Cactus Jack

by Brad Smith

  Aunt Micky smiled. “Well, she thought that the sun rose and fell on your father, so maybe it’s a residual effect.”

  And so Jodie had moved to the farm. The situation was temporary, Billie had advised her. She brought her clothes and books and other items in a knapsack. She said she would sleep on the couch in the living room but Billie told her she could take the big bedroom upstairs. She was pretty sure that Will Masterson would be okay with that.

  Jodie was surprised to find the mongrel mastiff at the farm. Billie had been feeding the dog and giving it the run of the place, although he never traveled far. At night he slept on the back deck, as a watchdog might, but Billie doubted the animal would be of much use in that capacity. A prowler with a handful of Cheerios could buy him off. The dog appeared happy to see Jodie. It seemed she was the only one who paid it any mind at the double-wide.

  “What’s his name, anyway?” Billie had asked.

  “Troy called him Cujo,” Jodie said. “But Troy didn’t like him much because he wasn’t mean.”

  “He doesn’t seem like a Cujo to me,” Billie said.

  “I always called him George.”

  “Why George?”

  “Because he looks like a George.”

  And so George it was.

  The scene at the track Tuesday night was naturally a repeat of the previous race ten days earlier, with one exception. This time Luke was present in every sense. The race was for two-year-olds with five starts or fewer. The purse was thirty-five thousand, which meant the winner’s share would be twenty-one grand. There were a couple of highly regarded colts in the field; both had two wins to their credit already. The favorite was on the board at three to two. The handicapper at Chestnut Field, understandably unimpressed with Cactus Jack’s last start, listed him at sixty to one.

  Tyrone was again bridegroom nervous and so was Billie. Luke had a calm about him, but then Luke was always calm, even when royally fucking up, so she didn’t read too much into it. When the colt was saddled and in the walking ring, Billie took Jodie with her to see him off. Luke was standing at the horse’s head, having just given Tyrone a leg up. Neither man said a word. Billie gave the jockey what she hoped was a reassuring smile before turning to Luke.

  “Isn’t this where you tell him how to ride the horse?”

  “He knows how to ride the horse,” Luke replied.

  And this time Luke was right. Tyrone brought Cactus Jack sharply out of the gate and moved him at once to the rail, where he settled in, middle of the pack. He kept him there through the first two turns and into the back stretch, keeping the colt easily in hand. The field stretched out going into the three-quarter turn and Cactus Jack moved into third place, still close to the rail.

  Billie and Jodie stood near the finish line with Luke as the horses came around the clubhouse turn and moved into the stretch. The two leaders were side by side, with Cactus Jack five full lengths behind.

  “Now you move him,” Luke said, so softly Billie wasn’t sure she heard it.

  But she could have sworn that Tyrone did. He switched the colt’s lead and moved him outside, going to the whip just once. Cactus Jack leapt forward as if rocket-powered, overtaking the leaders in a couple dozen strides and thundering down the stretch, running flat out, ears back, nostrils wide open. Tyrone tucked himself behind the colt’s head and went along for the ride; Billie could see him talking to the animal as they flew across the finish line, beating the favorite by eight lengths. Jodie screamed and Billie turned to look at Luke. Always playing the cool cat, he just nodded. But she kept her eyes on him until he grinned.

  They went out onto the track to meet the horse as Tyrone loped him back. Looking at Luke, the jockey gave him a quick fist pump and then jumped down. He beamed over at Billie, like a kid showing off a good report card.

  “How’s that?”

  “That will do just fine,” Billie said.

  In the clubhouse lounge Reese Ryker stood at the windows overlooking the track. Behind him at a table, Sofia was enjoying a crème brûlée while Caldwell sat miserably across from her. Reese watched until the hot walker led the gray colt away and Billie Masterson disappeared with her reprobate trainer and the orphan kid, presumably to pick up her money.

  “Well, that’s just fucking peachy,” he said when he came back to the table.

  Sofia rolled her eyes. “Why do you care? So this horse wins the race. Did you have a horse in this race? No, you did not. So why do you care?”

  “Because it’s fraud,” Reese snapped. “Humphrey Brown bred Saguaro to that ten-cent mare under false pretenses. You watch— if that colt wins a few more races, the woman will stand that horse to stud next year, claiming it’s by Saguaro.”

  “But he is by Saguaro,” Sofia reminded him. She used her finger to gather up the rest of her dessert.

  “The line is tainted.” Reese turned on Caldwell. “You should never have let them enter that horse.”

  Caldwell looked at Sofia a moment and then spoke pointedly to Reese. “I can explain that to you again if you like.”

  Reese eyed Caldwell with menace but quickly waved away the suggestion. “What happens next? I happen to know that the woman has significant money problems, which means she’s going to keep running the horse. Not that I expect it to win again. Tonight was a fluke.”

  Sofia laughed. “Do you see the time on the board? Is that a fluke in America? It is not a fluke in Spain.”

  Reese ignored her, keeping at Caldwell. “I know the woman’s up against it at the bank time-wise. I’m thinking—what if you were to convince her to run the colt in a claimer? Something with a decent payday? She might risk it.”

  “She knows you’re watching the horse,” Caldwell said. “She’s not going to let you claim it.”

  “She might slip up. That mortgage is due and she fucking well knows it.”

  Once again Caldwell glanced at Sofia. “That’s not all she knows, Reese.”

  Sofia had been watching the horses on the track, coming out for the next race, and now she turned to them. “What is all of this mystery? I feel as if there is something at this table that I should know.”

  “No,” Reese said. “Chuck and I are just talking here. Trying to figure a way to keep the white trash out of the racing game. I guess we’ll have to wait for her next move. You will keep me in the loop, Chuck.”

  Caldwell nodded. He didn’t have any choice. With Luke Walker on one side and Reese Ryker on the other, he didn’t have much choice in anything these days.

  Out of a superstition inherited from her father, Billie hadn’t bet anything on the colt. She was afraid of jinxing the animal. She found out after the race that Luke had put his last twenty dollars on it and Jodie had bet two bucks. The colt paid a hundred and twelve dollars for the win. Luke, of course, wanted to spend his money—God forbid he would ever put a nickel aside—and suggested they go for dinner at the Bellwood Hotel in Marshall. Tyrone had a mount later in the card and said he’d catch up with them afterward.

  Walking across the parking lot with Jodie, Billie spotted Marian on her way to her car. Billie had looked for her in the stands earlier. Now she called to her.

  “Maybe you were right after all,” she said.

  “You mean maybe your father was right,” Marian said.

  “Where were you?” Billie asked. “Why didn’t you watch with us at the rail?”

  “I watched from the grandstand. I have a feeling that you and I do better at arm’s length, Billie. But I enjoyed that very much. Cactus Jack looked like a different horse tonight. Can you tell me why?”

  Billie shrugged. “We streamlined the operation. Got rid of the strippers and blackmailers and duplicitous billionaires. Your typical story.”

  Marian’s eyebrows lifted.

  “We’re heading to the Bellwood for dinner,” Billie said. “Come with us.”

  “Not tonight. I have plans.”

  “You don’t have a new boyfriend?”

  “Still getting over the l
ast one.”

  Luke brought the racing schedule into the bar at the Bellwood. They sat in a corner booth and asked for menus, then ordered a pitcher of beer to start, and lemonade for Jodie. The waitress who brought the drinks was a young woman, college age. When Luke began to flirt with her, Billie kicked him under the table. The waitress walked away.

  “Just once in your life,” Billie suggested.

  Luke glanced at Jodie as he reached for the pitcher.

  “So what next?” Billie asked, indicating the schedule.

  Luke opened the paper. “First we need to see how he comes out of tonight’s race. If he’s sound, we can think about racing him again in two weeks. So what do we have here?” He flipped through the pages, going forward. “There’s a big card at the end of the month, same day they run the Jamboree Mile. Biggest day of the year at Chestnut. Look it here—there’s a juvenile sprint that day, second race, with a purse of forty thousand. Open to two-year-olds that have won at least one race, which means we now qualify. Winner would get twenty-four grand. How would that get you with the bank?”

  “Closer,” Billie said. “Not close enough.”

  “One step at a time,” Luke said and went back to calculating. “Let’s say you run him again in mid-September, and twice in October. Hell, you could be out of debt in time for Thanksgiving turkey.”

  “If he keeps winning.”

  “This conversation don’t work otherwise,” Luke said. “Right, Jodie?”

  She looked up from the menu. “Jack’s going to win.”

  “Because he’s got the best trainer, right?” Luke said.

  “Because he’s the fastest horse,” Jodie said. “I’m going to buy fish and chips with my winnings.”

  “I’m buying,” Luke said.

  “You’re like a sailor on leave,” Billie told him. “You just have to spend every dime you make, don’t you?”

  Jodie looked at Billie. “Any day you break even is a good day in the racing game.”

  Billie smiled. “Now I wonder where you heard that.”

  Twenty-Eight

  ON THE DRIVE HOME THAT NIGHT Sofia told Reese that he needed to forget about the gray colt owned by Billie Masterson. She’d had brandy after her dessert and wine beforehand and was a little tipsy, a condition that emphasized her accent.

  “It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “It is consuming you up.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he told her.

  “I am saying that,” she countered. “It is consuming you up and it makes you boring, as well.”

  Reese had a lifelong suspicion that he was in fact boring. Two of his wives had mentioned it in leaving. And so when Sofia told him that he needed to stop obsessing over Cactus Jack, he spent the next few days pretending to do just that.

  Friday morning, he put Sofia on a plane for Los Angeles, where she was due in the studio to record some songs. Reese had intended to accompany her but decided against it at the last minute. To say that he himself put her on a plane was a figure of speech. He had one of his limos take her. When she was gone he had breakfast in the sunroom, waffles and maple syrup, and watched his own TV station’s newscast.

  With Sofia off to the coast for a week, he had to remind himself to heed her words. But then he’d awakened in the night thinking about the goddamn horse. Lying there in the large bed in the mansion his mother had left to him, he told himself he needed to let it go. Why did he care? Let the woman run the B tracks with her B horse. Reese owned Ghost Rider, perhaps the best two-year-old prospect in North America. That was the horse the racing world would be talking about at the Breeders Cup this fall. And, if the stars aligned, in Louisville the first Saturday in May next spring.

  By the time Reese had finished his waffles, lifting the plate to lick up the last of the good Quebec syrup, he was once again ready to put the matter in his rearview mirror. He walked out onto the terrace and looked down to the training track, where just now Joe Drinkwater was standing with Ghost Rider. There was an exercise rider on the horse and he’d obviously just taken the animal for a turn around the track. He and Drinkwater were talking and the trainer was nodding his head. Watching, Reese couldn’t help but think how much the colt looked like the gray that had won the race the night before at Chestnut Field. The goddamn imposter that had won the race the night before at Chestnut Field. And with that, it started again.

  He took his phone from his pocket and scrolled down to find the number for Herbert Jakes at First National. A secretary answered and Reese asked to speak to the man.

  “Mr. Jakes is not here. Can I take a message?”

  “Have him call Reese Ryker.”

  “Oh, Mr. Ryker. How are you?”

  “Have him call me as soon as he gets in.”

  “Mr. Jakes is gone for the rest of the week,” the woman on the phone said. “It’s the annual convention.”

  “Where is he?”

  “This year they’re at Pebble Beach. Bankers and golf, you know how—”

  “I’m sure he has a phone with him,” Reese snapped.

  “Of course. I’ll forward the message.”

  Hanging up, Reese walked into the sunroom again and poured another cup of coffee, which he carried onto the terrace. Ghost Rider was gone now and Joe Drinkwater was fitting a bridle over the nose of a bay filly. Reese had a thought and took out his phone to punch redial.

  “Who’s at this conference?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who’s at this Pebble Beach thing—all the branch managers?”

  “Why, yes. As well as various board members and vice presidents. Was there someone else you wished to speak with?”

  Reese hung up.

  When he got to the Marshall branch of First National, he asked to speak with the manager, Brock, knowing full well that manager Brock was in a golf cart or a sand trap along the Pacific Rim, or sitting in a boardroom nearby, listening to somebody drone on about mutual futures while looking forward to being in a golf cart or a sand trap at some point. Reese next asked to speak with the loans manager.

  Her name was Kellyanne something. She was impatient with Reese until he told her who he was, whereupon she practically dropped to her knees in reverence.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Probably not,” Reese said. They were sitting in her office. Outside the sun was shining on the denizens of Marshall as they went about their day. Reese half hoped that Billie Masterson would walk by and see him sitting there. It might remove the smug look from her face. That is, if she were smart enough to realize what she was seeing.

  “I was passing through town,” Reese said then, “and I saw this place and thought I’d stop and inquire about the practices of a small-town bank. You see, I have considerable deposits in the charter branch in Lexington—”

  “I’m sure that’s an understatement,” Kellyanne interjected, smiling brightly.

  “Uh, yes,” Reese said. “Herbert Jakes runs the show there and I have every confidence that he plays hardball when it comes to deadbeat debtors. But I’ve been hearing lately that these backwoods branches don’t like to play that game.”

  “That’s not true,” Kellyanne assured him.

  “It’s not? Well, maybe I don’t understand this thing called a mortgage. I was led to believe that if the mortgagee didn’t make his payments, then the bank would be obligated to foreclose. Am I wrong in assuming this?”

  Kellyanne took a moment to consider the sarcastic tone in his voice. “You are not wrong.”

  “No, I’m not,” Reese agreed. “Unless, of course, the mortgagee’s name happens to be Will Masterson.”

  Kellyanne had no reply to that.

  “Will Masterson died nearly two months ago,” Reese said. “He was in default for some time before he died. And yet you continue to carry his loan. Do you anticipate the man rising from the dead? More to the point, do you anticipate the man rising from the dead flush with cash?”

  Kellyanne glanced ou
t into the bank, weighing her words. “I’m not happy with that situation. But I don’t know that I can discuss it with you.”

  Reese lifted his hands. “I’d rather you didn’t breach any protocol on my account. I can always bring it up with Herbert Jakes.” He leaned forward to take one of Kellyanne’s business cards from the holder on her desk. “I’ll mention that we were chatting.”

  “It’s the manager’s call,” Kellyanne said quickly. “But he’s got people nattering at him. There’s a lawyer here named Clay who thinks he runs the town and I know he’s been yapping in Brock’s ear. And so all I keep hearing is ‘give Billie Masterson some time.’ It’s bullshit, as far as I’m concerned. The note was due and now it’s overdue.”

  “So why don’t you do your job and call it in?”

  Kellyanne hesitated again. “Like I said, it’s the manager’s call.”

  Reese stood up and made a show of putting Kellyanne’s card in his shirt pocket. “I won’t bother you further.” He was nearly out the door when she called him back.

  “There is something I can tell you,” she said reluctantly.

  Reese waited, watching as she struggled with some inner crisis of confidence.

  “All right,” she said finally. “This information does not concern the bank and as a rule I wouldn’t even know about it. It involves a third party, who let it slip to me at a social event recently. We were talking about Billie Masterson and her situation.”

  “I’m listening,” Reese said.

  “This person’s father holds a demand note on the Masterson farm. Are you familiar with the term?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It’s basically a private mortgage,” Kellyanne said. “The debtor is required only to keep up on the interest. However, if the lender decides he wants the note paid in full, all he has to do is say so.”

  “Who is the lender?”

  “An older man, owns a boutique vineyard over near Monticello.”

  Reese stood looking out the window to the street for a time before turning back to Kellyanne. “This thing called a demand note. Would the lender be free to sell it to another individual?”