“But I am Mexican,” Ana Maria said, puzzled.
“That doesn’t matter,” George assured her.
“Say, is there work for us?” asked Lady Lou hopefully. “I can be Chinese if you want.”
Marjorie shook her head regretfully, but then stopped as George, eyes closed, put one hand to his head and held the other up in a silencing gesture. Everyone stared at him for a long moment. Then, eyes still shut, he said, “Yes . . . yes . . . I see it! Ellie Buckshot and her ragtag band of happy-go-lucky outlaws, the Patchwork Gang!” George’s eyes shot open and he beamed at all of them.
The gang whooped and hollered with delight as Marjorie exclaimed, “Genius! Pure genius! I don’t know how you do it, George.” George responded with a modest bow.
“In Hollywood, California, do you think that we might meet Miss Barbara Stanwyck?” Ana Maria timidly ventured.
“After Bandito comes out, she’ll be asking to meet you,” Marjorie replied, looking at the attractive girl admiringly.
“Oh, Oreola, I do not want to be a banker. I want to move to Hollywood and live with you and El Cid,” Ana Maria said, shedding tears of joy. “I will send money back to my family and I will never, ever forget them.”
Oreola flung her arms around her friend. “Ana Maria, how could I have thought that devoting my life to the class struggle would satisfy me when all I ever really wanted was a career in pictures?” As she hugged Ana Maria, George informed her kindly, “You can have a picture career and a little struggle too, if you’d care to join my cell. You won’t really understand dialectic materialism until you’ve heard it explained by Jack Rosenblum, who you may know as Pedro the Singing Bandit.”
“Pedro the Singing Bandit is in your cell!” Oreola gasped. “He has the best gol-danged serial I ever seen!”
“Hollywood, here we come!” Lady Lou sang out.
SNAKE EYES FOR SILKY
Terry’s heart beat in perfect rhythm with the pounding of Silk Stockings’s hooves on the dirt track. The ride was so effortless that they were flying down the home stretch before Terry realized that the race was almost over and they were ahead of the field. The sweat turned to ice on the wiry jockey’s back as she began to pull up on Silky’s reins. Her eyes flicked over to the grandstand, which revealed nothing more than peeling paint and a small weekday crowd of men who were as rundown as the faded racetrack. After seconds that felt like days, a rangy bay came up on the outside, beating Silk Stockings by a nose. Terry felt a surge of relief. She knew that slipping up was as good as making a date with a dark alley and a couple of thugs who’d use her as a dance floor.
Terry tried to savor the feeling of relief like it was a lover’s last kiss, but kisses soon fade and Terry felt the familiar flood of bitterness wash away the relief. Terry knew that Silky was the one—a horse with the kind of speed and heart that every jockey dreams about. When Shorty, Silky’s trainer, had offered her a steady job riding the chestnut filly a year ago she could hardly believe it. With all the boys back from the war, jockeys were a dime a dozen, and a woman had a better shot at picking the trifecta in a twenty-horse race than she did of getting work as a jockey. Terry had been scraping by as a training rider, a groom, even mucking stalls. She’d wondered why Shorty picked her for the job, and when she’d heard the owner’s name, Ginger Delmonico, Terry figured it must be a hand-up from the woman owner, another gal trying to make it in the rough-and-tumble world of racing. With a steady job riding a promising horse, Terry had felt like she was holding a hand full of aces until just before her first race when Shorty told her how things would be.
“Listen, doll, dese are the rules. When the word comes down to lose, dis horse gotta lose. I don’t make dese rules, but I see you got a pretty face there and maybe you wanna keep it dat way, so if I was you, when the word comes down, well, dat’s what I’d do.”
Terry had been around the track long enough to know the score and she’d always tried to fly right, but that day Terry found out that right and wrong could get awfully tangled up inside an empty stomach. She’d thought again about Ginger Delmonico, and laughed bitterly. Some helping hand! This Delmonico dame must be one shrewd sister, and cold, figuring a lady jockey wouldn’t have many places to go if she didn’t like the dirty hand she was dealt.
Terry had decided it would be a one-shot deal—after the race was over, she’d kiss this horse goodbye. But she hadn’t counted on Silky and what it felt like to be on her back when she was running like the wind. By the end of that first race, she knew she was stuck with this horse for the long haul. But she made a promise—a promise to herself and to Silky that someday Silky would get her chance.
Now as Terry walked back and forth, cooling Silky down after the race, she thought about her vow. The months had flown by and Silky was readier than ever to be a champ. Terry paused a moment to admire her, the high withers, the sloping shoulders, the muscles of her powerful hindquarters rippling under her glossy chestnut coat. If only they could get out of this second-rate track and find a race the mob didn’t have its finger in! Terry scowled at the ground. Who was she kidding? It was Ginger Delmonico who held the whip, and Ginger wasn’t thinking about anything but quick money. Without Ginger’s say-so, Silky would never have a chance to show her stuff. Terry’s head ached with thinking. All she wanted now was couple of quick ones at Gillespie’s to dull the pain of betraying Silky yet again. Lately that was becoming a habit after each race. Maybe one day she’d forget her vow altogether . . .
As Terry was stabling Silky, Shorty leaned into the stall and said with a leer, “Miz Delmonico wants a word wit’ you.” Outside, Ginger Delmonico was sitting in her shiny new Phantom Arrow, the set of her mouth getting tighter with each cloud of cigarette smoke she exhaled. This was only the second time she’d asked to see Terry. That first time Ginger had done little more than cock her head, letting cigarette smoke trail from her flared nostrils and murmur, “Well, what do you know,” a faint note of surprise in her voice. For her part, Terry had summed her up as a seasoned filly with nice conformation, good action, dark red hair a shade lighter than Silky’s, and just as carefully groomed. How had she acquired Silk Stockings, and what had drawn her into this dirty racket? But there was no time to puzzle over that now. Ginger had caught sight of her, and was impatiently beckoning her over.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but you’d do well to remember that you work for me and nobody makes a fool of Ginger Delmonico,” she said rapidly. “You and I both know that you were lucky back there on the track. You’ve never given me any trouble, but make no mistake, one slipup”—Ginger paused, narrowed her eyes, and leaned in so close that Terry could feel the heat of the other woman’s breath on her own face—“let’s just say that the stables can be an awfully dangerous place for a little thing like you.”
“I haven’t slipped up, and I won’t,” Terry quickly shot back.
But Ginger wasn’t done. “I’m surprised you could even get that kind of a stride out of the old nag,” she said with a sneering laugh.
“That shows what you know! Silky could be a champion, if you’d only wise up and let her!” The rash words were out of Terry’s mouth before she had a chance to stop herself.
Ginger’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise. Then she quickly spit out, “Make tracks, before I decide to get angry.” Terry didn’t need to be told twice. She turned toward Gillespie’s as she heard the Phantom, with a clashing of gears, roar off behind her.
Everybody at Gillespie’s was buzzing about Sailor’s Delight, the horse who’d beaten Silky, as Terry slid onto a stool at the bar. “Gimme a double,” Terry ordered, and tried to close her ears to the chatter around her. “He’s only run two races as a three-year-old, but he’s got quite a reputation—a second Man O’ War!” “Five’ll get you ten he’s a cinch for the Bluegrass Stakes.”
“Another,” said Terry to the bartender. She didn’t want to listen to any more talk about Sailor’s Delight. She knew that all this buzz should have been
about Silky—they should have been saying that Silky was the next big champion. As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard someone ask, “What about Silk Stockings? She sure gave Sailor’s Delight a run for his money.” A veteran handicapper snorted his answer. “Okay to show or place, maybe, but she doesn’t have a winner’s heart.” Terry knocked back her second double and stumbled out of the bar, a dull pain that had nothing to do with whiskey clouding her vision.
The morning before the next race, Terry fed Silky herself—making up the bran mash just the way the filly liked it. She crooned, “You can do it, girl,” and “This one’s in the bag,” into Silky’s ear. Silky nickered, tossed her head, and pawed the ground as if to tell Terry she was ready to beat all comers. Just before Terry led Silky to the starting gate, Shorty showed up. “The word’s come down—pull up lame,” he muttered. Before Terry could stop him, he pulled out a small knife, bent down, and swiftly nicked Silky’s right front fetlock. The truth Terry’d been hiding from all day hit her like a grand piano dropped from a seventh-story window.
The fetlock would heal in a week, Terry knew, but what about the risk to Silky, running full speed on a weakened leg? Terry was sick with fear as Silky shot out of the starting gate.
As they headed toward the third rail, her fears were realized—she felt Silky’s rhythmic stride falter. She tried to slow the filly, but gamely the horse pressed on, until suddenly she stumbled, and went down on her knees. After a heart-stopping moment, the horse struggled to her feet, and limped to the finish line.
Instantly, Terry was off Silky’s back, and bending over her forelegs, cursing herself. Silky wasn’t really hurt, but that was no consolation. Terry had known the risks and she’d run the race anyway. Bitterly, she realized that she was no better than Shorty and his scalpel.
As she straightened up, a voice from the stands floated down and caught her ear, “I told you that filly just ain’t got the heart—or the legs.” The words flicked Terry on the raw, and there was no whiskey in her to cushion the pain. She managed to toss the reins to Shorty and find a spot behind the stables where no one would see her. Terry was punching the stable wall, choking back sobs, when she realized that she was not alone.
“I thought you were made of tougher stuff than this with the lip you laid on me after the last race,” said a familiar husky voice.
Ginger’s taunt turned all of Terry’s tears into pure fight as she turned to face Silky’s nemesis. “What would you know about tough? You think being tough is about pushing people around that can’t do nothing about it? That ain’t tough. That’s just cheap. You ever think maybe it’s caring about something that makes you tough? Well, I care about Silky and I can’t stand to do wrong by her no more! So go ahead—do me in! Do it right now!”
Ginger reached inside her purse and then paused, her face enigmatic, her eyes on Terry’s. Terry held her breath—was this how it would end? Here, in this dirty spot behind a racetrack? She closed her eyes. But instead of a bullet, she felt Ginger grasp her arms. The big redhead pulled Terry close and kissed her roughly, then gently, then roughly again. Before Terry had a chance to think about what was happening, she felt the cold steel of a gun pressing into her side, and Ginger, a cigarette clenched between her teeth, was hissing, “Step lively, sister, we’re going to my place.”
Terry’s thoughts were moving faster than the Phantom, which roared along with Terry at the wheel and Ginger seated menacingly, yet seductively, beside her. Escape—but where to? Terry’s whole world was the track. And if she stayed in that world, Ginger would always be able to find her. But did she really want to escape? Silky meant the world to Terry, but a girl has some needs that even the best horse can’t satisfy. A dame like Ginger Delmonico could satisfy those needs and then some.
When they got to Ginger’s place, a suite of rooms in a quietly luxurious hotel off Lake Shore Drive, Terry still didn’t know how this visit was going to play out. Terry took in the living room, from the gold and crystal bar to the white leather sofa to the cream-colored carpeting—it looked like money. Ginger poured herself a drink at the bar, then stood sipping it, sizing Terry up. She still held her gun, but loosely, almost as if she’d forgotten about it. Terry stared back, still in her racing silks soaked with sweat, her dusty boots sinking into the plush carpet. Finally Ginger spoke.
“So what do you think I should do with you for mouthing off to me like that?”
Terry decided to play it a little dangerous. “Maybe you should teach me a lesson I won’t forget.”
“Oh, so you think you’re ready to play with the grownups now, do you?”
“Who says I’m playing?”
“I say. I say when you’re playing and when you’re not. Maybe you forgot who owns you?”
Again Ginger’s words made Terry forget any danger in her desire to show Ginger once and for all that nobody owned her. Without thinking, she covered the ground between them and grasped the ends of the long silk scarf that hung around Ginger’s neck as if she were going to rein in an unruly horse. She thought about tightening the scarf until Ginger begged for mercy, but instead she found herself tugging on it just enough to bring Ginger’s mouth to hers. Then they were in the bedroom, and Terry showed Ginger that Silky wasn’t the only one she could get to the finish line. Afterward, Ginger looked younger, almost vulnerable, as she lay back in the bed, her red hair tousled on the cream satin pillow. Terry’s eyes traveled from Ginger’s red hair to the white and gold painted vanity, where the small snub-nosed revolver lay forgotten. Ginger didn’t need threats to keep Terry around; they both knew that now.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Ginger with a voluptuous smile.
“You’re stabled pretty nice here, and I can see you’ve got no worries about where your next bucket of oats is coming from, so why do you need to make Silk Stockings a loser?”
The small jockey nearly fell off the bed as Ginger jerked upright, not bothering to cover her heaving bosom.
“That horse is my business!” she hissed. “You’re just the hired hand! You got that, sister?”
Terry got out of the bed and began to pull on her silks. The horsy smell on them was like a breath of fresh air, reminding her of her promise to Silky. Terry reached for her boots.
“What’s your hurry, Terry?” Ginger’s voice was casual, seductive, as if she regretted spoiling the party.
“I’ve got work to do at the stables—Silky needs me.” Terry continued to pull on her boots.
Ginger leaned over and took a cigarette out of the gold box next to the revolver, and lit it with a crystal lighter. She blew out a cloud of gray-blue smoke, looking at Terry through half-closed eyes. “Go ahead, sweetheart, go to your horse. You’ll be back.” Her mocking laughter seemed to follow Terry out the door, through the hotel lobby, and even on the long ride home on the Elevated.
It was like Ginger said. As much as she fought it, Terry found herself in that white and gold suite after almost every race. She felt split in two as she bounced between Silky’s back and Ginger’s bed. Race after race went by and each time word would come down from the boss to finish in the money, out of the money, pull up lame—whatever was needed so that the right people would go home happy. And afterward the gleaming Phantom Arrow would be waiting for Terry. Terry could feel Shorty’s beady eyes watching her as she got in. He said nothing, just leered more than ever as he gave her instructions for each race. The orders always came down through Shorty—Terry and Ginger never talked about Silky or anything to do with horses or the track. Sometimes they never talked at all. When Terry slid her hand under Ginger’s silver fox furs and found flesh as soft as Silky’s muzzle, she felt like this thing between her and Ginger was enough. But when she was with Silky, a voice inside her head told her this couldn’t last, shouldn’t last. Terry didn’t want to listen to it.
Then one day there was no word from Shorty before the race. When Terry spurred Silky on to the track, she realized with a sudden jolt that she could run this race the way she want
ed. It was only a cheap claiming race, but Terry and Silky ran as if it were the Kentucky Derby, leaving the second-place horse behind by twenty lengths. Afterward, Terry hailed a cab, too impatient to wait for the Phantom Arrow. She had to see Ginger right away. Ginger had to know how Terry dreamed of winning. Was this her way of giving in? Was she starting to care about Terry?
Terry flew up the stairs to Ginger’s suite, a box of roses under her arm. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard voices inside.
“I told you, I didn’t have time to get to Shorty!” Ginger’s voice had a pleading tone that Terry had never heard before.
“I dunno what Ginger’s story is here, but you know you can count on me, Jimmy—I didn’t hear nothing, so I didn’t do nothing. Me, I just do what I’m told.”
Terry recognized Shorty’s familiar whine, but the next voice was unfamiliar.
“Save the excuses, old man—that damn horse won by twenty lengths—you know what that does to the odds?”
Ginger was talking again. “Maybe we could figure a way to work these odds in our favor.”
There was silence for a moment and then the stranger spoke again. “You trying to tell me how to run my business, honey?”
“No, Jimmy, you got me all wrong. I know who calls the shots.” Terry almost didn’t recognize Ginger’s voice, she sounded so subdued.
“All right doll, just so you don’t forget.” The menace in the stranger’s voice was unmistakable.
“Yeah, Jimmy, you’re the one with the brains. Everybody knows that. My girl here screws up again, I’ll be the first to let you know. You can count on that, Jimmy.”
“My girl?” Terry wondered.
The voices had been coming closer, and Terry managed to slip behind the door just as it opened. Through the crack between the door and wall she caught a glimpse of this Jimmy, a big man, well dressed and genial-looking, except for his small hard eyes. “You’re looking good these days, doll,” he said, reaching up to grasp Ginger’s chin and turn her head from side to side. “Am I still your best fella?”
Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories Page 10
