by Brad Smith
Nineteen
WHEN SHE GOT TO CHILLICOTHE, BILLIE went to her place first. Driving into town, she began to worry about running into Rory. But it was a workday and he would be on a job somewhere, she reasoned. It would be a fluke for him to stumble across her, unless he was watching her place, and she doubted he would be doing that after a month or so. He was probably under the impression that she had left town for good. Hell, maybe he’d even had the Vette repaired by now and everything was cool once again in the narrow sphere of Rory’s world.
There was a volume of mail inside the door of her place, 90 percent of it flyers and junk mail. She went through it quickly, deciding that none of it required her attention before tossing everything into the recycle bin out back.
She intended to take whatever clothes she could jam into her one suitcase and leave the rest to Goodwill. There wasn’t much else in the apartment she wanted. The furniture wasn’t worth hauling to Kentucky and there was no place to put it there anyway, unless she wanted to store it in the barn, where the mice would get at it. Wandering back and forth through the house, she was marginally disappointed to realize there really was nothing there with any sentimental value, unless she counted the picture of her with the Broken Bombers on top of the TV. What did it say about her that she had lived over three decades without becoming attached to anything? She told herself that it was merely evidence that she was a practical person. Yes, that was it.
She needed to talk to her landlord, who lived next door, to tell him that she’d be giving up the apartment. Her rent was a few days past due and he would be making an issue of that. She’d been late in the past but never more than a week or two. Now she was about to tell him that she was moving out without notice. He would whine about it and Billie would listen to him for a bit and then leave.
She made coffee and sat in the living room, thinking about what she was about to do. Giving up the house meant she was committing herself to the situation in Kentucky. A practical person (which she had just recently decided she was) might argue that there was a very good chance she’d be selling the farm in the near future. Or losing it to the bank. And then where would practical Billie be? Her mother used to criticize her father for putting all his eggs in one basket. Not only was Billie about to do that, she was about to use the same damn basket.
Aiding and abetting her were a trainer coming back from suspension, a man whom Billie had always known to be the walking definition of the word reckless; a jockey who offered enthusiasm but not much in the way of experience; and a cantankerous old lawyer whose sentimental side when it came to Will Masterson might be trumping the pragmatism for which he claimed to be known. To that mix Billie could throw in her father’s girlfriend, who had lately seemed to wash her hands of the whole lot, although Billie’s attitude toward her might have encouraged said washing.
None of it seemed particularly encouraging to practical Billie and most of it registered as downright foolish. She finished her coffee, rinsed her cup in the sink, and went next door to pay the coming month’s rent. After that, she’d have to reassess.
Leaving town the following day, she stopped by Freddie’s Fish Shack, pulling into the parking lot behind the building just as Freddie himself came out the back door, carrying a plastic garbage bag and heading for the dumpster in the alley. He glanced at the truck without recognition as it pulled in and looked away, tossed the bag into the dumpster, and started back for the restaurant. Billie rolled down the window and called to him.
“Billie,” he said as she got out. “When did you get back?”
“I don’t know that I am back,” Billie said. “How are things?”
“Same old,” Freddie said. “One day the same as the next.”
“Living the examined life,” Billie suggested.
“Not sure that peeling potatoes and deveining shrimp fits the description.” Freddie looked her over for a moment, as if her appearance might inform him of how she was now. “You hear from Athena?”
“She texts me,” Billie said. “Still trying to lure me to California.”
Freddie took his cigarettes from his pocket and put one in his mouth before offering the pack to Billie.
“I’m off them,” she said.
Freddie lit up and blew smoke into the air. “California—that where you headin’?”
“Not just now,” Billie said. “I was here overnight and heading back to Kentucky. I had to pick up some things.”
“What’s going on in Kentucky?”
“I’m on the farm. My father left me a dog’s breakfast—horses and debts and other assorted entanglements. The odd donkey and nanny goat. I’m still sorting out what to do with it all. I have a two-year-old thoroughbred I’m thinking of racing.”
“You never told me your father was in the racing business,” Freddie said.
“I guess it never came up.”
“My old man played the ponies.” Freddie hauled on the cigarette again and smiled. “He had a saying. You know how to make a small fortune on the horses?”
“Start with a big fortune,” Billie said.
Freddie laughed. “That’s it.”
Billie reached over and took the cigarette from the old man and had a drag. “You’re a bad influence,” she said, handing it back. “So—you seen Rory boy around?”
“He doesn’t come here,” Freddie said. “Say what you want about Rory, he can take a hint. I see him though, time to time.” He hesitated. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t say anything because I’m not real interested in all the soap opera shit that goes down in this town. But I’m thinking you might be happy to hear that Rory has a new girlfriend. Or somebody he’s been seeing anyway. So that might be good news for you.”
Billie nodded. “Bad news for her, but good news for me.”
“I don’t know anything about the woman. Let’s hope she isn’t the type to go to customizing the man’s car for him. Although I might categorize that as reap what you sow, asshole.”
Billie smiled again. “I love you, Freddie.”
The object of her affection flipped the cigarette into a corner. “I guess you won’t be coming back here to work ever again, will you?”
“You never know.”
“Oh, I know,” Freddie said. “There were times when I considered firing you, just to get you motivated in another direction. Untapped potential, that’s what everybody said about you.”
“And I never get tired of hearing it.”
Freddie smiled. “I’m glad you stopped by. Where’d you get the truck, anyway?”
“I inherited it,” she said. “I was hoping for a yacht.”
“What would you do with a yacht?”
“Sail away,” Billie said. “I would sail away.”
Billie arrived back at the farm late in the afternoon. She parked the truck by the machine shed, noticing Jodie’s bike there, leaning against the paddock fence. Billie got out and walked through the barn. The pony and donkey stood in the far paddock, their tails chasing flies in the afternoon sun. The goat was lying on its belly in the dirt, front hooves tucked beneath it, chewing a mouthful of hay. The little girl was nowhere to be seen.
Billie spotted her when she started for the house. She was standing on the back deck, turned sideways to Billie, and she looked to be arranging something on the table there. Curious, Billie went over for a look.
On the table were brand new jockey’s silks, in gold and green. The letters MT were embroidered prominently across the back of the shirt. The girl had been busy smoothing the clothes out for Billie to see and now she turned, proud of her efforts and obviously anxious for Billie’s reaction.
Billie wasn’t quite sure what her reaction was. “Where did these come from?”
“Marian brought them.”
“Why the hell would she do that?”
The girl’s enthusiasm began to slide. “For the race Saturday.” She seemed puzzled that Billie didn’t get it. “It’s Cactus Jack’s first race.”
“How would Marian
know that he’s running?”
“I don’t know but she did,” Jodie said. “She said she ordered these silks for Will a couple months ago. It was going to be a surprise.” She hesitated. “Don’t you like them?”
Billie moved closer and ran her fingers over the stitching. They were quality silks. “They’re okay, I guess. Nobody asked her to do this.”
“I guess she wanted to do it.”
Billie went into the house and got a beer from the fridge. When she came back, she stopped outside the door. “You want anything?”
“I have to go,” Jodie said. “I waited for you to see the silks.”
Billie exhaled and sat down. “They’re nice. And to tell you the truth I never even thought about what Tyrone would be wearing on Saturday.”
“There are silks in the tack room, in the wooden chest,” Jodie said. “The same color as these but they’re kinda—” She stopped.
“Kinda what?”
“Kinda not nice like these.”
“Yeah,” Billie said and took a drink. “So when was Marian here?”
“After lunch. I was trying to hook the harness to the pony cart and she drove in the front lane and came down and asked where you were. I told her you were in Ohio and she asked if you were coming back. I think she was joking.”
“She’s a riot.”
“Do you know how to do the harness for the pony cart? Will was going to show me.”
Billie did know how to do the harness, or at least there was a time when she had known. What she knew now and what she didn’t know was getting fuzzier by the day.
“We can take a stab at it,” she said.
“You can teach me, instead of paying me to look after things.”
“I can do both.”
Jodie was quiet for a moment. “How come you don’t like it when people do things for you?”
Billie had the beer can halfway to her mouth. She looked briefly at the silks, arranged carefully on the table by the little girl. “What makes you ask a question like that?”
“I just wondered. That’s all.”
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?”
Jodie stood up and started down the steps, heading for her bicycle down the hill. She took about twenty steps before turning back.
“I can figure out the harness by myself.”
Well shit, Billie thought as the girl got on her bike and rode away.
Twenty
LUKE’S FIRST IMPULSE WAS TO SAY no to Reese Ryker, but after talking to the man for a couple minutes on the phone he decided it might be fun to meet up. He could play along for a while, hear what Ryker was offering, and then have the pleasure of telling him to go piss up a rope. The idea had a lot of appeal and besides, Luke was bored. He’d been sitting on the porch of the farmhouse near Junction City, drinking beer and counting his toes, when Ryker had called. Luke told him he could be at the stable in an hour, which gave him time to drink another beer.
Seeing Ryker’s operation up close was not something that factored into things. Luke had seen fancy stables before, and lush pastures and mile after mile of pristine white fencing. He’d grown up in Kentucky after all, and even though he hadn’t been raised on an estate, he’d seen enough of them that they held no interest for him at this point. There had probably been a time when he had been impressed by such trappings and a later time when he had resented them, but since losing his license a few years back he’d grown to believe that money didn’t mean shit when it came right down to cases. Or maybe he just told himself that because he was chronically broke.
There were some nice vehicles in the circular drive in front of the Ryker mansion. Luke parked his truck beside a white Jag and got out. The sun was high and the interior of the Ford was hot as he drove, the air conditioning having gone south a few years earlier. Standing in the concrete drive, Luke removed his Resistol and wiped his brow with his forearm. He was about to climb the flight of stairs to the front door when he heard his name. He turned to see Reese Ryker standing in the doorway of the main stable. He was dressed in white, shirt and pants and ball cap with RR across the front. Only a man who had never gotten his hands dirty would wear white in a horse barn. Luke knew the man by sight but had never spoken to him before the phone call earlier. He looked different from what Luke remembered, older and younger at the same time.
Luke shook the soft hand offered to him. He saw Reese’s eyes flick over the dirty truck in the driveway. There was something satisfied in the look, as if it confirmed something to him. The man was as transparent as glass.
“How’d you like to look at some horses?” Reese said.
“Why not?” Luke said. He was already enjoying himself.
First stop was the main barn, where the stallion Saguaro was installed. Luke had never seen the horse up close and he was impressed, but then how could he not be? The animal had presence and attitude and was a superstar in the racing world. He seemed to know that he was something special; Luke had seen that in horses before. They said that Cigar had it, Secretariat had it. Saguaro definitely had it. Although Luke never mentioned it to Reese Ryker, he could see a lot of the colt Cactus Jack in the sire. His eyes were slightly wider than most thoroughbreds and the gray of the horse’s coat was highlighted with tiny white flecks.
“You ever see a better-looking horse?” Reese asked.
Luke admitted that he had not.
He got the grand tour then, through stables that were cleaner that a lot of motel rooms Luke had slept in, along tree-lined lanes bordered by pastures where broodmares grazed alongside their foals, by a training track where runners were being worked. Amid the riders and grooms was a man in a fedora and Double R windbreaker, leaning on the rail of the track. Reese pointed to him.
“Come on, I want to introduce you to Joe Drinkwater.”
Joe Drinkwater heard their approach over the sounds from the track and turned. It took him a moment before he spoke. “Hello, Luke.”
“How are you, Joe?”
Reese hung back a moment. He seemed almost miffed that the two men knew each other. Apparently he’d been looking forward to (further) impressing Luke with the fact that he had Joe Drinkwater training his horses.
“Where have you been anyway?” Joe asked.
“Racing quarters,” Luke said.
“That flat tracking is for kids,” Joe said. “You getting rich?”
Luke laughed. “Not hardly.”
“Oh, he’s doing all right,” Reese said. “You should see the truck he’s driving.”
Joe turned on Reese, his eyes hooded, and he made no reply. Luke didn’t know Joe Drinkwater well, but he knew the look. He’d seen it with enough trainers and vets and hot walkers and grooms. They had to work with certain owners but they weren’t required to like them.
“Did you breeze Ghost Rider this morning?” Reese asked.
Joe nodded.
“And?”
“Twenty-seven seven.”
Reese looked to Luke for his reaction. He was like a kid who had turned a cartwheel and was now expecting praise for it. Except it had been the horse that turned the cartwheel, under the guidance of Joe Drinkwater. All Reese Ryker did was write the checks. Luke didn’t feel obliged to compliment the man for that.
“Come on,” Reese said. “I want to show you that colt.”
They walked back to the house and got into a Jeep to drive to the far end of the farm, where the young horses were. Reese parked beneath a large shagbark hickory tree and they walked across an expanse of lawn to a pasture field enclosed by more of the white fencing. Inside were a dozen or so two-year-olds. Luke went to the fence and looked them over. It was an impressive display of horseflesh—bays and chestnuts and grays, all muscled and sleek and all of them from blood. At the end of the field was a smaller paddock, separate, and inside a large gray colt was trotting back and forth.
“Come on,” Reese said.
Even Luke, who had for the past few years purposely ignored whateve
r was happening in the thoroughbred world, had heard about Ghost Rider. The colt was considered the best two-year-old prospect in the country, which was why the animal had his own pasture. Two-year-old colts were like teenage boys; they liked to fight to show which had the bigger cojones. Ryker wasn’t going to risk an injury to his prize prospect over a schoolyard scrap.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Luke nodded his appreciation. The colt they were admiring didn’t come over to them; he continued to trot back and forth, watching the other horses. Luke thought about Cactus Jack. That colt was a sociable animal. That could have been in the blood too, from the dam’s side.
“Saguaro is the sire,” Reese said.
“I believe I read that somewheres,” Luke said.
Reese stood watching the colt, half smirking. “I guess we have something in common then.”
“I don’t own a colt by Saguaro,” Luke said.
“But you’re training one,” Reese said. “And one would be the key word in that sentence. What are you going to do when you find out that horse of Masterson’s runs like his mother and not his father?”
“I ain’t going to sit down and cry, I’ll tell you that,” Luke said. “I’ve been around the block once or twice.”
“You need to come and work for me, Luke,” Reese said. He indicated the horses in the field. “There’s a lot of talent there. Joe Drinkwater can’t train them all and I don’t know how many years he’s going to keep working anyway. I’ve been looking into you, Luke. It’s time you started using your God-given talent. I’d start you at two thousand a week and then you’d have your percentages on top of that. You could be a rich man.”
“Maybe I’m already rich.”
Reese laughed. “You’ll pardon me for doubting that.”
Luke looked at the muscled colt a little longer. “I’m going to have to say no. I’ve made a commitment to the owner.”
“An owner that won’t even be in the business a year from now.”
Luke shrugged. “I still have to say no.”
He was expecting a bigger reaction from Reese Ryker. Instead he got no argument at all. On the drive back to the house, Reese talked of other things—the warm weather and the fall elections. He told Luke that he had been approached to run for office but declined. For now, he said.