by Maggie Estep
I went back to my place and booked a flight for Cat and me for early the next morning, then packed up my laptop and some clothing. I soaked in the tub for a while, mulling over the whole Ruby situation, wondering what would happen once we were face-to-face again. I kept thinking I should call her but something prevented me. I’d wait till I landed at JFK.
I tried to get to bed early but found myself tossing and turning. Got up and watched three back-to-back reruns of Law and Order, a bit disgusted to find that two of them were newer episodes and featured the unappealing blond assistant DA as opposed to one of the tough brunettes. Eventually, I slept. A little fitfully. Waking up earlier than I needed to. I got to the airport well ahead of schedule and sat in a brightly lit doughnut shop, sipping coffee that tasted like old tires.
There’s nothing but blue sky and ocean outside the plane window and I feel better than I have in many weeks. Since there’s no one in the seat next to me, I reach down and pull out Cat’s Sherpa bag, bringing it to my lap. I open the bag a few inches and look in. She shoots me a withering glance. I stick my hand in and scratch her neck until I finally get a purr out of her. Satisfied, I put the bag back under the seat and start to tangentially think of the racehorse Sherpa Guide, a cocky little bay gelding that Ruby’s been obsessed with since watching him break his maiden a few years ago at Belmont. The horse caught her eye in the paddock that day and she bet him. And won. She followed his career and was probably the only one who had ten bucks on him to win in an undercard race on Belmont Stakes day a while back. Sherpa went off at 34-1 and ran four wide to come on like gangbusters in the last furlong of the race, winning by a length and a half over a horse named Personable Pete. Ruby has tried to be there for every one of Sherpa’s races. She takes his losses personally and frets during his layoffs. Once, she was cheering him so vigorously during a race that a stranger standing nearby asked her if she owned an interest in the horse. I grin to myself as I think of the little picture of Sherpa Guide that Ruby has taped to her fridge. This soothing thought helps me doze off and I wake as the plane begins its descent into the homeland.
AS I STEP out onto the curb to catch a shuttle over to the car rental place, the wind hits me and my breath catches in my chest. I feel a wave of anger—at the cold gray sky, at the vicious wind, at the bleakness that is New York City in late winter.
I rent a nondescript compact car and head toward Long Island. I get myself a room at the less-than-lovely Boulevard Motel just a few blocks away from the track. Cat is pretty upset with me when I finally open the Sherpa bag and invite her into the garishness of the motel room. She seems to scowl as she looks around, taking in the pressed-wood dresser, the fluorescent lighting, and the bedspread printed with pink flowers. Eventually, she deigns to hop out of the bag and go sniff at the food and water I’ve put down for her. I stare at her as I take my phone out and dial Ruby’s number. The answering machine comes on. I start talking, telling her I’m unexpectedly in New York. Asking her to call. I try to keep my voice level. I dial her cell phone but I’m forwarded to her voice mail. I leave the same message. I put the phone back in my pocket and start wondering where she could be at nine in the morning. I suppose I don’t want to dwell on it.
I watch Cat lap water from a plastic cup and, when I’m sure that she’s comfortable and has suffered no adverse effects from the plane ride, I bid her adieu, lock the door, and reflect that I am in all likelihood the only FBI agent who travels to his assignments with a cat. Last time I checked I didn’t even like cats. I walk to the nondescript car, get in, and drive.
SPRING HASN’T EVEN thought of putting its touches on New York yet, but the entrance to the Belmont backside looks inviting all the same. Feels like home. A little less so when I pull up to the gate and a young security guard scowls, removing any trace of attractiveness from her face, and asks me my business.
“My name should be on your sheet. Sam Riverman,” I tell her. She looks down at her clipboard.
“Okay, go,” she says, waving me on without looking at me.
I haven’t been gone long but I realize I’ve already gotten used to the friendlier environment of Florida.
I park the car and start walking over toward the barn area. Before I’ve reached the first shedrow, the sounds come. Radios, hooves against cold dirt, buckets banging into wooden stalls. The Belmont backside population has been thinned by winter, with the heavy hitters gone south or west. Those left behind have settled in, grinding their teeth and bearing the cold.
I find my way to Jim Radcliffe’s barn where Carmelo Jimenez, our operative, is posing as a groom named Carlo Sanchez. The first person I see at Radcliffe’s shedrow is a sturdy but slightly stooped Latin man leading a sleepy bay mare.
“Hi, I’m looking for Carlo,” I say.
“You found him.”
“Oh.” I’m genuinely surprised. The man really looks like a groom. “Carlo Sanchez?” I double-check.
“Yep. And you’re Sam Riverman,” Carlo says.
Carlo is a weathered man in his mid-forties. He has a pencil mustache that doesn’t belong on his thick-featured face.
“Got a minute?” I ask.
“Sure. Let me just put this girl away.”
I make myself comfortable on a tack trunk in the aisle while Carlo finishes up with the mare. I note that our operative has found a good outfit to work for. Though I don’t know much about Jim Radcliffe, it’s obvious the man runs a tight ship. Everything in the shedrow is tidy, clean, and color coordinated in maroon and yellow. I feel a sudden stab of anxiety wondering how my three claimers are faring down at Gulfstream this morning with only Rod to tend to them. I’m about to take out my phone to call Rod when Carlo materializes before me and indicates that I should follow him. He leads the way to the tack room and shows me in, pulling the door shut behind us.
“This is okay?” I ask, a little surprised since it doesn’t seem like the most secure place to talk.
“Fine,” he assures me. “Radcliffe isn’t coming in till afternoon and no one else will walk in with the door closed, they know I come in here to make phone calls. They think I’ve got a hot mama tucked away somewhere.” Carlo smiles faintly.
He indicates a chair and tells me to make myself comfortable. He flips a bucket over and sits on it. He brings his enormous calloused hands to rest on his knees then looks up at me with an almost mischievous expression. “I got the job done about two hours ago.”
“How’s that?”
“Got it on tape,” he grins.
“Got what on tape? I’m not up to speed with the situation here. You were bugging this Nick Blackman individual?”
“Oh yeah. Bugging him. Dude couldn’t have been more stupid.”
It surprises me to hear dude issue from Carmelo’s mouth.
“What happened?”
“Talked in his car. Seemed to know we had his barn office wired but didn’t seem to think we’d get his car. Took a ride with his boss, Davide Marinella. You heard about Marinella?”
“Yeah. Sure, I read the file. Bookie, mob, et cetera.”
“And proud racehorse owner. Which was his downfall. Guy got fucking sentimental about his racehorse. Tried having the race fixed. Little allowance race with a bunch of nobody riders in it. Got to most of the riders except Jasper Lee who don’t bend that way, and Attila Johnson, a bug boy. From what I’d heard, Johnson was crooked, but I guess he all of a sudden got a conscience. He won’t play ball. They try to take Johnson out right in broad fucking daylight on the track yesterday morning during works. Got some girl rider instead. All this just so Marinella’s lousy horse could have a chance in a race. Un-fucking-believable. But this Attila Johnson, he rides the race of his life and wins it.”
“You got all this on tape?” I ask, incredulous.
“Nah, that I pieced together. What I got on tape this morning was Marinella telling Nick Blackman he’s gotta get rid of Attila, that the guy’s a loose cannon. Apparently they’d been trying to scare Attila for a few weeks w
ith little incidents but it hadn’t done the trick. So Marinella tells Blackman he’s gotta help him take Attila out. On tape.” Carmelo grins.
“Now we got warrants coming and most of it gets wrapped up today. I’m not having anything to do with it from now on. They want to keep me useful, so I’m not blowing my cover. I’ll keep working for Radcliffe another couple weeks so it seems unrelated when I quit.”
“And what do I do?” I say, feeling left out.
“I guess it’s back to the sunshine state for you, friend. Check in with the office.” Carmelo adds, “Maybe they want you up here a few days before you go back.”
“Right. I’ll do that,” I tell him.
“It’s a bitch, huh?” he says apropos of I don’t know what.
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Good work,” I add, even though I feel left out and a little bitter about having taken this trip north for no good reason.
I walk away from the shedrow feeling at a loss until I remember Ruby mentioning some burgeoning friendship with Violet Kravitz, the wife of Henry Meyer. I stop the next hotwalker I see, asking if he knows where Henry Meyer’s barn is. The guy just shrugs. I ask a few more people until someone finally points me in the right direction.
It’s nearing midday now but the sun hasn’t won its battle with the steely cloud bed and the wind is working overtime.
I find Meyer’s shedrow but it’s deserted. Lunchtime I guess. I go to what I assume is the door to the barn office and knock, not expecting a response.
“Yes?” a female voice answers. I open the door and find an elegant gray-haired woman sitting at a desk, looking immensely guilty about something.
“Oh,” she says, visibly relieved, “who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Ruby Murphy’s?” I venture, smelling smoke and noticing a half-extinguished cigarette sticking out from under the woman’s boot.
“Oh!” The woman looks pleased. “Where is that girl?”
“I was going to ask you. Are you Violet Kravitz?”
“Yes I am, and you?”
“Sam Riverman,” I say, extending a hand.
“Oh.” Violet seems disappointed.
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me smoking, Sam Riverman. My husband prohibits such recklessness,” she says cheerfully. “Please don’t mention it to him.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Nice of you, Sam. Now tell me what brings you here looking for Miss Murphy?”
“She’d mentioned spending time with you. I happened to be on the backside visiting a friend. Thought I’d see if you had Ruby secreted away in here since I haven’t been able to reach her.”
“I haven’t been able to reach her either, actually, but since I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Attila, I’m assuming the two have reconciled and disappeared together.”
“Attila?” I say with a sinking feeling.
“Oh, you don’t know Attila?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. He’s a rider though, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s a rider. And the paramour of our Miss Murphy though I had the distinct feeling the liaison wasn’t long for this world. But now I’m gossiping with a complete stranger. I hope you won’t think poorly of me.”
“No,” I say, feeling sick.
“You look dejected. Have I blundered horribly? Are you a suitor of Ruby’s?”
“Oh… I don’t know,” I say, making a helpless gesture.
“I’m a motor mouth,” Violet Kravitz says, visibly shaken. “I’ve blundered.”
“It’s really all right,” I say, trying to silence the woman before she divulges more unwanted information. “I should get going, it was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, Sam Riverman, and if I do see Ruby I’ll certainly tell her you were asking after her.”
I nod, smile anemically, and walk away.
I go back to the parking lot and sit in the nondescript compact car for several long minutes. I feel paralyzed by my confirmed suspicions. I have been gone for months and I’m particularly lousy at communicating my feelings so I suppose it’s only fair that Ruby has taken up with someone. All the same, I feel kicked, and particularly incensed to learn she’s been sleeping with a crooked jockey with a hit out on him.
I drive back to the motel. I let myself in and find Cat sleeping in the middle of the bed, not even deigning to open an eye.
I sit down in an uncomfortable brown chair and stare at the dirty carpet.
RUBY MURPHY
31.
Caught
At first, I was so scared I was sure I was having a heart attack. My chest felt tight and I couldn’t breathe. I kept hoping that we’d pass by someone I knew as we walked from the clubhouse into the parking lot. It didn’t happen though and I asked him if he was sure he had the right girl. After all, he hadn’t called me by name. He ignored the question. The way Attila’s world had been crumbling, I’d been half expecting something like this to happen, but I wasn’t sure what purpose my being kidnapped would serve.
When we reached the guy’s car he unceremoniously shoved me into the backseat. There was a white dog in the car and the animal started licking me, much to my captor’s chagrin. The guy scowled at the dog, sharply told him to get in the front seat, then started tying up my hands. I looked right into the guy’s eyes as he did this. He had light brown eyes clouded with trouble. His hair was longish, stringy, and dark. He was probably in his mid-twenties. He looked almost gentle, easily frightened. So I screamed. His hand flew over my mouth and he shoved me backward. I sunk my teeth into his hand. He found a rag on the floor and stuffed it in my mouth. Then, he searched me, finding my cell phone and taking it. He also took the forty dollars I had in a front pocket but returned the half pack of Marlboro Lights to my coat pocket. I wanted to tell him I desperately needed a cigarette but all I could manage from behind the gag was a horrible moaning sound that he chose to ignore. He shoved me under a dog blanket in the backseat of his car then started driving.
Between bouts of panic I thought about a whole lot of things as I lay under the smelly dog blanket with a gag in my mouth and my bound hands losing circulation. I thought about dying. In a surprisingly level-headed manner. I hoped that if it happened it wouldn’t hurt and someone would look after my cats. By age twenty-five I had begun announcing to my mother, sister, and friend Jane that I wanted to be buried in a nice graveyard with a tree and an old gravestone. People could conduct experiments on my body, transplant my organs, use my skin cells, whatever, so long as what was left of me went in a hole in the ground. My loved ones thought me mildly macabre for thinking about things like that at so young an age. Now I was hoping it hadn’t been prescient.
I thought about Attila too. And about Ed. Wishing Ed would save me. Hoping Attila wasn’t in even deeper trouble than I was in now.
After we’d been driving for about twenty minutes, the guy pulled over, got out, and came to take my gag off. It was like he’d been thinking about things while he was driving and decided he should have asked me a few questions.
“Where is the jockey?” he demanded.
“I have no idea.”
“Where!” he barked, shoving the gun toward me. I noticed that it was a tiny, almost feminine-looking gun.
“I don’t know! The last time I saw him he was at Aqueduct.”
“But where would he go after that?”
“I have no idea. And I don’t know what good I’m going to do you.”
“Please be quiet,” he said, pushing me back down and putting the blanket over my head.
He got back in the front seat and started driving again.
I waited a few minutes and then tried calling out a few muffled questions. He hadn’t put the gag back in, so I thought I could be heard from under my blanket. I asked if he expected to get a ransom for me and if so from whom. I suppose I was nervous enough to seem casual as I told him that none of my friends or relatives have any money and that I’m of little or no monetary value to the world at large. By that point I wa
sn’t truly fearing for my life anymore. He told me to shut up and that he wouldn’t hurt me as long as I didn’t try any funny stuff. He said it just like that: Don’t try any funny stuff. As if reading from a bad script. I asked him if I could call my neighbor to feed my cats. He ignored me and when I asked again, he said no.
Eventually I just lay there, under the blanket, trying to stay calm. I managed to lull myself into a sort of dark reverie that was akin to sleep. I woke up when the car’s motion changed and we came to a stop. I had a throbbing headache and a dry mouth. My captor came and helped me out of the backseat. We were in the country. There were pine trees and snow. The air was cold and clean smelling and I could hear what sounded like a little stream running nearby. Ahead, there was a small white one-story house, and about a hundred yards back a little wooden cabin. As the guy told me to walk toward the cabin, the dog trotted at his side. It was almost bucolic seeming for a moment. Then my captor pulled some keys from his pocket, unlocked the padlock on the cabin door, and nudged me inside. It was just one big, dirty room and the floor felt unstable. There was nothing in it other than a sagging cardboard box and a chair with a broken back. An odor of mold and dust thickened the air.
“I need to pee,” I told my captor. This seemed to alarm him. He’d apparently never been here before either. He joined me in looking around the little room and discovering that there was no toilet in evidence. The cabin had two windows that overlooked the stream. I could hear it rushing out there and the sound was making matters worse.
“We’ll see about that when you tell me where to find the jockey.”
“I told you, I know about as much as you do. The last time I saw him he was walking into the racing secretary’s office at Aqueduct. Which I assume is far from here. Where exactly are we?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” the guy said, looking around nervously, as if there might be a sign announcing our location.
“Okay, so don’t tell me, but the fact remains, I have got to go to the bathroom.”