The Stars Shine Bright

by Sibella Giorello

  But He wasn’t a piñata. He was a mystery. And for all my pleading, the dots still refused to connect. When I opened my eyes, the horses were staring at me. And my stomach was growling. My breakfast sandwiches were inside my Coach bag. The foil was still warm. Unfortunately, the food had also warmed up the can of Coca-Cola I stashed in there, for emergencies, in spite of a long lecture from my wardrobe buyer Lucia Lutini. I turned my body to shield the expensive leather and popped the can’s aluminum tab.

  One of the horses smacked his lips. He was cinnamon colored, and his long tongue swabbed over his whiskers. Then he smacked again, stretching out for the can.

  “No way,” I told him. “Y’all are in enough trouble already.”

  “Who’s in trouble?”

  I jumped.

  Ashley Trenner came around the corner. Her head was once again tilted with curiosity, draping the long platinum hair. “Who are you talking to?”

  I lifted the Coke sheepishly. “I think that horse wanted some.”

  “Oh, Henry.” She laughed and walked over to him. “This guy is Henry the Ate. All he thinks about is food.”

  She reached out to pet him. The horse flicked her hands away, lunging for her neck. He knocked her off balance, but she only laughed. Gathering her hair with one hand, she presented the golden strands like a sheaf of wheat. Henry drew back his whiskery lips and started chewing.

  Apparently my thoughts were written on my face.

  “I know, crazy, huh?” she said. “It’s my strawberry shampoo. Drives him crazy.”

  After Henry had finished grazing on her hair, Ashley wiped his saliva on her jeans. She gave him a pat on the nose, then picked up the bucket that Bello had tripped over. Henry eyed her hungrily as she filled the bucket at a spigot. She poured cold water into the deep hanging basins beside each stall. And she made a point of touching each horse. Brushing necks, scratching softly, murmuring words. I stood back, eating my breakfast and enjoying that vicarious pleasure that comes from seeing someone enjoy their work. Doing what they felt born to do. She was breathing hard but moving efficiently, now pulling hay from rectangular bales stacked against the wall, stuffing it into small nets. The horses gazed at her adoringly, like children watching for a favorite teacher. Except Henry. Having finished his water, he torqued his brown neck, snuck his nose under the empty metal basin, and flung it. The tin clattered across the barn floor.

  Ashley turned, smiling. “Oh, Henry. You are such a handful.”

  Grabbing the nets, she carried the hay down the gallery. But just like that first night, when I saw her struggling to make the hooks, she seemed surprised that her jumps didn’t make the hooks. She was breathing harder, her face flushed with effort. And I noticed a small potbelly that didn’t go with the rest of her lean physique.

  I said, “You want me to help?”

  She startled and turned suddenly. Transported by work and love, she had forgotten about me. But it was even more than that. She seemed woozy and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. I rushed over. Her pupils were dilating, black ink seeping into the blue ocean.

  I took the nets from her hands. “Are you all right?”

  “I just . . . need to sit down.” She sagged against the wall. Henry turned, licking his lips, but Ashley was out of his reach. I watched her carefully. She looked tired, weary, but otherwise all right. I took the nets and began hooking them beside the stalls. They didn’t weigh much, but the alfalfa scent of the hay was as green and cruciferous as broccoli. One of the horses, dark brown with a white spot on his forehead, nodded, as if thanking me before he bit at the net, pulling out the stiff stalks and chewing.

  “I hate being this short,” Ashley said. “And I’m getting fat.”

  “You look plenty healthy.” I hooked another net and wondered if she was one of those girls who tortured themselves to be skinny. I hoped not.

  She reached over, picking up Henry’s basin. She walked over to the spigot, filled the water bucket, and gave Henry another full drink. She brushed his nose. “You can finally get rid of your thirst, Henry. That’s the good news. You can drink all the water you want.”

  I hooked another net. “He couldn’t before?”

  She shook her head. “Ever run on a full stomach?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Exactly.” She looked over her shoulder, down the gallery, waiting a moment. Then: “But Jimmy used to do mean stuff to them too. Like restrict their water for days, then let them drink until their stomachs were almost bursting. Right before a race.”

  I phrased my next question carefully. “Wouldn’t that slow them down?”

  She nodded.

  Only two nets remained. I moved slowly. One subtle way to fix a race was to water-log a horse. No drugs, no evidence. Just a lot of urine. “Ashley, can I ask you something? What was in that brown bag?”

  “The bag?” She reached up to her face, picking at a small red sore.

  “Mr. Yuck said something about snake venom.”

  She glanced over her shoulder again.

  “I’m just curious,” I added. “All this stuff is so new to me. Aunt Eleanor wants me to learn everything.”

  Her voice came at a whisper, but heated and urgent. “Stop asking questions.”

  “I won’t tell anybody.”

  “No, you won’t. And while you’re asking me, take my advice. Don’t ask Bill anything. Especially about his mud.”

  “Bill—Cooper?”

  “You didn’t ask him, did you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Because he’ll go ballistic.”

  “What’s the problem with the mud?”

  “Are you listening?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay, got it.” I nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome. Now I have to get back. I told Bill I needed to use the bathroom. I wanted to make sure my horses were okay, after what just happened.”

  It took willpower not to press her further. But I couldn’t risk alienating someone who knew so much. And who was now working for Cooper. Hooking the last net, I followed her pink shirt down the short gallery to Hot Tin. Juan was leading Stella Luna, saddled, and Cooper waited at the other end of the gallery. Tony Not Tony stood beside him. They were arguing, their voices loud.

  “Try five percent,” said Tony. “At that price, you’re stealing from me.”

  Ashley picked up the rake outside Stella’s stall and stepped inside.

  “Four percent,” Cooper said.

  “Four?!”

  I pretended to watch Ashley rake the sawdust. She was catching the clotted bits of wood with the tool’s metal teeth. But her head turned, as though listening to the negotiations.

  “Nobody rides for four percent,” said Tony. “He’s got to split that. Which means I’ll get two percent.”

  “Better than zero,” Cooper said. “If you don’t like it, go whine to Yuck. He shut down that barn, not me. I got my own bills to pay. Like that stinkin’ vet. If I didn’t know better . . .”

  Ashley stopped. She looked up. Our eyes caught.

  “What?” Tony said. “You heard something?”

  “Doc Madison.”

  “What about him?”

  “You haven’t noticed?” Cooper said. “The only guy making money this season is the vet. Seems a little weird, don’t you think?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The vet’s office was in the back half of the medical clinic. The door was open, but probably because it couldn’t close. Mounds of paper covered the floor, making the small space look like a stationary model of his dented pharmacy on wheels. A pigsty. The vet himself was sitting behind a desk smothered with more paper, and a plastic plate perched on one of the plateaus, proffering a half-eaten ham sandwich.

  “Got a second?” I asked.

  He looked up from something he was reading, then picked up the sandwich and took a bite, talking around the food. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”<
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  I used my foot to move the piles, enough to close the door.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” he said. “Make a mess, why don’t you?”

  I managed to close the door, barely, then lunged over stalagmites. They seemed built from mail-order catalogs. The room’s one chair was covered with newspapers that crinkled dryly when I sat down. The vet glared at me. Next to him, thumbtacked into the unpainted gypsum wallboard, note cards held handwritten reminders. They all started with the same words: Don’t Forget! Car keys, glasses, prescriptions . . . I shifted in the chair, hoping the paper’s yellow color came from oxidation. I was learning that horse people had a certain scatological “earthiness.” Just in case, I stood and moved the newspaper to the floor.

  “Just shove that stuff on the floor.” He chewed his food.

  I sat down again. “You said your client is the horse. I heard you say it yesterday, with SunTzu.”

  “Yeah. And I have a limit for people. Three questions. That’s my limit.”

  “Okay. Here’s my first question. Snake venom. What’s it used for?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Mr. Yuck just found some in Sal Gagliardo’s barn.”

  “Snake venom’s an illegal stimulant.” He took another bite. “Makes horses run faster. And it’s almost impossible to detect in tests. Next question.”

  “Where does the mud come from?”

  “What?”

  “The mud. The grooms rub it into the horses’ legs. Where’s it come from?”

  “Distributors.” He gestured toward the floor. “I have plenty of catalogs. Feel free. But if you’re asking about your trainer, Cooper doesn’t buy from anybody. That’s probably your next question. I’m counting it too.”

  “Where does he get it?”

  “That’s three. He won’t say. It’s a secret. I could tell you, but you have to tell me your secret first.”

  “I don’t have a secret.”

  “Horse poop you don’t.” He finished the sandwich and brushed the crumbs from the front of his shirt onto the desk. “Why the questions about the mud?”

  “I was told not to ask Cooper about it. In the same way nobody’s supposed to ask Jimmy Bello about his brown bag of snake venom. That seems suspicious. I’m just looking out for Aunt Eleanor.”

  “Cooper digs the stuff up.” He slapped his hand across the desk, searching for something.

  “He told you that he digs it up?”

  “That’s four questions.” His hand found a pair of reading glasses. “But I’m feeling merciful today, so I’ll tell you. Trainers have to stay in touch with me. Even when they go out of town. Cooper takes off every six weeks or so. He’s usually gone two days, then comes back with buckets of mud and that evil temper.” He twirled the glasses by the stem. “Pretty good deduction on my part. Maybe I should’ve been a private eye. What do you think?”

  With my foot, I pushed another pile away, pretending the mess bothered me more than it did. “Does anybody check his mud?”

  “That’s five questions.” He put on the glasses but started slapping the mess again. “But since you’re Eleanor’s niece—”

  He stopped on the last word, letting the inflection on the last word hang in the air. He stared at me, waiting. But somebody knocked on the door.

  He yelled, “Open it!”

  The door opened slowly, inches at a time, until Brent Roth could poke his head into the room. The assistant vet stared at the floor, as if expecting to hit something with the back of the door. Then he looked over at me, squinting. He nodded. I could see the acne spreading down his long neck.

  He looked over at the vet, squinting again. “Manchester’s got a gelding with an infected hoof.”

  “Another one?”

  “Claire wants you to look at it.”

  “You got antibiotics.”

  Brent didn’t reply.

  “Oh. She threw you out.” Doc Madison looked at me. “That woman’s a real pistol.”

  Another inflection. And another pause, waiting for me to reply. I didn’t.

  Brent filled the silence.

  “She says she’s trying to get you on the radio.”

  “It’s in the car.”

  “She wants to know when you’re coming.”

  “She runs every man like he’s a horse. Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Brent nodded and closed the door.

  “I can’t wait for that kid to finish vet school. I can finally leave. Fifty years is a long time out here.”

  “Brent’s still in school?”

  “What is that, six questions? Yeah. He’s still in school. Couple credits short. But I worked my way through college, and if you ask me, it makes a better vet. But you can’t ask me because you’re past my limit. But I’ll tell you anyway. It’s hard to find a guy like that these days, somebody who wants to work. And doesn’t complain. These kids coming out of vet school, they all want big salaries, fancy offices. You know what I did for my first job out here? I was the pee catcher. You know what that is?”

  “I’m okay not knowing.”

  “It was before we had these high-tech testing barns. We got urine samples from the horses—in a Dixie cup. I had to hold the cup under the horse. And then wait. You think kids these days would do that? No. They’re all too good for real work.”

  “Speaking of testing.”

  “You’re over the limit.”

  “And horses are dying.”

  He lowered his head, glaring at me over the reading glasses.

  “Do all the horses get tested for drugs?”

  “No. When a horse wins, it goes to the testing barn. First, second, third. They all go. Sometimes another horse gets picked at random. But not often.” He tossed his glasses on the desk. “And if you want to know the truth, it’s all a game. Horse barns smell like manure but they’re actually shark tanks. And by the time the track develops a test, the trainers already have a new drug.”

  “And the girl, she must look the other way.”

  “Nice try. That’s still a question. What girl?”

  “Ashley.” I described the events from this morning, when Mr. Yuck found Bello’s brown bag, and how Ashley later told me Bello was also waterlogging the horses. “She knew what Bello was doing. And as soon as Yuck shut down Abbondanza, Cooper offered her a job. But we already have a groom.”

  “So what? Every trainer wants her.”

  “Because she looks the other way.”

  “I’m losing count.” He shook his head. “Trainers all want Ashley because she’s got a way with horses. When it comes to thoroughbreds, that’s saying something. They’re high-strung athletes. And if that girl had one lick of sense, she’d try to make some real money with her gift. But all she cares about is helping the horses.” He found a paper napkin on the desk and wiped his mouth, tossing it back on the desk. “Jimmy Bello, now he’s another story. The way he sees things, horses are race cars. Machines. You just add fuel—legal or otherwise—and let ’em rip. If they run fast, great. If they don’t, get rid of them.”

  “Get rid of them—how?”

  The vet stared. His blue eyes were an old pale color but the expression was anything but weary. “I got a secret,” he said finally. “You know what it is?”

  “You never throw anything out?”

  “That is true. I’m a collector.” He pushed at a pile. The stack shifted, slipping like a tectonic fault. He pulled out a catalog, lifting it high so I could see the cover. A firearms catalog. He stared at me over the top.

  “One of the things I collect is guns.” He licked a finger and began turning the pages. They sounded like scythes, slicing the air. “To answer your next question, no, I don’t like to hunt. I don’t enjoy shooting animals. People, that might be another matter.”

  I felt a sudden heat spreading across my back and circling in front to my stomach. “But in my forty-plus years collecting guns, I never met a woman who carried a Glock. Most of them can’t handle the recoil.
”

  I looked at my watch. “I should really get back to the barn.”

  “Except for law enforcement. They carry Glocks.” He looked at the catalog, reading from the pages. “Glock, nine millimeter. Lays flat. Fits nicely into a holster or under a belt. Tremendous firepower. Compact design. A favorite with law enforcement.”

  He looked up just as my left hand covered my right thumb. The callus, created by the Glock’s recoil.

  “Are you a cop?”

  I could feel sweat beading on my back.

  He said, “Then private eye.”

  When I didn’t respond, he pulled off the reading glasses and pointed them at me. “My client’s the horse, that’s a fact. I see stuff out here that I don’t like. But that’s racing. High-stakes thoroughbred horse racing. It ain’t pretty on the backstretch. But most folks out here are good people. They pour their hearts into these animals. People like your aunt.”

  I decided not to blink.

  “Whoever you are, if you’re looking to bust somebody for hurting horses, fine. I’m with you. But if you’re some animal-rights kook trying to shut down this place, hear me now.” He shook the glasses at me. “I’ll run you out of here so fast your head will spin.”

  His gaze was too intense. I couldn’t hold it. I stared at his desk. The plate. The piles. A magnifying glass, flecked with dust. Shoelaces still in their packaging. Box of latex gloves. Empty coffee cup on its side. When I looked up again, his small mouth had tightened.