Cactus Jack

by Brad Smith

  “Mr. Caldwell, Mr. O’Hara,” Reese said in a bored voice. Then to the man by the windows, “Show him the picture.”

  The man named O’Hara turned the phone around to show Caldwell the screen. There was a photo of Luke Walker there, apparently taken a few years earlier. The picture was from The Racing Journal.

  “That him?” Reese asked.

  “Yeah,” Caldwell said. “I told you it was him. He used to train horses at Chestnut Field.”

  “Well, Luke Walker doesn’t have a trainer’s license,” Reese said.

  Caldwell shrugged and moved to sit in a leather chair across from Reese. “I’m just telling you he was there this morning when they worked the colt. He was talking to the exercise rider afterward for a good bit. So I put two and two together and called you. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”

  Reese nodded toward the man by the windows. “Mr. O’Hara has been busy on Google. Walker was suspended four years ago. For doping horses, according to the internet. What do you know about that?”

  “It happened over at Sutherland, so I only know secondhand,” Caldwell said. “He was accused of doping but it was never actually proven. He claimed there was a false drug test. So it was kind of left up in the air. There were people who believed it both ways.”

  “You’re saying he wasn’t convicted,” Reese said.

  “Well, convicted would be the wrong term.”

  “Don’t tell me how to talk,” Reese snapped.

  Caldwell backed up. “All I meant is that it’s not a court of law. If it was, though, I guess you’d have to say he wasn’t found guilty.”

  “Then why the fuck was he suspended?” O’Hara asked. The man had a high-pitched voice, almost feminine, and he was clearly pissed that his information was being called into question.

  “He got suspended for taking a swing at the guy who accused him,” Caldwell said. “Another trainer, claimed he lost a big race because Walker was doping.” He looked at Reese. “The suspension was only for six months, though. How do you know he didn’t get reinstated?”

  “Because we just checked,” Reese said. “You think this is amateur hour? He doesn’t have a license here or anywhere else in the country. So why’s he hanging around your track and looking at my colt?”

  “Your colt?” Caldwell said.

  “Yes, my fucking colt. One way or the other.”

  “I don’t know,” Caldwell said emphatically.

  “Is that woman going to run the horse?” Reese asked.

  “She hasn’t entered him in a race,” Caldwell said. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Why haven’t you asked her? Sounds as if she’s been working the horse every day. Why haven’t you asked the exercise rider?”

  “She doesn’t have a trainer,” Caldwell said. “So she can’t run the horse.”

  “But she now has a trainer looking at the horse,” Reese said. “If I’m this Walker, and I’m looking to get back into the thoroughbred game, and some ditz calls me up and says she’s got this colt that just happens to be out of the best fucking stud in the country, then what am I going to say? ‘No thanks, I’ll wait until something better comes along?’ I don’t think so.”

  Caldwell didn’t think he was required to answer, so he didn’t. Reese glanced over at the thin man for a moment before turning back to Caldwell.

  “All right,” he said. “You can head back. I’ve put a call in. If Mr. Walker applies for reinstatement, I’ll know about it. You might want to strike up a conversation with the Masterson woman. Pretend you’re on her side. Maybe she’ll tell you her plans.”

  “I believe that boat has sailed,” Caldwell said.

  “Try,” Reese said and gestured with the back of his hand toward the door. Dismissal.

  Caldwell stood up. “Uh, I updated my résumé. I was wondering—do you have an email address over at Double R where I could send it? Or I could drop off a hard copy.”

  “Yeah, drop it off,” Reese said absently, punching something up on his cell phone.

  “Okay then,” Caldwell said, thinking about the hour’s drive he’d just made to have a five-minute conversation he could have had over the phone. Plus it had cost him fifteen dollars to park. He was feeling a little left out, but then he usually felt that way after dealing with Reese Ryker.

  “Let’s see what the deal is with this guy Walker,” Reese said to O’Hara when Caldwell was gone. He was still looking at his phone. “You know, seems like he was a pretty good trainer at one time. Shit, he ran in the money 42 percent of the time in 2011 at Keeneland.” He looked at O’Hara. “Why would he quit?”

  “Because he was cheating and got caught.”

  “If every trainer who ever doped quit the business—well, we’d be running low on trainers,” Reese said.

  “If he’s looking for a way back in, maybe he wants to come work for you,” O’Hara said.

  Reese thought about that. The idea had appeal.

  “You could always ask,” O’Hara said. “You said this woman doesn’t have any money, right? If the horse doesn’t run in the money, how’s she going to pay him?”

  “Oh, she’s broke,” Reese said. “I have a feeling it’s in the blood. You’re right—if he’s willing to work for a one-horse operation like she’s got going, you’d think he’d jump at a job at my stable.” He paused. “But maybe there’s more to the boy’s story than meets the eye. Maybe he’s a drug addict or something like that. Let’s find out. I’m going to tell them downstairs that you’re working on a story for me and to give you full cooperation. You can use that new assistant producer’s contacts. What’s her name—the one with the big tits and the short hair—Melissa maybe?”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “We need to get this done before they race the fucking horse,” Reese said. “I’m afraid the thing will win and that’ll change everything.”

  O’Hara started for the door and stopped. “He can’t win if he can’t run.”

  “I’ve thought about that, too,” Reese said. “Keep that one in your pocket for now. Let’s find out what Luke Walker’s game is first.”

  Driving home from the track with Jodie in the passenger seat, Billie wondered if the kid intended on hanging around the farm all day. Surely she had more in her life than shoveling goat shit. She had been at the farm every morning since Billie had come home (if home was where she was). It didn’t take a whole lot of analyzing to figure out why she was there—she obviously preferred the farm over her own place. But Billie wasn’t looking for a best friend and certainly not one who couldn’t see over the dashboard of the truck. Today the problem was resolved when they pulled into the lane.

  “I have to get going,” the girl said. “I’m helping my aunt this afternoon.”

  “Helping her what?”

  “Clean a house in Crabapple Orchard.”

  Billie was still trying to get a handle on the girl’s situation. She’d mentioned helping the aunt before. So what was that about? Was the aunt using the kid as free labor or was she looking out for her, giving her something to do away from a home life that Billie was assuming was fucked up, given the principles and the fact that the girl had said that the mother and boyfriend weren’t much for getting up before noon?

  “What’s your aunt’s name?”

  “Micky.”

  “Your mom’s sister?”

  The girl nodded. “Sort of. They have the same mother but different fathers.”

  “And she cleans houses for a living?”

  “Yup. And she works at a restaurant, too. It’s called Sarah’s Place.”

  “In Marshall?”

  “It’s in Lexington.”

  Billie was assembling a portrait of the half-aunt in her head and it was, surprisingly, not a bad picture. She had two jobs and paid at least some attention to the kid. It sounded as if she had the mother beat by a country mile. “You want a ride home?” she asked.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I can drive you.”
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  “I’ll ride my bike.”

  Before going into the house Billie saw that the flag was up on the mailbox, so she walked out to get her father’s mail. Instead of adding it to the pile on the dining room table, today she sat down and started opening letters. Aside from a couple of junk mail offers from investment firms that obviously had no idea what Will Masterson’s financial situation was, she was looking mainly at bills. Overdue at that and most marked urgent. She opened the envelopes one by one and made separate piles on the table. Gas company, telephone, power, the county tax department, feed store, American Express. And several notices from the Kentucky First National branch in Marshall. When everything was open, she sat back and studied the sheer volume of paperwork while wondering about the best way of dealing with it. Billie had never really been in debt, not even going through college. She’d received some scholarship money and paid for the rest as she went, through whatever she earned working and money she got from her father. Looking at the paperwork in front of her now, she had to wonder how he’d ever managed that. Never once had he mentioned that he was short on cash. Not this short, anyway.

  She went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Returning with a cup, she sat down with the stack of paperwork and began to cull the herd. Most of the bills had been sent more than once, some several times, the amounts due increasing exponentially each time. She crumpled up each of the earlier versions and tossed them aside, leaving only the most current of each. The pile was now slightly less daunting, even if the amount owing was not. She thought she should total up what was due but then decided against it, knowing the number would merely serve to depress her.

  Instead, she called David Mountain Clay’s office. The secretary wanted to know what the call was concerning before putting the great man on the line. Billie was reluctant to discuss her finances with a stranger and so the two went back and forth for a bit; apparently lawyer Clay had managed to hire a secretary who was nearly as aggravating as himself. Billie told herself that it would not be in her best interests to tell the woman to go fuck herself.

  “It’s about money,” she said finally.

  The secretary requested that Billie be more specific.

  “He owes me money,” Billie said.

  The next sound she heard was the honeyed accent of lawyer Clay. “I do not owe you money.”

  “I know you don’t,” Billie said. “But it got you on the line.”

  “What’s the problem now, Billie?”

  “The problem is I’m sitting here going over my father’s sad finances. I have maybe a thousand dollars in a bank account back in Ohio. I can use that to pay what the old man owed Marshall Feeds and have enough left over for a draft beer—maybe. However, that leaves me a little short when it comes to these other creditors, such as—well, pretty much everybody in central Kentucky, by the looks of it.”

  “So you decided to get me on the phone under false pretenses.”

  “Tell your receptionist to work on her people skills.”

  “Miss Willard has been diligent in protecting me for thirty-one years.”

  “A delicate little thing like you needs protection,” Billie said. “Enough of that. Did you tell me that my father had some money in the bank?”

  “I did.”

  “And am I allowed to use his money to pay off his bills?”

  “It’s not his money,” Clay said. “It’s yours.”

  “If it’s mine, then why don’t I have access to it?”

  “You do. If you give me your banking details, I can have the money transferred to your account today. Or if you prefer, you can come here and I will give you a check for the full amount.”

  Billie exhaled. “Is there a reason you haven’t told me this? Is this standard procedure for a lawyer, or is this something you’ve come up with on your own to annoy people? By the way, I seem to recall you driving out to the farm to pay that little girl a thousand dollars that my father left her.”

  “She’s nine years old,” Clay said. “Do you wish that I treat you as such?”

  “Sure, if it means giving me money.”

  “You have a copy of the will, Billie,” Clay said. “If you take time to read the document in its entirety, you will find no evidence anywhere of your father requesting that I babysit you.”

  “I’m betting I won’t be the first person today to tell you to fuck off.”

  “You would,” Clay said. “My clients are in general much more courteous than you.”

  “Well, I suspect I’m getting special treatment so I figured I might as well return the favor. Okay, how much money are we talking?”

  “I believe it’s in the neighborhood of twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  Christ, Billie thought. “He’s thirty grand behind on his taxes alone, David. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know the number. I suppose I knew the ballpark, had I given it any thought.”

  “So what do you suggest I do with the twenty-five hundred? Buy lottery tickets?”

  “The lottery is a tax on the stupid, Billie.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t serious.”

  “If I were you, I would give a little to the county,” Clay said. “Say, five hundred dollars, just so they know you’re thinking of them. And do the same with some of the other bills, particularly the local creditors. You’d be surprised how much goodwill you can buy for a few dollars. And keep the lights on at the same time.”

  “I guess,” Billie said.

  “Throw the American Express bill in the trash. Credit card companies are an abomination, the interest rates they charge. Let them try to sue a dead man for nonpayment.”

  Billie smiled. “See—you can be likable if you try.”

  “The bank poses a bigger problem,” Clay said. “I’m going to assume they’re looking for money, too.”

  “Yup,” Billie said. “And apparently have been for a while now.”

  “I thought as much.” Billie heard a creaking sound, like a chair being moved. She could picture the old lawyer in his lair, lounging behind a wooden desk, surrounded by antiquities and awards and God only knows what else. “They’re probably in a position where they could foreclose soon.”

  “Like how soon?”

  “Again, I don’t know the details. I suggest you talk to them.”

  Billie gave it some thought. “I’ll stop at your office and pick up the check this afternoon and then go to the bank. I might as well open an account while I’m there. That’s what we nine-year-olds try to do when we get a nice inheritance check.”

  “Miss Willard will have it ready.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her,” Billie said. “One other thing. I hear some Falstaffian character was out at Chestnut Field, throwing his weight around, no pun intended. I would thank the crusty old bastard but I wouldn’t want to embarrass him.”

  “Goodbye, Billie.”

  Seventeen

  THE ALARM WENT OFF AT SIX and Billie reached for it blindly in the half light. The clock was ancient, like most things in the house, save the coffee maker and blender. It required winding and lost on average four minutes a day. Billie pulled on jeans and one of her father’s work shirts. She’d been borrowing his oversize shirts for a while now. She either had to go shopping or make a trip back to Ohio to pick up her own clothes. While she was there, she should probably give up the rental on her apartment, as well. Athena sounded happy to be in California, said she wasn’t planning on coming back. Neither was Billie, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t decide any day now that she didn’t want anything to do with the situation here. She might decide on a whim to sell and then—like Huck—light out for the territories.

  She washed her face and went downstairs to make coffee. The sun was up and she kept watch down the hill for Jodie to arrive. It was only after she’d poured a cup that she remembered the girl was helping her aunt again today. That was fine; Billie wouldn’t have to worry about the kid for a change.

  They were going to work the colt at seve
n o’clock and it was a few minutes to the hour when Billie arrived at the barns at Chestnut. There were plenty of people and horses wandering back and forth from the track, but nobody was at her stall. Cactus Jack was standing with his head over the half door, watching her. She filled the plastic water bucket and carried it inside. The horse drank and then lifted his head abruptly and pushed his nose against her, dripping water down the front of her shirt.

  “Don’t be kissing up to me because the kid’s not here,” she said.

  When she stepped outside, she saw a young guy approaching. He was jockey-sized and black, with close-cropped hair and a serious look about him. She looked away and he called out to her.

  “Ms. Masterson.”

  “Yeah?” she said, turning. She was aware that the front of her shirt was wet and she wiped at it ineffectively.

  When he got close, he extended his hand. “I’m Tyrone Howe.”

  Billie shook the hand as she considered the name. “Tyrone Howe used to ride for my father twenty years ago. You’re not him.”

  “That was my old man.”

  Now Billie gave the youth a closer look. “I used to give you jujubes back in the day. You wouldn’t eat the yellow ones.”

  Tyrone Howe smiled. “I don’t remember that. I do remember you.”

  “You’ve grown up,” Billie said. “I mean, not a lot.”

  Tyrone gestured to the colt behind Billie. “I’d like the ride on that gray, if you’re planning to race him.”

  “So you’re a jock,” Billie said. “How’s your father?”

  “He passed a year ago. And I heard about your father. I’m sorry.”

  Billie nodded but didn’t say anything, not wanting to encourage a club for newly orphaned racetrack kids. “Where have you been riding?”

  “Here a bit,” Tyrone said. “A few mounts over at Sutherland. I haven’t won but twice so far, so I’m not exactly setting the world on fire. Not yet.”