Lucky Thirteen
by
Melanie Jackson
Version 1.1 – January, 2012
Published by Brian Jackson at KDP
Copyright © 2012 by Melanie Jackson
Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Chapter 1
“So, which is our horse again?” Alex asked in confusion.
“Ours is the number one horse wearing the red saddlecloth. The form says he’s a rail runner,” I replied excitedly.
“And that’s bad?”
“No, that’s good. He’s starting in the inside lane, which he prefers,” I had to explain. “It’s a fast track and the field is tight, though the number two horse is an obvious chaff burner.”
“And that’s bad?”
“No, that’s good too. It means the horse runs poorly,” I clarified. “Our boy is an obvious front-runner. We’ll just need to see if he breaks poorly or blows the first turn.”
“And that would be good?”
“No, that would be bad. It would mean he got a bad start or cornered improperly going into the first turn.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?”
“I did! Alex, didn’t you listen to a single word I said during our flight? I already explained all this horse racing terminology to you.”
“I fell asleep.”
“No wonder you’re so confused now.”
“Look, Chloe, this is all fascinating, but I think I might go snag a dog at the concession stand before the next race begins. You want anything?”
“No, I’m too excited to eat,” I said, holding a pair of trackside binoculars to my eyes to watch the jockeys parade the field before the viewing stands. “Hurry up, Alex. The race is about to start.”
Black, brown, white, and gray—every horse was beautiful in their sleek short coat with flowing mane and tail. Long languid limbs carried them up and down the track as they prepared. I could see the power hidden behind each sinewy movement. I could feel them chafing at the bit to run—it was bred into their souls. No wonder they had been venerated by the Native Americans. The modern racehorse was indeed a sight to behold.
Of course, I was only able to enjoy these lovely animals today because I knew of the strict rules, policies, and procedures adopted by this particular track governing the wellbeing of their animals. These requirements, signed and adhered to by the owners, were said to be far in excess of those laid down by the Florida Quarter Horse Racing Association. Additionally the track and its breeders worked with two major adoption agencies to ensure the horses would have loving homes after their retirement.
Unfortunately, this was not the case with all tracks and breeders in all states. There were allegations of mistreatment and horses being put down when they could no longer perform. And then there was the ever-present scourge of doping.
But today wasn’t about the horses that needed saving. Today was about watching those that were well kept perform at the peak of their abilities. I knew I was lucky that Alex had this day off to bring me to the track. The Century Ambassador Hotel, for whom he was consulting here in Palm Beach, Florida, was late upgrading their computer hardware, so Alex had to wait before he could begin work on their security systems. In the meantime, we were enjoying the fun in the sun as I attended my first horse race. Oh sure, I talked like a pro, but beneath the brash façade was someone new to the tracks, their four-legged athletes, and trackside betting. Still, I clutched a betting slip which, at three-to-one odds, said that horse number seven, Red Hot Pistol, was going to win, place, or show. I could barely contain my excitement as I waited for the first race of the day to begin.
Excitement vibrated in the air. I watched with a foolish grin on my face as the horses were led into the starting gates. The loudspeakers announced that betting on the current race was closed. The jockeys were on their respective mounts. I found that I was holding my breath. Then the gates were thrown open, and the horses burst out onto the track.
I was on my feet. Many in the stands joined me.
Red Hot Pistol was indeed a fast starter. Unfortunately, the first turn proved that rather than rushing the turn he was quick to check. As he came out of the turn in fourth place, the questions became: will he be a closer, and does he have the heart? In the back stretch he dropped another spot. My horse was now at least ten lengths behind the leader, but all he had to do was show by coming in third. In the home turn he slipped back inside and regained a spot.
“Come on, Red Hot Pistol!” I hollered, jumping up and down in my eagerness to urge my horse to victory.
My words were drowned out by all the others hollering around me. This was nice since it made me feel less self-conscious.
Galloping hard down the home stretch, Red Hot Pistol raced for third place and ended in a dead heat for the spot. I screamed in delight. The speakers overhead announced the first and second place finishers and that the third place had gone to a photo finish. I watched through my binoculars as the horses took their cool-down lap. Meanwhile, I was sure that my horse would be declared the third-place finisher.
“In third place,” I heard and actually turned to face the loudspeaker, “Good Boy Johnny.”
Good Boy Johnny? Who the heck was that? Then I realized that I’d lost my bet.
“Dang!” I exclaimed, tearing my ticket in half and dropping it at my feet.
Just then I saw Alex plodding down the steps, carrying a foot long and sipping a diet soda.
“Alex, did you see the race? It was amazing!” I declared.
“Settle down, Chloe,” Alex suggested. “You don’t want to strain yourself your first day.”
“Oh, you killjoy. I bet you completely missed it, and on purpose.”
“I saw the ending. How’d we do?”
“I thought you said you saw the ending?”
“I did. I just forgot which horse was ours,” he replied, taking a seat beside me.
“We lost, and you know it,” I said, punching him in the arm.
He grabbed his shoulder and made a face as if I’d actually hurt him. Then we both burst out laughing. I grabbed hold of his foot long and took a bite.
“Hey, I thought you didn’t want anything,” Alex protested.
“I didn’t then, but this is now,” I explained.
I gave the foot long back. But then I grabbed his soda out of his hand and took a sip. I opted to hold onto that for him while he ate. Alex gave me a snarky look before biting into the remainder of his wiener. I didn’t care. I was having the time of my life.
We had an hour before the next post time. I spent much of that interval reviewing the racing form and planning my next betting strategy. I was already down twenty bucks, so I needed to make this next bet count or it would end up being a short and costly day at the races. I checked, double-checked, and cross-referenced all the information at my disposal and finally came up with a winner, Salty Dog. I tried to explain the process I’d used in my selection to Alex, but he appeared willfully uninterested. Ultimately, he headed back to the concession stand after another foot long—I’d eaten half of his first foot long and drank most of his soft drink—while I went to place my next bet.
I stood excitedly in line and when it was finally my turn to place my bet, I stepped to the window, exuding confidence. However, before I could say a word, I was jostled out of the way by the rudest man I’d ever had the misfortune to encounter.
>
“One thousand dollars on See Captain to win!” the man ordered, counting out ten one hundred dollar bills onto the counter.
“Excuse me, but I was at the head of the line,” I said, trying to interrupt his transaction.
The rude little man gave me the once-over and then sneered at me, this being his only acknowledgement of my presence. He was dressed in a black suit with tie and wore a bowler hat, an inappropriate outfit for such a sunny day and Florida in particular. An obvious beard, I thought—that being a person sent to place a bet for someone too famous or rich to stand in the betting line themselves.
The man accepted his betting slip from the cashier and rushed away toward the private viewing boxes without saying another word. I stepped to the window, no longer feeling confident in the least. I mulled over my decision.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but if you’re not ready to place your bet, maybe you’d be willing to step aside and allow the others in line to place their bets,” the cashier said.
“One hundred dollars on See Captain to win!” I declared.
The words were out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying. My first instinct was to immediately change my bet, but I realized doing so would make me look like a fool. On the other hand, one hundred dollars represented the remainder of the betting stakes. I paused, unsure of what to do.
“The money, ma’am,” the cashier prompted.
I dug through my wallet, produced five crisp twenties, and laid them on the counter. The cashier accepted my cash, printed my betting slip, and slid it across the counter to me. I stepped out of line and looked to the tote board behind the back stretch and saw that the odds were thirty-to-one against my horse winning. I sighed. What a fool I am. Still, if my horse somehow managed to win, I’d be in hog heaven.
I walked back to our seats and found Alex eating another foot long and sipping a soda. I took my seat beside him, a bundle of nerves.
“Hi,” Alex said.
“Don’t bother me now, Alex. I need to concentrate on this next race,” I replied, bringing the binoculars to my eyes and scanning the field.
There he was, See Captain, the green number six in the number six position. A black-colored maiden ridden by a maiden, meaning the horse and jockey had yet to win an official race. The horse looked strong, but then they all did. I had to restrain myself from biting my nails. The horses were placed in their respective starting gates and the track cleared. I held my breath.
And then they were off and I was out of my seat.
My horse had a slow break out of the gate, coming out of the first turn in eighth call. I almost couldn’t watch, but in the back stretch the horse started closing, moving up through the ranks.
“Come on, See Captain!” I called.
“How much do you have riding on him?” Alex asked nonchalantly.
“A hundred dollars.”
“Come on, See Captain!” Alex joined in.
Going into the home turn, See Captain was in second place. Coming out of it he was in the lead.
“Go, go, go!” I began chanting.
The number eight horse gained on mine and looked to be pulling ahead. See Captain put on a burst of speed at the finish line. The race was suddenly over and I had no idea whether I’d won or lost. The loudspeakers announced a photo finish. I waited with my eyes closed and my betting slipped clutched tightly in my hands against my breast.
“Please, please, please,” I pleaded under my breath.
“The winner, by a nose, See Captain,” the loudspeaker announced.
I began jumping up and down in place and clapping my hands.
“So, how much did you win?” Alex asked, taking a sip from his soda.
“Three thousand dollars!” I yelled.
I’d never actually seen someone do a spit take before, not in real life. Alex sprayed the seats in front of us with diet soda. Fortunately there was no one sitting there.
“Three thousand dollars?”
Alex began jumping up and down with me. I was flushed with happiness, but then I remembered the rude little man at the betting booth and realized that he’d just won thirty grand. I felt a slight damper fall over my mood. I excused myself to go collect my winnings.
After filling out and signing a form for tax purposes, my mood became elevated watching the cashier count out thirty crisp one hundred dollar bills onto the counter. I scooped up my winnings and slipped them into my purse. Then I headed back to my seat to show Alex and to plan out my next bet.
Three races later and I’d lost three hundred dollars, since I was now betting one hundred dollars per race. I decided that I needed to slow down. Besides, my mood had soured, due in part to the fact that I was losing big but mostly because I was missing my dog, Blue. Blue loves horses and would have adored the track.
Needing a change of scene, I invited Alex to lunch in the clubhouse which he joyfully accepted. But first, it was getting chilly. I borrowed the car keys from Alex and headed out to the parking lot to get a sweater I’d brought to the track but left in the rental car.
The track was composed of outdoor grandstands positioned below a soaring canopy and set before the private boxes housed behind glass. The outdoor stands were filled with the common folk, which I assumed to be mostly tourists like Alex and me. The private boxes housed the elite, composed of horse owners and other regulars who could afford the rent. The clubhouse was located above the private boxes so it provided a spectacular view of the track. The adverts scattered throughout the track showed pictures of the wonderful dishes served in the clubhouse. I looked forward to a meal of filet mignon and lobster tail, which I knew would eat up even more of my winnings.
I made my way through the elaborate foyer past the concession stands and onto the sidewalk out front. There I paused trying to remember where Alex had parked the car. It was while I was looking around to get my bearings that I noticed the rude little man from the betting line not ten feet away attending a lady dressed all in white. He was also guiding a beautiful gray-colored greyhound on a lead. I was about to dismiss the man with a flip of my disapproving head when I saw him bend to retrieve the lady’s kerchief and in so doing drop the dog’s leash. The dog began to wander into the street directly in front of an oncoming tour bus.
“Stop!” I called as I ran recklessly into the street.
I was able to retrieve the dog’s leash in time and use it to hustle the dog out of the roadway. Unfortunately, that left me standing in the dog’s place. The bus driver stomped on the brakes but the bus still flattened me. I hit the road hard.
Voices murmured. They didn’t sound angelic. I moved my hand, glad to fins it was still there. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t dead, but of course relieved. When I opened my eyes again, my face was being licked by the animal I’d just succeeded in saving.
“Good Lord, Charles. What have you done?” I heard a woman exclaim.
Pushing the dog’s muzzle gently aside, I looked up to observe the woman in white and her rude attendant, Charles, peering down at me. Glancing down at my feet, I saw that I now lay with my body half-under the bus. The bus driver and a handful of passengers soon joined my audience.
“Jeez, lady. Are you alright?” the driver asked in a decidedly Cuban accent.
“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “Can you help me up?”
The bus driver grabbed my hands and dragged me from under the bus. I stood shakily and started to dust off my jeans. I put my hand to the back of my head where I felt a lump beginning to form. Other than the dirt on my jeans and the lump, I felt fine.
“Thank the heavens you’re not dead,” the driver declared. “But why did you jump in front of my bus like that?”
“She was saving my dog, Flying Miss Lady,” the woman in white explained. “Which wouldn’t have been necessary if it wasn’t for you, Charles!”
“Wow!” the driver said. “Then you’re a hero instead of an idiot.”
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” asked the woman in wh
ite.
I noticed the bus driver crossing himself as he awaited my response.
“No, I’m fine,” I replied.
“Muchas gracias, Madre de Dios,” the driver exclaimed.
We all looked to the bus driver and I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“My insurance company said that if I hit one more pedestrian they’d cancel my insurance.”
I frowned at him and he smiled back sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders.
Meanwhile, we were blocking traffic and people were starting to honk their horns. The bus driver excused himself to guide his passengers back onboard. The woman in white took my arm and guided me to the sidewalk. Now that I got a good look at her, it was hard to judge her age. I guessed that she might be in her late fifties, but her spinsterish attire made her look older.
“You’re very lucky, young lady,” she informed me. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
“No,” I told her. “Besides, I have to meet my husband in the clubhouse for lunch.”
“I was about to take lunch myself, while Charles walks the flying lady,” the woman explained. “It would be my distinct pleasure if you would join me for lunch in my private viewing box.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I declared.
“Please, I insist,” the woman said. “I’ll have a page sent to the clubhouse to intercept your husband.”
“That’s very kind of you. Are you sure it’s no bother?”
“No bother at all. Besides, I enjoy the company of young people.”
And with that, our lunch plans had been changed, hopefully for the better. Meanwhile, Charles stood by looking confused as to what he should be doing.
“Go walk the dog,” the woman in white commanded. “And this time mind her lead.”
Charles scowled and then skulked off without speaking a word.
“My name is Miss Elizabeth Hightower,” the woman in white said, extending a gloved hand.
“Chloe Boston,” I replied, accepting it.
“What a cute name,” she observed.
Lucky Thirteen Page 1