Bullet Work

by Steve O'Brien

  Outside the enclosure Dan noted the groom he’d called Romeo among the group waiting for the entrants to return to the unsaddling area. The horses, winded and caked in dirt, trotted clockwise past the clubhouse turn, back toward the finish line. Jockeys stood in their stirrups, bent over at the waist; some sat and bounced as they returned from the rigors of the competition.

  Which horse was Romeo connected with? He’s just a punk, why should I care?, Dan thought. Then Romeo reached forward for the bridle and sponged a handful of water on the muzzle of his horse. Of course, it was Arestie. How fitting, Dan thought. He wanted to win that photo even more.

  Arestie and Aly Dancer circled in front of the winner’s enclosure, awaiting the photo. Beth circled Aly Dancer in a large arching turn, the smile on her face matching Dan’s as she chatted up Kyle. By appearances, there was no question who won. Kyle was more reserved, but the animation in his conversation with Beth revealed his excitement. This filly was the real deal.

  Minutes later the photo sign came down, and for half a second time stood still. A large three flashed up on the top of the tote. Dan was airborne, thrusting his fist in the air. “Yes, yes,” he screamed. Cheers and moans rose up from the grandstand. Gypsum Doll held third.

  Dan slapped hands with Kyle as Aly Dancer was led into the winner’s enclosure. He patted the filly on the neck.

  Perspiration from her coat soaked his hand, but Dan could care less. Standing in front of his now undefeated two-year-old filly, Dan held the reins and bridle as they posed for the winning picture.

    

  After the photo, Kyle jumped down and patted Aly Dancer on the neck. He un-cinched the saddle and slid it over his arm to carry to the scale. Jake put an arm around Kyle’s neck and bent low to whisper in his ear.

  “You got lucky,” Jake said.

  Kyle looked back in amazement. Jake wasn’t smiling.

  “I put you on the best horse in the race,” Jake whispered. “And you nearly got her beat. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna tell TP. If you can’t keep ’em out of trouble, I’ll take you off fucking everything. You hear me?”

  Jake didn’t wait for an answer; he walked off. Kyle weighed in and passed the saddle to a valet. He walked just outside the rail bird’s fence as he headed back to the jockey room.

  “Great ride, KJ,” one shouted.

  “I knew you had that six horse measured at the head of the stretch,” another said.

  Several stuck out hands for high fives. Kyle smiled and walked past. He loved the attention, but after Jake’s parting shot, he wasn’t in the mood for glad handing.

  He was lightly tapping his whip against his boot as he entered the jockey’s room. The next thing he knew, he was falling backward into the lockers, just inside the door. Dagens was standing over him.

  “You’re dangerous out there.” Kyle tried to get up, but Dagens kneed him and knocked him off balance and onto his back. “You try that again, and I’ll put your ass through the rail.”

  Phil Gillette and Meeks pulled Dagens back, allowing Kyle to scramble to his feet. A security guard also stepped toward the door.

  Dagens gestured at Kyle. “That’s the last time. You ride like that, you’re gonna put guys on the track. I’m puttin’ you through the rail, you crazy bastard. Where the fuck you learn to ride?”

  Gillette was able to push Dagens backward and away from Kyle.

  Dagens wasn’t done yet and motioned with a crooked finger extended from his fist. “Through the rail. That’s all I got to say.”

  Chapter 27

  The routine in the bar had become near clockwork. Raven walked into Clancy’s, nodded at Falcon, and moved toward the bar. He knocked on the bar, got the bartender’s attention, pointed at a half-empty beer bottle in front of a 300-pound biker sitting precariously on a bar stool, and raised two fingers. Two beers were produced, tops popped off, money exchanged, tip left behind, and Raven walked to the booth.

  “Anybody follow you?” said Raven.

  “Nope.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I drove all over around hell and back. No way anyone followed me through all that.”

  A Van Halen tune pounded out of the jukebox in the corner. Guitar riffs and heavy bass lines filled the air. Two guys at the pool table were laughing and setting up trick shots, apparently for tequila shooters.

  Raven leaned in. “How’d we do?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “We’re getting there.”

  “Six guys came current,” said Falcon. “That gave us a boost.”

  “How many are out?”

  Falcon produced the sheet of paper containing the trainer names. “Eleven.” He turned the page around and slid it toward Raven.

  “We’ll have to try and help motivate these leftovers.”

  “We’re doing okay now,” said Falcon. “Got the pump primed. We can cool it for a while.”

  Raven just stared at him.

  Falcon continued, “Seriously. We’ve got the money coming in. No need to take on more risk. Not that much to be gained. Everybody is ramping up their security. Hell, you can hardly walk around outside the barn without being interrogated. Let’s just play it cool for a while and let the cash roll in.”

  Raven just nodded like he was agreeing, then stopped suddenly. “No way in hell I’m letting those fuckers off.” He pointed at the list. “They owe us too much money.”

  “You’re taking this too far.”

  “I tell you what. Once we have all the names crossed off, we stop. ’Til then, these bastards are fair game.”

  Falcon shook his head. Raven reviewed the paper in front of him. He tapped on Gilmore’s name. “Fella’s got a nice filly. Lotta talk about her on the backside. Be a shame if anything happened to her.” Raven could see the stunned look on Falcon’s face.

  “I thought we were only gonna hit old claimers. Horses nobody’d really miss,” said Falcon.

  “Never said that.”

  “That was the deal,” Falcon said. “This is bad enough. I don’t wanna be killing two-year-olds. ’Specially good ones. No point in it.” Falcon looked down at the table and shook his head. “Just wrong.”

  Raven pressed on, “I don’t need you wimping out on me. Too much money to make. You stay cool. I’ll take over the wet work for a while. You just worry about holding up your end.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You ever study biology?”

  “Never studied nothing but a racing form.”

  “Nature has a way of evening out life’s odds. When you know what you’re doing, you can put the odds in your favor.” Raven tipped his head back and killed off the last half of his beer. “After that I’ve got an even better plan. I don’t even have to be near the damn horse to kill it. It’ll be a thing of beauty.” Raven slid out of the booth, swooping up the envelope of cash. “All in due time, my friend.”

  Then he walked out of the bar.

  Chapter 28

  The Washington Post broke the story Wednesday morning, under Jason Cregg’s byline. An unnamed source, had confirmed the death of four horses at Fairfax Park, including two scheduled to run in the same race the previous Thursday.

  Details remained sketchy. It wasn’t clear whether an outside force was responsible for the deaths or some kind of battle among rival stables on the backside. The report was less than three column inches at the end of an article that recapped the upcoming stakes schedule. But now the story was out. A storm was coming.

  Track President Allan Biggs had no comment as an internal investigation was currently underway. He did express deep regret for the loss of some of the track’s most courageous athletes. He vowed to use all available resources to uncover who was behind these heinous acts.

  Biggs threw the paper onto his desk. Who the hell was his source? There was no mention of the extortion demands, but that was just a matter of time. The internal investigation line would work for now, but Cregg was persistent. He was dange
rous. The knuckleheads on the backside were primed to blow it at any moment. Can’t believe Cregg didn’t get more dirt from them. Maybe they’re holding together, as he’d asked them. No, he could never get that lucky. He was running out of time.

  He leaned back in his chair, then shot upright. “Belker! Get your ass in here!”

    

  Most of the jocks had cleared out. Those who didn’t ride the last race had long since evacuated the jockey room. When the final horses hit the wire, the crowd emptied out of the grandstand. The few remaining winners had cashed their tickets, laughed, bought the last round of beers, and marveled in their mastery.

  Tomorrow would be a new day for the early departers. Those who closed down the concessions bragged about their day, mostly to concession workers who wanted to clear out and head home themselves. Cars snaked their way off of the property and dumped onto the freeway. Soon the parking lot turned to its normal shade of black.

  Kyle leaned back against his locker, exhausted but happy. He didn’t dare smile. Today he’d broken through. Two wins, a third, and one race up the track. The wins moved him into the top ten at the track. He still trailed Dagens and Masterson, who led the colony this meet, but he was gaining.

  Neither winner was a favorite. He rode so few favorites, but if he could keep up the pace, he would start attracting attention from the better barns. Gilmore’s filly gave him a legit shot at stakes money—if he could keep the mount. Even though several days had passed since that maiden win, Kyle was still exhilarated by the ride. She was the real deal.

  But he had to keep improving. Today’s third place was a legit long shot at 15-1. He leaned forward and pulled his boots on, then slid back and rested his head against the locker.

  After several minutes of enjoying the solitude, Kyle walked out of the jocks’ room and moved toward his car. His path took him down a narrow corridor and past the employee entrance.

  Cyndi would know the results before he got home, but he would give her the blow by blow of each race as he did on days he won. She would have calculated his take for the day. When he didn’t win, they seldom talked. She’d learned. Growing up on the backside, she knew the code.

  There were no paychecks in his world; there was only performance. When he won, they dreamed. When he lost, they worried. Tonight they would dream.

  “Hey, punk.” It was Dagens. He was standing at the end of the corridor with two other jocks, Skip Delacroix and Jose Moreno. Dagens stepped forward. “I’ve about had it with your shit, Jonas.”

  Dagens ran second on a heavy favorite when Kyle won the tenth race. Kyle had gotten through on the rail again and beat Dagens’ horse in the last two jumps. Beaten favorites were the death of jocks. Fans jeered, owners complained, and trainers got antsy. The jock was where the rubber met the road.

  Kyle stopped about five feet short of Dagens. “That’s the way it goes.” Delacroix and Moreno stood back, smiling with their arms folded.

  “That’s not the way it goes, dipshit. Not around here.” Dagens stepped forward and pushed Kyle in the chest. “I told you once, not gonna tell you again.”

  Kyle couldn’t remember the last time he was in a street fight. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been in one since grade school skirmishes. The last thing he wanted to do was tangle with Dagens. “That’s horseracing,” Kyle said, hoping to diffuse the situation.

  “Bullshit.”

  Dagens was moving forward with fists clenched.

  Just stay calm, Kyle thought. He’s bluffing. He just wants to appear tough; then, he’ll throw some more verbal abuse, and it will be over.

  “I told you I’d put you through the rail, fucker. But I think I’d rather just kick your ass right here.”

  He’s bluffing. One more tirade and it’ll be over. Stay cool.

  “You’ll get ruled off,” Kyle said. The stewards would give him days for fighting. Everyone knew that. Dagens wouldn’t risk days over a fight. It’s almost over. Stay calm.

  “It’ll be worth the days to teach you a lesson, shithead.”

  Kyle put his open hands forward. Dagens kept advancing.

  He won’t do it, Kyle thought. He wouldn’t risk it.

  Dagens was catlike quick, and an overhand cross ripped across Kyle’s face. The punch caught him flush on the side of his face, smashing his nose against his right cheek. Kyle spun and fell forward onto his hands. His eyes watered from the searing pain in the place where his nose used to be. He looked up. Delacroix laughed. Moreno kept a lookout for anyone coming into the corridor.

  “Get up—I’m not done with you.”

  Through most things Kyle was able to keep his anger in check, but the reaction by the two other jocks bothered him more than the punch. He sprang at Dagens and tackled him, throwing both of them onto the ground. Dagens rabbit-punched him as they went down. Kyle brought his fist down, hoping for Dagens’ face, but only glanced off his shoulder. He lifted himself, pulling away from Dagens’ grip and swung again. This time he connected, but the close quarters meant there was little energy behind the blow.

  Dagens swung him off and scrambled to his feet. Kyle was up breathing hard. Blood was running from his nose, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. His eyes were still stinging. They circled to the left. Kyle clenched his jaw and snuffled blood into his throat. He looked for an opening. Dagens smirked. That was it.

  Kyle lunged and delivered a right cross. Dagens deflected it with his hand, but it still connected. Keeping his momentum, Kyle pushed Dagens. The move surprised Dagens, and he slammed against the wall. Kyle hit him again, this time catching Dagens flush on the cheek. Kyle’s knuckles screamed out in pain. Dagens threw an upper cut that buried his fist into Kyle’s stomach. Kyle doubled over and drove his head into Dagens, jamming him into the concrete block wall.

  Kyle wasn’t done yet. He threw a left, a right, another left. They weren’t crushing blows but had cumulative impact. He saw fear in Dagens’ eyes for the first time. Blood from Kyle’s hand had been transferred to Dagens’ cheek. Kyle kept throwing punches.

  “Hey, someone’s coming,” Delacroix yelled.

  Kyle turned to look. He instantly knew it was a mistake. Dagens made him pay with another right. Kyle stumbled back but kept his feet. A man in a suit came around the corner. “Hey, what the hell’s going on here?” Men in suits at a racetrack this time of day meant management.

  Dagens wiped his nose and turned toward the man. “Guy dropped something. Was just helping him find it.”

  “You okay?” the man in the suit said to Kyle.

  “Yeah,” Kyle said, snuffling in blood and pulling his hand over his lip to mop off the blood. “Yeah, no problem. Like he said, just dropped something.”

  “Right,” said suit. “Well, take it somewhere else. I don’t have time for this.”

  Dagens moved past Kyle and whispered, “We’re not done.” He walked past the suit. “We’re just going out to get a few beers.” The three jocks turned and walked out toward the parking lot.

  Suit watched Kyle. “You sure?”

  “Fine,” Kyle said, wiping more blood from his face.

  “Your nose is pointing over your shoulder. Might want to have that checked.” With that, the suit followed the jocks toward the exit.

  Chapter 29

  The horses had just come onto the track for the third race. It was a good card for a Sunday. A light rain from the night before had broken the heat wave. The track dried quickly, before the morning works were finished. The track was again labeled fast.

  Lennie hit the first two races and was building a ticket for the pick six. A wager depended upon selecting the winners of the third through eighth races. It was a daunting task but one that had the possibility of paying off handsomely. The carryover for the bet was $230,000. It was worth the long odds if Lennie had some races he could narrow to one or two horses.

  “I think I’ve got solid singles in the fourth and sixth. The seventh is a crapshoot. We may want to go deep ther
e. I have a ticket that’ll be $420,” Lennie said.

  “Put me in for ten percent of whatever you do,” Dan said.

  “I’ll go in for twenty,” added Milt.

  “TP? You want in?”

  “You got Emilio’s ride in the seventh?”

  Lennie checked his sheets, “Yep, sure do. Would love to have him bring that one home.”

  “All right, give me ten percent. Emilio thinks that horse is live. I don’t know if he knows something or is just hopeful. He’ll give him an aggressive ride; I can guarantee you that.”

  Lennie got up, carefully laid his printed pages with myriad calculations on his chair, and moved out of the box to place the wager. They would settle up after the bet was placed. Sometimes Lennie would make last-minute changes, but they were all in, regardless of what he wanted to do.

  Lennie had cashed three pick sixes in the past two years, one for $130,000 and one for $85,000; he also hit one for $235,000, but a series of favorites meant the pool was divided among five winning tickets. He had cashed so many five of six tickets that no one could keep track. If Lennie went to the window for a pick six ticket, smart money was along for the ride.

  “Lennie, would you grab a hotdog on the way back?” Milt called after him.

  Lennie half turned, then resumed his walk up the steps. It was even money whether Lennie would return with sustenance for Milt.

  “Hey, I saw Kyle this morning,” Dan said to TP. “What the hell happened to him? He wouldn’t talk about it.”

  “Walked into a door,” he said, gazing at the toteboard.

  “Sure he did. What’s the door’s name?”

  “Jim Dagens. But you’ve got to keep that on the QT. If the stew’s find out, they’ll give both guys days.” The code of silence allowed each of them to keep riding.

  “What happened?”

  “Little disagreement about etiquette on the racetrack. Been brewing for a few weeks. Dagens is a hothead. Figures if he gets beat, it’s ’cause the other guy cheated.”