by Sasscer Hill
Beth leaned over and gave Diablo a pat. “He sure is behaving himself. Did you hypnotize him or something?”
“We didn’t give him anything.” I said, “Not even Lasix. He’s just being professional.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t change his mind about that.”
I followed her worried gaze to the metal contraption before us and swallowed. The head starter, Haskell, gestured at a crewman to lead Diablo into the gate.
“Oh, boy, he’s gonna put you in now,” Beth said.
We’d drawn post position seven, but if they put Diablo in first and he went loco when they tried to load him, the stalls on either side would still be empty and nobody else would get hurt.
Nice for them.
In a calm, almost dreamlike state, Diablo walked into his stall. The crewman stood on the narrow platform, holding Diablo’s head while the rest of the field loaded.
Stay Tuned, with Patrick Graham aboard, loaded to my left. Graham’s face was wizened by dieting and a long career in the saddle. A fractious gray horse loaded on my right. I ignored him, settled deeper into the saddle, and crossed the reins over Diablo’s heavy black mane.
To my far right, the last horse loaded. I grasped the crossed rubber reins with my left hand and grabbed Diablo’s mane with the right. Outside the cage door, the dirt track stretched ahead into the distance.
The voice of track announcer Larry Collmus blared from loudspeakers. “They’re all in line.”
When the bell rang and the doors crashed open, the screams of jockeys and the thunder of hooves almost deafened me.
One jump outside the gate, the gray to my right crashed into Diablo then bounced off like a ping pong ball. Diablo pinned his ears and charged forward. Hammer, quicker on his feet, took the lead on the rail. Stay Tuned clung to Hammer’s flank on the outside, and several other horses with early speed closed in behind them.
We lay about sixth, the gray somewhere behind us. Diablo found his stride, and I rushed him forward onto the rail before the first turn. I could hear Collmus calling our positions.
“…a ground-saving trip for Diablo Valiente, fourth on the inside.”
I sat chilly, riding a keg of nitro, cornering the turn into the backstretch. As we straightened, I tried to keep Diablo covered up behind Stay Tuned and a chestnut. These two ran together behind Hammer.
Diablo ducked to the outside, saw daylight, and exploded forward. No point in fighting. We passed the faltering chestnut.
“A half in forty-six and two-fifths. Diablo Valiente moving up on the outside. Hammer is hammering it out with Stay Tuned. Stay Tuned isn’t staying. Diablo Valiente now challenging Hammer for the lead.”
This was one fast son of a bitch! I did nothing to disturb Diablo’s rocket move forward. As Stay Tuned came back to us, Diablo swept past him and set his sights on Hammer. Clearly, I was just along for the ride.
“At the top of the stretch, Diablo Valiente takes the lead. Opening up now, it is Diablo Valiente all the way. And it is Diablo Valiente by…seven!”
Holy shit.
We shot under the wire, and gasping, I stood in the stirrups, wondering how to stop my rocket. We went around the first turn again before I began to get some of my breath back. Ahead of us, a red coated outrider spurred his horse forward, getting up to speed so he could grab my right rein as we passed him.
He did, and I sagged a little with relief. I smiled at the guy.
He said, “Good job, Latrelle.”
“Thanks!” It had been so easy.
* * * *
Diablo’s neck arched with pride as he strode into the winner’s circle, almost dragging Orlando. Jim and Currito beamed next to Tau Chakri, who remained expressionless. Carla, in a mini-skirted red suit, stockings, and high heels, rushed to join us in time for the picture.
Diablo stood like a statue as the cameras whirred and flashed our animated expressions into a still-life.
When I slid off Diablo, I caught Chakri staring at Carla’s legs. I wanted to hit him with my crop.
Jim stepped close and squeezed my arm. “Good ride, Nik.”
Currito all but elbowed Jim out of the way as he grabbed my hand. “I told you he has the fire, no?”
“An inferno!” I said.
“Yes.” Currito turned to Jim. “Nikki is very good with him, no? She did not fight him when he took the lead. Diablo, he shows me he loves Nikki. She will ride him in the Fountain of Youth.”
A Grade II prep for the Kentucky Derby? Some of the best three-year-olds horses in North America would be in that race. The best jockeys, too! But the race wasn’t until February and a lot could happen between now and then.
“She’ll do a good job for you and Diablo.” Jim sounded so matter of fact he might have been talking about a $5,000 claimer at Charles Town.
“Good, it is decided.” Currito watched Orlando lead Diablo away to the test barn.
The requisite blood and urine samples would be collected from the colt in the test barn. All horses finishing first or second in every race had to test clean. I hoped Diablo wouldn’t be too hard on the state veterinarian when the man came at him with the needle.
Currito turned back to our group, and thrusting a hand into a pocket, he withdrew a white handkerchief and wiped his bad eye. I hadn’t noticed it was dripping. Amazing the things I could get used to. Especially after a win.
He became expansive. “I have a table at Christine Lee’s upstairs. Everyone is invited.”
Going to lunch with my safety vest on under Currito’s silks seemed a sure road to hot and sweaty. But I wasn’t going to disappoint Currito, not with the Fountain of Youth in the wings.
“Sure,” I said, nodding at him.
Jim, who hated socializing, produced a weak smile, and Carla said, “I’d love to go!”
Chakri frowned. “I have some business to attend to.”
What a loss. I noticed Currito’s eye twitch as he watched Chakri walk away from us. Probably annoyed by the man’s rude behavior.
When our group headed toward the grandstand, I ended up walking next to Currito.
“Mr. Chakri isn’t much of a racing fan, is he?”
“He is a friend of a business associate. I thought I should invite him. It was a mistake. I won’t make it again.” He jerked open the door to the grandstand and gestured me inside.
I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Currito.
Inside we walked through a slots parlor, where much of the light came from the machines. The people hunched before these video devices were so focused on the flashing screens, and so insulated by the sound effects of bells, music, and crashing noises, they operated in a parallel universe.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Ahead of us, Carla and Jim reached the elevator. Currito pulled out his handkerchief, and I looked away.
“My scar, it bothers you?”
“Not really,” I said.
He laughed. “It bothers most people!”
He seemed almost proud of the damn thing. My question slipped out.
“How did you get it?”
He answered without hesitation. “My brother cut me. When I was younger.”
“Nice brother.” I almost bit my tongue.
“It is no longer a problem. He is dead.”
“Oh…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The elevator bell rang, and the doors slid open. I moved inside and stood next to Jim.
CHAPTER 28
The 10 Palms restaurant at Gulfstream Park takes up much of the second floor of the grandstand. Christine Lee’s was one floor and one price hike up from there.
When the elevators opened on the third floor, the maitre d’ led us into the restaurant toward tables set against a glass wall overlooking the track. Carla and I trailed behind Currito and Jim. We passed through a sharp dressed crowd of diners with plenty of cash for extras, like bottles of Voss sparkling water and Dom Perignon.
Way down the ladde
r, two floors below us, the noisy crowd we’d just left in the grandstand ate French fries from cartons and slurped beer from cans. Up here, people behaved with self-restraint, and the waiters served beer in tall crystal glasses. Lots of sparkling and bubbling. Diamonds on the necks and hands of the women fractured the light, and several fat pinky rings winked from the fingers of the men.
“Armani, Escada, St. John,” Carla murmured as we passed tables in the center of the room.
“Is this a fashion tour?” I asked.
“It’s always good to know what you’re up against.” Carla returned a diamond pinky man’s glance with a dazzling smile.
“Are we at war?” I asked, watching the man flush.
“If there’s money to be made, always.”
No wonder she had a Mercedes Roadster in her garage.
Several people discreetly studied our group. Me in my red-and-gold racing silks complete with safety vest lumps, Currito with his ghastly scar, and Carla, easily the best looking woman in the room. Nobody ever paid much attention to Jim. He liked it that way.
Reaching the table, I hung back waiting to see where Currito would sit. When he did, I dove for a chair catty corner across the table from his. I needn’t have worried. Once he settled next to Carla, he never took his eyes off her.
Fine, let her deal with him.
Currito insisted on ordering champagne and poured each of us a glass. Something I’d only heard of called Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame. Probably cost $200 a bottle.
Pulling his gaze off Carla, he held up his glass. “To Nikki and Diablo Valiente.”
We clinked glasses, and I took a sip. The old dame was pretty good, but I didn’t drink much.
After we ordered entrees, I searched for the ladies room, ending up in a long hall lined with prints of racing scenes painted by a guy named Robert Clark. Truly fine images of stars like Smarty Jones, Barbaro, and Lookin at Lucky. The artist had captured Lucky pulling away from the field to win Maryland’s 2010 Preakness at Pimlico. I’d watched Lucky win that day. I’d ridden a race on the Preakness undercard.
Someday I wanted to own a painting like that.
Laughter and the buzz of conversation came from behind several closed doors. Must be parties going on in the private suites. At the far end of the hall, a small lighted sign indicated the rest rooms. They seemed a long way from the restaurant.
A door beside me opened and Chakri stepped out, the smell of cigars, booze, and perfume rolling into the hall with him. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, eyes widening ever so slightly. It was the first time I’d seen his face move.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Chakri. I thought you’d left.”
A few shrieks of high-pitched girlish laughter reached me, and my eyes followed the sound to a couple of girls in strappy dresses. As I took a half-step forward to get a better view, Chakri reached out and closed the door.
“Congratulations again on your win, Miss Latrelle. Excuse me.”
“Thanks,” I said to his retreating figure.
Apparently we were both in need of a restroom, but I wasn’t going to follow him down that long empty hall. I turned and beat it back into Christine Lee’s where I saw another ladies room near the elevators and entrance. Probably wise not to tell Currito that Chakri had received a better offer.
* * * *
I left the restaurant as soon as I’d eaten, anxious to change and shower in the jockey’s room. As agreed, I met Carla outside the grandstand and we waited for a parking valet to bring around her car. She’d rented one from Hertz that morning, no doubt tired of riding around in my wreck-on-wheels Toyota.
Taxis, limos, cars, and a shuttle bus jammed the driveway in front of the grandstand. The last big race had run and a mass exodus was underway. The crowd brought the scent of stale cigars and perfume with them into the ocean air. Overhead, the palm fronds rattled as a gunmetal gray cloud edged out the sun.
“This is bogus!” said a man standing next to us in a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. He scowled at the sky. “Temperature musta just dropped ten degrees.”
“Beat’s Baltimore,” I said.
Carla reached into her patent bag and withdrew a small umbrella. She popped a button and raised it just as the first drops of rain fell on my head. The umbrella spread out, bright and red. Of course, it matched her suit.
I took a few steps back out of the rain and into the shadow under the grandstand’s portico. I could smell the cold water as it hit the pavement and steamed on the hot, black asphalt. I leaned against the side of a stone column. Too bad I hadn’t brought a jacket to put on over my thin gray hoodie and jeans.
On the other side of my column, two men emerged from under the portico and moved ahead of me to my left. One of them was tall, and when he turned sideways to glance at Carla beneath her red umbrella, I recognized the flat nose and tin smile of Chakri.
I’d never seen the other man before. He had a short neck, humped shoulders, a sharp nose resembling a vulture’s beak and eyes just as empty. He turned back, searching for a spot out of the rain. His looked foreign, maybe eastern European, maybe with a touch of Asian about the eyes.
Neither man noticed me. With my short, still-damp hair and dark clothes, I blended into the shadows on my side of the column.
The two men stood on the other side, speaking softly, and I couldn’t hear them at first. Then the man who looked like a vulture laughed.
“Yes, they are good girls. But Lena, I find exceptional. You will see.”
“The private school girls,” Chakri said, “are like hot house fruit.”
Both men laughed, and I hated the way they talked about women. Even if these girls were willing participants, the conversation felt dirty.
Ahead of us, the man in the Hawaiian shirt was using his Daily Racing Form to shelter from the rain while he talked to Carla. She stood by the curb and turned her head to glance at a black stretch limo as it pulled in front of her a moment later.
As Chakri and his companion hurried to the limo, I darted forward and stood behind Carla, peering around her to stare at the men. The vulture opened the second of three side doors and climbed inside. He slid across the long seat and Chakri followed.
Through the space between the two men, and because the interior lights were still on, I saw two people behind them in the last seat. A tough, thuglike male and a young girl with hair the color of cinnamon streaked with honey. Her eyes were half closed and her head lolled to one side, like she might be drugged.
I came from around Carla to get a better look, but Chakri pulled the limo door closed and cut off my view. I stared at the limo as it worked its way through the traffic. Grabbing my tote, I found my racing program and pen, and scribbled down the tag number before my view was blocked by a shuttle bus.
“Did you see her? Carla said, grabbing my arm.
“See who?” the man in the Hawaiian shirt asked.
“Nobody,” I said, stepping away from him. Carla, still latched onto my arm, came with me.
Ducking under Carla’s umbrella, I said. “Yes. I saw her. I think they were talking about her. Her name is Lena.”
“She’s Jade’s age!” Carla’s whisper was harsh. “She looked like—like they’d drugged her.”
Her hand covered her mouth for a moment, her thoughts apparently receding into a dark place.
“I got the tag number,” I said quickly. I hadn’t seen anything below the girl’s shoulders, but there had been something awkward and unbalanced about the way she sat that made me think her hands or feet might be restrained.
I shook my head. “We can give the license number to Rick. Vice will have a real interest in this.” And if they didn’t, maybe the FBI would.
“Right.” Her focus came back to me. “Yes. I’ll tell Rick. But first I’m going to call George and get him to run that limo’s tag number.”
Typical of Carla to rely on more than one source. With George on her payroll, she could call the shots. With Rick, she’d only learn what he was willing to tell
her. I had a feeling George would have better luck with this trace. No way these guys were local real estate agents and native Floridians like the one I’d thought was following us in Jade’s neighborhood.
“Here’s my car,” Carla said as a red Mustang convertible rolled up.
Carla tipped the valet, and we scrambled inside away from the cold rain. Glancing at Carla’s profile, I could see she couldn’t escape the image of the girl in the back of the limo any better than I could.
As she drove through the backstretch security gate, Carla reached George, told him what she wanted, then handed me the phone. I recited the limo’s tag number to him and disconnected.
I glanced at Carla. “He’ll call back as soon as he gets anything.”
“I’m seeing Rick later,” she said. “I’ll talk to him about Chakri. I’ll get more out of him if I do it in person.” She blushed slightly.
“You like him, don’t you?” I had an idea what she was “getting out of him in person.”
“He’s been very nice to me about Jade. And he’s a very sexy guy.”
“Sharp dresser, too,” I said, as she braked outside my barn. “But hang onto your heart. You’ll find Jade and leave Florida.” I climbed out of her car and ducked through the rain onto the shedrow.
As Carla drove away, Diablo’s head appeared over his stall gate. He pricked his ears toward me and nickered.
“You never like anyone except Bullwinkle and Imposter,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing wrong with this horse.” Jim’s gruff voice came from Diablo’s stall.
I peered inside. Jim squatted by Diablo’s left hind leg, rolling a stable bandage over leg hair that was damp with liniment. The other three legs were already done up.
“How are you doing that without Orlando or someone to hold him?” I asked.
“Trade secret,” he said with a rare smile. “Besides, I gave Orlando the night off.”