Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  Duh. “I’m on it,” I said. As I disconnected, Rosario came out of his office. Beyond him, Jilly and Angel had left Last Call and were walking toward me.

  Turning to Rosario, I asked, “What did the owner say about Last Call?”

  “Run her for a tag, get her claimed.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said, hoping Jilly hadn’t heard him. Too late for that.

  She rushed at Rosario, her eyes blazing with righteous anger. “You’re going to run her. Sell her in a claiming race? Why would you do that?”

  “Jilly.” I scooted forward and grasped her arm before she reached the trainer. Lowering my voice, I said, “I don’t like it, either, but it’s what the owner wants. Rosario has no choice.”

  When she started to yank away from me, I said, “I don’t want you to get fired.”

  That stopped her long enough for Angel to catch up. “Es verdad?” he asked.

  “Sí,” she replied quickly. “Carrera de reclamo.”

  Someone had been studying her Spanish. She must really like this boy. The thought filled me with alarm, which was silly, right?

  “How much?” she asked Rosario. “How much is she running for?”

  “Five thousand,” he said, “if we can find one that cheap on the overnights.”

  “I’ll buy her!” Strong emotion tautened Jilly until she reminded me of an arrow about to be released from a bow.

  Rosario’s lips compressed. “The owner wants to run her, get her claimed, and hopefully win some purse money at the same time.” Seeing Jilly’s expression, he said, “I know, it sounds heartless, but that’s how racing is sometimes.”

  “Then I’ll claim her!”

  “Jilly,” I said, “you have to be a licensed owner with five thousand in cash in your owner’s account. And you have to name a licensed trainer that will take over the filly’s training.” I could see her mind racing and headed her off. “And a minor can’t obtain an owner’s license.”

  “Dad will do it.”

  Good luck with that. Yet it was so wrong. The filly was quirky, not crazy. She was sweet, responded to kindness, and probably would make a wonderful riding horse for Jilly.

  “I’ll try to help you,” I said.

  Jilly threw her arms around me. “Thank you, Aunt Fia!”

  Angel, who’d been following the exchange like he was watching a tennis match, broke into a smile. “Muy bueno. She make good horse for you.”

  Jilly whirled and headed back to Last Call’s stall, and Angel followed. Rosario stared at me and shook his head.

  “What are you going to tell Jilly if that filly breaks down when she runs? The girl’s heart would be broken and your brother would be out five thousand. You won’t get any thanks for that.”

  He was right. “I have to believe that won’t happen,” I said.

  Rosario sighed. “Sometimes I hate this business. I’d like to see the filly go to your niece.” He paused, his fingers fidgeting with his goatee. “Tell you what. Doctor McDougall owes me a favor. I’ll see if I can get him to ultrasound the tendon. At least you’ll know if the fibers are torn or not.”

  “Thanks, Rosario.”

  In the end, it didn’t matter.

  * * *

  “Absolutely not!” Patrick said, that evening.

  “But, Dad,” Jilly pleaded as she stood next to me in the living room.

  Patrick, exasperation building on his face, sat on Rebecca’s orange and cream print couch holding the Miami Herald. “I am not buying you a racehorse. They are too high-strung. And this one, for God’s sake, has an injury.”

  He glared at me. “Fia, what were you thinking. Are you crazy?”

  Refusing to get sucked into the argument, I kept my voice calm. “She’s a nice filly, Patrick. Really beautiful, and she likes Jilly.”

  “I don’t care.” Patrick said.

  “But, Dad,” Jilly wailed, “she could go to the killers if we don’t claim her.”

  “Not my problem. I offered to get you a nice riding horse. You weren’t interested.”

  “I don’t want a riding horse. I want Last Call for Love!”

  Patrick slapped the newspaper onto the couch cushions. “No!”

  “I hate you!” Jilly screamed. She dashed away from us through the living room. The front door slammed behind her.

  31

  An hour after Jilly stormed from the house, Patrick and I were more worried about her than we cared to admit. When she finally texted me to say she was at a neighbor’s, I sagged with relief.

  “I’m coming home,” she wrote, “but tell Dad I am not speaking to him.”

  No wonder I’d avoided this family stuff for so long.

  I returned to my room surprised to receive an encrypted message from Calixto, as well as an e-mail from Morales. Calixto’s was a heads-up that I would be hearing from Morales about the two-year-old colt, Dixie Diamond.

  “If you don’t have a checking account in Kate O’Brien’s name,” he’d written, “open one. The TRPB will wire money for your share of the colt. Send account information to Brian ASAP.”

  I hadn’t thought it would go this far, that cash would be available for a share purchase. After my meeting with Calixto and Gunny, I should have expected it. I wasn’t sure how I felt about receiving orders from Calixto, a reminder that I was the junior agent.

  I sent him a confirmation, then opened the e-mail from Morales.

  “Kate,” he’d written, “Dixie Diamond shipped in this morning and is available for inspection at Michael Serpentino’s barn. He’s recently had several excellent works at Palm Meadows and should run very soon. Are you available to look at him tomorrow morning at eleven?”

  He explained how I could find his trainer’s barn, which left me wondering at the duplicity of my life. “I shouldn’t have any problem finding Mr. Serpentino’s,” I replied. Huge understatement.

  I told him I’d see him the next morning and signed off. Now I just had to figure out how to change into Kate when I was supposed to be taking Jilly home from the track. Leaving my desk, I stepped into the hall outside my bedroom, and listened. I could hear music coming from Jilly’s room and was relieved she was home.

  I returned to my bedroom, checking my disguise bag to make sure I had everything I needed for the next day. After digging in my dresser drawer, I removed a tiny recording device and added it to the bag. Then I grabbed tubes of bleach and dye from a bathroom cabinet and colored my dark roots to electric blond. Using sharp scissors, I chopped my hair back to super short.

  With the early training schedule and a new performance as Kate planned for the next day, it was time for bed.

  * * *

  In the morning, Rosario’s vet performed an ultrasound of Last Call’s tendon. As Jilly listened anxiously, the vet gave his findings to Rosario.

  “I’m not seeing an actual tear, but with the heat she’s got, the fibers in her flexor tendon have definitely been stressed. If the owner wants to get her claimed, I wouldn’t advise another work. Put her in the first race you can.”

  The vet’s warning about avoiding a work gave Jilly another dose of racing’s harsher side. If the filly worked again, she could go lame or worse. The owner would be stuck with the horse and the day-rate charges until she healed, and Rosario would be left with a horse in his barn that couldn’t run.

  I’d already explained to Jilly that nothing she could say would change anything beyond Rosario asking her to leave. I shot her a warning glance when she started to speak. She closed her mouth. But her face was as easy to read as a billboard, with the words “furious” in bright red ink, about twelve feet tall.

  “Jilly,” I said, “why don’t you start hosing down the shedrow so Julio can rake it?”

  She gave me a dirty look, but uncoiled the hose, turned on the hydrant, and began painting the dry shedrow sand with a fine mist of water. As mad as she was, she loved the other horses and understood that keeping the dust down was an important part of protecting the horses’ pulmo
nary functions. A horse that can’t breathe easily is a horse that can’t run.

  “Listen,” I called to her above the noise of the spraying water, “I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll take you home in an hour or less, okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten thirty and Kate had to be on the other side of the barn by eleven. Walking fast, I reached the Mini and drove to the TRPB’s rental house on Second Street.

  Among the bagged items reserved for Kate was a pair of short red and black cowgirl boots, which I pulled on after struggling into a tight, stretchy animal-print top and designer jeans I’d found on eBay. The animal print had shades of red and green that worked well with my wig. I popped in the green contact lenses as fast as I could, applied makeup, including the painted-on lips, and left the rental.

  A cab ride, and a walk through the backstretch later, I stepped onto Serpentino’s shedrow, where Morales and Calixto stood together outside a stall.

  By the time I reached them, Morales was on his phone, so I nodded at Calixto and peered in the stall at Dixie Diamond. The horse’s dark gray coat was spectacularly dappled, the darkest spots gleaming like polished black diamonds. A moment later, Morales ended his phone call, I almost spoke to him, but Jilly came out of Serpentino’s tack room with Angel. Damn, she had sharp ears. She’d recognize my voice.

  I put my hand on my throat and whispered to Morales, “Sorry. Laryngitis.”

  “Poor baby,” Morales said, giving my upper arm a brief pat. “Let me do the talking.”

  As Calixto watched our exchange, I thought I detected a twitch of amusement at the corners of his mouth.

  When Jilly glanced at us, her eyes moved over Morales and me, quickly dismissing us. Her gaze came to a screeching halt at Calixto. The perfectly proportioned face, the hard body in a white polo, slacks, and woven leather shoes. If she’d had a paper fan, she would have waved herself with it.

  Serpentino stepped out of his office and nodded at Morales. “Tony, let’s give your friends a look at this colt. Angel, could you bring Dixie Diamond out, please?”

  “Sí, Señor Serpentino.” The groom grabbed a lead shank, ducked into the colt’s stall, and led him out.

  Serpentino waved at the area beyond the shedrow. “Take him out on the grass.”

  Angel did, and we followed the horse off the shedrow, Jilly tagging behind. While Angel held Dixie, we walked around him, making our own assessments. He was a nice individual, with a fairly elegant head, attractive lines, good muscle, and straight legs.

  In rapid Spanish, Calixto asked Angel if he would walk, then jog the horse. The colt displayed nice action. But a walk at the barn is light-years away from a drive down the stretch. There was no way to know what we had with this horse, but I smiled and gave Morales a thumbs-up.

  “So you like him?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I’m in.”

  “I thought you’d like him,” Morales said, looking at me intently. “Beautiful horse, beautiful woman. We should seal the deal with a drink.”

  I let my shoulders sag, feigning disappointment. “I need to go home, get rid of this.” I pressed my fingers to my throat and grimaced slightly.

  A trace of annoyance crossed his features, but shrugging, he said he understood. He pulled some folded papers from his wallet. “The horse will run very soon. This is the contract you’ll need to sign and the invoice for your payment. The syndicate needs both by the twenty-sixth.”

  I smiled again and nodded, taking the papers and sliding them into my leather purse.

  Serpentino told Angel to put the horse away, and when the groom was done, Jilly said, “Angel, let’s get a burrito.”

  He grinned happily, and the two of them headed toward the road leading to the track kitchen. I was relieved when they were gone.

  After stepping away from Calixto and me, Morales walked a few feet away with Serpentino. Keeping their backs to us, they had a hurried conversation. Calixto had remained standing next to me and for a moment, I breathed in his scent.

  In a low voice he said, “I like you better with blue eyes.”

  I ignored his comment and walked quietly toward Morales, who had turned so I could see his profile. He appeared to be scowling at Serpentino. I only caught one sentence.

  “I told you,” Morales said, “I’ll have more for you tomorrow.” When he saw me, he clammed up, quickly smiling instead. Face composed into just-a-friendly-guy, he waved a magnanimous hand at Serpentino.

  “My apologies. You two haven’t been introduced. Kate, this is our trainer, Michael Serpentino.”

  I was glad when the trainer looked at me without a trace of recognition. But when he shook my hand his dry grasp was powerful and controlling, like being squeezed in the coil of a python. I had to force myself not to snatch my hand away. Instead I smiled. Damn, I was sick of smiling at these people.

  32

  That evening, to avoid a stressful meal with Patrick, I took Jilly out for Chinese. I was tired of the two of them and watching my lame attempts at conversation bounce off their wall of silence.

  The long day had left me starving, and as soon as the waitress delivered them, I dipped a hot, crispy egg roll into a dish of tangy duck sauce, and took a bite. Instant foodgasm.

  Across the table, Jilly poured a cup of dark tea from a red porcelain teapot. “After work,” she said, setting the pot down, “Mr. Serpentino lets us use his computer to visit those English-Spanish translation sites.”

  “That’s nice.” I thought about how tense and angry Morales and Serpentino had appeared earlier. What had Morales been talking about when he’d told Serpentino he’d provide “more”?

  “I’m helping Angel with his English,” Jilly said after swallowing a bite of egg roll.

  “Mmm.” I had to remember to drop the check and BetBig contract in a FedEx box to be overnighted to Morales.

  “So afterwards,” Jilly continued, “these people showed up to look at Serpentino’s new colt.”

  I stopped chewing. “Really?”

  “Yeah. They were, like, a syndicate or something. But this one guy was wicked hot. You should have seen him. I mean he was gorgeous!”

  “What were the other people like?”

  Jilly looked at me like I was stupid. “I don’t know. Just people. But this guy had the most beautiful eyes. I mean, he should, like, wear dark glasses so he doesn’t start a stampede or something.”

  “Huh. I think it’s nice you’re helping Angel with the language,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you like him?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her mouth breaking into a smile.

  “So where’s he from?”

  “Mexico.”

  Like Morales.

  “Why all the questions?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious.” Good to know Angel wasn’t related to Serpentino.

  Jilly put both hands on the table and leaned toward me. “Aunt Fia, why can’t you claim Last Call for Love?”

  No beating around the bush with Jilly.

  “I don’t have five thousand lying around. And even if I did, what would you do if your dad refused to stable the horse? You’d have to board, and that’s expensive.”

  I could see the frustration crowding into her face. “Listen,” I said, trying to head of an explosion, “if she runs poorly, whoever claims her may want to cut their losses and sell her for less. Whatever happens, we’ll make another run at your dad. Just give it a few days, okay?”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, Jilly. You might want to start talking to your dad again.”

  “I hate Christmas,” she said.

  * * *

  The holiday arrived, the dawn gray and bleak, the skies soon filling with rain and wind. Jilly and I got most of the morning off as the track was closed on Christmas, and the horses walked the shedrow. At the McKee residence, Patrick and Jilly were once again speaking to each other as the rain drippe
d down the outside of the living-room windows.

  The highlight of the day was Jilly’s squeal when she opened the necklace of horse charms I gave her. Patrick did not appear to hate his tie, and I was absolutely thrilled to receive a flannel nightgown and a pair of socks. Obviously, Patrick had done the shopping, allowing another glimmer of insight into Rebecca’s abandonment of her husband. Still, I’d never forgive her for leaving Jilly.

  That afternoon, Rebecca phoned to speak to Jilly. Her call made Jilly’s and Patrick’s expressions so tense, their faces looked ready to crack. Jilly took the phone to her room and didn’t come out for a long time. Eventually, the snoop in me won out, and I eased open an extension. Dial tone. When Jilly did return, her eyes were slightly red and swollen.

  “You okay?”I asked.

  “Fine.”

  Maybe Jilly had asked her mother to buy the horse. I didn’t pursue it. When I was her age, I hadn’t wanted to talk about my mother, either.

  We survived Christmas, and two days later, I received a new e-mail from Morales.

  “Thanks for contract and payment,” he’d written. “Dixie Diamond running in maiden special weight tomorrow. Sixth race. See you at our usual table!”

  For her first race as an owner with BetBig, Kate needed something new to wear, so late that afternoon I went to the Aventura Mall and hit the sales racks, finding a black silk romper with lots of gold zippers and buttons. The damn thing was hot enough to burn my skin. Morales would love it.

  * * *

  Just before I stepped off the Gulfstream Park elevator that had ferried me up to Christine Lee’s, I pulled down the zipper on the front of the romper enough to expose some serious cleavage. Trying not to totter on my new four-inch heels, I entered the plush lounge to see Morales wearing a fedora and sitting at the usual table by the granite-topped counter.

  Behind him, the glasses and bottles on the bar still gleamed, and the bartender with the diamond stud in his ear gave me a little two-finger salute. Morales, busy with the Form, hadn’t seen me yet, so I flagged a waitress and asked her to bring me a tonic water.