
"You tell me,” he said.
"I can only think of one reason. Buying the horse became a point of honor.” I paused, and the truth came to me like the final piece of a puzzle snapping into place. “Cree told you not to buy Bailey's Final Call, didn't she?"
Cree was Davy's fiancee, a stunning model—and not the bubblehead you'd expect from her Sports Illustrated swimsuit photos. I liked her a lot. In the last year, she had cured Davy of most of his playboy ways—Bailey's Final Call notwithstanding.
In a quiet voice, Davy said, “You're right. Cree told me not to join the syndicate. But I did it anyway. On paper it looks like it's a money maker. Better be, or I'll never hear the end of it. But now I'm getting a funny—"
"Maybe it's guilt,” I said softly. After my nervous breakdown, I'd seen enough shrinks to last a lifetime. They had all talked to me in the same soothing tone. “Maybe you're looking for a way to get out of the deal for Cree's sake. After all, you don't want to fight with her."
"Something is wrong with that horse. I know it. You've got to help, Pit."
"But I can barely tell a fetlock from a furlong!"
"Don't make me beg."
Of all things, a racehorse. But I couldn't let my friend down. He was the only one who kept in touch, kept pushing me to leave my apartment, get outside and actually think. I would have drunk myself to death by now without him.
"All right,” I said. “I'll do what I can. Where are you keeping this refugee from the glue factory?"
"Black Fox Farm in Buckston. That's in—"
"I know, Bucks County.” About an hour north of Philadelphia. Lots of old money, lots of horses.
"I'm driving out tomorrow,” Davy said. “Pick you up at eight?"
I muttered something about ungodly hours, but he laughed.
"Don't forget, dress for a farm.” He hung up.
Against my will, odd bits of information about horses began popping into my head. I had one of those trick brains: I could recall every name, face, fact, and figure I had ever encountered while sober. To my surprise, lists of Kentucky Derby winners (and losers), Belmont Stakes purses, and even old episodes of Mister Ed and My Friend Flicka from a misspent childhood in front of the TV bubbled up. I knew more about horses than I'd thought.
Cursing Davy and his new toy, I levered myself out of my chair and limped around the apartment, bagging empty whiskey bottles, picking out clothes. So much for sleep. I'd never get any rest now.
* * * *
The next morning, Davy roared up to my apartment building in his shiny silver BMW convertible, music blaring from the satellite radio. He owned half a dozen cars, and he'd chosen my personal favorite despite the slate gray sky threatening rain.
Leaning hard on the railing, I worked my way down four short steps to the sidewalk. It promised to be a hot, uncomfortable, muggy day—typical late June weather in Philadelphia.
Davy reached over and opened the door for me. When I glared, he grinned his perfect smile and touched the brim of his green Sports Illustrated cap in salute. God, I hate morning people. They're so damn cheerful.
"You owe me big for this."
"I'll name my first kid after you."
Snorting, I eased my way inside. He had already put the seat back as far as it would go. Tentatively, I stretched my legs out. I could endure the cramped space for an hour or so.
The moment I slammed the door, Davy accelerated into light rush hour traffic. Row houses streamed past. I buckled my safety belt and closed my eyes. The familiar smells of Philly's Northwood section—soft pretzels from vendors on the street corner, already baking asphalt, diesel bus exhaust—washed over me. Three blocks later, we turned into Roosevelt Boulevard's express lanes and sped up, heading north.
"Want to stop for coffee?” Davy asked.
"Are you trying to poison me?"
"You can't live on alcohol alone."
"One group of medieval monks lived on nothing but beer."
"Really?"
"They brewed it so thick, it became almost a bread. Beer and pizza gets me cheese and tomato sauce too. Covers all my food groups."
"Not healthy."
"Tell you what, get us there in forty-five minutes instead of an hour and you can buy me lunch at the restaurant of your choice."
Grinning, he floored the accelerator. He probably had visions of Salad Alley dancing through his head.
* * * *
We flew until we left the city limits. Then we hit construction delays and crawled the last twenty miles. By the time Davy turned off Route 202 and onto a rutted gravel driveway, we had been driving almost two hours. Pains wracked my body, from the steel pins in my legs to my overly compressed spinal cord to the knotted-up muscles in my neck and shoulders. Fortunately, I had taken half a dozen aspirin before leaving my apartment. Those, plus the Motrin I had dry-swallowed on the road, made my pains almost bearable. I really needed something alcoholic.
Finally Davy said, “There it is."
I sat up straighter. A small, weathered sign said BLACK FOX FARM.
We turned onto a private road and cruised between two ivy-covered stone gateposts—the gates themselves were missing—then crossed a dense line of poplars and white birches, lush in their summer greenness.
Rounding a corner, the farm came into view. To the right, inside a pasture with a split rail fence, six brown and white horses raised their heads to gaze at us. To the left, in an exercise ring, a girl of nine or ten in an English riding habit sat astride a lanky brown horse with a white nose.
Two men stood watching the girl. One was thin and grizzled, with bib overalls and a Phillies baseball cap. The other was burly and grayhaired with a ponytail. Ponytail Man frowned as Davy neared.
"Is that girl riding Bailey?” I asked.
"Uh...” Davy squinted. “I'm not sure."
"You do know what your horse looks like?"
"He's brown."
I rolled my eyes.
Directly ahead sat a sprawling Victorian-style farmhouse. It had a fresh coat of white paint, but the roof and front porch sagged, and I got an impression of benign neglect. Picturesque oak trees flanked the house, half obscuring a pair of ancient red barns with fieldstone foundations. Both barns had Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs under the eaves. Any watercolor artist would have drooled.
The man with the ponytail left the exercise ring and stalked in our direction.
He looked quite annoyed.
"Who's that?” I asked.
"Mitch Goldsmith. We bought Bailey from him."
"Did you tell him we were coming?"
Davy grinned and waved to Mitch. Through his teeth, he said to me, “Why should I? It's my horse!"
"Only twenty percent."
Cruising past the exercise ring, Davy parked next to a battered silver horse van and a bright red Sebring convertible. As he cut the engine, I popped my door and heaved my feet out. White-hot fires surged the length of my legs. Gasping, I paused to knead and massage my calves through ridges of scar tissue. It took a minute, but the pain receded.
By the time I struggled to my feet, Mitch had reached the other side of the car. His stained navy blue polo shirt had BLACK FOX FARM stitched across the right breast in silver thread.
"Yo, Mitch,” Davy said cheerfully. He tossed his baseball cap onto the dashboard and ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “How's Bailey this morning?"
"We don't like drop-in visitors,” Mitch said. “It upsets the routine."
"Don't think of us as visitors, think of us as family.” Davy flashed his perfect smile. “We're all in this together, right? As long as we're paying you to train Bailey."
"Care to make introductions?” I asked from across the car.
"Oh, sorry. Pit, this is Mitch Goldsmith, Bailey's trainer and former owner. Mitch, Pit Geller."
"Hello,” I said. I limped around Davy's BMW, shifting my cane to my left hand and offering Mitch my right. Time to play peacemaker. “Pleased to meet you, sir."
He nodded brusquely. “Call me Mitch."
I learn a lot about a man in the first seconds of our initial meeting. Pity, revulsion, even outright fear—I've gotten it all since my accident. Pity gets me seats on crowded trains. Revulsion usually wears off with the realization that limps aren't contagious. Fear, though, never ends.
Mitch paid no notice to my handicap. He shook hands without hesitation, grip firm but not painful. His palms and fingers had plenty of calluses. Clearly this was no gentleman of leisure. I took an instant liking to him.
"Did I catch your name right?” he asked. “Pit?"
"A college nickname.” I pulled a sour face. “Davy won't stop using it, much as I'd like him to. Call me Peter."
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “You went to school together?"
"Don't let him fool you,” I said, lowering my voice. We were both thirty-one, but the years hadn't been kind to me. “Hair dye and plastic surgery did wonders for him. We're both from the class of ‘75."
"Pit!” Davy protested.
"Okay, okay. It's really the class of ‘73. I'm vain about my age too.” I gave Mitch a wink, and he grinned.
Davy tried to say something but only managed exasperated noises. Mitch studied him with new interest. Probably wondering whether Davy really could be that old.
"Anyway,” Davy said, giving me a dirty look, “we were in the neighborhood, and I thought we'd watch Bailey run."
Mitch glanced at his watch. “Too late. Bailey finished five minutes ago. You can watch him cool down, I guess."
"Where do you train him?” I asked.
Mitch waved at someplace beyond the barns. “It's a five-minute walk. We have fifty acres here, which includes a small track. Follow the path behind the house if you want to see it."
"Another time.” My legs weren't up to it; I needed more time to recover from the car ride.
"Why aren't you training Bailey?” Davy demanded.
"Do I look like a jockey?” Mitch gave him a withering glare. “I weigh a hundred pounds too much. My stepson is with him this morning. Don't worry, Bailey will be ready for the Derby.” He turned toward the exercise ring, paused, glanced back at me. “Missy just made some pink lemonade. Might as well have a glass while you wait."
"Thanks.” I would have preferred something stronger, but at least he hadn't offered water.
"That would be great,” Davy said.
"Sure.” Mitch headed for the house. Davy and I stood in silence till he was out of earshot.
"Well?” Davy asked.
"Definitely the criminal type,” I said. “Pink lemonade. It's fiendish!"
Davy punched me in the arm—hard.
"Hey! Ow!” Davy didn't believe in coddling cripples either. Another reason I liked him so much.
"That's for the hair dye and plastic surgery,” he said.
"What do you expect, dragging me out here for nothing?"
"I'm serious, Pit."
"Me too. Look at this place! It's falling apart.” I pointed with my cane. “The house needs a new roof. The paint is a cheap, cosmetic fix. Ditto for both barns. The porch is collapsing. You're looking at eighty or ninety thousand for basic repairs. On top of that, he's got his own kid exercising Bailey rather than a pro. What does it add up to?"
"They need a good contractor?"
"They're broke. Mitch must have lucked out and gotten a champion racehorse, and he's cashing out because he can't afford to maintain the family farm any other way."
Davy paused. “You think so?"
"There's a reason horse racing attracts millionaires. Mitch is out of his league."
"Hmm.” Davy stared into the distance. He'd have to work it out for himself.
A minute later, Mitch reappeared carrying a pair of cheap plastic lawn chairs. He set them up in the shade of one of the oak trees and beckoned us over.
"Take a load off, Peter,” Mitch said. “You too, Hunt. Missy will be right out with lemonade."
"Might as well relax while we wait for Bailey,” I said, limping forward.
"Yeah. I guess.” Davy sounded more reserved than usual. No doubt disappointed that his conspiracy theory had fizzled.
"Thanks.” I sagged into the closest seat and balanced my cane across my knees. Much better.
Behind me, the house door slammed. I half turned and spotted a thin woman with curly black hair headed our way. She wore a bright pink housedress with horses embroidered around the hem, and she carried a vintage ‘50s-style red plastic tray with a matching set of plastic glasses.
"Don't stand there,” she called to Mitch. She had a definite South Jersey accent. “Bring one of those little tables for our guests!"
"Yes, Missy.” Mitch trotted around the house again. I chuckled. His wife was a force to be reckoned with.
I struggled to my feet.
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” I said.
"Don't you ‘ma'am’ me!” she said. If her hands had been free, she would have been gesturing and tsk-tsking. “I'm not your grandmother!"
"Yes, uh, Missy?"
"You must be Peter?"
"Peter Geller, yes."
Mitch sprinted back around the side of the house. He didn't have a table.
"Call Doc Christiansen, Missy!” he shouted. “Bailey's down!” Turning, he dashed out of sight.
Davy and I exchanged panicked looks.
"Go!” I told him. He sprinted after Mitch.
"Here, Peter.” Missy thrust the tray into my hands before rushing back to the house.
I set Missy's tray on the seat of my chair, then followed Davy. I rounded the building to find a brown horse with a white star on his forehead and two white front feet lying on his side between the barns. His legs twitched faintly. A slender boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, lay across the animal's neck, keeping him on the ground. Mitch knelt by Bailey's head, stroking his nose and whispering soft words.
Davy stood to one side, arms folded, helpless.
"Missy's calling your vet,” I said, panting hard, legs on the verge of buckling.
Bailey jerked twice, then lay still. Too still. Mitch rose slowly, face white.
"Doesn't matter now,” he said, and his voice cracked. “He's ... he's dead. Bailey's dead."
"No!” The kid clutched at the horse, fingers knotting in his mane. He managed to hold back tears.
Davy and I exchanged a glance. He had an I-told-you-so expression. But I cou
ldn't believe Mitch would set us up. His reaction—and the kid's—felt real.
A distant crack echoed across the farm. Mitch staggered. An odd look came over his face. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. I saw the silver lettering on his shirt turn crimson.
"Mitch?” I said, not quite comprehending.
He slid to his knees. Blood flecked his lips and dribbled down his chin. He tried to speak. A heartbeat later, he fell face-first into the dirt.
"Get down!” I shouted, shoving Davy to the ground behind the horse.
"What—” Davy began.
"Sniper!” I said.
Mitch's son gaped at us. I reached over, grabbed his shirt and dragged him across the horse with more strength than I knew I had. I shoved his head to the dirt path.
"Keep down, kid!"
"But—” The boy struggled to get to his father, but I leaned hard and kept him in place. Thin as I was, I still outweighed him by thirty or forty pounds.
"Lie still,” I snapped. No way was he standing up. “We'll get help. Davy—"
"Y-yes.” He yanked his cell phone from its belt clip and dialed 911.
"Is that what happened to Bailey?” I asked the boy. I shook him to make him focus. “Was Bailey shot?"
"I—I don't know,” he cried. “He collapsed—couldn't stand up—"
Davy reached an emergency operator and explained our situation. He listened, repeated himself, listened again, then lowered the phone.
"The police want us to stay down,” he reported. “They're on their way—and they've called an ambulance for Mitch."
"Good.” I looked at the boy. “What's your name?"
"Bobby,” he said, eyes wide.
"Bobby, listen. I have to ask you something important before the police get here.” There was no easy way to put it. “This horse—he isn't Bailey's Final Call, is he?"
Bobby stared. “Of course he is. I've known him his whole life. You can't mistake the star on his forehead or his two white socks."
"Okay.” I believed the kid. But it didn't make sense. Why shoot a champion horse? And why shoot Mitch? Common sense said Mitch should be the criminal, not the victim here.
* * * *
AHMM, July-August 2008 Page 23
