The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  “Jose Fragoso was living in a rental house with three other young Peruvian jockeys. The oldest of the three is only eighteen.”

  “And Mejias is one of them, right?” I asked.

  “Yes. All up-and-coming jockeys who rode at the Hipódromo de Monterrico in Lima, and not one of them speaks a word of English.”

  I asked the obvious question. “Who sponsored them to come into the U.S.?”

  “A Peruvian named Marco Tolentino. He became a citizen five years ago, and brought the boys to New York recently. He travels between here and Lima several times a year.”

  Secret Wish had found a small clump of clover. She tore the tender stems from the ground, chewing them up and swallowing them before spotting another cluster. She dragged Calixto to it.

  “When you females want something, there is no stopping you,” he said.

  Careful what you wish for, Calixto.

  I breathed in the filly’s horsey scent and the wet smell of crushed vegetation as her teeth ground the clover to juice. I thought about the four jockeys, foreigners who didn’t speak English, living in a house together in Upstate New York. These riders had come to the U.S. with dreams, hoping to follow in the footsteps of successful Peruvian jockeys like Edgar Prado, Jorge Chavez, and Rafael Bejarano. But Tolentino would have ways to control them, to force them to follow orders. Legal or otherwise.

  “Does this Tolentino guy have a record?”

  “Not yet, leona. Right now, we are more concerned with checking the status of jockeys’ families.”

  “But not to see if they have records, right? You’re thinking Tolentino will threaten their relatives in Peru, and these boys will do exactly what they’re told. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He held my gaze a moment.

  I was surprised by the depth of pain in his eyes and had to look away. He really cared about these people. My glance swept to the path by the racetrack where I’d found Fragoso’s body. Had someone threatened him so horribly he’d killed himself? The thought spread like gasoline onto the anger that flickered inside me.

  “Damn it, Calixto. This is what Rico is doing to Stevie. Threatening his little sister.”

  “Fia, I wish we had something solid that would allow us to bring charges against Rico. But we don’t.”

  “Or this guy, Tolentino.” My anger intensified. It always did when I wanted to protect an innocent and couldn’t. “Calixto, there must be something we can do for Oscar and the other two!”

  “Gunny is meeting with two NYRA officials and an FBI agent tomorrow. I believe they will strongly suggest to Tolentino that he send the boys back to Peru. Gunny indicated it will be suggested to him in a manner he will not refuse.”

  “But that’s all we can do? Send them home?”

  Calixto put a hand on the neck of Secret Wish as she nipped and tore at the blades of grass near her feet. “There may be channels to notify officials in Lima. I am not familiar with Peru, or the level of corruption that might exist within its police department. At least these three can ride in Peru, and be at home with their families.”

  I didn’t like this, didn’t like that the fate of these Peruvians was out of my hands. But Stevie was American. If I could help him, I would.

  “I have to go back to my barn,” I said.

  Calixto’s look was questioning, but he simply nodded as Secret Wish pulled him away from me, tugging him toward another clump of grass.

  I hurried around the corner to Pizutti’s shedrow. The sun was lower in the western horizon, and the backstretch had quieted. Pizutti hadn’t shown up that afternoon, and most of the help had already left. Carl was still in the office, and I waited until he came out before slipping inside and rifling through the office notebook with its contact information on vets, feed companies, hired help, and so forth.

  I found Stevie Davis’s phone number, and more important, his address. I memorized both and left the backstretch.

  * * *

  Stevie’s address took me to a brick ranch on a side street off Lake Avenue. I parked the Mini and walked to the front door. When I rang the bell, a bent old man, who’d probably been over six feet in his youth, opened the door. Our attempts to speak were drowned out by two Jack Russell terriers that barked incessantly while rocketing up and down like fur-bearing firecrackers.

  I leaned over and let the dogs sniff my hand. Once that was accomplished, they clearly expected me to pet them, so I did.

  When I could finally explain why I’d come, the old man said, “Oh, you’re looking for young Stevie. He’s renting the little apartment over the garage back there.” He waved an arthritic hand toward the back of his house. “He should be there now. Just walk down the drive. You’ll find it.”

  After I thanked him and stepped outside, one of the terriers bolted through the door and tore after me with great enthusiasm.

  “Take him with you!” the man shouted, and shut the door.

  With the brown and white dog bouncing alongside, I followed the drive to the garage, where Stevie’s yellow Motobecane leaned against the wood frame wall. I climbed a staircase, and was about to rap on the door, when it was opened by a slender girl with long hair. It was unmistakably the girl in the torn photo, her hair the same light brown as Stevie’s. The dog raced past me into the apartment, catapulted through the air, and landed on a battered couch. A little king on his throne.

  My gaze returned to the girl. The words “tiny ballerina” came to mind. She looked about twelve, had lovely dark eyes, and like Stevie’s, they were bright with intelligence.

  “Hi,” I said. “My name is Fay. You must be Lila?”

  She nodded, and I heard footsteps from the back of the apartment.

  “Lila! I’ve told you not to open that door. Who is it?” Stevie’s voice sounded worried. He jogged past the kitchen and into the living room with only a towel wrapped around skinny hips. His hair was wet and tension shadowed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Stevie, it’s just me. I guess I should have called first.” Except, as an agent, when I needed to talk to someone, I didn’t call. I just showed up.

  The terrier flew off the couch and jumped on Stevie, his front paws hooking the towel as if determined to tear it off.

  Lila giggled, apparently delighted by her brother’s predicament.

  “Raymond, stop it!” Stevie’s glare switched from the dog to me. “Fay, why are you here?” He took a breath, then said, “I mean … come in. You can sit while I put some clothes on.”

  He escaped into a bedroom and shut the door. As soon as I sat on the couch that faced a TV, Raymond sprang through the air and crashed onto my lap. Lila, who’d seated herself cross-legged on the floor, giggled again.

  “He’s a silly dog, isn’t he?” I asked.

  A sweet smile curved her lips as she nodded.

  Raymond squirmed in my lap and shoved his head under my hand, leaving me no choice but to pet him. Demanding little bugger.

  “Are you Stevie’s friend?” Lila asked.

  “Yes. I work with him at the track. I like him.”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you his girlfriend?”

  “No. Just a friend.”

  I glanced around the tiny apartment. It smelled fresh. The kitchen was tidy and the red-and-white-checked cloth spread over the metal table was clean and smooth. Something tasty was cooking in the oven.

  “Are you baking something, Lila?”

  “Yes, we’re having chicken with stuffing!”

  “Did you make it?” I asked.

  “Stevie helped.”

  These kids were taking care of themselves, which was great, but I had to ask. “Lila, do your parents live here, too?”

  Her face clouded, and her gaze drifted to the floor. “No.”

  She’d clasped her hands so tightly together, I decided to leave it alone, and a strained silence grew between us. I was relieved when Stevie, minus the towel, plus clothes, came back into the room.

  Lila stood up. “May I
take Raymond outside to play?”

  “Of course,” Stevie said. “But stay close, okay?”

  She nodded and hurried out the front door with the little dog.

  Stevie stared at me and remained standing. “So, what do you need, Fay?”

  “It’s more about what you need, Stevie. And your little sister.”

  His lips pressed together. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come on. Something’s going on with you and Pizutti and that creep Rico. I think you need help.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” His words lashed at me like a whip. Then, he took a breath, and spoke more softly. “How could you possibly help me?”

  How indeed? Again, I berated myself for letting Wiggly Wabbit break my phone. I would have had all the evidence I needed. I couldn’t tell Stevie I worked for the TRPB, and I couldn’t turn Pizutti or Rico in with only hearsay evidence.

  “I know they’ve threatened you. I heard them last night. You could go to the stewards and tell them.” As I said it, I knew how stupid it sounded.

  “Are you crazy?” Stevie asked. “They wouldn’t believe me! All that would happen is I’d lose my job, and Rico might…” He stared at a spot on the floor. “I need my salary to take care of Lila. You’ve seen her. She’s just a little girl!”

  He hadn’t been able to say that Rico might hurt his sister. Hell, I couldn’t bear to think about it.

  “Where are your parents, Stevie?”

  His eyes turned cagey. “They’re around.”

  “Where? It looks to me like you two are living alone. You wouldn’t want Child Protective Services to get involved, would you?”

  He threw me the hard look of an angry man. There was nothing youthful in it. “You’d better butt out of this!”

  I raised my hands, palms out. “I’m not calling them. I’m just afraid they might catch on to this. Are your parents really ‘around’?”

  Stevie’s shoulders sagged. He walked to the couch and sank down next to me.

  “Listen,” he said. “We ran away, okay? My dad drinks, our mom’s a junkie, all right? She’ll let him do anything as long as he brings her the next fix.”

  “Jesus, Stevie. I’m sorry. Did he hurt you?”

  He waved it away like it was nothing. “Yeah, he beat me, but then he started looking at Lila in a way that made me want to kill him.”

  I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that. We’re fine!” He gazed at the ceiling a moment, then exhaled. “See, what happened is, I met Pizutti up at Finger Lakes. Rode a few races for him. He saw what was going on with my parents and gave me this job. But he didn’t know anything about Lila. I thought he didn’t even know she existed. Anyways, as soon as he offered me work, Lila and I were like outta there. I owe Pizutti a lot. I wouldn’t turn him in. He fronted the rent for this place.”

  “But he let Rico threaten Lila.”

  Stevie dropped his head in his hands. “I know, I know.” His voice sank to a whisper. “If I have to pull a race, I’ll pull a race.”

  I didn’t need to tell him he could go to jail for that. I sighed. The kid didn’t even have a car, only a bicycle. “If you two have to run again, I’ll drive you anywhere you need to go, okay? In the meantime, maybe just sort of play it by ear?”

  I didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t tell him the TRPB was watching him, hoping he’d provide a conviction for Pizutti. And if Stevie did pull a race, he might be the only one who got nailed. Pizutti could simply say he had nothing to do with it.

  Stevie pulled away from me and stood up. “I’m glad you came to see me. I’ll do what you said. Take it a day at a time.” His smile was weak. “Maybe things will work out.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I should get Lila in for dinner.” He moved toward the door. “See you tomorrow, okay?” He’d ended our meeting.

  I nodded, and when I stepped outside, the air had chilled, leaving the sky cold and empty. I followed Stevie down the stairs and watched him walk to Lila. She was holding on to a piece of rope, playing tug-of-war with Raymond.

  Pizutti confused and angered me. He’d taken this kid under his wing, brought him into Saratoga, and now, just like Becky Joe had said, he’d turned on him. At times, Pizutti had exhibited a kind heart. But he was weak-willed and a coward. He’d pushed Stevie into a situation I suspected was terribly similar to that of the jockey who’d shot himself.

  Damn it. I had to get him out of this.

  9

  Al Savarine showed up at the barn a few mornings later, during the eight o’clock break. Ziggy Stardust’s owner struck me much as his photo had. He looked like a thug. His suit and Italian shoes were expensive, but excessive. He had an overbite, thick lips, and a narrow depraved-looking face, as if he’d turned away from what was right in life years ago.

  When he removed his designer sunglasses during Pizutti’s introduction, his eyes were shifty, his expression arrogant. Yet I sensed insecurity in the man—always a dangerous combination.

  Never one to hesitate, and since Pizutti had neglected to mention I was only a lowly hot walker, I jumped right in. “Mr. Savarine, I’ve been hearing about your plans for a hedge fund. It sounds really cool. I’m impressed!”

  Savarine puffed with importance. “Yeah, it’s looking really good. It’ll be something nobody’s ever done before. New, like, cutting edge in finance. Our clients will be able to buy a piece of everything, get in on all the action.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said.

  “Hey, did you hear we plan to build an equine clinic? Gonna be state of the art.”

  I hadn’t. “Really? And your clients will get a cut of that, the purse money, and breeding stock?”

  “Absolutely.”

  This went against everything I knew about breeding and racing. Profits at the track were impossible to time or predict, if they came at all. Every year owners put something like $2 billion into a game that returned only $1 billion in purses. I couldn’t imagine Savarine’s idea having legs. Would people believe he could produce regular profits, month after month, year after year?

  “So,” I said, “I guess people will have to fork out a lot of money to fund all this, huh? What would happen if you had a really bad year? Wouldn’t they be kind of upset?”

  Savarine’s expression darkened. He glanced at Pizutti before sliding his dark glasses back on.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Pizutti said quickly. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s a hot walker.”

  “Oh,” Savarine said, his mouth forming an unattractive grin. “With all that fancy eye makeup, I thought she was … I don’t know, something.”

  “Forget her,” Pizutti said. “Let’s go look at your horses.”

  They turned away from me and walked toward Ziggy’s stall. What did the man plan to do if the fund became a reality and horses inevitably lost tens of thousands of investor’s money? Something Gunny wanted to know, too. I imagined the SEC and the United States Postal Inspection Service might also be lurking in the wings, scrutinizing Savarine’s plan.

  I turned when I heard footsteps behind me. Becky Joe emerged from a stall carrying a grooming box. Although she had an amused smile on her mouth, her eyes held a hint of worry.

  “Man, you sure stuck it to that larcenous loon. You trying to get yourself fired?”

  I shrugged. “Just asking a question.”

  “Better lay off it, Fay. Smarter to leave stuff alone.”

  “I can’t help it,” I said. “It’s my nature.” Aside from that, I was more than a little agitated since I had agreed to see my mother that afternoon.

  Muttering something about hotheads, Becky Joe disappeared into the stall, and a little later, Stevie showed up to gallop Bionic. We exchanged glances but no words. We hadn’t spoken about my visit to his apartment, and so far it seemed he was holding up. At least, the shadows around his eyes had lig
htened a little.

  Since I wanted to watch Stevie gallop Bionic, I volunteered to lead the horse and rider onto the track. After I released Bionic, Stevie jogged him the wrong way for a mile, then turned, and set the horse into an open gallop. I stood on the rail watching the colt who looked strong and smooth. I felt a little thrill as I realized he was stretching into a faster clip while Stevie sat chilly on his back, asking for nothing. I’d never spent this much time around a top barn, and wasn’t used to seeing so many nice horses. I told myself not to get used to it, as my next assignment could be far different.

  “Hey,” Stevie gasped when he pulled Bionic up and was walking beside me again, “you see that? He was moving! He’s not the same horse I worked last time.”

  “You got that race coming up, too,” I said. “He should be good in there.”

  Stevie grinned, his hand stroking Bionic’s damp neck, “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “How’s Lila?” I asked.

  “Oh, she’s great. Mars says we can get her enrolled in school down in Hallandale Beach when we go to Gulfstream for the winter.”

  “Sounds good.” Was Pizutti in la-la land? Or had he worked things with Rico so Lila wasn’t at risk anymore? I didn’t ask, just walked alongside Bionic, hoping things would be okay, but not believing it.

  * * *

  Using the Mini’s navigation system, I drove toward my mother’s house, to the north of the city, near Skidmore College. After following a narrow lane through a wooded area and passing heavily landscaped homes that were barely visible from the road, I found Spring Street. It led me across a stone bridge with an ornate iron railing into a tony development of five- to ten-acre lots. Money, lots of money, which had always been my mother’s goal.

  All I knew about her husband, the stepfather I’d never met, was that he had racehorses, no doubt how my mother had met him in the first place. And I knew Richard Gorman had made a fortune creating, building, and finally selling a technology company called Horizons Unlimited. My brother Patrick had mentioned their primary residence was still in California, but Gorman had built a summer home in Saratoga so they could “enjoy” the season each year.