Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  As we headed back to the barn, Rosario glanced at me, his lips pressed tight. “We’re gonna have to do better than this, or she’s outta here.”

  “Maybe she isn’t happy. Which might have something to do with why she’s too thin.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Rosario’s voice knifed at me with sarcasm.

  Maybe better to remain silent. I remembered how Dad had always said, “A happy horse is a winning horse.” It seemed to me he’d had a horse with a similar temperament.

  “We’ll think of something,” I said, patting Last Call’s neck.

  * * *

  After the morning’s work, I went to find the TRPB rental on Second Street in Hallandale Beach. Just a couple of blocks from the track, I found a pink stucco house with an orange-tiled roof and three South Florida palms out front. The bureau used the property for overnight visits from traveling agents, so except for me, it would mostly be empty.

  I’d been allotted a small room with a double bed and a bath down the hall I’d have to share with anyone else who showed up. With Patrick’s house thirty minutes away, the rental provided a place to clean up and change near the track. But since they’d asked me to, I planned to stay with Patrick and Jilly. Nonetheless, today I had a special use for the rental.

  I washed off the morning’s sweat and shampooed my hair in the bath’s tiny shower stall, careful not to bump my elbows against the Pepto-Bismol pink tiles inside its narrow confines.

  Back in my room, I opened the black duffel bag I’d left on the edge of the bed, pulled out an expensive, red shoulder-length wig, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, a short black dress, and some strappy, high-heeled sandals. My arsenal of makeup included a paint-on lipstick that lasted for at least twenty-four hours, providing a way to enlarge my lip outline, making it bigger and fuller. Green contact lenses were an excellent addition to the kit.

  I set my bag of makeup next to the clothes and glanced at the clock. Post time wasn’t until one, and getting up at four thirty after a ten-hour drive had left me ragged. I lay down next to my disguises and closed my eyes.

  I thought about my Florida undercover work. One of the hardest things was remembering who your false persona knew and didn’t know, especially when doing double undercover work.

  Kate O’Brien would need to be focused when she walked into Christine Lee’s.

  15

  Wearing the red wig, dark eye makeup, the short dress, and heels, I walked into the bar at Christine Lee’s, ignoring the heads that turned in my direction. After perching on a bar stool and allowing my hem to slide up my thigh, I leaned on the granite bar top, let my grandmother’s big diamond rings sparkle, and smiled at the bartender.

  He was about my age, bald, with a soul patch and a diamond stud in his ear. His gaze dropped to my rings, and I could almost hear him estimating the size of his tip. Behind him, a wall of mirrors reflected bottles of whiskey, vodka, fine wines, and the gleaming glasses that lined the bar’s display shelves.

  “What can I get you?”

  I ordered a club soda and cranberry juice, then glanced at the diamond on my middle finger. My paternal grandmother had never liked my mom. She’d left me all her jewelry when she died, including the huge gentleman’s diamond pinky ring that my great-grandfather had won in a poker game in Cuba. Patrick and my mother had been furious when the ring came to me.

  Smiling at the memory, I spread the Daily Racing Form open on the smooth counter and retrieved a pen from my patent leather purse. I glanced at the second race in the Form through the prescription-free tortoiseshell glasses perched on my nose. Two horses’ names made me think of Jilly. I circled them. Toocool Forschool and one named Diploma.

  Breathing in the scents of liquor, sliced lemon, and expensive perfume, I surveyed the rest of the room. Behind me, a betting counter fronted a wall with half a dozen overhead monitors simulcasting races from around the country. To my right, the dining room’s tables and chairs spread to a glass wall overlooking the racetrack two stories below.

  There were maybe fifty people in the room, but I didn’t see the trainer Serpentino. Checking through the Form, I noticed he had a horse in the fifth, his only runner for the day. Maybe he’d come up for a drink afterward. Though not thrilled about the long wait, the surroundings beat the hell out of a parked surveillance car and a Thermos of lukewarm coffee.

  Two men strolled into the room, and my blood kicked up. One of them was the Mexican banker and racehorse owner, Antonio Morales, the guy involved with Serpentino’s syndicate, BetBig. He grabbed a chair at a table just behind me and sat down.

  I studied his reflection in the mirror. Golden brown hair, a fine linen suit, and manicured hands. He might be Mexican, but his blood probably originated in Spain. He had the refined bones of a European beneath the skin of a handsome but dissipated face. I suspected he pursued his pleasures a bit too hard.

  The image of the second man appeared in the mirror. He was so good-looking, I almost sucked my breath in. He caught me staring and smiled.

  I bent over my Form, made mindless doodles with the pen, and inventoried what I’d seen. About six-foot-one, intense brown eyes with thick lashes, dark, perfectly arched brows, strong cheekbones, olive skin, and the kind of lips you dream about on a long, restless night.

  The bartender set my drink down and I took a sip, wishing it could be vodka. I heard a waiter at the table behind me and looked up again. In the mirror’s reflection, I watched Morales’s companion walk toward me. I turned to stare and my stomach contracted. Beneath his black jacket, he had wide shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist and hips. Up close, his full lips promised sensuality, but his nose was a bit too sharp. Thankfully, it was hawklike and stopped him from being absurdly handsome.

  “Calixto Coyune,” he said, extending his hand. “Forgive me, but my friend and I would be honored if you would join us, señorita. Unless you are … waiting for someone?” His voice stroked like fingertips, his speech educated. Maybe Cuban.

  “Kate O’Brien,” I said, taking his hand as briefly as possible. Better to avoid physical contact with this one. “I’d love to.”

  I had no intention of passing up the opportunity to sit with Morales. He was one of the people I wanted to know more about. If I kept my eyes away from Calixto’s, I would be fine. Men with his kind of sexuality should wear a warning label.

  I slid from my stool and joined them, taking the chair next to Morales, setting the Form and my drink on the table. Morales’s eyes slid up and down my body. He seemed to like what he saw. Push-up bras usually have that effect on men. The short skirt and muscle tone from galloping the horses did the rest.

  After we exchanged names, Morales, whose features were open and friendly, grinned at Calixto. “Kudos for convincing this pretty one to join us.”

  His accent had a Latin flavor, but, of course, it would. He worked for the Miami branch of a Mexican bank. The blond streaks in his light brown hair made me suspect the hands of a beautician.

  Calixto had a cagey smile that revealed a set of even, white teeth, but never reached his eyes. Definitely harder to read than Morales.

  After the waiter brought the men their drinks, Morales raised his glass. “To beautiful women and to good luck.”

  I smiled, and the three of us clinked our glasses together. The smell of their scotch and bourbon drifted past me, along with expensive cologne, and that undefinable scent that emanates from a man in his prime.

  “Do you have a horse running today?” Calixto asked me.

  “Who, me? No, I just like to bet ’em.”

  “You should own one,” Morales said, his gaze resting on the rings on my hand.

  I grinned. “I wouldn’t mind owning a racehorse,” I said. “I mean, who wouldn’t want one of those?” I gestured at a monitor where the horses were going to post for the second race. Their gleaming coats, polished hooves, plumed tails, and tossing heads painted a magical picture.

  “Tell her about BetBig,” Cali
xto said.

  I grew quiet inside, and waited.

  Morales gave Calixto what could have been a warning glance, before leaning back in his chair. “That’s an opportunity we might discuss later.”

  “I love to bet the ponies.” I gave them my eager-to-be-foolish smile. “Betting big sounds exciting.”

  “So, who do you like in this race?” Calixto asked.

  Not the time for me to press about the syndicate, so I glanced at my Form where I’d circled Toocool Forschool. He had good speed figures, was running a shorter distance than usual, and wore first-time blinkers.

  “I like the change of equipment on Toocool Forschool,” I said.

  Morales glanced at his copy of the Form. “He’s in over his head. Pletcher has one in there that will win easy.”

  He referred to one of the leading trainers in the country whose horse, Larceny, was the favorite in this race.

  “Bet you’re wrong,” I said.

  Calixto grinned. “She has a point about first-time blinkers.”

  “My friends,” Morales said, “it’s time we went to the window.”

  I stood, drained my drink, and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. Morales and Calixto didn’t need to know it was alcohol free. I took a last look at the Form, studied the horse named Diploma, and decided he wouldn’t earn his today.

  At the betting counter, I left an extra window between me and my new friends. They didn’t need to hear my careful little bet. After confirming Toocool Forschool had drawn post position four, I leaned in close to my teller and pulled six bucks from my wallet.

  “Two across the board on the four horse,” I said, letting the teller know I wanted to place two dollars on three separate bets—a win, a place, and a show. It was a cheap, nonglamorous bet. No doubt my two new friends were putting big money into exactas, trifectas, pick sixes, and who knew what all.

  But all they had to know about me is that I went to the window and bet. And that I drank vodka. After slipping my bet ticket into my purse, I went to the bar before Morales or Calixto could, and ordered myself a glass of tonic water with Rose’s Lime Juice. Looked just like a vodka tonic.

  I walked to the two men standing on the bar’s plush carpet, their attention on the monitor. It was quiet in the room as Toocool Forschool broke on top, attained an early lead, and led up the backstretch by five.

  I’d never understood how people could enjoy watching the action on a monitor, when just outside, the real thing was playing in the open air—the jockey’s yelling, the horse’s lungs audibly pumping massive quantities of air, with the fans on the rail screaming for their pick, their bones vibrating from the pounding, metal-shod hooves thundering past.

  Toocool Forschool was still on the lead going into the turn, and I began to feel a low hum of a bettor’s excitement.

  “He’ll fold before the wire,” Morales said. “Larceny will get the win.”

  Morales could be right, but I was pleased about my hunch on the blinkers. With nowhere to see but straight ahead, a lot of horses run faster, like Palace Malice’s Derby effort where, with first-time blinkers, he ran one of the fastest miles in Derby history. Except the Derby was a mile and a quarter, and the horse hadn’t held to the wire. But the race we were watching was only six furlongs.

  Toocool Forschool was driving hard for the wire, when Larceny rocketed up behind him, moving alongside and pushing his nose up to my horse’s neck. Toocool Forschool dug in, but Larceny kept coming, and the two drew head and head. Larceny was gathered up, ready to take that last winning stride as Toocool Forschool’s body stretched long and low, his stride extended fully. They hit the wire just like that, and my horse won by a whisker.

  “Gotcha!” I grinned at Morales who scowled.

  Calixto’s mouth twitched in an almost smile, and I swaggered over to the betting window to collect my earnings. If I’d been a rooster, I would have crowed. Still, I stuffed the money into my wallet, hiding the meager number and denomination of bills.

  When I returned, my buddies were already studying the next race. I sat, letting my skirt ride high, and took a swig of my new drink. From the table, a vase of fresh-cut purple flowers emitted a sweet and pungent scent.

  “You were right,” I said to Morales. “Larceny was the better horse. The wire just got there too fast.” I placed a hand on his arm, letting it linger a moment too long. “So what do you do when you’re not betting the races?”

  By now, he was well into his whiskey. My attention caused him to preen a little. “Banking. Money is my game.”

  Other people’s money. “You’re an interesting man,” I said.

  Next to him, Calixto watched us, then looked away as if bored. He wore his sideburns narrow, trimmed to a length slightly shorter than his finely made ears that lay close to his head. Beneath his black jacket, his starched white cuffs were studded with gold cuff links engraved with double Cs that had nothing to do with Coco Chanel.

  Time for a sip of cold tonic. I forced my attention back to Morales, letting my eyes widen, my lips part. “So who do you like in the third, Tony? May I call you Tony?”

  This time it was his hand on my wrist that lingered too long. He slid his copy of the Form between us and leaned toward me so we could study it together. Only his mind wasn’t on the third race.

  “Tell me more about yourself, Kate. I’m sure I haven’t seen you before. No way I would have missed you.”

  My turn to preen and play out a little line with a hook on the end. “This is my first visit to Gulfstream. I came down from Philly for the meet.” I paused, letting him think I was hesitant about my next words. One thing I’d learned about working undercover was to go with the truth as often as possible. Keep the stories close enough to home so you can remember them.

  I lowered my voice and forged ahead. “I finally got my inheritance from my grandmother.” I waved my rings at him. “I thought she’d never die.”

  Morales seemed amused, but a look flashed through Calixto’s eyes like he’d stepped on a snake.

  “Oh, dear.” I took a long sip of my drink. “That didn’t sound right. What I meant is she was so old and had Alzheimer’s. All that money slipping away to uninsured long-term care. Drove me nuts!”

  “I understand,” Morales said. “Foolish to waste good money on someone who doesn’t even know what day it is. Life is meant to be lived.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  We smiled at each other. Truth be told my grandmother was as sharp as a tack the day she died, I’d called her faithfully every week, and we’d loved being together and talking about Dad. I’d never given her jewelry a thought, which is probably why she left it to me.

  Calixto pointed to the monitor where Toocool Forschool and his beaming connections were crowding into the winner’s circle. “If Antonio and I are lucky in the fifth, you can join us for the photo.”

  “Absolutely,” Morales said.

  I leaned forward excitedly. “You have a horse in the fifth? Wow. I’m impressed!”

  I grabbed the track program and flipped to the fifth race. Antonio Morales wasn’t listed, but BetBig Stables had a horse named Primal running in the race. And oh, looky there, Michael Serpentino was the trainer.

  I rounded my eyes. “Tony, is this horse, Primal, yours? Are you BetBig stables?”

  He answered my first question. “Yep. And Primal’s got a great shot to win. You should bet him.”

  I stared at the program. “He’s a long shot. What do we know that the oddsmaker doesn’t?”

  Morales grinned. “It’s a horse race. Anything can happen, right?”

  Calixto stared at me, his expression speculative.

  Was my last question too spot-on?

  “Wow,” I said, and took a sip of my drink. “I’ll place a bet on him. Are you going down to the paddock?”

  “Antonio doesn’t mingle with the criados unless he wins,” Calixto said.

  “Criados? You mean, like, lowlifes?”

  “Exactly like that,�
� Morales said.

  “You are my kind of people.” With a giggle, I upended my glass.

  Our waiter came and placed a fresh round of drinks on the table. My buddies must have hooked him while I was cashing my bet.

  “I ordered Grey Goose for you,” Morales said. “Was I right?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  I took a sip from the fresh glass. Jesus, what had Morales ordered? Straight vodka?

  “I’m going to powder my nose.” Smiling at Morales, I took a large swig from my glass and walked to the ladies’ room. Inside, I spit the liquid into the sink.

  When I returned, lunch menus had arrived. The waiter brought rolls and I coated my stomach with bread and butter before taking a small sip of Morales’s rocket fuel.

  By the time we finished lunch, the horses were parading in the paddock for the fifth race. I resisted the urge to go down and see the animals up close where I could smell them, hear them snort, and feel the mist from the fountain spraying in the center of the paddock. Instead, I stayed in my seat and studied the runners’ statistics on paper more closely.

  Primal had run eleven times. Been in the money three times, almost winning a cheap claimer at Penn National. Michael Serpentino had claimed the horse out of that race for $5,000 two months earlier and this was Primal’s first start for his new trainer. Serpentino had put him in today for a $25,000 tag, a huge step up in class from his last start for only a nickel.

  Even though Serpentino’s horse was running against other maidens, those horses had better speed figures and had shown a boatload more talent in their previous starts than Primal had. No wonder he was a forty-to-one long shot. Maybe Serpentino had injected Primal with some other kind of rocket fuel. Something more powerful than the stuff in my glass.

  If I bet two dollars across the board and the horse won, my take would be more than a hundred dollars on a six-dollar bet. Like insider trading.

  Morales headed for the restroom, and I rose from the table and walked closer to the monitor, looking for the groom wearing the apron marked number six, Primal’s number. Until the numbered saddlecloths were placed on the horses’ backs, only the groom’s number indicated the identity of each animal.