Kentucky Woman

by Mike J. Brogan

  Awww fuck …! I don’t need this jerk now! Falcone thought as he slumped back in the driver’s seat.

  “I’m real disappointed, Falcone, ‘cuz you didn’t even offer me one red cent of the three hundred grand what you owe me. My feelins’ is like, you know, hurt.”

  “I can expl – ”

  “No – I’ll do the ‘splainin’, Falcone! You got twenty-four hours to cough up the first hunnert grand. Twenty-four hours! Unnerstand?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “And next Monday you’re gonna pay me the final two hunnert grand. Capisi?”

  “Yeah, yeah!” He didn’t have the strength to argue with the pushy wop bastard. But he also didn’t like being pushed into paying.

  “So tomorrow, Falcone, in your office at five sharp, you’re gonna hand Tito one hunnert large.”

  Falcone paused. “Or what?”

  “Or buy yourself a fat man’s coffin!” Broutafachi slammed the phone down.

  Falcone was angry. He had more than enough money to pay Broutafachi the measly three hundred grand. But it was easier to pay him out of the Radford estate windfall in a couple of weeks … rather than wire-transferring money from his numbered Belize account … a transfer that might raise a red flag with US banking watchdogs.

  And Falcone hated being bullied. As a kid, he’d been bullied, and even beaten severely because he was fat. But he’d learned how to handle bullies.

  He’d learned from the master, Milo Falcone, Daddy Dearest, who’d handled problems by arm-twisting, brow-beating, and knee-busting his way through life. He collected debts and paid off cops and politicians for the Cincinnati mob. But Milo spent all his money on horses and hookers. Which left Fletcher and his mother flat broke most of the time.

  He remembered at nine, going to their corner store and asking Mr. Thompson to “Please put this milk on our tab.”

  “Cash only for the Falcones!” Mr. Thompson shouted. “No more credit!” Fletcher felt his face flush red. Everyone in the store stared at him, even the girl he liked from school. Embarrassed, he ran home.

  When Falcone was thirteen, his father left a note saying he was going on an important mission to L.A. The mission it turned out was screwing a topless dancer named Twin Peaks. He never saw his father again. Best thing that ever happened.

  He and his mother went on welfare. Humiliated, Falcone swore he would become wealthy whatever it took. At seventeen, he began running numbers for the Cincy mob. But he wanted much more in life. He earned a scholarship to the University of Kentucky, and another to law school. After passing the Bar, he soon discovered his greatest legal talent: knowing when to cross the line between legal and illegal …

  Crossing it, he learned, proved much more lucrative.

  His phone rang. Broutafachi again?

  No. His office.

  “Oh, Mr. Falcone!” Ramada said. “I’ve been calling every-wheres for you! Your home, your club, your car, then your home agin, and then I called your – ”

  “ – yes, yes, Ramada, I’m coming in now! Any messages.”

  “Yes. An urgent one from Ellie Stuart.”

  “Urgent?”

  “Uh-huh …”

  “Well …?”

  “Well what? Oh … you want me to play it for you?”

  “Yes! Ramada!” The woman had cement between her ears.

  Falcone listened to the message and blinked a few times.

  “Play it again, Ramada!”

  She did.

  He couldn’t believe what Ellie Stuart said.

  SIXTY ONE

  A security guard escorted Ellie and Quinn, wearing Visitors Badges, into a large, state of the art laboratory at Gen-Ident Labs. She saw technicians working at large-screen computers and sophisticated equipment. More technicians worked in self-contained mini-labs situated around the perimeter of the huge room.

  In one mini-lab, Ellie saw Jessica working beside a very tall young man with reddish-blond hair and freckles. Both were jack-knifed over large microscopes.

  Jessica looked up and waved them over. “Ellie, Quinn, come meet Jim Williams.” Jessica’s wink suggested Jim was her Knight in Shining Armor.”

  They shook hands with the six-foot-seven inch guy, then Jessica led them to the far corner of the lab, away from the other technicians.

  “So what’s this all about?” Ellie asked.

  “Your eyes.”

  “What about them?”

  “Remember how we used to laugh about how your one eye is bluer than the other?”

  “Yeah … .”

  “Well a CSI show reminded me of your eyes.”

  “So …?”

  “So your different eye colors may be related to your DNA.”

  “If not mine, whose?” Ellie wondered what on earth Jessica was getting at.

  “It’s rather complicated, but the bottom line is that I need more samples of your DNA.”

  “No way you’re scraping my eyeballs for DNA!”

  “No! I don’t need to,” Jessica said, laughing.

  Ellie didn’t get it. “So what’s wrong with my mouth swab DNA?”

  “Nothing. But I need more DNA samples from other parts of your cute little body. Follow me, Ellie. Girls only, guys. Sorry.”

  Ellie wondered what the hell was going on. She shrugged at Quinn, then followed Jessica down the hall where they entered the women’s restroom. Jessica shut the door.

  “Let’s start with your hair. This may tingle a smidgeon.”

  Jessica reached over and yanked out a couple of Ellie’s hairs.

  “YEOW!”

  “Sorry, Ellie, but the hair roots have the juiciest DNA goop.” She placed the hairs in a plastic tube. Ellie saw her name and a barcode on the side of the tube.

  Jessica swabbed the inside of Ellie’s cheek again and placed the swab in another plastic tube. Next, she withdrew blood from Ellie’s finger.

  “Just one last sample.” Jessica handed her an extra long Q-tip.

  “What’s this for?”

  Jessica pointed at a toilet stall.

  Ellie stared at the long Q-tip, and then at Jessica. “Sorry Jess, but Mr. Poop has left the building.”

  “How about Ms. Vagina?”

  “Still in residence.”

  “Goodie. Now go in there and swab up some of her wonderful epidermal cells for me.”

  Ellie shook her head in bewilderment, but went into a stall and moments later emerged with her swab sample in the plastic tube.

  They walked back to Quinn and Jim who were talking Kentucky basketball.

  “So, what’s this weird new test all about?” Ellie asked.

  “A DNA condition that’s rarely, if ever, tested for.”

  “Are you saying my previous independent DNA test results were inaccurate?”

  “No, they were probably accurate … but maybe … incomplete.”

  Ellie still wondered what she meant. “When will you know about the new results?”

  “If I super-rush it and call in some favors, maybe late tomorrow. But there’s a problem.”

  “What?”

  “We have to rush this test to be ready for the probate hearing. And because there are four separate rush tests it will cost more.”

  “How much more?” Ellie couldn’t afford a huge bill now. She couldn’t afford a small bill.

  Jessica shrugged. “Even if the lab gives me a deal, the four separate rush DNA tests will cost around a thousand bucks.”

  Ellie’s throat went bone dry. She had one hundred eighteen dollars in the bank.

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Quinn said.

  “Quinn, you can’t – ”

  “I have the money. It’s okay! You can pay me back at your leisure. The probate hearing is in two days. Time is critical.”

  Ellie saw he wouldn’t change his mind. “I insist on paying you back.”

  “Okay, but only when you can.”

  “Thanks, Quinn.” She looked at Jessica. “Be honest, what are the realistic
chances this new test might alter my previous DNA results?”

  Jessica looked out the window. “Well, it’s a … .”

  “A long shot, right?”

  “Yeah. A long shot.”

  “How long?”

  “Think lottery winner.”

  SIXTY TWO

  Heinrich De Groot sat in his Cincinnati office, staring down at the statue of The Lady in Fountain Square. Water flowed into her outstretched hands … like money would soon flow into his outstretched hands … thanks to the Leland Radford probate.

  He grabbed his phone and called Fletcher Falcone’s office to confirm details for the probate court hearing.

  “Mr. Falcone’s office,” Ramada said.

  “Is Fletcher there?”

  “No, but he’s fixin’ to come in right now.”

  “Still the same time for the probate court hearing?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anything new on the probate?”

  Ramada snapped her gum a few times. “Naw, just that girl, Ellie, she up and called. That’s all.”

  “Why’d she call?”

  “To leave me and Mr. Falcone a message.”

  “And …?”

  “Just that message.”

  “What did Ellie say, Ramada?”

  “Oh … I didn’t actually talk to her.”

  De Groot closed his eyes. Ramada had the IQ of a peppermint.

  “What did Ellie say in the message, Ramada! What did her message say?”

  “Oh … that. Not much, just that her new DNA test from Frankfort proved she isn’t Mr. Radford’s daughter. That’s all.”

  De Groot bolted out of his chair. “She said those exact words?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well fuck me!”

  “But I thought you wuz married?”

  “What? Yeah!” He slammed the phone down and shot a fist in the air. Incredible! Her Frankfort DNA test, an honest test, the only test he didn’t know about and couldn’t fix, also proved Ellie’s not Radford’s daughter.

  So all these years, he didn’t need to worry about Ellie’s DNA. And Radford’s crazy sister Zelda didn’t need to worry about Jacqueline Moreau carrying Radford’s baby. Ellie Stuart was not Leland Radford’s daughter. Period! End of story!

  Amazing!

  So, he wondered, who was banging beautiful Jacqueline twenty-one years ago? He’d remembered taking a run at the sexy French girl one day. She was waiting for a bus to go back to The Pines. He pulled over and offered to drive her back. She knew him from his meetings with Leland Radford, so she got in his car. He suggested they stop for lunch, but she explained lunch would make her late for work.

  Two miles later, he drove into a forest, stopped and said, “Jackie, I can increase your income by two hundred dollars a week. Every week. Starting today.”

  “How?”

  “By you and I having, you know, a little fun.” He placed two hundred dollars and his hand on her knees.

  She tossed his hand and the money back, and bolted from the car.

  He caught up and tossed the two hundred out the window to her. “The money’s yours, Jackie. But if you tell anyone about this, U.S. Immigration will learn you are an illegal alien and deport you!”

  She never told.

  And best of all – she did not give birth to Radford’s daughter.

  Suddenly, reality hit him like a screen door.

  Nikolai Pushkin is trying to eliminate Ellie.

  Maybe he already has.

  After Ellie gave Jessica four samples of her DNA, Ellie and Quinn drove back to Louisville. Turning onto Southern Parkway, she noticed more traffic than usual and that the gray clouds had given way to a sunny spring sky.

  Quinn said, “It’s time for something new and exciting.”

  “What the hell was my vaginal swab?”

  “Fun, I bet. But I was thinking of something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like meeting my folks.”

  Ellie swallowed air. She wasn’t ready to meet them. Maybe she never would be. And maybe, no make that probably, they weren’t all that eager to meet her. On the other hand, how long could she put off meeting them?

  “When?”

  “Now …”

  “NOW?”

  “Yeah, they’re expecting us, Ellie.”

  She couldn’t possibly meet his parents dressed like she was. His mother’s jaw would hit the floor when she compared Ellie’s frayed jeans and faded sweatshirt to Jennifer’s designer clothes, stunning beauty and debutante status.

  “Quinn, I look like I rolled down a hill.”

  “You look great!”

  “Not for visiting your parent’s home!”

  “We’re not going there.”

  “Where? To another fancy restaurant?”

  “Nope. What’s today?”

  “Satur – The first Saturday in May! Oh no …!”

  “Oh yes!”

  “We’re going to the Kentucky Derby?”

  “Yep.”

  Ellie stopped breathing. In her preoccupation with things like staying alive, she’d completely forgotten today was the first Saturday in May – Derby Day – Kentucky’s Biggest Day of The Year. She loved the Derby, but could never afford a ticket.

  She also loved how the Derby transformed friendly Louisville into an even friendlier, magical city for a couple of weeks of good-natured fun. People partied at more than seventy official events, like steamboat races, fireworks, parades, charity balls, fancy clothes parties, no-clothes parties, marathons, shindigs, and good old, down-home shitfacings. Everyone celebrated with everybody – regular folks with Kentucky Colonels, billionaires, hillbillies, movie stars and even foreign royalty.

  “Like I mentioned, Dad’s an exec at Churchill Downs.”

  “He has tickets?”

  “No. A luxury suite. A wealthy Saudi prince cancelled his trip and gave his suite to dad.”

  Ellie panicked, imagining the women in thousand dollar Chloé dresses, expensive jewelry, Jimmy Choo high heels, and wide-brimmed Derby hats. Perspiration sprouted on her forehead.

  She looked down at her clothes. “Quinn, I can’t go looking like this. They’ll think I muck out stables.”

  “You look fine.”

  “No I don’t. You’ve gotta give me a few minutes to put something better on. It’s a girl thing for God’s sake!”

  He glanced at his watch. “Okay … you’ve got maybe four minutes, or we’ll miss the Derby!”

  They raced to Celeste’s home, where Ellie ran inside, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, spritzed on J. Lo Glow perfume, and realized her only fancy dress, the black dress she wore to Le Relais restaurant, was at the cleaners. Frantic, she selected her only other nice dress, a black knee-length skirt, and a long sleeve white blouse.

  She looked in the mirror and hoped people would say she was wearing sort of understated chic …

  But they wouldn’t say that.

  She knew exactly what they’d say …

  “Waitress, could you take our drink orders!”

  SIXTY THREE

  In the distant, Ellie saw historic Churchill Downs, its twin spires jutting hundreds of feet into the Kentucky sky like a Cathedral, which it sort of was when you considered everyone prayed their butts off for their horse to win.

  In just minutes, America’s most prestigious horse race, the Kentucky Derby, the Super Bowl of thoroughbred racing, would be run. Experts called it, “the most exciting two minutes in sports.”

  One hundred sixty thousand people crammed into the racetrack. Twenty million more sat glued to their televisions, thanks to cameras everywhere – including the Goodyear blimp hovering overhead in the robin-egg blue sky.

  Quinn parked in a VIP section thanks to his father’s pass. They jumped out and hurried toward the grandstand. Ellie was very excited about seeing the Derby, but very nervous about meeting Quinn’s parents.

  “The Derby’s next, we gotta hustle!” Holding her hand, he led
interference for her like the tight end he once was. They wove through thick crowds watching huge flat-screen televisions replaying the last race. He hurried her through a side door of the grandstand and down a long hallway. The crowd noise rolled like thunder.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the biggest event in the Sport of Kings … the Big Race … the one you’ve been waiting for … the Run for the Roses … this year’s running of The Kentucky Derby!”

  One hundred sixty thousand fans roared at the top of their lungs. The reverberation hurt her eardrums. Quinn led her down a hall, squeezing past men in classic blazers and women in spectacular designer dresses, glittering jewelry and big wide-brimmed Derby hats. She felt like she’d crashed a society event.

  “Quinn, I’m nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I just am.” But she knew why. Quinn had said his mother was concerned when Quinn broke up with Jennifer. How concerned? How disappointed? Was his mom devastated by it?

  “Have you told your folks anything about my background? You know, my DNA or Leland Radford?”

  “No. All I’ve said is that I spilled coffee on you, and that you plan to attend law school, and that we’re working on a probate case together. That’s all they know!”

  “Do they know you’re bringing me?”

  “They insisted I bring you.”

  “Insisted?”

  “Yep.”

  Why insist? she wondered.

  Then she understood. They wanted to compare her to Jennifer – they wanted to see why on earth their crazy son traded in a Mercedes for a tractor.

  And if she was honest with herself, she sometimes wondered the same thing.

  Quinn opened the door for Ellie as they entered a large, luxury suite with massive windows overlooking the track’s finish line. Ellie saw about forty well-dressed people mingling around a serving table where a bartender prepared drinks. Another table had silver plates stacked with lobster, shrimp, steak, a variety of cheeses and a chef preparing individual omelets. The food smelled rich. So did the people.

  Most sipped from tall frosted glasses with mint sprigs perched on the rim. Mint juleps. The official Derby Drink – and Ellie’s official downfall. Literally. Two years ago, she drank three M-Js at a Derby party and passed out on a sofa, jabbering like a parakeet.