Full Mortality

by Sasscer Hill

  I smashed my palm onto the lock next to my window and thought about firing up the Ford’s engine. The man pointed at me with a long fingernail. A flashlight approached, and with a mental sob I recognized the voice of Mello Pinkney.

  “What you doing, Vipe? You’ll scare her to death.”

  “Screw you, old man.” The Latino turned abruptly and moved away. A dark ponytail sprouted from his head and snaked between his shoulder blades. The night swallowed him.

  “That you, Miss Nikki?” Mello shone the light in my face.

  I raised a hand against the piercing beam and slid the window down a few inches. “Yeah. I got the horse back there. Is there a place for her?” Mental prayer of supplication.

  “Got a stall all fixed up. Don’t you worry about old Mello.” He was wearing a black rain hat. A see-through plastic-coat covered his threadbare jacket. A glint of red bow tie somehow brightened my night.

  Hellish came off that trailer in a rage, her metal shoes crashing on the ramp, a deep, angry whinny erupting from her chest.

  “Oh my lord,” said Mello. “We’d best get her in the barn.” He hurried away.

  I followed him between two barns. Water sluiced along the pavement and gurgled down a drain. These barns, like Laurel, had a roof overhanging the open-sided shedrows running outside the stalls. Unlike Laurel, the roofs leaked. Water dripped on the covered dirt paths on either side of me. There weren’t enough buckets in Prince George’s County to catch the flow.

  Mello stepped into the aisle on our left, ducked an ambitious leak and moved to the end of the barn. Water lay in the aisle way, and I splashed through with Hellish. The path inclined upward near the end, the dirt becoming dry.

  Hellish bulled along, dragging me after Mello, like she was trying to catch up with him. He disappeared into a stall, Hellish hot on his heels. Inside, she stopped. I took the lead off and stepped back, astonished.

  The stall was clean, dry, knee-deep in fresh yellow straw. A hay rack in the corner held a cornucopia of sweet-smelling alfalfa and timothy. Full water buckets hung on the wall, and a feed tub brimmed with grain. But it was Hellish’s deep interest in Mello that stunned me. She moved over to him, ignoring the amenities, and shoved her nose against his chest.

  The old man stilled. His eyes lit with recognition. A mocha hand rose, trembling fingers traced the filly’s finely-made head. “Gallorette,” he whispered.

  Chapter 24

  Sheltered from the wind and rain, a whiff of Mello’s liquored breath curled past my nostrils. What was the old man going on about? Famous and a champion, Gallorette had died decades ago.

  “Her name’s Helen’s Dream,” I said. “But I call her Hellish.”

  “Call her what you want,” he said. “This be Gallorette. She’s come back to me.” He crooned unintelligible words to the mare. Hellish raised her head, slid it over Mello’s right shoulder and arched her neck. Her gesture pulled the man in close.

  Gee, it had been a long day. Had Tavern Branch overflowed? Was I stuck in this place for the night? I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles, worrying about getting the rig back to Jim. No time to stand there listening to nonsense. Sharks were circling outside.

  I stepped back against the wall and sank into the crisp straw, elbows on bent knees, head in my hands. I felt my cell phone digging at my hip through the pocket of my jeans. Pulled it out, tried to speed-dial Jim. A flashing sign on the face indicated no service. Of course not.

  Mello was still making a fuss over Hellish. I watched them, shaking my head. The old man looked over at me, a dreamy smile lazing on his lips. Catching my expression, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t you believe in the reincarnation?”

  I made a yeah-right face. But the hairs stirred on the back of my neck and my scalp prickled. Didn’t believe or not believe in reincarnation. Who knew about these things?

  I ended up sleeping in Hellish’s stall. Mello’d said the bridge was shut down, he’d see me in the morning, then had disappeared into the rain. I could have locked myself in Jim’s truck, but I felt safer with Hellish and made a little nest of straw in the corner. Bedded down like I’d done almost eight years ago at Pimlico. Fading into an uneasy sleep I felt like I was falling downhill uncontrollably until I jolted awake. In the darkness I could just make out Hellish’s lightning-bolt white blaze. Her presence comforted me and I finally slept.

  I awoke in the pre-dawn hours thinking about fingerprints, remembered dreaming about white plastic syringes. A memory pricked at me like a needle. Kenny. He’d helped me give those flu shots to Jim’s horses that morning before Dennis was murdered. He’d put the syringes with my prints all over them in a trash bag, then supposedly taken them to the dumpster. Had he been paid to hand them over? Or had someone taken them from him? That hypo I’d seen lying next to Dennis had to be from that bag. Nobody had seen Kenny since. Damn.

  Hellish wandered over to my corner, stretched her neck down and investigated me with warm breath and whiskers.

  “That tickles,” I said, sitting up. No chance of going back to sleep. The rain that had pounded the roof all night slacked off, then shrunk to the sound of trickling gutters and dripping downspouts.

  Might as well clean the stall, feed Hellish an early breakfast, check out the bridge.

  I went out looking for a ladies room and actually found one. I pushed open the door and a gush of heated air hit me. Things were looking up. Inside a young woman with platinum zebra-like streaks in her dark kinky hair was asleep on a futon under a burgundy velveteen blanket. The blanket was folded away from her left side, revealing a low-cut, gold lame-top, significant breasts. She hadn’t washed off her makeup from the previous night. Lot of eyeliner, gold sparkle on her eyelids. Her skin a smooth, taupe brown. A pair of shoes with mud-caked stiletto heels lay next to her. Runaway and hooker came to mind.

  I tiptoed into a cubicle, used the facilities and flushed. When I emerged, the girl was sitting up, hair sticking out every which way. She rubbed at her eyes, making them racoonlike. A wild young animal.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, yawning. “Who you?”

  “Nikki. You always sleep in the ladies room?” Maybe I should watch my tongue.

  She didn’t seem to mind. “Got heat, a shower, dressing room. And it don’t cost nothing.”

  I couldn’t argue with her logic.

  She stood up and draped the blanket over her shoulders. Big surprise — she was wearing a gold skirt, about ten inches long. She moved over to one of the two shower stalls built against the far wall. Each one had an extra cubicle attached to the front with a cloth curtain. She leaned inside, pulled out a black vinyl suitcase, and rummaged inside. Her hand emerged with a terry sweat suit and she began to peel off her skirt.

  “I was just leaving,” I said, scooting for the door.

  “You need anything, sugar, you just ask for Chocolate.”

  “Right,” I said and slipped outside. The rain-washed air felt cool and fresh. Dawn revealed puddles hiding in potholes on the pavement between the ladies’ bath and the barns. Jim’s rig was right where I’d left it, scattered beads of water forming a decorative web on the red paint.

  A thin, sandy-haired white boy rode past on a dark horse headed for the track. Something about the horse’s neck. That big cowlick. The bay horse I’d come to think of as Whorly, the gelding from the auction. The one that had shown up in Clements’ barn with the fancy new name.

  I called to the rider, “Hey, is that Noble Treasure?”

  The boy’s head whipped around, eyes wary. “You’d have to ask Vipe. I don’t know anything. Just ride what I’m told.” He urged the horse into a trot, moving into the sand chute leading onto the track.

  Vipe? The scary guy with the prison tattoo? How was he connected to Whorly?

  Some of the barns were beginning to stir with activity. Figures hauling buckets were silhouetted by the sun rising behind the railroad tracks. A man ferried a wheelbarrow to a manure dump. Two African-Americans wearing dreadlocks emerged on horseba
ck from a nearby barn.

  Back in Hellish’s stall I found Mello at work with a pitchfork. “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “I’d do anything for Gallorette.”

  Mello appeared sober, even had on a new orange bow tie, brown nylon stable jacket. I’d hoped with morning sobriety he’d forget that reincarnation stuff, but the filly hadn’t. She was following the old man about the stall, pressing her nostrils against the back of his neck.

  “Sure, thanks,” I said. “Uh, Mello, who’s that Vipe guy?”

  Mello set the prongs of the pitchfork in the straw, turned toward me. “He be trouble, Miss Nikki. Don’t be messing with him.”

  “How do I keep him from messing with me?” The guy had been so threatening the night before.

  “That do be a problem,” he said, nodding his head.

  Dimsboro was a problem. Crawling with ex-convicts charged with God knows what crimes, ruled-off horsemen exiled from the main tracks, hookers in the ladies’ room. A place that was shunned, rundown, and seedy. Where better to hide a horse with fake papers?

  I got my cell phone out and reached Jim. Explained what had happened, where I was. Said I’d have the rig back by noon.

  Jim said okay, paused a couple of beats. “There were two Anne Arundel County cops looking for you, Nikki.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “The truth. I had no idea where you were.”

  “They say what they wanted?”

  “Course not. Those types keep it real quiet.”

  Probably about the fingerprints, I thought. I wasn’t going to tell Jim my theories about Kenny Grimes. “Do they think I ran?”

  “Nah, I explained about you being ruled off, looking for a home for your horse.”

  We said goodbye, disconnected.

  Mello had found a curry comb and was working on Hellish’s chestnut coat with surprising energy. She was nodding her head up and down in time to his rubbing, a blissful response I’d never received.

  Out on the track three riders were hobby-horsing their mounts around, and no doubt, they were being paid to do it. I balked at the thought, but I had to have cash.

  “Mello, do they need riders here? I’ve got to earn some money.”

  He looked surprised. “They don’t got nobody here can ride like you. You get plenty of work. Best say you only takes cash. Up-front. We got some slippery folks here.” He went back to cleaning.

  I could see he’d already taken care of feeding Hellish. I had to pay him. Took a breath. “Who should I talk to about work?”

  He gave me some names and barn numbers, pointed at some buildings. I stepped out into the morning light at Dimsboro, skirting puddles, keeping a watchful eye out for snakes and other reptiles.

  Chapter 25

  The large black man I talked to first was called Bubba Lard. Mello had indicated Bubba paid well, in cash. I recognized him. He’d run horses from time to time at Laurel, wasn’t ruled off. So why was he at Dimsboro? Probably, I didn’t want to know.

  “You’re Nikki Latrelle, right?” His eyes lit with interest.

  I said I was, and peered around, taking in his barn. Looked like he had the whole building. Pretty well fixed up, too — fairly clean. No moldy or sour odors.

  “I’ve seen you ride. You’re good. What you doing here?”

  “I’ve had a little trouble. Been suspended for a while.”

  He wheezed a low, slow laugh. “How the mighty hath fallen.”

  I stood there, taking it. “So, can I get some work riding for you, or what?”

  “When the Lord provides, I don’t turn away.” His voice rolled loud, like a reverend.

  “What are they paying for freelance at Laurel?” he asked, sliding his hands into the pockets of his large black jacket, a shiny nylon worn over gray track pants. New Reebok trainers on his feet.

  “Ten a ride,” I said.

  “I’ll pay you seven.” An arrogant smirk curled his lips. “You won’t get more from anyone else here. Not unless I says.”

  I dug my finger nails into my palms. “When can I start?”

  “Right now.” He looked down the aisle, an impatient expression settling around his mouth. “Junior,” he bellowed. Some grooms poked their heads out of a couple of stalls to see what was going on. They stared at me, various piercings glinting gold from nostrils, lips,and eyebrows on their dark skin.

  An immense young man waddled out from what appeared to be the barn office. Wasn’t sure how he’d fit through the door. He worked his way up the shedrow. He wore a clean white sports jersey the size of a dining table. It advertised him as number one. His pants were royal blue nylon, loose and wide, the crotch suspended somewhere near his knees. A gust of wind blew from behind him. and I was afraid he’d set sail and run us down.

  “This is my boy,” Bubba said. “Junior, get over here.”

  The kid rocked a bit, increasing his pace, reminding me of a runaway Winnebago.

  “Wha’s up?” His voice somewhere between a wheeze and a gasp.

  “Go tell one of them,” Bubba waved in the direction of the glinting metallic faces, “to get Andy Blue ready. This girl’s going to take him out.”

  The kid’s eyes got real big. Not a good sign. He turned and lumbered toward the grooms, working hard to build momentum. He didn’t strike me as lazy, just fat. I kind of felt sorry for him. Had a nice face. Why would you let that happen to your kid?

  Andy Blue. A large bay gelding with an oversized, common-looking head. I got the son of a gun out to the track only because he had Junior for ballast on the end of the shank. The kid let Andy go in the deep sand. The horse tensed, ready to explode. Wanted to misbehave in a bad way. I tapped with my whip. “Move out,” I yelled, scared. The horse reared up, reached his zenith and sailed over backward. I bailed, pushing off his withers with my hands, fast and hard. Watched him crash into the dirt. Crushing the saddle beneath him. I grabbed the shank from Junior. Clipped it to the ring on Andy’s bit before he scrambled to his feet.

  I was mad. Of course an audience had gathered to see the girl get trashed by Andy Blue. “You,” I yelled at a guy with a ring in his nostril. “Give me a leg up on this son-of-a-bitch.”

  Junior held the shank. Nose-Ring threw me up.

  “Let him go!” I said.

  No time for any of that Monty Roberts, Horse Whisperer shit. I pointed Andy’s head down the track and whipped him hard. He started bucking, but at least he was moving. He leapt up. I kept a death grip on the yoke to keep from falling off backward. He plunged down, throwing his hind end up in the air, and I had my feet on the dashboard, straight out in front of me. He wasn’t sending me over his head. He continued bucking. My whip kept flashing.

  Now the horse was truly irritated. Wasn’t used to stubborn riders. He almost threw himself on the ground in a tantrum. I whipped harder. And just like that, he gave in. Went on around the track two times in a smooth gallop, walked back to the barn like a stable pony.

  Bubba looked real pleased when I returned. “Changed my mind, Latrelle. You did a $10 ride.” A low laugh rumbled from his chest. “That old Andy, he was so mad.”

  Junior, wheezing and wordless, took the horse back to its stall. The grooms with gold piercings stared at me round-eyed. Respectful.

  Bubba gave me a couple of tame ones to ride, paid me cash. Thirty bucks.

  “You come back tomorrow, I’ll have more,” he said.

  I followed directions to another barn on Mello’s list. A short, sly-looking man with a pencil moustache appeared when I asked for the head man. He had natty hair slicked back with shine enhancing pomade. Raymond Marteen. He gave me a couple of appraising looks.

  “You ride or what?”

  “Ride. I’m looking for work,” I said.

  He stared at me, apparently thinking about it. His barn aisle held water from the previous night. The horses that looked out at me appeared ratty and underfed. A flagstone walk had been laid along the edge of the barn and turned in at th
e end. I could see a new piece of roof had been added down there. The last third of the barn aisle had been closed in with heavy, pressure-treated plywood. A red door, apparently leading to the built-in area, blocked the end of the shedrow. The door hung next to a miserable looking gray horse in the last stall. He was “weaving,” shifting his weight from one front leg to the other, swinging his head back and forth without pause.

  The red door opened with a grating sound, and Chocolate strolled out, still in her sweat suit.

  Raymond’s eyes assessed me. “You’re a fine-looking woman. You ride anything besides horses?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, my glance drifting to Chocolate, back to Raymond. “You need someone to exercise your horses or not?”

  “I might.” He wouldn’t hold my gaze. Slippery fellow.

  “Okay,” I said. “Ten dollars a ride.”

  “I’ll pay you ten . . . when our big horse comes in.”

  “Forget it,” I said and walked away. That old line. Pay me when their good horse won a race. People who wouldn’t pay their help never had a “big” horse.

  I stalked back toward Mello’s barn. Went past a storage shed, and a man in dark glasses stepped out, blocking my path. His hand snaked out fast, fingers gripping my wrist. I saw an edge of silver teardrop beneath the glasses. Vipe. Hadn’t recognized him with a shirt on.

  “Hey, chica. I got los caballos de carrera. You wanna ride for me?”

  Telling me he had race horses. Like I cared. “Ah, no thanks. Think you could let go of my arm?”

  “Sure, pretty lady.” He smiled, revealing a gold tooth, dropping my arm. His body seemed too thin, unhealthy. A druggie. “So you kill a man? I hear this,” he said. “Is true?”

  My eyes squeezed shut. “No, not true. Excuse me.” I tried to push past him.

  His hand flashed in and out of his jeans pocket. Sharp click. A long blade reflected the morning light. Vipe had a big knife.