The Sea Horse Trade

by Sasscer Hill

  “I’m not falling for your nice guy act,” I said. “You’ve finally got a good horse and you don’t want anyone else putting hands on him.”

  The corners of Jim’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Run to my office and get that condition book off my desk. We’ve got other horses to run.”

  I got the book from the tack room that also served as Jim’s office, and when he came out of Diablo’s stall, we sat together on a long, sweet smelling hay bale with the racing schedule. The dark rain bank had moved east behind our barn, leaving pale, puffy clouds overhead. The receding storm stained one side of the clouds an India ink blue, while the sun fading in the west gilded the other side with streaks of pink and gold.

  I wondered where Will Marshall was.

  “Now here’s an allowance race for La Bruja,” Jim said pointing at a page he’d already marked in the book.

  Pulling my attention back to the horses, I studied the race in the condition book. “For fillies and mares, three and up. A mile and an eighth on the dirt.” The race was five days later, on Sunday. I nodded.

  “Want you to work La Bruja five-eighths of a mile in the morning. If that goes well, we’ll enter her in this allowance.”

  “Imparable,” Jim continued, “tested negative on her vet scan earlier. Both her soft tissue and bone results looked good.”

  I was relieved. I’d been the one riding her before her leg heated up and worried us so much the day Jim arrived at Gulfstream.

  “Still,” he said, “I don’t want to work and run her just yet. Those other two can wait a while.”

  He referred to Imposter and Ambivalent who’d just raced in Maryland.

  Jim creaked to his feet, stretched, and disappeared into his office. Overhead, the pink-and-gold streaks on the clouds had deepened to purple.

  Diablo watched me from his stall. He might be hard to work with, but he confirmed my belief that nothing taught the lesson “you get what you give” as clearly as a horse did. These animals structured my world. They kept me sane.

  And the naughty boy had just run a big race that would pay me almost $3,600. I felt pretty lucky, like things were taking a turn for the better.

  CHAPTER 29

  On the horse path leading to the track for her morning work, La Bruja spooked at a stable goat and shifted sideways under me. The goat was tethered outside the corner stall of a barn, and in the early morning sun, its hair and horns glared white. La Bruja froze and stared hard, snorting in alarm.

  “You pass that stupid goat every day,” I said. “Now move.”

  I squeezed her sides with my boot heels, and she moved forward. As we stepped onto the track, her walk became looser and her long gray legs covered the ground as we moved clockwise around the mile oval toward the green-and-white starting gate.

  I eased her into a jog and we rolled along the track, passed the chute, and were almost to the clubhouse turn before I stopped and turned her around.

  Once La Bruja headed counterclockwise in the direction horses race, her head came up, her legs dancing beneath her. I shortened her reins.

  Not yet, wait for the gate.

  A blue billboard with the words “Gulfstream Park” lettered in gold stood atop the starting gate. Beneath the sign and above each stall, numbered placards marked the post positions. Each card was a different color. A black numeral eight stamped on pink marked the eight hole, a black seven on sunset orange came next, followed by a black card with a yellow numeral six. These colors were standardized throughout most of North America. Twelve stalls, twelve cards, twelve color combinations. When the horses ran, their saddle towels would match the cards.

  In the distance, palm trees waved against the sky and behind them, tall condos gleamed in the morning sun and hid the ocean beyond. But I could sense its presence in the salt air and the vastness of the horizon that stretched endlessly beyond.

  I guided La Bruja to the gate, and without spooking, she loaded and broke like a charm. Five or six strides out, she was in high gear, her head lowered, her neck stretched long.

  I didn’t whip or drive her, preferring to see what she could do on her own. When we hit the wire, I was out of breath and grinning, thinking about some of the claimers I’d ridden with nicknames like Chokey Pokey and Potted Plant. I could get used to riding horses like Diablo and La Bruja. Used to earning real money.

  My filly’s walk remained loose and long-striding on our way back to the barn. The sun was warm on my back as I stroked her damp, gray neck. She should run well in five days.

  Nearing our barn, my euphoria evaporated.

  A security truck idled outside our shedrow, its yellow roof lights flashing. A uniformed guard and a tough-eyed man in a suit stood with Jim, who tapped his lip nervously with one forefinger.

  As Orlando hurried to grab the reins, I booted La Bruja onto the shedrow, stopped short of the group, and kicked my feet from the stirrups.

  At my unspoken question, he shook his head. “I don’ know. Is not good. They just come here.”

  Removing La Bruja’s saddle and bridle, I gave her a pat and left her for Orlando to cool out. Then I hurried toward Jim.

  All three men turned to look at me.

  “This is Nikki Latrelle.” Jim’s Adam’s apple slid up and down as he spoke. “She rode the horse.”

  “I know who she is,” the man in the suit said as he stepped closer. He held out a hand. “Mike Stonehouse, investigator, Florida pari-mutuel wagering division.”

  His grip wasn’t as hard as I expected, more like the iron hand in the velvet glove. Just under six feet tall, his gray eyes were as different from Jim’s as a block of granite is from a dove feather. I’d seen a lot of track investigators and many of them developed that mean look in their eye. Probably due to the lies and greed that coalesced at their end of the racing business.

  His gaze fastened on me, as if trying to read me. “The horse you rode, Diablo Valiente?”

  “Yes.”

  “He tested positive for cocaine.”

  “What? That’s crazy. We were with him before the race. With him the whole time!”

  “Exactly,” Stonehouse said.

  Staring at the dirt in the aisle or maybe the piece of straw near his boots, Jim still tapped his lip.

  Could the state vet have mixed up the blood samples? Orlando wouldn’t do something like this would he? Why would anyone?

  “Look at my record,” Jim said. “I don’t get violations because I don’t use drugs on my horses.”

  Stonehouse rounded on Jim. “I’m only interested in yesterday’s incident. The track steward’s office, tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m., Mr. Ravinsky. See that you’re there. And I’ll want to talk to you.” He pointed a finger at me. “And,” he paused, opened a small brown notebook, and said, “Orlando Castellano.”

  Oh, shit.

  He put the notebook in his suit pocket. “I’ll be in touch.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “There was a guy that was on our shedrow just before the race.”

  Stonehouse gave me a weary look. “There always is.”

  “No, really. Orlando saw him, too.”

  Stonehouse sighed and opened his notebook. “Describe him.”

  I wanted to ask Stonehouse if he was as fed up with his job as he appeared. Maybe not a good idea, so I described the man I’d seen outside our stalls instead.

  “He was wearing dark glasses, had long black hair, olive skin, and earrings in both ears.”

  At that moment, Orlando led La Bruja around the shedrow corner. Stonehouse glanced at him and back at me. “This is Castellano, the groom right? Did you mean to implicate your groom?”

  “No! The guy I saw had a full goatee, not a moustache like Orlando. And he was taller.”

  Orlando halted La Bruja. His eyes widening as he took in the situation.

  “Keep her moving,” Jim said.

  He would say that if he had a gun muzzle pressed to his head. The horses always came first with him. To think he
would have given a horse cocaine was absurd. And if there was ever a horse that didn’t need an enhancement, it was Diablo. Except…

  I turned slightly away from Stonehouse and watched La Bruja’s long, gray hind legs move away from us down the shedrow. Diablo had been so good, so well behaved. Walked into the gate like…like he was in a dream. Was it possible?

  I arranged my face before I turned back to look at Stonehouse, simply nodding when he left. I didn’t want to telegraph anything.

  Cocaine was normally used as a painkiller. Could it have been used to take the angry edge off Diablo? Wasn’t it even more likely to have made him ballistic? I couldn’t make any sense of it.

  * * * *

  The four of us finished the morning in strained silence and then Jim had us come into his office to see if anyone had any answers. No one did.

  “None of you,” Jim asked, “know who this guy with the dark glasses was?” His question was rhetorical.

  “I tell you. I never see him before,” Orlando said, fidgeting so hard with one side of his moustache, I was afraid he’d pull the hairs out.

  I couldn’t stop twisting the horseshoe ring on my finger, and Afilio kept shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

  “Okay,” Jim said to Orlando and Afilio. “You two are done for the morning. I need to talk to Nikki.”

  “Yeah, boss,” Afilio said.

  “We see you later, Papa.” Orlando had gotten in the habit of calling Jim “Papa,” an affectionate term a lot of Latinos used when they liked or respected an older man. The two headed out, speaking softly and rapidly in Spanish.

  Jim sank into a metal chair, removing his cap and rubbing his eyes.

  “You all right?” I asked. What kind of a dumb question was that?

  He settled his cap in place. “Not really.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would anyone give Diablo cocaine?”

  “Before your time,” Jim said, “they’d give it to stimulate horses. But it’s so traceable nowadays, nobody uses it. All those -caines. They won’t use Procaine Penicillium on the track anymore. Even if a groom rubs himself with Lidocaine, his horse could show positive for trace elements.”

  “Who do you think would do this?” I asked.

  “Currito might have, or more likely someone who didn’t want the horse winning the purse money.” He shook his head and a long sigh escaped him.

  “This thing goes the wrong way, Nik, they’ll rule me off.”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But he was right. All tracks were the same. Legally, the buck stopped at the trainer. It didn’t matter who committed the violation; the trainer was always held responsible.

  As the repercussions began to sink in, I closed my eyes.

  CHAPTER 30

  I was driving out of Gulfstream, making a right onto Hallandale when it hit me. The stewards would void Diablo’s win. The purse money would disappear along with my $3,600. Damn.

  I almost ran a red light when my cell rang. Glancing at the caller ID, I saw Will’s name and felt a tiny punch in my gut.

  “Can I buy you some dinner later?” he asked when I answered.

  Why not? “Sure.” I agreed to meet at a restaurant called Casa del Mar, which Will said was in Hollywood on the boardwalk.

  My little charge of happiness lasted until I passed the bus stop where the girl had been shot. I still hadn’t called Klaire. I scrolled to find and ring her number.

  She surprised me by answering her cell immediately using her breathless soothsayer voice. I understood when she said, “I have a client here now. May I call you back?”

  If a client was with her, she must be at home.

  “Wait. When will you be finished? I have a friend I want to bring by.”

  There was a slight pause and I could hear her muffled voice, speaking to someone. The she came back on.

  “Yes, bring Carla. I want to meet her.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course she knew it was Carla. Who else would I bring? Cleopatra?

  We agreed to meet at two, and before I disconnected, she said, “I have a bad feeling about you.”

  Of course she did.

  Hallandale was jammed up with traffic and it took me ten minutes to reach the Sand Castle. After almost rear-ending a beer truck, I decided not to call Carla until I parked in the motel lot. In my present state, a ninety-year-old with one eye was a better bet behind the wheel than me.

  When I did reach her from the safety of my room, Carla said, “Of course I want to meet the psychic. Ever since we talked about her with Rick the other night. Maybe she can help us!”

  I said I’d pick her up at the Diplomat since it was on the way, then had a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a tuna sandwich.

  * * * *

  When I parked the Toyota near the end of Blue Water Lane, Carla stared at Klaire’s asphalt shingled house with the neon-lit, turbaned woman above the front door. The words “Psychic Reader” still sputtered beneath the figure.

  “I understand her not wanting potential clients to think she’s pricey, but this is ridiculous,” Carla said.

  “I know. And she has a Jag in her garage.”

  Carla’s gaze moved over the plastic flowers in the yard. The stray shingles that had littered the lawn during my first visit had been picked up, but the tinsel still hung from the edge of the roof and fluttered in the ocean breeze.

  “This property is worth some money.” Carla tilted her head toward the ocean only three houses away. “It’s practically on the beach. She’s probably just holding on for the value of the land. I wouldn’t fix this place up either.”

  Carla could have a knife in her back and she’d be wondering if the weapon had resale value.

  “It looks better inside,” I said as we moved to the front door.

  It opened and Klaire stepped out, wearing amber beads in her hair and the astrological rings on her fingers. A long tawny dress flowed down from her shoulders, almost covering her ankles. Gold flip-flops and several toe rings adorned her feet.

  “Come in,” she said, turning and leading us through the foyer and into the room on the right, where I’d been before. The heavy scent of incense assaulted my nose. The same dim electric torch held by the statue of a woman flickered at the side of the backless couch and the sphinx heads stared from the arms of two chairs.

  Klaire’s kohl-lined, dark eyes never left Carla as I introduced the two. Carla perched carefully on one of the armchairs. I sat on the other one and watched Klaire who seemed to be reading something about Carla. Was there such a thing as an aura?

  “Klaire,” I said, “we—”

  She raised a hand, stopping me, without ever breaking her concentration on Carla. No one interrupted the silence and its intensity seemed to build. Then Klaire started, as if suddenly waking. Rising, she took three quick strides and stood in front of Carla.

  “Your daughter is alive.”

  “And you know this,” I asked, “because…”

  Sarcastic, but I was tired of messing with this woman. She’d admitted to being a con artist, and Carla needed false hope like she needed an axe in her head.

  “Because it’s true,” Klaire said, her eyes widening as if surprised.

  “Jade? Jade’s alive?” Carla’s voice was so soft I barely heard it.

  “Stop it!” I said to Klaire. “You don’t know that.”

  “At times I may be a liar, and I’ve taken people’s money. But I know this to be true. This time, I really do.” Klaire wasn’t looking at us, she was staring at a point just above Carla’s head. “I saw her. The image was so strong. I could feel her. She’s very frightened. But she’s alive.”

  Klaire blinked and shook her head. She was either the world’s greatest actress or truly astonished by what had just happened.

  “I saw her,” she said again.

  “But where did you see her?” I asked, unable to keep the frustration from my voice.

  “On the sea, surrounded by water.”


  “What, on a boat?”

  Klaire stared at the same spot above Carla. “Or a small island. The image is gone. I wish I could tell you more.”

  I felt like shaking the woman!

  “Wait,” Carla said to me. “I believe her. I believe that Jade is alive.” She turned to Klaire. “Thank you.” She broke then, and started crying hard.

  Klaire retreated to the couch, sank onto it, leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

  I stood up. This stuff was too much for me. “Klaire, can I bring you a glass of water from the kitchen?”

  She waved at me to go ahead. “There’s soda in the refrigerator, glasses in the cabinet on the left.” Her voice sounded weak.

  I beat it out of the room, paused in the hall, and took a deep breath. I needed caffeine. Or bourbon, or—I took another deep breath.

  When I stepped into the kitchen, a large tawny cat that could have been Scat’s distant cousin arched its back on the kitchen table and hissed at me.

  “Get over yourself,” I said.

  Opening the refrigerator, I grabbed two cans of Coke, put them on the counter and found three cut glass tumblers in the cabinet on the left. I pinged one with a finger nail, and it rang nicely. Crystal. I filled the glasses with ice from the dispenser on the front of her new looking refrigerator. She’d probably stashed away some of her psychic hooker cash in a mutual fund.

  I took a long, cold sip and rushed the Cokes back to the parlor, where I found Carla had moved from her chair to sit next to Klaire on the couch. She had a bamboo tissue-holder on her lap and was dabbing her eyes.

  I passed out the drinks, and when I was settled back with the sphinx heads, I said, “Klaire, we need to tell you what we’ve found out about Jade.”

  “And the girl in the limo,” Carla added, looking annoyed when her cell started ringing. She answered, her eyes rounding slightly. She pointed at the phone with her free hand and mouthed the word “George.”

  “You’ve got a name on the limo?” Carla said, standing up. “Who is it?”

  “Okay. Wait a minute.” She sat again and grabbed her patent bag. Sliding her fingers into an outside zippered compartment, she withdrew a small notepad and pen. “Tell me.”