by Sasscer Hill
* * *
In the morning, Rosario asked me to work Luceta five-eighths out of the gate. He’d arranged for the mare to go with three horses trained by a fellow in the barn next to ours. I was a little nervous and excited about busting out of the steel contraption. It had been five years, and things can go very wrong in there.
Rosario rode his pony out with me so he could watch Luceta when she broke. We walked on to the track the “right way,” or counterclockwise, the direction that horses race in. When we reached the wire, Rosario pulled up his palomino gelding.
“Jog her the wrong way to the gate. I’ll meet you there.”
I nodded, turned Luceta around, and eased her into a trot, taking her the long way around. Rosario walked his pony in the opposite direction, and by the time Luceta and I met up with him, my mare was warmed up and ready.
I stared at the giant metal machine as I circled Luceta outside. Glancing at Rosario, I said. “Is Luceta okay in the gate?”
“She’ll be fine. Not so sure about that one.”
I followed his gaze. A bug-eyed, chestnut filly pulled back against an assistant starter who was attempting to lead her into one of the gate’s stalls. She reared and jerked the strap from the assistant’s hand. She rose to the sky, and when her rider realized the filly was going over backwards, he bailed. He cleared, barely avoiding her withers as they crashed beside him, driving more than a thousand pounds of weight into the dirt.
My hands shook, and I stroked Luceta’s neck, more to calm myself than her. She acted interested, not alarmed.
The fallen rider scrambled to his feet and leapt to one side as his filly rolled over, thrust her front legs out, then rocked to her feet. The starter grabbed her reins, walking her a few steps to check her action. He threw a questioning look at the rider, who said, “Give me a leg up. The bitch needs to learn.”
Rosario and I exchanged a glance. The rider was using his anger to fuel his courage. He remounted, the starter led the filly into the gate, and it was my turn.
Luceta marched in like a pro and ignored the lunatic next door, who stood so stiff and tense, I was afraid she’d explode again. I wanted to get out of there before she did. A moment later, the crew led the last two horses into their slots.
I gathered the rubber-covered reins, crossing them over Luceta’s neck. I held the cross with one hand, and grabbed a handful of her gray mane with the other.
The sudden clang of the bell rocked me as the metal gates crashed open. Luceta fired out like she’d been poked with a cattle prod.
My heart raced and my spirits soared. I kept a long hold on the reins and sat chilly. Not asking, seeing what she wanted to do. And she wanted to do plenty. She was not liking that the chestnut who’d flipped and had just streaked out of the gate like the devil was on her tail. Luceta ran head-to-head with her down the backstretch. I stole a glance back. We front-runners had opened a good two lengths on the others.
My internal clock said we hit the first quarter in twenty-one and change, probably faster than Rosario wanted. I sat like a block of ice, hoping to relax Luceta. The crazy chestnut filly’s rider stood in his stirrups and leaned back, letting his weight pull on her mouth. She fought him until we’d run a half mile, then she grew tired and her stride shortened.
Luceta left the chestnut behind, but I could hear the remaining competition closing. Those two horses drew abreast as we headed into the last furlong. Their riders were whipping and driving, and though I never asked her, Luceta refused to be outfinished. We all hit the wire in a dead heat.
“Photo finish!” the rider next to me shouted as the three of us stood and began to ease our horses. “Hold all tickets.”
I grinned at him, then left him behind as Luceta galloped out with big ground-eating strides. It took a while to pull her up, and when I finally eased her to a jog and reached Rosario, my boss was grinning like a little kid in a candy store. Could there be a better time to ask him if Jilly could have a job?
After the morning training hours, which garnered a bullet work for Luceta, a job for Jilly, and an excellent round pen rampage by Last Call for Love, I drove to the TRPB house. I hid my Mini in the garage, and once inside the rental’s pink stucco walls, I enjoyed a shower and a nap. Then I gathered up Kate’s wearable lies.
Studying my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I decided the fake ruby earrings looked deliciously tacky with Kate’s red and black leopard skirt. After arming myself with the glasses, the wig, and my diamond rings, I left the house and hurried to the corner where the cab I’d called idled by the curb. I could have driven but didn’t want anyone seeing Kate in a car with Maryland tags that were registered to Fia McKee.
My cabby had a heavy Russian accent and after glancing at me in the rearview mirror, he approached the grandstand’s main entrance via a drive through the Village at Gulfstream Park. Kate must have struck him as a woman who’d like a whirlwind tour of Gulfstream’s sparkling new shopping and dining conglomerate. I obliged by gazing with interest at the trendy storefronts we passed.
The cabby smiled in the rearview mirror. “Is nice, no?”
“I love it,” I responded with the big smile. The place was pretty amazing. A gal like Kate could rent office space. She could shop in stores that competed with the offerings on Rodeo Drive, get a pedicure, a wax job, her hair done, or buy sexy lingerie. Afterwards, she could hit one of the many restaurants and bars, pick up a high roller, and finish off at the Westin Diplomat hotel, where, a sign informed, VIP casino members stayed for free!
The Russian dropped me off at the grandstand and before I went inside, my phone rang. It was Brian.
“Hey, what did you get? I asked.
“Not much. The preliminary results don’t show any prohibited substances.”
“I’m not surprised.” But I was disappointed. “Is there anything at all?”
“Actually there is. The FBI seems to have an interest in this, because their lab helped us out. They found D-amino acid peptide in his blood. It’s similar to the amino acid sequence of dermorphin.”
I felt my stomach contract. Frog juice. “Damn, that’s great work!”
“Don’t get excited, Fia. It’s not dermorphin, only similar to it, and no one has ever seen this stuff before. They have to obtain a sample of the drug for testing, and it could take months to find a conclusive way to test for it. And we have no way of knowing if this is the substance that caused a long shot like Primal to win and die.”
“I’d bet my next paycheck it is.”
“We’ll keep working it at this end, Fia.”
“And I’ll work it from here.” Damned if I wouldn’t. “Thanks, Brian.”
For a moment, I stood outside the grandstand, staring absently at the condos that rose skyward above the ocean only blocks away. As I thought about Primal’s end, the salt breeze blew strands of red hair against my cheeks. I closed my eyes. Greed caused so much evil.
Someone had found or created a new drug. Someone who didn’t care if horses, jockeys, and exercise riders were injured or died. And that bastard Serpentino was happy to use it.
I’d start with him.
22
When I entered the grandstand, my ears immediately filled with the stupefying sounds of ringing bells, electronic music, and the crashing noises associated with a video arcade. Bettors sat at machines lost to the time of day, unconcerned about peace or war, intent only on how many pineapples or stars lined up in a row on their screen. Welcome to casino living.
I hurried to the elevators and rode up to Christine Lee’s where it was more civilized, at least on the surface.
Inside the plush lounge, Antonio Morales sat at the same table by the granite-topped bar. The glasses and bottles on the bar behind him still sparkled, and the bald bartender with the diamond earring acknowledged me with a friendly nod. Recessed lighting gleamed on Morales, highlighting the fine fabric of a moss-colored linen suit.
As I strolled toward him, he looked up, his face breaking into a
smile. So fast as to be almost imperceptible, his eyes slid down my black top and my legs below the short skirt.
Standing, he said, “Kate, you look fabulous.” He pulled out a chair, and signaled a waitress.
I sank into the soft leather, crossed my legs, and gave him the big watt smile. “Tony, I’m totally thrilled to become a part of your group. I’ve been studying the stable’s stats, and they are so impressive! Is anyone else from BetBig joining us today? It would be fun to meet some other partners.”
“Actually, John and Mary Smith will be joining us.”
“Great,” I said, beaming. John and Mary Smith? Maybe the Joneses would join us, too. Perhaps a silent partner or another incognito owner would materialize. Then again, maybe Smith was the couple’s real name. Regardless, I’d be looking them up.
In a far corner of the room, a man was selling programs. “I’m going to get a Form,” I said and headed for the newsstand, intercepting the waitress who approached our table. A brunette who was about my age.
Keeping my voice soft and rapid, I said, “Mr. Morales will probably order me a vodka tonic. Can you bring it virgin and keep the secret?” I gave her my comrades-in-crime smile, and she returned it with a nod and an amused gleam in her eyes.
I bought the Form and returned to the table where a moment later the waitress brought iced tonic for me and a scotch for Morales. I lifted my glass.
“Cheers, Tony. To a mutually beneficial partnership!”
“You know it,” he said, tapping my glass with his.
I’d already read the entries for the day’s racing and knew BetBig didn’t have a horse running. Neither did Serpentino, but the opportunity to dig was what I wanted.
“So how much will it cost me to get in?”
He slid a tooled leather notebook across the table. “Here’s the info.”
I opened the embossed cover and found a number of sales photos. BetBig horses in the winner’s circle with groups of grinning owners pumping their fists or giving a thumbs-up. Jockeys wearing black and silver silks beamed at the camera. Morning exercise pictures from different tracks showed sleek, hard-muscled Thoroughbreds flying past the camera wearing black and silver BetBig saddle towels, bandages, and bridles.
I flipped through and found the price tag. A 5 percent buy-in would cost between $7,000 and $20,000 depending on the horse. I thought about the $250,000 colt named Dixie Diamond that Morales had recently purchased for the syndicate. Just 5 percent of that horse would cost me $12,500.
I read the list of expenses for the trainer, veterinarians, blacksmith, transportation, mortality insurance, and ongoing monthly business costs. Bottom line, I’d be paying about $30,000 a year plus the initial $12,500. Horse racing is a game for the rich, even with the load shared by many.
As if reading my thoughts, Morales said, “You gotta pay to play, Kate. But you’ve seen our stats. Our horses win! Think about it. If your horse wins a Breeders’ Cup race, you earn fifty thousand in two minutes.”
“Wow,” I said before taking a generous swig of my tonic water.
He leaned forward, laying warm fingers on my hand. “People aren’t in this game to get rich, Kate. You are buying into a lifestyle. It’s about being an owner, sitting in that box on Derby Day, being in the winner’s circle. Many of our owners have been interviewed on TV, and all of us have a lot of fun.” He paused for a sip of scotch.
This guy should sell used cars. I withdrew my hand, took another gulp of tonic water, and wiped my hand on the napkin in my lap. Morales had been up to something the night before. His eyes looked tired, a little red, and puffy. And he could use a breath mint.
“It sounds like something I’d really enjoy,” I said. “And the syndicate’s stats are so good. I suspect BetBig owners do make a profit.”
“Absolutely. Last year our stable had the highest win percentage of any.”
A couple walked into the bar, and Morales’s gaze swiveled to them. “But don’t take it from me, talk to the Smiths who’ve just arrived. John! Mary!” He beamed as he rose from his chair.
Mary Smith had knowing eyes and masses of blond-streaked gray hair pulled into a chignon with a diamond clip. I suspected the masses were extensions. It was hard to tell her age. She’d had a lot of very good plastic surgery. John wore an expensive-looking suit that needed to be let out. His red nose and ample jowls suggested a love for drink and food.
After Morales introduced us, John chose the chair next to me and Mary sat on the other side of Morales, leaving him next to me. Without asking, Morales ordered Bombay Sapphire for Mary and Glenfiddich for John.
The waitress asked me if I wanted another, and when I nodded, she said, “The same?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“So you’re the new kid on the block.” Mary’s voice was tinged with condescension, her brows slightly raised.
“And we’re delighted to have you,” John rushed in. “Great outfit, BetBig. Yes indeed, a great outfit.” He nodded as if to convince me. “We made so much money with that last horse. Won three in a row! Cashed a big bet on his first race.” He shifted to Morales. “That’s why you call it BetBig, right, Antonio? Get it? Big bet?” He hee-hawed, apparently finding his words amusing.
Mary’s gaze rose to the ceiling. “We get it, John.”
The waitress brought the new drinks. Mary reached for her gin and gulped down a quarter of her glass.
Oblivious, John continued enthusiastically. “And now we’re getting a new one, aren’t we, Antonio?” He grinned at Morales. His scotch had been served neat, and in one sip, half of it disappeared.
“The syndicate found a new horse,” Morales said. “You should get in on him while you can.” He included me in his gaze. “This opportunity will sell out quickly. A well-bred, stunning colt named Dixie Diamond.”
Good old Dixie Diamond. “I love his name.” I leaned forward. “This is great, Tony! Are there others?” Before he could answer, I turned to John. “Tell me more about that horse that won three in a row. Is he—”
“He’s retired,” Mary said.
“What happened to him?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “You want a new one. Have you ever owned a horse, Kate?”
“No. I’ve been a player at the window for years, but I’ve never owned.” Now I was curious to find out what happened to that horse.
It was almost time for the first race, and the table grew quiet as everyone studied the race on paper. Though John’s Form was already marked up with picks, his pudgy finger traced the past performances of several horses and he made a few more notes in the margin.
“I’m going to place my wagers,” he said, and heaving himself up, he left for the betting counter. Morales trailed behind him.
When Mary finished studying her Form and looked up, I smiled at her.
“I don’t know much about this business. I could use some advice.”
She studied me. “What did you want to know?”
“I was wondering, if the horse John talked about was running so well, why did you guys retire him?”
“He’d earned all the money he was going to earn.” She was still keeping information annoyingly close to the vest.
“So,” I said, “was he really retired, or injured and unable to race?”
“You’re not as wet behind the ears as you’d like Morales to believe, are you?”
I took a chance. “Not hardly.”
She laughed. “Oh, I do believe you’re my kind of gal. That horse had been used up by the trainer. You know about this guy, Serpentino?
When I nodded, she continued, “He’s a man with a barnful of replaceable, juicy sponges. He wrings them dry and tosses them out. But”—her gaze lingered on my face—“John is making money now. He lost a ton before he hooked up with BetBig.”
“This is the kind of stable I want to be involved with,” I said quietly. “I need cash any way I can get it.”
Mary and I smiled at each other. “Then, my dear, you’ve come to t
he right place.”
“But how does Serpentino do it?” I asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Just give me the money.”
I felt like spitting on her, but held my smile, a smile that said she was my new best friend. These were the people who kept horse racing from being as popular as it should be. These were the people who ruined the game. I felt a new appreciation for the Thoroughbred Racing Protection Bureau and was suddenly very proud to be an agent.
I was so intent on my thoughts, I didn’t see him coming. By the time I registered his presence, he was slipping into John’s empty chair and giving me the beautiful smile that never reached his eyes.
“Calixto!” Mary’s face flushed and she seemed to flutter slightly as she reached across the table to grasp his hand.
For a moment, I thought Mary would never let go. A flash of amusement sparked in Calixto’s eyes when she finally relinquished her hold.
He’d changed his double C cuff links from gold to silver. A silver tie enhanced the sheen of his black silk jacket. I could almost feel the smooth starch of his crisp shirt. His gaze left Mary and settled on me. There was a reckless charm about him. Damn that full mouth. I pulled my eyes away and glanced at the tote board on the nearest monitor. He was just a handsome crook.
But Kate was pretty bent herself, so I crossed my legs and leaned toward him with my elbows on the table so he could take in the deep V in my black top. “Nice to see you again.”
“So you already know Calixto?” Mary’s smile was as knowing as her eyes.
“Yes,” I replied.
“But not as well as you’d like to.” Her smile became malicious.
I stared at her. Even Kate had her limits. “I think it’s time for me to lay a bet.”
I stood and walked toward the teller’s counter. Nice crowd you hang with, Fia. I longed to leave the bar, Kate, and my new friends behind, but if I stayed, and the others drank enough, I might hear the bits and pieces I needed to get a line on what Serpentino was using. I needed to be a member of the team before the day ended.
