Racing From Evil: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery Novella; The Prequel

by Sasscer Hill

  “Can’t be all that bad,” she said.

  “I guess it could be worse.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “It can always be worse.”

  We rode in silence, and my thoughts spun around like the bus wheels that carried us down the road. I had to earn a living, except I didn’t know how. I just had to figure it out.

  The bus finally reached my stop on Park Heights Avenue. Outside, it was cold, but my jacket was warm as I walked the few blocks along the avenue to Pimlico. The track was open for simulcast betting, but I had no money left to buy my way in.

  When the ticket seller wasn’t looking, I squatted low and scuttled under the turnstile like a crab. A couple of people saw me, but nobody said anything.

  Nikki Latrelle, budding criminal.

  Inside, the cement floor of the grandstand was only about a quarter filled with people. I figured they must be the hardcore bettors. Mostly older men, they studied Daily Racing Forms, drank beer from plastic cups and argued about their picks.

  Near me, a man pointed a finger at a page he’d folded open on his Form. “Lenny you’re nuts if you bet that horse! Last time, they passed the sumbitch like he was tied to the rail!”

  Lenny shook his head in disagreement. “Yeah, well your rider is a fucking idiot.”

  The first man put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and nodded in my direction. “Watch the kid, Lenny.”

  “Scuse me, Miss,” Lenny said.

  I scooted away from them. What was I doing here? At least it was warm inside, except the smell of hotdogs and French fries were making my mouth water. The sandwich I’d had that morning seemed a distant memory.

  I stared at a nearby food stand where they were grilling burgers, and a vat of grease bubbled with French fries. Out front, a counter held a display of chips, pretzels, and nuts. Hungry customers formed a line before the cash register.

  “Uh, excuse me,” I said moving next to the guy in the head of the line. “I just want to grab some chips.”

  He shrugged. I grabbed three little bags of potato chips, and moved to the back of the line. How the hell could I keep these bags without paying? A loud noise caused me to turn. The TV monitors hanging from the ceiling blasted with sound.

  “They’re off!” the announcer cried as a bell rang and the horses on the monitor exploded from the gate. The crowd turned as one to watch the break. I turned, too, and slid the chips into my pockets. I walked slowly away from the line, expecting to hear cries of “thief!” The only sounds were the announcer calling the race and the bettors shouting for their picks.

  I eased around a corner and found a bench on the other side of a divider wall. I felt oddly elated by this second successful theft, and had to suppress a nervous giggle. Sitting on the bench, I ripped open the first bag of chips, scarfing them down so fast, I almost choked on the crumbs. Damn, they tasted good!

  But by the time I emptied all three bags, my high had ebbed as the knowledge of what I’d done and the trouble it could bring me left me shaken.

  There had to be work I could do on the backstretch. Mom had always said the horse trainers hired illegal immigrants, so why not me?

  “I saw you steal those chips.”

  Staring down at me was the same weird face from four years earlier. The guy with the bleached out skin and black eyes who’d swiped my five-dollar bill at Laurel Park. Now he wore his hair in a Mohawk, with the sides shaved and the top gelled up so it looked like a bleached scrub brush.

  He was about eighteen now, bigger and taller. More threatening. It occurred to me he was an albino, except I thought they were supposed to have pale eyes.

  Whatever he was, I stood up fast, and walked away. He was bad news. I could hear his jeering laugh behind me.

  Rounding the partition, I walked toward the glass wall overlooking the track. A group of horses was parading past, and one of them made me do a double take. It looked like my night time guardian, Silver Punch.

  I was confused. Because winter races are run at Laurel, not at Pimlico, I had assumed the track was open only for simulcast betting, but here were the horses on the track going to post. I darted forward, pushed through a set of double doors into the frigid air, and hurried to the rail. A man in a heavy coat and earmuffs held a Racing Form. I moved up beside him.

  “Excuse me, is horse number seven called Silver Punch?”

  “The seven horse?” The man’s face was still turned to his Form. “Why? You like him?” Then he glanced down at me, his eyes registering surprise. “Hey, you’re too young to be betting. Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

  “Teacher’s conference,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, his name’s Silver Punch. Doctor Braygler owns him. The lady’s a plastic surgeon, rich enough to afford some good horses.” He glanced at the page again and traced the print with his finger. “He’s out of a Two Punch mare. Northern Dancer on top. Got bumped and blocked last time out. He’s got a shot in there.”

  What I didn’t know about racing could fill Wikipedia. I thought the man was relating Silver Punch’s pedigree and what had happened the last time he ran, but wasn’t sure. “How come they aren’t racing at Laurel?” I asked.

  “Water main break. The track’s a frozen mess, so they moved racing here until it’s fixed.”

  I pulled on my gloves, put my elbows on the rail, and settled in to watch the race, glad to temporarily forget my troubles. I knew enough to tell from the starting gate’s location on the track that the race would be a mile and a quarter and said as much to the man.

  “You’re and old hand at this stuff, huh?

  “I used to come here with my mom a lot.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, my dad used to bring me. Listen, I’m gonna place a bet on the seven and if he comes in, I’ll share it with you.”

  I shrugged in response, not wanting to be in debt to this guy for any reason. But maybe he was just being nice.

  “Hold my spot here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He left, and the horses approached the metal starting gate. Members of the gate crew moved out on the track, ready to lead the animals into their respective stalls. About the time the horses were halfway loaded, and Silver Punch stood in the seven slot, the man came back and showed me one of his tickets. He’d bet $30 to win on Silver Punch, and the horse’s odds were ten to one against.

  I knew from bets Mom had made, that if Punch won, the man would win over $300.

  When the horses broke, Silver Punch took the lead. It looked to me like his jockey eased him back to third place and held that position through the first turn and along the backstretch. Into the last turn before the home stretch, the riders got busy whipping and driving their horses.

  At the top of the stretch Silver Punch regained his lead, and when he opened up on the others, a little thrill sped through me.

  The man wearing earmuffs yelled, “Hi, ho, Silver away!”

  He was jumping up and down like a kid, making me smile. Silver Punch motored on, won by about a length and a half, and the man mock-punched my shoulder.

  “Kid, you just made us both $150.00! You’re my lucky charm!”

  I didn’t feel like anyone’s lucky anything, but if he really meant to give me half the money it would be the best thing that had happened to me in a long time.

  “We gotta wait until it’s official,” he said, watching the board with an anxious eye. No objections were raised, and a moment later when the announcer named Silver Punch the winner, my earmuffed buddy said, “Come on!”

  I followed him into the grandstand where he rushed to a betting window and handed in his win ticket. The teller counted out a large wad of green bills and handed it to the man, who in turn counted out $150.00 and held it out to me.

  “This is very nice of you, sir. Thank you.”

  “Lou Bernstein,” he said shaking my hand after I slid the money into my coat pocket. “Spend it in good health, dear.”

  “Thank you, I will,” I said, thinking maybe the world
wasn’t such a bad place after all. Still, I didn’t know this man, and needed to be careful. I gave him a brief smile and walked away.

  Looking about, I made sure the albino guy wasn’t around. The last thing I needed was for him to steal my money again. I hotfooted it into the lady’s room to the privacy of a stall, and after leaving a twenty in my pocket, I removed a boot and crammed the rest of the cash into my sock around my ankle. Satisfied that it would be much harder to steal my money, I put the boot on, and returned to the grandstand.

  I wanted to see Silver Punch in the winner’s circle and hurried through the glass door and onto the track apron. Knowing how long it can take to gallop the winner out and come back to the grandstand, I thought I still had time. I was right. Tense and pumped, the big gray was just being led into the enclosure by the dreadlocked groom I’d met that morning.

  The trainer, who’d given me money for food and clothing, stood in the winner’s enclosure. A pretty blonde, who must be the owner, Dr. Braygler, was next to him. She had cheekbones like a model and wore a real fur coat. The three of them should have worn huge smiles, but there was something almost wistful in the expressions on the face of the trainer and his groom.

  Another groom was standing just outside the circle. When I saw he held a halter and a lead shank, I knew Silver Punch had been claimed. The second groom was a Latino and must work for Silver Punch’s new owner. As soon as the photographer shot the win picture, the Latino would lead the horse away to a different stable, different trainer, and a new owner. I hadn’t even realized the horse was running in a claiming race. I wondered how much the new owner had shelled out for the horse.

  Suddenly I felt cold and empty. I realized that subconsciously, I’d planned on sneaking back to the horse’s stall for the night. Now, he was gone. Every piece of security and comfort had been taken from me. My Mom, my home, Miss Boiler, and now even a stupid horse.

  Damn everything.

  7

  No time to sink into an abyss of self-pity. I had to think about food and shelter.

  Paying for a motel was out of the question. I had to hang on to my newfound cash. Besides, a motel would want ID, and I didn’t have any. Come to think of it, how had I imagined I could find work without ID?

  I felt my spirits sag as fast as the late winter sun that was sliding to the western horizon. As I headed back to the warmth of the grandstand, two cops emerged from the glass door, their eyes searching the crowd.

  Stanley knows I love the track. Had he reported me as a runaway? Suggested that I might be found here? Had the albino told someone I stole food?

  I turned away from the officers’ inquiring gaze, and pulled my hood farther forward until it covered my forehead and partially hid my eyes. I felt myself go rigid as farther up the track apron, I saw two more police officers prowling through the fans. Everything isn’t about you, Nikki. They are probably l looking for a real felon. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

  The guy with the dreads had helped the Latino groom switch halters, and now the new man led Silver Punch toward the track. I stole a look toward the two closest cops and saw that they were approaching a small group of racing fans standing behind me. One of the cops held out a photo.

  I kept my back to them and listened.

  “Have any of you seen this girl?”

  “No, sir,” one male voice replied.

  “What did she do?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “She’s missing.” This last voice must have belonged to the cop.

  Damn it. I edged toward the winner’s circle, where Silver Punch was stepping onto the dirt track. The horse would be led around to the backside and out of my life.

  I took a deep breath, stepped through an opening into the enclosure, and followed the horse onto the track like I knew what I was doing.

  The Latino groom, who was maybe thirty, gave me a questioning look. His eyes drifted to the cops and back to me. He shrugged and said, “You’d better hurry up, chica. This horse, he walks fast.”

  I jogged to catch up and walked alongside him like it was what I did every day. But my heart raced as I waited for a cop to yell at me to stop. The sound didn’t come, and I never looked back.

  “Thank you,” I said to the groom.

  “De nada. What is your name?”

  “Nikki.”

  He flashed a smile at me, his white teeth bright against his olive skin. “I am Carlos Pedroza.”

  He had nice eyes and seemed to have no problem with me tagging along, so I asked where he was taking Silver Punch.

  “He go to the barn of Mr. Ravinsky at Laurel.”

  “What’s Mr. Ravinsky like?”

  “How you say in Inglés, his bark is worse than his bite?” He nodded as if mentally confirming his words. “And he is very good to the horses.”

  I was glad Silver Punch was going to a nice home, but by now I was panting from keeping up with Carlos and the horse. I’d never walked on a racetrack before and was dismayed that the sandy surface was so heavy and deep. It seemed like Silver Punch walked faster with each stride.

  “You understand,” Carlos said, “the horse, he win, he must go to detention barn, yes?”

  I didn’t understand, but nodded like I knew what he was talking about.

  “You will not be allowed in this barn.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know what a detention barn was, but who’d want to go into one, anyway? It sounded like going to jail.

  By the time we were close to the backstretch stables, I was sweating inside my down-jacket and felt like collapsing onto the sand. Finally, we stepped off the track onto a more solid dirt path, and Carlos headed toward a barn where a track security guard stood outside.

  I eased away and headed for the barn with the diner on the second floor. As I climbed the steps, I saw a police cruiser roll slowly by on the pavement below. I double timed it into the “kitchen, and looked from the window, exhaling with relief when the cruiser kept going and disappeared from sight.

  I used some of the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket to buy a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke, then found an empty chair in the corner. The burger was hot, the cheese melted, the fries crisp. Total heaven. Ravenous, I scarfed it all down, but took my time drinking the Coke. The little grill seemed like a good hiding place for me. At least for the moment.

  The door opened and the groom with the dreads walked in. When he saw me, he nodded. I stood, put my empty plate in the trash, and still holding my coke, I walked to the window and looked onto the backstretch below.

  “If you’re looking for Punch, he’ll be in the spit barn,” the man said.

  “Spit barn?”

  “I forgot. You’re . . . new here. Don’t know much about the track, do you?”

  “Not really. I thought Punch had to go to the detention barn.”

  “Spit barn, test barn, detention barn, it’s all the same. Most always the horses that run one and two gotta be tested.”

  “For what?” Weren’t they tested enough in their race?

  “Man, you got a lot to learn. Drugs. They get tested for drugs.”

  I started to ask him what drugs, but he pursed his lips and shook his head. He brushed past me and went to the counter to order food, then he turned back to me.

  “And you’d better stay off our shedrow, too.”

  Shedrow?

  Seeing my bewildered look, he said, “Don’t you know anything? Our row of stalls. Our part of the barn. Shit, I ain’t running no nursery school.” With that, he turned away from me for good.

  Why did some people have to be mean? I glanced out the window again. No cops in sight. I figured the security guard was at the detention barn only because of the drug testing. It shouldn’t take too long to test a horse for drugs, should it?

  I slid my hood over my head and stepped outside into the sharp cold. Keeping an eye out for cops, I walked down the stairs and back to the entrance of the test barn, where I stood watching several horses being led along the aisle inside.


  After a couple of minutes Carlos appeared, taking Silver Punch past on the barn aisle like the other grooms had done. As they went by me, a man appeared. He held a long stick with what looked like a large mason jar attached to one end.

  He called to Carlos, “Take him in. See if he’s ready.”

  Carlos nodded and led Silver Punch into a stall opposite the entrance. The man with the jar followed behind and closed both the top and bottom stall doors.

  I could hear Carlos whistling and then the sound of liquid pouring into the jar. The man came out. His jar was filled with yellow foaming liquid. The horse must have peed in the jar.

  No sooner had the jar-man left, than a veterinarian stepped into the stall, pulled out a nasty looking syringe, shoved its needle into Punch’s neck, and drew blood.

  So the winner had been claimed by a stranger, stuck with a big needle, and then was expected to pee in a jar. What kind of incentive to win was that?

  Apparently they were done, because Carlos led Punch from the barn. Would the horse leave for Laurel now? They walked away, heading to the bottom of a steep dirt path leading up to an area overlooking the backstretch stabling. The horse had brought me luck so far. Watching him leave, I felt lost. I broke into a jog and followed them up the hill.

  Hearing my footsteps, Carlos glanced back and frowned. “You cannot go with us.”

  Halfway up the steep hill and out of breath, I stopped, my gaze dropping to my rubber boots that were covered with sandy dirt. What choice did I have?

  I couldn’t go back to Potter’s School, I couldn’t go home, and now the police were looking for me at Pimlico. I wanted to scream or weep. Instead, I leaned forward and trudged up the hill.

  Reaching the top, there were two barns ahead of us. To their right was a paved area. The rattle and smell of a diesel engine filled the air as an eighteen wheeler stood idling next to a dirt bank, which apparently served as a loading ramp for the huge van.

  Carlos and Punch disappeared into the closest barn. Gritting my teeth, I stepped from the sunlight into the barn.