by Sasscer Hill
I hoped not to waste another afternoon gathering useless information. It had happened too often. But as I walked toward Morales, a sudden tingle of recognition stung me. The rakish fedora he was wearing. I’d seen him in it before. But where? Staring at his hat-rimmed profile brought a memory back to me. Pimlico. But when? I’d have to figure it out later.
Now I strolled brazenly toward him, my romper shorts so skimpy I had to resist a constant urge to tug them down to cover my upper thighs.
He looked up, breaking into a smile, his face flushing slightly as his eyes slid over my cleavage and legs.
“So,” I said, sliding into the chair next to him, and crossing my legs, “do you think we’ll win today?”
“I feel like I already have,” he said, his eyes filled with heat. “I have a feeling we’ll both get lucky today.” He took a swallow of scotch, and inhaled a breath as if trying to get a grip on his libido. “Glad you got your voice back, Kate. You must be feeling good, because you look fantastic.”
“We aim to please,” I said with a slow smile, deciding it was time to push this guy for information. It would be easier to do if I kept him thinking with the wrong head. My virgin drink arrived and I lifted my glass to him. Keeping my voice low and slow, I said, “Here’s to getting lucky.”
Another flush stained his cheeks, but he remained silent.
I smiled, leaned forward, and stretched my hand toward his racing program. “May I?”
“Whatever you want, Kate.”
A brief look at the page showed Dixie Diamond’s morning line odds were long. Probably because he was a first-time starter, and several other maidens in his race had already run once or twice, showing good form.
“So, Tony, what should we bet on Dixie? Serpentino is a magician at bringing in the long shots. Should I bet a bundle?”
“Yes,” Morales said, “but here’s how we’ll do it. I’ll buy you a five hundred win bet on Dixie, and if he comes in, you come with me to the Diplomat for a drink.”
Good thing I had a practiced poker face, because I wanted to throw my drink at his. I knew he kept a penthouse suite at the Westin Diplomat and why he wanted to take me there. I flashed a smile and took a slug of tonic water.
Morales grinned like a Cheshire cat stuffed with canary flesh. He seemed so certain he would win his bet with me. Serpentino must be using his best drug on Dixie.
I leaned forward again and slid my hand over his. “Tell me, Tony, how does Serpentino do it?”
He grasped my hand with his, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my palm. “I’ll tell you after we win.”
Like Calixto, his hands were well-manicured. But unlike Calixto’s hands, his were delicate, almost effeminate. I didn’t like this latest scene in Kate’s ongoing act, but I forced a wicked smile. Looking up, I was relieved to see John and Mary Smith approaching our table. Her knowing eyes took in our joined hands and my outfit. Morales sat straighter, disengaging his hand from mine.
After the usual exchange of greetings, Mary said, “Where is Calixto today?”
I’d been wondering that myself, as my last communication with him had indicated he’d be at the race.
Morales said, “He couldn’t make it today.”
“We don’t need him,” I said. But where was he?
“Speak for yourself.” Mary’s mouth turned down in disappointment. Her mass of blond-streaked gray extensions were pulled into the same chignon with a different clip. This one appeared to be adorned with sapphires, and her blue dress matched it perfectly. But her perfume was musky and cloying.
John frowned at his wife. “Kate’s right, we can have an equally enjoyable time without Mr. Coyune.”
Mary rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath, but perked up when she saw the waitress coming with a tray of drinks. She immediately downed a large slug, and John, not to be outdone, emptied almost half his glass.
I glanced at his strawberry nose and heavy jowls. When I’d run his background, I’d discovered he was formerly John Swolinsky, from New York, and had been the worst kind of slum landlord. He’d been arrested several times for criminal negligence, but the cases fell apart. I suspected he’d either threatened his accusers into dropping the charges or paid them off.
Classy company you keep, Kate. But since he’d never been named in a case involving the racetrack, he wasn’t an issue for the TRPB
The afternoon rolled toward the sixth race with a venture to the buffet table, gambling on the first few races, and another round of drinks, courtesy of Morales. As soon as he left to make another bet, I whisked my glass filled with straight vodka to the bar, where I exchanged it for tonic water.
The bartender handed me a new glass and gave me a wink. “You’re a clever lady,” he said, “and a pleasure to watch in action.”
I put my finger to my lips, and he said, “What happens at my bar, stays at my bar.”
When Morales returned to our table, I was reading the Daily Racing Form and making pencil notations. He sat in the empty seat next to me and placed a Gulfstream win bet on the Form before me. I picked it up. Five hundred to win on the four horse in the sixth race, Dixie Diamond.
“If Dixie comes in,” I said, “I hope I don’t have to go to the IRS window to get my money.”
“Oh, he’ll win, but with the current odds it shouldn’t be more than eight or nine thousand. Then you can come to my window.”
“Can’t wait,” I said. We grinned at each other, and I felt dirty. Then I thought about Primal dropping at my feet, and a cleansing, angry resolve washed through me.
When his race came up, Dixie Diamond was so wired, he broke through the front of the starting gate while they were loading. The gate crew guy that loaded him managed to hang on to the horse, and with help from another starter, pushed him back into his slot and closed the door. A moment later, the field sprang from the gate and Dixie Diamond rushed to an early lead, led all the way, opened up in late stretch, and won by three.
“Holy shit!” I said, not needing to fake my reaction. The odds had dropped from twenty-to-one to fifteen-to-one, probably because the smart money knew Serpentino’s horse would win. But my ticket would still pay $7,500, more cash than I’d ever held in my hand.
I beamed at Morales. “I should have brought a suitcase!”
“I’ll buy you one,” he said, staring at my barely concealed breasts, “and I’ll stuff it for you with cash, perfume, and sexy lingerie.”
The man was coming on to me like a freight train. I needed to get him totally inebriated and derailed. “We need another drink for the win,” I said. And a triple for the road.
John and Mary were whooping it up across the table. I could only imagine how much they’d bet as both of them emptied their glasses and made a beeline for the IRS window—where the government took their share automatically out of your winnings if you won ten thousand or more.
“I’m buying the next round,” I announced, leaving the table to flag down our waitress. I placed an order for everyone, specifying a double for Morales and tonic for me. I headed for the window, unsure if my small purse would hold that much money, especially with my gun lying in the bottom. Stuffing cash in my romper was a nonstarter. Fortunately, they wrote me a check that fit nicely in my wallet.
Mary and Morales returned proudly waving their big checks, but John came back with a bulging plastic bank bag like small businesses use to make their deposits. Maybe slum landlords prefer to deal in cash. He dumped the bag on the table with a loud thwack and ordered another round of drinks.
Our two drink orders arrived simultaneously, and the air around the table soon reeked of liquor. I hoped the fumes wouldn’t give me a buzz. I also hoped Morales didn’t plan on driving us to the hotel.
Finished with the thrill of his win, he looked at me with hungry eyes. Leaning close, he whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
“There’s a horse I want to bet in the eighth,” I said with a slight pout. “And you should finish your drink, sweet
heart.” I traced a finger across his mouth. “You’ll need it.”
A slight shiver ran through him. “Sure. You collect your winnings after the eighth, and then I want to collect mine.”
I raised my glass to him and drank a third of the liquid inside. He did the same, then watched me as I studied the eighth race in my program. “I like this one,” I said pointing to the seven horse.”
“Bet this one,” Morales said, placing an unsteady finger on the nine horse.
The entry was trained by Roger Copper. My radar clicked into high gear.
“Copper’s got tricks up his sleeve like Serpentino, doesn’t he?”
“You’re a smart girl,” Morales said, his face close to mine. His breath stunk from dissolute living and too much scotch. “Bet him.”
Mary watched us intently, so I flashed her my best I’m-totally-plastered smile and deciding what she couldn’t hear wouldn’t hurt me, I whispered to Morales, “Come on. You promised to tell me about their tricks.”
“After we get to the Diplomat,” he said, “I plan to teach you all kinds of tricks.”
“We should drink to that,” I said, tossing down the rest of my tonic water and trying not to gag.
His lips curled in a lascivious grin, then he sucked down the rest of his scotch.
My forced smile was the most difficult I’d ever pulled off. This guy was so disgusting. Still, I had to get him talking. But would it happen without letting him touch me?
33
I sprawled as if drunk in the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car as the driver maneuvered through late-afternoon traffic on the way to the Diplomat hotel. Morales sat next to me, holding a gold pillbox and working cocaine powder into a little paper cylinder. When he’d finished loading the white powder, he offered me the drug.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just thick to the vodka.” I giggled as if my mispronunciation was hysterical.
“You’re cute,” he said, and sucked the powder into one nostril. He closed his eyes and rocked his head back, like he’d had a mini-explosion in his brain. His jolting movement knocked his fedora off. I stared at the hat where it sat on the seat next to him, and suddenly, the memory came to me.
I had seen him at Pimlico, sitting outside in an owner’s box on Preakness Day, wearing the same brown fedora. The day my dad ran a horse in one of the Preakness undercard races. He’d been sitting with a woman … Wendy Warner. My thoughts raced like a herd of wild horses.
As the car rolled over a bridge crossing the Intracoastal Waterway, I turned away from Morales, glad I’d switched on the tiny recorder in my purse before I’d climbed into the limo. I looked out the Lincoln’s passenger window as if fascinated by the speedboat cruising below the bridge, keeping my face averted until I had my thoughts under control.
Dad had seemed unhappy that day, unhappy about Wendy sitting with Morales. I hadn’t really understood his discomfort before. I did now. My mother and Dad had been separated by that time, and now I was certain my suspicions from those days were correct. Dad and Wendy had been more than friends. They’d been lovers.
Sitting in the back of the limo, I struggled to grasp the significance of Morales being in the picture so long ago. He and Wendy back then; Wendy working with Serpentino now. My head whirled with questions, straining for answers.
Sooner than I wanted, the Lincoln reached the hotel’s entrance. We went inside, and Morales stumbled across the cream-and-black-tiled floor of the lobby. He walked me to the elevator bank, and I was blasted skyward, building an almost painful pressure in my ears. The car didn’t stop until we reached the thirty-third floor.
Morales led me down a long hall, unlocked a set of double doors, and waved me through a mirrored entry foyer. Finding myself in a large corner suite with dizzying views of the Atlantic Ocean, I walked to one of the huge plate-glass windows and gazed out. Toy tankers and cruise ships floated on the distant horizon. Far below, green palms swayed in the ocean breezes above a long expanse of sandy white beach.
“Wow!” I didn’t have to pretend to be awestruck.
“The bank keeps the suite for me,” he said. “I live here.”
The world was so upside-down. I thought about my salary and mentally shook my head. No wonder some cops went on the take.
Without another word, Morales slipped behind me. Snaking his arms around me, he cupped my breasts, squeezing them with his soft hands. He pressed himself against my back. Grasping his hands and parting my lips as if aroused, I turned to face him. I traced a finger across his lips, trying to ignore the animal that appeared to be waking up inside his trousers.
“I don’t want to rush this, Tony, I want to enjoy it. One more drink to celebrate my arrival?”
“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you want.” He was not annoyed by my delay. He was that sure he’d get what he wanted.
He walked unevenly across plush white carpeting, past a large column, through expensive, conversational groupings of furniture. There were fresh flowers, potted palms, and displays of coral and pottery. Stepping onto a terrace of marble, he stumbled to a black enamel bar against a far wall. I looked around for a lamp base or appropriately sized knickknack in case I needed to hit him. As a last resort, my gun was in my purse, but pulling it would blow my cover.
Taking a deep breath, I walked to the bar, noting the pair of candlesticks that stood at one end. I leaned forward and put my elbows on the countertop as Morales poured drinks. At this point, I could have used some vodka.
“Tony,” I said with a pout. “You promised to tell me about Serpentino and Copper. What is their secret?”
He finished making the new drinks and raised his glass of scotch to me. His expression changed. The lust faded, replaced with a furtive, excited look, the kind people get when about to reveal a delicious secret. His anticipation was so great, he forgot to hand me my vodka.
“Are you familiar with the drug demorphin, Kate?”
“No,” I lied. “What is it?”
He launched into a slurred explanation about frog juice, all but rubbing his hands in glee as he told me. “But we have something better! An unknown frog. We call its secretion ‘blue juice.’ And whereas dermorphin can be anywhere from forty to one hundred times stronger than morphine, this stuff is always at least ninety times stronger than morphine! And it imparts an extraordinary sense of well-being to the animal.”
“You’re saying it makes them high as a kite?”
“Yes, but much faster than a kite!” His laugh was almost girlish.
I prayed my voice recorder was working. “That’s awesome,” I said. “Is that how Primal won?”
“Yes, but he was weak and the drug was too strong for him.” He waved a hand, dismissing the death of Primal. “But you saw with a strong colt like Dixie, it’s not a problem. And best of all, there’s no test for blue juice. We will make so much money off this drug!”
I had the bastard now. It was time to go.
“Tony, you’re incredible,” I gushed.
He reached for me, but I sidestepped. “I need to take a powder.” I leaned forward, grabbed my vodka, wobbled unsteadily, and headed for the bathroom. I hoped there was another exit from the suite.
As I stepped into the suite’s marble plumbing extravaganza, the doorbell rang in the entry foyer. I closed the bathroom door with an audible click, poured half my drink down the sink, and eased the door open a crack. Morales was disappearing into the foyer, so I slipped outside with my drink and followed.
“I’ve told you not to come here,” Morales hissed. “I have a guest.”
“Tony, your phone’s been off all day.”
Wendy’s voice?
“That’s my business,” he said, his tone dismissive.
“But I’m really worried. They pulled an awful lot of blood from Dixie Diamond in the test barn. I’m afraid the lab—”
“I told you they won’t find anything.”
“I don’t want to go to jail, Tony.” Her voice was almost a wail. “Please, I
am begging you to let me out of this!”
“Keep your voice down. Get a grip, for God’s sake. The drug isn’t even illegal yet.”
Was my recorder getting this? I crept closer until I saw them reflected in the foyer’s mirror. Wendy’s face was pale and twisted with fear. But if I could see them … I backed up until their figures disappeared.
“Find another vet, please.”
“Shut up,” Morales whispered angrily. “Unless you want to do serious jail time as an accessory to murder, just shut up!”
“You bastard.” Her voice broke and it sounded like she was crying.
“Get it together, you old bitch, and do your job.”
I heard the suite door open and slam close. I ran back to the bathroom and after easing the door shut, I locked it.
Moments later, Morales was just outside. “Kate, are you coming out?”
I made a loud retching noise. “Oh, Tony, I’m so sick. Oh.” I followed with more sounds of vomiting. I flushed the toilet. “I can’t leave the bathroom,” I moaned. “I’m too sick.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He didn’t sound happy. “I’ll be in the living room.”
I would sit chilly and wait for that opening. Before too long, the sound of snoring drifted to the bathroom. Cracking the door open, I peeked out. Morales was sprawled on one of the sofas, out cold.
Quickly and quietly, I padded around the suite, my four-inch heels grasped in one hand. One of the two bedrooms had been made into an office. A long carved table acted as a desk, but Morales had been careful, and I found nothing among his papers and files related to racetrack drugging. The materials proved to be take-home work from the Mexican bank that employed him.
I opened drawers and found pencils, pens, and notepads without notes. I lifted his blotter. Nothing underneath. Then I picked up the hotel phone and a small piece of paper fluttered to the desk with handwriting I was sure belonged to Morales. A phone number and the name Valera. Bingo!
I put the note in my purse and fled from the suite. I caught an elevator and on the way back down, shoved the high heels onto my feet and pulled the romper’s zipper up as high as it would go. Then I clacked across the tiled lobby, and exited the chilly, air-conditioned hotel.
