by Sasscer Hill
“Fia, listen to me. Focus on information you can cull from the backstretch. And I repeat, listen and watch. Next time an opportunity presents itself, you check with me first. You haven’t been here long enough to run your own show. Is that clear?”
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, sir.” A voice could be heard in the background, as if someone had entered his office.
“Wait a minute.” The connection blanked as he put me on hold. I sank onto the edge of the bed, rubbing my forehead. I sighed softly and repeated my mantra, the jockey instructions I’d so often heard Dad give before a race, “Sit chilly and wait for an opening.” I was in no position to argue with Gunny.
I stared out the window. The palm fronds swayed gently poolside as the daylight faded toward evening. I exhaled slowly.
Gunny came back on the line. “Fia?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re clear on procedure?”
I could hear him tapping a pen on his desk. Could almost see it. He was also chewing on something; probably his antacid tablets. “Yes, Mr. Jamieson. There is something else I’d like to mention.”
“Go ahead.”
I recounted my conversation with Serpentino from earlier in the day, that I had the use of his round pen, and would try and worm my way into his shedrow through his stable help. The groom that had smiled at me seemed a good place to start.
“That’s more like it,” Gunny said. “Okay, then. You keep on course like that and get back to me with anything new.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and ended the call. Was this the same guy that liked the fact I shot a perpetrator? I wasn’t crazy about this side of Gunny—patriarchal and filled with admonishments, seeking to control. Maybe there was more of that conservative FBI influence in TRPB policy than I’d hoped. Standing, I tossed the phone on the bed and left the room.
* * *
A half hour later, Patrick, Jilly, and I sat on the pool terrace. Blooming flowers and chlorine perfumed the air while we ate the pizza we’d ordered for dinner. I was inhaling bites of hot cheese and tomato loaded with mushrooms and green peppers. I finished one slice and grabbed another. When I realized I wanted more, I trudged to the kitchen and snatched an apple off the counter to satisfy my hunger. I might be galloping horses every morning, but there’s only so much junk food a woman over thirty can handle without paying a hefty price.
Apple in hand, I ran into Patrick in the living room on my way back. I stopped. “Jilly seems to be doing well.”
“She is. Hasn’t skipped class since the day she snuck a ride with that Zanin guy.” He started to brush past me, but stopped. “Having you here has really helped, Fia. So … thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” This was as good a time as I’d probably get, so I rushed ahead. “Have you thought about getting her another horse?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“What do you think I should do?” he asked.
I did a mental double take. My God, were we having a family moment?
“I think you should,” I said. “Get her back up on the horse, so to speak. She took a horrific emotional fall when they killed Cody.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Patrick said, suddenly grinning. “Let’s see what she says!” He rushed toward the pool with the enthusiasm of a kid. It was nice to see.
Jilly was finishing the last slice of pizza. She licked her fingers, wiped her hands on her napkin, and glanced up at us.
“Jilly, you ate the whole thing,” Patrick said, his tone accusing.
“Well, you guys didn’t want it.”
Didn’t take Patrick long to get off course. He could be so annoying.
“She can afford to eat the last slice,” I said. “If she was any skinnier, she’d disappear.”
He shrugged, and we sat at the table with Jilly. I munched on my apple and Jilly stared at the fingernails on one hand, then started picking at a hangnail.
“Don’t do that,” Patrick said.
“Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Jilly?” I asked, throwing Patrick a meaningful look.
Jilly tried to bite the hangnail off, and I almost added my own sharp reprimand.
“May I be excused?” she asked, already pushing away from the table.
“Sure,” said Patrick. “But before you go, I was wondering if you wanted another horse?”
She stood up fast. “Are you crazy? Why would I want another horse? That guy will kill it, just like he did Cody.” She jerked her palms up, whirled, and rushed into the house.
Patrick dropped his head in his hands, and I took another bite of my apple. We were silent a few beats, then I said, “I’m sorry that didn’t go better.”
“I don’t know what to do with her. Christmas vacation’s coming up and God knows what will happen if she’s sitting at home every day.”
“Doesn’t she have friends she can hang with? Do you know their parents? Can’t you arrange some stuff for her?”
“Her two best friends both have a horse and they go riding every day. I’m really busy at the office right now. I just…” The look he gave me was so pleading, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to smack him or hug him.
“Listen. I’m pretty sure Rosario could use another hot walker and someone to help with stable chores at the track. I can probably get her a job, and she could come with me to the track every day during the break.”
Patrick’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Suppose she doesn’t want to?”
“She already told me she’d love to go to the track. And believe me, by the time I’m through with her, she’ll be too tired to get into trouble.”
I’d never seen anyone look more relieved. Patrick’s shoulders dropped, and he seemed to almost go limp. “That’s great, Fia. This is really wonderful!”
Now what had I gotten myself into? Did this qualify as something I needed to check with Gunny about? I would have to call him to make sure.
“Jilly will be fine,” I said, staring at the expensive pool Rebecca had demanded Patrick install and pay for. Damn that bitch, anyway. What kind of woman abandons her daughter to run off with another man? One like your mother, an inner voice taunted.
“I’ll try and work it out, Patrick. I should know by tomorrow. Please, don’t say anything to Jilly until we know.”
“For God’s sake, Fia. I wouldn’t do that. You must think I’m really stupid!”
He was so touchy. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid.” I stood up. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do on my computer,” I said by way of excusing myself. Then, like Jilly, I fled for my room.
19
That night, I sank into sleep like a brick dropping into a murky pond. When I surfaced, a question clung to me, niggling and itchy. What kind of drug grows on trees?
Rolling over to glance at the clock, I saw it was almost four thirty, my wake-up time. I stretched, wondering what Valera was up to inside those fifty acres. If he was tinkering with drugs—which seemed right up his alley—what was the product? Who was the buyer?
I shoved the covers back, hearing my boss’s words, “Your instructions were to watch Serpentino.” I climbed out of bed, grabbed a carton of yogurt on my way out, and headed for Starbucks.
By the time I got to Gulfstream, I was wide-awake and relieved to see Last Call for Love hadn’t busted loose overnight.
“You’re staying right here,” I said to her, and while Meg and I exercised Rosario’s other horses, I left Last Call to contemplate her life from her room with a view. When Meg and I were done, I saddled and bridled the recalcitrant filly, hoping to get her into Serpentino’s pen. I was careful to run the stirrups up the leathers; slide the straps through the metal, and tuck the reins safely behind. Didn’t want her stepping on them. She could rip her mouth or even flip over backward in reaction to the pain. I’d seen it happen.
With Julio’s help, we got her into the round pen. I stepped back. Tense, she stood still, pinning her ears at me. Might be the first time she’d been turned loose wearing tack. She looked pretty
flashy with her rose pink saddle towel and exercise bandages on. I clucked. She didn’t budge. I leaned over, picked up some sand and tossed it at her hind legs.
She exploded straight up in the air, all four feet off the ground, the rose pink saddle pad heading for the sky. When she came down, she bucked and crow-hopped around the pen like a rodeo horse. I had a great respect for her hind legs and did my best to keep a distance. When she finally stopped, her nostrils were wide, her veins had popped out on her skin, and her tail waved like a banner behind her. I could smell her sweat. She snorted and took off again.
“Yee-haw! Go, Last Call!” I laughed with glee, loving that my plan had worked.
Rosario appeared at the corner of Serpentino’s shedrow to observe the performance from a distance. After a moment, he nodded at me and called, “Good job, Fia.” He turned and left.
Last Call stopped, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I threw more sand at her fetlocks and she exploded again. “You gotta work a mile.”
Serpentino’s young groom eased up to the chain-link fence that encircled the pen. He watched the filly’s antics, but kept glancing over his shoulder as if afraid he’d be caught loafing. Each time he twisted to look back, his gold horse head earring glittered in the late-morning sun.
“Hola,” I said. “Como se llama?” Asking his name.
“Me llamo Angel.”
I nodded. The name fit him. His brown eyes were lovely. And kind. With a rush of flying sand, Last Call tore past where I stood, and Angel laughed. “She very pretty!”
“Angel! What the fuck?” Serpentino stood on the aisle of his shedrow, glaring at the boy.
Angel cringed, and I could see the fear in his eyes. “It’s my fault, Mr. Serpentino,” I said quickly. “I asked him to come watch.”
The man ignored me, continuing to stare at Angel. “Get over here. You got two more stalls!” Angel scurried toward him and disappeared down the trainer’s shedrow. Then Serpentino’s cold eyes shifted to me. “If you want to use this pen, don’t fuck with my help.”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Where’s my money?”
I put my hand in a pocket and pulled out a ten and a five, letting him see it.
“Leave it on my desk.” He gestured at a room behind him that must have been his office.
“Yes, sir. I will.” An older groom with a thick mustache pushed a wheelbarrow along the barn aisle. He smirked, apparently finding my predicament amusing.
Serpentino nodded, then glided away, his movements smooth, his tread soft and quiet. He was probably on his way to hiss at Angel. I’d bet my paycheck the kid was an illegal alien. No better than a slave.
I turned back to Last Call, who’d been watching the human exchange. I got her going again and when we were finished, she was lathered and blowing. Her rose pink saddle towel had darkened to maroon from her sweat. Perfect. I used my cell to call Julio, who came over and led her to the other side, where he’d give her a bath and cool her out. I took the money from my pocket and walked to Serpentino’s office.
After placing the bills on his desk, I scanned the room. It seemed ordinary enough, the desk littered with the usual condition books from various racing offices, overnight sheets, and tubes of the expensive anti-inflammatory gel, Surpass. A training chart, marked up with different colored pens was pinned to a corkboard, and a metal supply cabinet stood against a nearby wall.
I took two quick steps to the door, looked outside, saw no one, and reached for the cabinet’s handle. Locked. I noticed a feed bill on the desk and, after another glance out, I lifted the paper to see what else I might find.
Wendy Warner’s vet bill lay beneath, dated the day Primal ran. A quick search of the pre-race drugs administered to Primal revealed nothing unusual. But I doubted Wendy would be involved in something like that, and if she was, she’d hardly list an illegal drug on her bill.
My best bet lay with a groom like Angel. The boy might have assisted Serpentino if the trainer had administered a drug. Clearly, I needed to gain the boy’s trust. If not his, then another of Serpentino’s employees. Though I’d prefer to steer clear of the smirking man who’d pushed the wheelbarrow, who knew? He might hate his boss enough to leak useful information.
My gaze flicked back to the cabinet, but remembering how quietly Serpentino could move, my pulse quickened with fear. Better to leave before he caught me snooping around his office. Though curious about the cabinet, I had no probable cause, nor evidence to convince a judge to issue a search warrant. It was too early in the game. I slipped from Serpentino’s office with my nerves wound tight, and returned to my side of the barn.
When I rounded the corner, Last Call was standing quietly in her V gazing out over her domain. Her coat was smooth and glossy, telling me that Julio had done his usual good job. The groom was kneeling at Last Call’s front legs rubbing them with liniment. Rosario held her halter, keeping her still.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Best work she’s had in my barn. You really pumped her up.” He nodded happily. “And her legs are as cold and tight as my ex-wife’s.”
I grinned. I hadn’t known Rosario had been married. In fact, I didn’t know a whole lot about him. But no doubt Gunny did.
“Good,” I said. “A couple of days of that and maybe she’ll be loose enough to train. I’m going to the kitchen. Anyone need anything?”
Rosario shook his head, but Julio glanced up. “Beef burrito and a Coke?” he asked, thrusting some crumpled bills at me.
Waving the money away, I said, “I got it,” and headed up the path leading to the groom’s quarters and the “kitchen” or track restaurant.
Gulfstream boasted about the most attractive quarters I’d ever seen for grooms and hot walkers. Ahead of me, a rectangular, white concrete building rose high above the fluffy palm trees that surrounded it. Balconies and walkways for the backstretch help surrounded the structure and an emerald green roof crowned the top. At the base of the building, I opened a glass door and stepped into the noisy track kitchen. Steam rose from cookers behind the counter and the Latinos who ran the café were busy stirring pots of beans, rice, and taco sauce. Mingling with the zesty tomato scent, I caught whiffs of fries, bacon, and coffee. I almost drooled.
The track security offices were safely tucked behind a wall in this room just in case the backstretch help broke into food fights in the kitchen. Apparently, the security guys took the threat of crime seriously, since their offices were protected by a locked steel door with a thick, bulletproof window.
I ordered a burrito for Julio and a grilled ham and egg for myself. I grabbed two Cokes, mine Diet, from the cooler, collected the paper bag holding my two orders, and peeked inside. My ham and egg sandwich was on top. They’d even added a grilled tomato. It smelled so good, I almost chewed on the bag but decided to wait until I got back to the barn.
When I stepped outside the kitchen, a huge eighteen-wheeler was easing up to the stable gate where the duty guards inspected incoming and outgoing vans and trailers. This was the only entrance to the backstretch and the guards regularly checked papers and vet certificates, making sure they were in order and matched the animals on board.
With air brakes hissing and a hot scent of diesel fuel, the big rig ground to a stop. A uniformed guard left his air-conditioned cubicle to speak with the driver. Both the rig’s cab and trailer were painted with the Coastal Horse Transport logo, a common carrier used to ship horses up and down the Atlantic seaboard.
I glanced at the paper bag in my hands. The scent of hot food emanating from inside was relentless and temptation prevailed. I pulled my sandwich out and took a large bite. Delicious!
Through the open windows of the van, I could see horse heads and a couple of grooms as I took another bite from my sandwich. The raised ramp in the middle of the van gave the grooms a ledge to rest their elbows on and look out at their surroundings.
I stared, then scuttled backward, almost choking on my sandwich as I duc
ked behind a palm tree. The guard waved the rig in, and the driver shifted the big engine into first gear. With a grinding of gears and a rumble, the cab lurched forward and the trailer moved slowly past, carrying maybe ten horses, a male groom in a ball cap—and the woman I’d killed a man for. I stared from the shadows of my palm tree as Shyra Darnell rolled back into my life.
20
Ducking from Shyra’s line of sight was pure instinct. When in doubt, hide and regroup. This is a corollary to “sit chilly and wait for an opening.” After the van passed, I left the cover of the palm tree and followed.
Rigs like the one rumbling ahead of me tend to move slowly through a track backstretch and usually avoid making deliveries during training hours. You had to think of it from a horse’s point of view. A huge, scary monster with horses in its belly. It could cause a racehorse to spook, get loose, and run wild through the grounds, at risk of severe injury or death. I’d known it to happen.
While Shyra’s van followed protocol and crept along, I trudged behind, considering the life of transport grooms. They travel for hundreds of miles, often staying overnight in the delivery location before working a return trip the next day. But if Shyra was in the middle of a turnaround trip, she’d leave immediately.
It wasn’t difficult to keep up with the rig as I worked on the second half of my sandwich. I planned to have a little chat with Shyra when the van stopped to deliver its load.
I swallowed my last bite of ham, wiped my fingers on the front of my black jeans, and pulled a bottle of Diet Coke from my vest pocket. My other pocket held Julio’s soda and I felt guilty I was making him wait so long for his lunch.
The Coastal truck stopped five barns past Rosario’s and the driver left the rackety diesel engine running. Why do they do this so often? I’m convinced it’s a rule for a secret diesel lovers society of which I am not a member.
A moment later, grooms emerged from the barn. They held lead shanks and headed for the van. I slipped between a Dumpster and a red pickup parked close to the Coastal rig’s cab. Standing behind the pickup’s side-view mirror, I could watch while remaining partially hidden.
