***
“Damn clean in here.” Dino stepped into Mark’s office, squeezing past a cardboard box bulging with tattered condition books, stained liniment bottles and two cracked helmets.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “Found another bottle of rum in the filing cabinet too. Maybe Dutch will want to celebrate later.”
“Don’t know. Those California sprinters look tough.”
“They are. But just having a horse running in the Cup…” He shrugged and poured Dino a coffee.
Dino settled back in his chair and flipped open The Racing Form. “You going over to watch?”
“Nope. Found the little TV when I cleaned up. I’ll watch from here.”
Dino nodded, sipping coffee and scanning The Form. “Assets is down to even money,” he said. “Sheikh’s horse is four to one. I’m thinking it’s a good day to bet against the favorite. Oh, and here’s another picture of you and Radcliff. Nice shot of you, but Radcliff looks shifty.” He grinned. “No wonder. This is written by that pretty little reporter who felt so sorry for you.”
Mark drank his coffee while Dino poked fun at the articles, clearly trying to make him smile. Seven more hours and it would be over. Seven more excruciating hours.
“More ‘no comments’ from you,” Dino said, his eyes hidden by his hat. “Oh, but this is a good quote from Boone. ‘Trainer just wanted to fuck my granddaughter.’”
Mark half rose, then sank back while Dino chuckled. Mark scowled and propped his boots on the desk, not appreciating the joke. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Dino grinned and tossed The Form aside. “Can’t help it. You’ve always been so focused. I never dreamed you’d toss it all for a woman. That’s my job.” He sobered. “Any regrets? Now that the big dance is here, and Radcliff has your horse?”
“Nope.”
“Think Assets will win?” Dino asked.
Mark shook his head, already aching for the cocky colt who was going to have his heart broken today. He didn’t want to see it, wanted Assets to run well, but the colt was feeling too good, had drawn the inside post and was bound to go with the speed horse in the four hole.
“If Radcliff runs him in blinkers, they’ll run that first quarter in just over twenty-two and burn out by the eighth pole. Radcliff is using that hotshot jockey from California, and the long stretch will kill them. Damn shame.”
“Stop. You’re making me cry.” Dino snorted. “So that’s two races the sheikh will win today. Looks like the Classic is his too, now that Spud’s horse is out. Did they get the necropsy report back on that horse?”
“Haven’t heard, but security is beefed up. It’s tighter than a drum now.”
Dino drained his coffee and stretched. “I’m off to lay some bets. See if I can make enough money to get me through the winter.” He paused, fingering one of five cell phones strewn on Mark’s desk. “This looks like my old phone.”
“Nope, that one was Lefty’s. But if you have a charger, plug it in. No one knows his next of kin. Maybe I can find someone to notify. Do something useful today.”
***
Dick tied his Keeneland scarf with an elaborate flair and posed in front of the disapproving nurse. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re well enough to go home.” The nurse gave a disapproving sniff. “There’s way too much of a party atmosphere in this room.”
“I’m leaving your fine establishment tomorrow.” Dick opened an oblong box and offered her a chocolate. “And the Breeders’ Cup only comes once a year. It’s sold out, but Jessica and I plan to enjoy it on television.”
“What’s the Breeders’ Cup?” the nurse asked, biting into the chocolate. “Is that like the Kentucky Derby?”
“No, Breeder’s Cup is two days in the fall when the best Thoroughbreds from all over the world meet in a lot of different races. Two-year-old races, turf races, dirt races, sprints. The Derby is one race on the first Saturday in May. It’s only for three-year olds.”
“Which race has the most money?” the nurse asked, eying the TV speculatively.
“Today’s biggest race is four million, way more than the Derby. The owner gets most of it, but winning trainers and jockeys get ten percent. Of course, what it does for their reputation is priceless.”
“Do you have a horse running?” She studied the chocolates before picking another one from the box.
“No, but Jessica touched a Breeders’ Cup horse once. Let me tell you about that. It was a cloudy day in September—”
“Some other time.” The nurse glanced toward the door, checking her escape route, grabbed a third chocolate and fled.
Dick gave a satisfied grin. “And that’s how you get rid of the nurses, Jessica. Bore them to tears, and they won’t be back for hours. It’s safe now. Shut the door and crack the peach schnapps.”
“Is this a traditional Breeders Cup drink?” Jessica asked, pulling out the smuggled bottles and mixing a generous measure of peach schnapps, orange juice and ice. “Glad it’s not rum.” Her stomach still lurched at the thought of rum, although this Fuzzy Navel drink smelled delicious. “Sorry I couldn’t find a Racing Form,” she added. “I got off the bus twice to check some stores, but no one had any left.”
“It’s all right.” Dick raised a sardonic eyebrow. “It’s doubtful the hospital has off-track betting, and I already know I’m cheering for the Irish boys and their adorable accents. Except, of course, your man’s horse. I do hope Ambling Assets wins the Juvenile.”
My man. I wish. Jessica’s skin pricked with anticipation. In an hour or so, she’d see Mark. Sure, it was only on TV, but she was going to see him. She couldn’t imagine being in the shedrow now. Mark and Dino and Carlos and Squeaky must be out of their minds trying to hide their nervousness from the colt.
She wondered if Assets knew he was going to race. Buddy had always known. The change in routine, the tension of the handlers and, of course, once Assets left for the assembly barn the media would be all over him. Carlos and Mark would have to walk over, circled by cameras and microphones and questions.
“When is the Juvenile?” She rose and dragged out a more comfortable chair, not wanting to see the pretty face that now filled the small screen.
“Second race, right after the fillies,” Dick said, his gaze on the TV. “Wow, look at the ESPN lady and her stylish outfit. Now that is fetching.”
“Don’t you think the color washes her out?” Jessica asked. “Especially with such bleached blond hair?”
“Meow,” Dick said with a knowing smirk.
She slammed more ice in her glass, turning her head from Cathy Wright and her truly gorgeous appearance.
Coverage switched back to a retired jockey flanked by two solemn-sounding men, and Jessica sank back in her chair. “Who usually interviews the winners?” she asked. “I hope it’s the jockey. He has more interesting stuff to say than Cathy.”
“Yes, he’s good at providing color. But Ms. Wright’s job is to find the provocative questions.” Dick openly leered. “My, she certainly is provocative.”
Jessica tossed an ice cube at him. “I like the retired jockey best. He’s much more interesting.”
They watched the young fillies circle the paddock. A few looked calm, but most pranced and jittered and rolled their eyes at the surging crowd. “Poor babies,” she said.
“They’ll be okay once they get on the track,” Dick said. “And if they run well today, they can look forward to a pampered life of freedom, grass and studly visits.”
“Studly visits? How like a man.” She shook her head but her thoughts skipped to Mark. Her breathing sped up, and she wiggled in her hard chair. If she found a job with afternoons off—and if he wasn’t with Cathy—maybe she could still see him. He’d have to leave at four, of course, to return to the barn, and she’d have to leave and go back to her job. She wouldn’t be able to groom horses any more though. And that was truly depressing.
And then it happened as it always did, when it seemed the race would
never come, but there they were, loading the horses in the gate. Jessica felt proud as each young filly walked in and stood like a seasoned pro. Just babies really, but they knew their jobs. She prayed each one would break clean and bring their rider home safe. When Dick asked who she liked, she only shook her head blankly.
She did cheer one filly on though, a petite bay who shot from the four hole and grabbed the lead, leading the pack joyously around the track. But she strained down the long stretch, and it was clear she was exhausted. The filly wobbled, and the jockey pushed, but a long-legged chestnut appeared on the outside, strong and eager, looking like she just realized it was a race. The chestnut surged past everyone, running like a champ, but Jessica felt sorry for the little bay who had so bravely led the way.
Do they even know how long the race is, she wondered, realizing now why Mark liked his jockeys to work the horses and familiarize themselves with any quirks. She thought of Steve, Assets’ jockey, who was probably pulling on his shiny leather boots, getting ready to meet Assets in the paddock. Soon Mark would leg him up and off they’d go. She desperately wished she were there.
She wiped her warm forehead, clinked more ice in her drink and looked at Dick who just winked and said, “Soon.”
“Did you ever rub a big horse?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve only worked for claiming barns. But even at the lowest level, I think the trainers worry as much, and the horses want to win as much, and the workers love them every bit as much.”
“I think you’re right,” Jessica said, remembering Buddy and how proudly he pranced after his win, as though saying, “Wasn’t I great!”
The lump that clogged her throat whenever she thought of Buddy remained, but it was a bit smaller, and she could smile when she pictured him. The commercial break ended, and it was time for the Juvenile. Even Dick plucked at his scarf as Cathy introduced the twelve two-year olds. Jessica saw Assets right away, and he looked good. Not scared of the crowd as he strutted with his typical cockiness. But it wasn’t Carlos leading him—it wasn’t anyone Jessica knew.
“Turn the volume up, Dick.” She dragged her chair closer to the screen but already coverage switched. She jerked forward, staring at two familiar faces. Cathy’s perfect eyebrow arched as she turned to the white-haired man beside her, and Gramps nodded and looked grave.
“Yes. We had a fundamental difference of opinion, so it was necessary to switch trainers,” her grandfather said.
“Your original trainer, Mark Russell, selected this unheralded colt from hundreds of prospects and then developed him into a world-class racehorse. Prevailing opinion says it was spiteful to move Ambling Assets to another barn only days before the biggest race of his career. What’s your comment on that, Mr. Boone?”
“Everyone has an opinion. I just want the horse to run his best today, and I feel he’ll do that with Mr. Radcliff.”
Cathy nodded but looked at the camera, frowning in a way that showed her skepticism. “You’ve also elected to change jockeys, despite the fact that Steve Murray has been the colt’s regular rider—in fact, the colt’s only rider. Won’t that hamper your horse today, especially when he’ll have to hold off the late-running charge of Desert Bloom?”
Jessica stopped breathing. She stared at the screen, watching her grandfather’s lips clench. He was clearly annoyed, but Cathy nodded and acted so sweet, and Jessica knew he didn’t want to walk away and prove he was a spiteful, manipulative man.
“The blinkers are also a new addition,” Cathy added with a deadly smile. “Records show this horse has never raced or worked in blinkers, and it seems odd—”
“I have to go,” Gramps muttered. He turned and walked away.
Cathy’s disapproving face filled the screen. Her mouth moved, but the roaring in Jessica’s ears was too loud. She pressed her hands to her head and staggered to the bed. Even Dick looked stunned.
***
Mark turned the sound up on his tiny TV, watching as Assets strutted around the paddock and nipped at his handler. Completely unfazed by the crowds, the cameras and the occasion.
What a horse. And he no longer cared about the circumstances or Boone or Radcliff. He just wanted Assets to win.
“Don’t use a hood,” he willed, but of course Radcliff thought he knew best. He stepped up to the colt and buckled on blue blinkers, color coordinated with Boone’s checkered silks. And Mark could see Assets swell with resentment, could see his neck darken with sweat even though they were still in the paddock.
Then Mark couldn’t see Assets because the sheikh’s horse, Desert Bloom, filled the screen, a calm, cool colt with a floating walk, and Mark feared it would be Sheikh Khalif being whisked into the winner’s circle today. The TV flashed an image of a forlorn Steve left in the jock’s room, watching the monitor as a strange jockey was boosted onto Assets’ back. Anger burned Mark. He couldn’t stand to watch any more and snapped off the television.
He yanked Lefty’s phone from Dino’s charger, but his fingers were clumsy with emotion and he couldn’t pull up the directory. Kept hitting the camera feature which was fucking useless. Just dark, blurred pictures of a long box and two men digging up the infield next to the great Ruffian’s grave. Looked a bit like Haddad, except for the gardener’s outfit.
The next picture showed Haddad staring with the same flat eyes Mark had seen in Dick’s picture. Lefty’s last image was a blur of bike spokes and ground.
Mark leaped from his chair so fast it smashed against the wall. “Jesus Christ!” He grabbed his phone and bolted from the office.
He pushed through the backstretch workers who crowded around the gap, applauding the line of horses as they approached the starting gate. Mark shielded his eyes from the sun and frantically scanned the infield. The lake glittered benignly. A flag fluttered close to Ruffian’s grave. He couldn’t see if anyone lingered by the floral horseshoe, only saw confusing masses of people as they swarmed the grandstand.
He pressed Dino’s number and charged toward the clubhouse, grappling with his horrible suspicions and trying to picture the winner’s circle. For Breeders’ Cup, they used an elevated podium on the inner side of the track. Close enough to Ruffian’s grave.
“Is there a clear path from the infield to the winner’s circle?” Mark asked when Dino finally answered his phone.
“Going to charge in and grab the trophy?” Dino gave a nasty chuckle. “Good idea. I’ll help.”
“Lefty’s phone had some pictures.” Urgency sharpened Mark’s voice. “This Middle East thing—the thefts, the poisonings—it could be all about getting the sheikh into the winner’s circle so Haddad can take a clean shot. Now the sheikh has a good chance of winning both the Juvenile and the Classic.” Mark waved his credentials, phone pressed to his ear as he rushed past a vigilant ticket lady. “The sheikh always watches from a safe location. So the only reason he’d brave the crowd would be if he won.”
“But he’ll have bodyguards,” Dino said, “and nobody can get a gun onto the track.”
“The bodyguards will face the crowd. But the winner’s circle is against the infield. I think they already hid a weapon by Ruffian’s grave, probably the night Lefty drowned—if the poor guy really did drown. We have to alert security.”
The bell clanged and the crowd roared. Mark wheeled and stared at the big screen above the paddock, watching as Assets burst from the gate and charged to the lead. “Where are you, Dino?” he yelled into the phone.
“Just past the finish line.”
“Go, boy,” Mark murmured to Assets then rushed through the pods of people gathered around screens and monitors and doorways. He heard yells, cheers and the time of the suicidal first quarter. Could see Assets’ blinkered head leading down the lane, saw the jockey flail with his whip, saw the horse’s great courage as he fought to respond.
Mark groaned as the sheikh’s horse edged up, challenging for the lead. The stretch was so fucking long. And then another horse appeared, and another, and Assets’ blue head
was lost in a wave of horses. Mark watched as the colt staggered across the finish line, exhausted, beaten, bewildered.
“You still there, Dino?”
“Yeah, broke my heart.”
“Sheikh’s horse get it?” Mark asked.
“Yeah. If the sheikh shows up for the presentation, they’ll escort him out the side gate and up a small flight of stairs to the winner’s circle.”
Mark rushed up the grandstand steps, shrugging off the usher’s prim request to see his wristband. He pressed his binoculars against his face and scanned the infield. Saw a wheelbarrow by the floral grave, but no Haddad.
“Looks like they’ve moved, Dino,” he said into the phone. “They could be with the media people by the inner rail. See anyone with a blanket over their camera?”
“About twenty of them,” Dino said, his voice edgy. “I’ve grabbed a security guard. He’s with me now.”
A microphone was stuck in Mark’s face. “Mr. Russell, do you think the fast quarter had any bearing on Assets’ meltdown?”
“Not now.” He pushed past the reporter, his gaze on the returning horses. Assets trotted back sound, thank God, and there was the sheikh’s horse being met by his triumphant trainer. Maybe the sheikh wasn’t coming; maybe he knew he’d be vulnerable. Mark scanned the infield, forcing his breathing to steady.
But a huge black limo cruised to a stop in front of the winner’s platform, and out surged a group of men and—oh, Christ, there was the sheikh.
Mark scrutinized the photographers on the inner rail, all bent over their cameras, all surrounded by a confusion of equipment. There was even gear loaded on a golf cart protected by a large sunshield.
His heart jerked as he spotted Haddad’s face, shaven now, but recognizable. “Dino,” he yelled, “Haddad’s in the golf cart!”
He jammed his phone and Dino’s voice into his pocket and leaped over the rail, knowing there wasn’t time to explain. Whipped through the group of milling runners and up the steps to the winner’s circle where Desert Bloom’s connections jubilantly assembled.
Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) Page 67