Hex: A Ruby Murphy Mystery

by Maggie Estep

  Frederick finishes playing and I hear Ruby telling him the phone call was from Ariel, summoning her to arms. Before I’ve had time to transition back into the brutal reality of things, Ruby is pulling me up from the couch. I’m tempted to tell her to go easy, I have cancer, but I figure the ghoulish humor is possibly getting to her by now so I keep my mouth shut, letting her pull me to my feet. In a moment we’re saying good-bye to Frederick, who insists we must come back when we have more time. He gives me one last appreciative glance, and then Ruby and I are out the door and into the hall.

  “We’ve got to look for a blond guy in a motorcycle jacket,” Ruby informs me as we race down the stairs, not trusting the ancient elevator to get us down in time.

  We reach the lobby and rush into the street, where we do in fact see a man with white-blond hair lighting a cigarette. The guy takes a pull on his smoke then fishes an electronic organizer from his pocket and furiously types into it. He turns his head slightly, and Ruby informs me this is indeed our man, the nefarious boyfriend Frank.

  I feel a little snake of excitement in my stomach as we follow the guy across Twenty-third Street. I study the way the guy moves. Like an athlete, light on his feet, a controlled sort of bouncing stride.

  He heads north on Seventh Avenue, and we follow until, just past Thirty-first Street, he ducks into the stairs leading to the belly of Penn Station.

  “Where’s he going?” I rhetorically ask Ruby, who grabs my hand, urging me forward so we won’t lose Frank in the swell of humans.

  Frank makes a right, into the Long Island Railroad terminal. We rush down the escalator after him as he strides directly over to one of the platforms, right onto a waiting train.

  “Now what?” Ruby looks at me.

  “We take a train ride,” I tell her, and we get on just as the doors whoosh shut.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Frank sitting in the first row of seats, his big blond head bent forward. Ruby and I walk past him, taking seats two rows back just as the train groans into the tunnel leading out of Penn Station’s entrails. Pretty soon the conductor’s voice comes onto the P.A., telling us we’re on the Belmont Special, making station stops at Jamaica and Belmont Racetrack.

  “We’re going to the track?” I ask Ruby.

  “I guess so. Makes sense. Ariel said the guy claims to be a race handicapper.”

  “Yeah? We’re gonna play the ponies?” I ask Ruby.

  “Sure. If he does. He told Ariel he writes a racing column. Only she can’t seem to find his byline anywhere and I’ve never heard of him. He’s probably just a compulsive gambler trying to delude himself. And her.”

  “Shhh.” I put a finger over her lips as she’s saying “compulsive gambler” a bit louder than she ought to. A hunchbacked guy sitting to our right is scowling at us. We are in fact surroundedby compulsive gambler guys—and a few gals—their faces long and hollow, like the flesh has been eaten away from the inside.

  The conductor comes by collecting tickets, and we get saddled with a two-dollar penalty for not buying our tickets ahead of time. I can’t say that I care, though. What money I had I’ve given to friends, since I don’t have any health insurance and the hospitals would just take it all, leaving nothing for my sister. My sister and I aren’t close, but our parents are both dead and she lives dirt poor in Wisconsin. If I’ve got to die, I’d rather give whatever cash I’ve got left to her than to hospitals and doctors—who’ve given me less than stellar treatment, and in fact misdiagnosed me for a long time, attributing my symptoms to ulcers, leaving the cancer to run rampant.

  As the train races forward and out into the bright day at the edges of Queens, I lean my head on Ruby’s shoulder and close my eyes, feeling her run her fingers through my thinning hair. Only when the big, gorgeous Belmont oval looms into view do I sit up to gawk at it.

  I love the track. I first came here with a former ladyfriend named Amanda. She was a femme fatale and a racing fanatic. She would put on a skintight red dress and spike heels and drag me out to the track no matter what the weather or what caliber of horses were running. She’d just stare gape-mouthed at the beasts, marveling at them—and maybe at the jockeys too. She took up with an exercise rider after giving me my walking papers. After things unraveled with her, I found racing had gotten into my blood. Ruby was intrigued by it since she had spent time around horses while living in Florida. She can actually look at a horse and tell if he’s moving funny and maybe has something wrong with his legs. We started coming out here together, catching some of the big races.

  The train slows down and groans to a halt, and both Ruby and I pop out of our seats, excited by the sight of the track, as if this were just another one of our expeditions. But, of course, it’s not. We press our way through our fellow passengers, keeping close behind Frank, whose pale blond head is thankfully easy to pick out in the small crowd.

  We pass through the turnstiles leading into the cavernous grandstand, and I just want to buy a program, go ogle the horses, and put down a few bets. Ruby urges me forward, though, not letting me stop to look at the tote board. We follow Frank as he heads past the program sellers, then through a series of glass doors and into the inner sanctum of the clubhouse.

  At the clubhouse gate Frank flashes some sort of ID to the attendant and breezes through. Ruby and I pay an additional two dollars for admission into the nearly empty clubhouse. We tail the blond man down some stairs and outside to the spectator area of the saddling paddock. Frank walks to the frontmost tier of the viewing area and leans against the railing there, apparently scanning the horses and humans gathered around the saddling stalls.

  Grooms and assistant trainers are leading horses into numbered stalls as gamblers, owners, and track employees look on. In two seconds flat I think both Ruby and I have forgotten all about Frank and his activities. We’re raptly watching the horses, bewitched at the sight of the beautiful beasts. We’re lost in equine reverie until Frank starts having a shouting match with some short guy standing there inside the saddling paddock.

  Sebastian Ives

  9 / Girl of Fire

  The horse has a bad look in his eye so I get Macy the mostly useless hotwalker, to hold Truehaft’s head firmly as I tighten the girth. Macy being Macy, though, he doesn’t have a good grip, and True-haft almost manages to swing his head around and bite me. Thankfully, I’ve been around horses so long I know what they’re going to do before they’ve even thought about it and I hop out of the way. I yell at Macy to keep a hold on the ornery colt, and then I take a breath before pulling the horse’s legs out. Truehaft, feeling pleased with himself for almost getting his teeth in me, settles down now. He doesn’t protest as I get hold of each forearm, lift, and pull it out slightly so as to avoid his belly getting pinched by the girth.

  I’m just giving the gray colt a final once-over before leading him out into the walking ring when I notice that my employer, Arnie Gaines, has gotten into a shouting match with someone out there and is causing a ruckus. I tell Macy to keep Truehaft in the saddling stall and I go to see what’s what and try to control Gaines’s temper before he gets fined again.

  Gaines is standing next to the big Secretariat statue, and now I see he’s yelling at Frank, the groom, another ne’er do well in our organization, who often tops Macy in unreliability. Though at least Frank knows what’s what with the horses. He was even Gaines’s assistant trainer at one point a few years back until he got on the wrong side of the law and got locked up for twenty-eight months.

  “Arn,” I say, coming up to Gaines’s side and taking his elbow. “Keep it down,” I urge my short, fat, and very white employer. Not that I care so much if he makes an ass of himself, but if he gets cited too many times for violating etiquette, he’s gonna have his license suspended and I’ll be out of a job.

  By now Frank has dipped under the railing from the spectator area and, infuriating the paddock judge by crossing the horse path, comes to stand in front of Gaines. “You told me not to come in this morning,
” Frank is saying in his tightest voice. His big shoulders are tensed up around his ears and he’s got his chin sticking way out like it’s gonna lead him somewhere.

  “I told you not to come in yesterday, Frank. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Bob McCutchen, the paddock judge, comes over, looking none too pleased. He starts waving his finger at Gaines, telling him this is the last warning. If he starts a scene in the paddock one more time, that’s it, thirty days suspension.

  Gaines is furious, trying to hold it in, looking like his little head’s gonna come popping right off his neck stem.

  McCutchen turns to Frank then, telling him he’s getting fined for crossing the horse path. Frank’s shoulders get even tenser, but he keeps his mouth shut. McCutchen, apparently satisfied, walks off.

  I leave Gaines and Frank to stare each other down as I go retrieve Truehaft from Macy I lead the colt onto the path just as McCutchen calls “Riders up.” Truehaft’s rider, Edgar Jimenez approaches. He’s not a friendly man but he’s got good hands and horses like him—even if I don’t. His light brown skin looks dark against the pink and white silks he’s wearing, the whole effect making his big old hook nose look even longer than usual, to the point where I wonder how he can see past that thing.

  Gaines suddenly appears at my side and nudges me out of the way, sending me to stand on the other side of the horse while he himself gives the jock a leg up. As Jimenez puts his feet in the stirrups, Truehaft bolts to the left a little, knocking into Gaines—no doubt putting the bossman in an even fouler mood.

  I lead Truehaft around the walking ring. Jimenez says not a word to me as the heathens in the stands catcall at the jocks—though no one has anything to say to Jimenez or Truehaft, who are going off at 30-1. I talk to Truehaft a little, letting him know I’d appreciate a win out of him someday soon. I watch as Jimenez pilots the colt into the tunnel leading to the track. I loop Truehaft’s halter over my shoulder, then walk into the grandstand, over to the rail where I watch Jimenez steer Truehaft over to Asha Yashpinsky the best-looking exercise rider working at Belmont. Asha and her trusted pony horse, Gumball, work some afternoons ponying for Gaines and a few other trainers. Truehaft affectionately nuzzles at Gumball as they make their way into the procession leading to the starting gate.

  Frank and Macy are standing near me at the rail, looking like a pair of useless individuals if ever I saw some. I keep a few feet away from the two, not wanting to be disturbed in my contemplation of Asha Yashpinsky’s thighs, so lovely against the brown leather of her western saddle.

  Normally, I don’t like white girls. I’m dark-skinned myself and usually like my ladies as dark or darker than me—no high yellow for me and definitely no white. But this is one exceptional white girl. She’s got a very nicely made hind end that would do justice to any black woman. And she’s got style. She wears pink pompoms on her crash helmet and always looks fresh and well kept—except for her red-blond hair, which, the moment she takes her helmet off, spills all over her shoulders like curls of fire.

  Right now, though, with Truehaft and Jimenez at Gumball’s side, my view of Asha’s thighs is impaired. All I can see is part of her upper body—which is nothing to shrug at, but it’s her thighs that send me over the edge. In fact, I’ve even been thinking I might ask her out. Been more than a year since I’ve had a ladyfriend—the last one Yvette, a tall well-made Jamaican girl, worked as an accountant. Yvette was outstanding in the lovemaking department but there wasn’t much to talk about afterward. Girl couldn’t understand why a man would spend his life around horses the way I do. Thought it was some kind of perversion, working for such low pay. She was upset with me when she found out I used to be a schoolteacher but gave it up for horses. I wouldn’t have that kind of problem with Asha. Girl was born on a horse. Don’t know how she feels about black men, though. And, just as I’m speculating as to what Asha Yashpinsky’s color preferences might be, I see Truehaft acting up, trying to bolt. Jimenez gets thrown off balance and looks like he might come off as the colt ducks out again, but Asha and Gumball are on the case. The lovely girl gets a better hold on Truehaft, and Gumball pins his ears at the colt, issuing some sort of equine threat that Truehaft chooses to take seriously. They manage to make it to the starting gate and load into the number five slot without further incident.

  I watch Asha join the other pony riders and canter off the track. The bell goes off and the nine three-year-old colts spring out of the gate. Truehaft breaks okay and gets a spot in mid-pack, running straight, looking like he might mean business. One of Will Lott’s horses is in the lead, with two others right at his neck. Truehaft is a strong fourth and stays that way down the backstretch and around the bend. Jimenez steers the gray colt closer to the rail at the turn, manages to save a little ground. He’s looking for an opening between Lott’s horse and Cash Curse, a little bay I’ve always liked. The Lott horse switches leads and gets a length on Cash Curse, leaving an opening at the rail, which Jimenez shoots Truehaft through. The move puts Truehaft into second place until, out of nowhere, the eight horse, some 45-1 long shot from Maryland, suddenly hits the gas like nobody’s business, coming on like a comet on the outside, sailing past Truehaft and Lott’s horse too. Truehaft crosses the finish line third, which is certainly better than last but won’t exactly amount to a large cash bonus in my pay envelope. I sigh. And catch sight of Frank, loitering there at the rail, smoking a cigarette. All of a sudden I’m sure it’s all this wipe-ass’s fault. Him not showing up threw everything off this morning.

  I tell him as much. “You gotta get your shit together, Frank,” I say, and just as I do, I notice a little white girl standing nearby, apparently staring at Frank. She’s with a white guy with a skinny face and they notice me looking at them and both quickly look away. Weird.

  I give Frank a few more pieces of my mind until Gaines’s new assistant trainer, Ned Ward—a quiet white guy who came out of nowhere but seems to know his way around horses pretty well—materializes at my side, hands me Truehaft’s cooler and, in his quiet way, suggests I get my ass over to the horse and lead him off the track. I shoot Frank one last dirty look and go collect the colt.

  Jimenez steers the gray over toward me, hops down, wipes some mud from his cheek, scowls at me, and strides off to the jocks’ room to change his silks.

  I scan around trying to see where Asha and Gumball might be standing, waiting for the next race. I don’t see her, though, so I guess any activity in that area will have to keep.

  I have a word with Truehaft as I lead him back toward the back-stretch. I compliment him on a valiant effort. But my heart’s not really in it. I got a woman on the brain.

  Ruby Murphy

  10 / The Nefarious Boyfriend

  We didn’t have time to put money on the race but both Oliver and I are such horse fanatics that just watching the gorgeous creatures do their thing is enough to get us extremely stimulated. I was cheering for the 45-1 long shot who came out of nowhere, overtaking the favorite in the last few strides. My throat actually hurts from yelling so loudly and I feel like a bit of an imbecile. Though Oliver was yelling too. Now, the payout prices are lighting up the tote board and the long shot is in the winner’s circle, having his picture taken and receiving accolades. Meanwhile, Frank is standing just a few feet away, smoking, which makes me want to smoke but I refuse to do in front of Oliver. It’s not like he has lung cancer or like he even smoked that much, it just seems rude to flaunt voluntary self-destruction in front of someone whose days are probably numbered.

  Oliver and I are both eyeballing Frank, while trying to look like we’re not. Right now he appears to be getting a tongue-lashing from a skinny black man who seems to work for the same trainer as Frank. Frank isn’t taking it well and he looks pretty relieved when a third guy comes over, hands the skinny black guy the horse’s blanket and says a few words to Frank.

  Frank stands there radiating hostility for a few more moments then abruptly strides off.

  “Let�
��s get him,” Oliver says with a crazy smile, like we’re gonna go up and tackle the guy.

  We follow Frank back outside, through a crowd of people throwing away their betting slips, and over to the security gate leading to the track’s backstretch.

  After Frank flashes ID to the guard, we nonchalantly stride up to the gate and try walking through.

  “Can I help you?” the guard asks in a distinctly unhelpful tone.

  “I lost my pass,” I venture.

  “Sorry. You’ll have to get a new one.”

  “I will, but I’ve got to have a word with that groom that just came through,” I say, motioning ahead at Frank’s receding form.

  “No can do, lady.” The guard frowns, impassive.

  I smile at him. He does not return the favor.

  Oliver and I turn away.

  “Is there some other way back there?” Oliver asks.

  “Probably not. I don’t know what to do,” I say, feeling useless and a little forlorn. I’ve always wanted to amble freely around the backstretch. “I guess I should call Ariel.”

  “Screw that. Let’s gamble!” Oliver says brightly.

  “Let me call Ariel first.”

  “Then we gamble?”

  “Sure,” I say, and to appease my friend, I walk with him over to one of the booths selling the Daily Racing Form. A bony woman with large ears sells us a Form and two little green Belmont pencils.

  I leave Oliver on a bench, hunched over his Form as I go looking for a quiet place to make my phone call. Eventually I enter the cavernous ladies’ room. There aren’t many ladies at the track on a day like this, and the rest room is one of the quietest spots in the place. The attendant, a squat Spanish lady in a pink smock, eyes me warily as I turn the phone on and punch in Ariel’s number.