by Brad Smith
She decided on, “You got your new car all muddy.”
He turned to look at the vehicle. He seemed puzzled by the remark. It occurred to Billie that he had never washed a car in his life and so he didn’t have any reaction to getting one dirty. No doubt somebody in his employ would wash it and the next time he got behind the wheel it would be spanking new again. Billie wondered what he would say if she ran a truck full of drywall into the front end of it.
He looked back to her. “Will you be taking the place over?”
Billie took a drink. “And do what with it?”
“I couldn’t say,” Reese said. “But it’s your family farm.”
“You think I could make a living off thirty acres?”
“I would not think that, no,” Reese said after a moment. He shrugged and smiled his pointless smile. “I often wondered how your father made a go of it. But I knew nothing of his financial situation. A gentleman does not ask that of another gentleman.”
Not even a sure-enough good buddy? Billie wondered.
“The truth is, though, I have always liked this particular piece of property,” Reese continued. “I’ve been looking at small farms in the area lately. I’m not sure how much you follow the thoroughbred game these days—”
“Not at all,” Billie interjected.
“Well, you might not be aware that Double R Racing is a very big player on the world stage. Very big and getting bigger. I’m involved in every aspect of running the stable, top to bottom. I need a place to train some foals, get the young colts away from the older stallions.”
Well now, Billie thought, smiling to herself. She knew that things would eventually begin to make sense, and now—roughly twenty-four hours after her father had gone into the ground—they had.
Reese Ryker had a few hundred acres of his own—Billie couldn’t say if it was four hundred or six hundred or a thousand—with a mansion out of a Hollywood movie and flower gardens and miles of paddocks and she had no idea what else. So why would he be looking at Will Masterson’s thirty-acre spread, with a house and outbuildings that were probably teardowns? The story about a training facility for young colts seemed like a leaky vessel. Billie had a drink of beer and looked at the barn roof, where her father had, over the years, nailed odds and ends of ribbed steel to keep out the rain.
“You sound like a man looking to buy some real estate, Reese.”
“I’m always interested in land, Billie,” he replied. “It’s in my blood. My father had a saying—always buy land, they don’t make it anymore.”
That saying was older than spit. Billie wondered if Reese actually believed that his father had come up with it. The stories she’d heard growing up about Reese’s old man were about a guy who dedicated his every waking hour to pissing away the family fortune. Billie doubted there had been much land acquisition in the mix. Of course, that didn’t mean that Reese’s father hadn’t passed the old adage on to the son. Talk was cheap. Cheaper than farmland.
Reese made a point of looking at his watch, a clunky mass of gold on his wrist that looked as if it weighed eight pounds. “I need to run. I actually stopped to extend an invitation. I would have called but I didn’t have the number. My wife and I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight, at the restaurant at Lexington Downs. They have a fantastic new chef there, a woman they poached from some bistro in Paris. Paris, France . . . not Kentucky. I have a horse running in a stakes race tonight—a two-year-old filly that looks quite promising. I was thinking we could have a bite and watch her win. Might be a nice evening out for you after . . . everything.”
Billie started to say no but then heard herself accepting. Why not, she reasoned. She could sit on this deck, bored to tears, or she could go out for the evening, to a tony racetrack restaurant for a meal cooked by some hotshot chef from Paris. France, that is.
She was curious about Reese Ryker, his alleged friendship with her father, and his obvious interest in the farm. It was evident that dinner at Lexington Downs was about more than just dinner. She might as well find out. If she was going to sell the property—and she was—then she’d prefer to sell it to a man with deep pockets. What was it to her that the man himself was no deeper than the mud puddles he’d driven through to arrive here today?
They arranged to meet at the track at seven o’clock. Billie had nothing dressy—other than the black dress she’d bought the day before—so she wore jeans and a white blouse, along with a pair of black cowboy boots she found in her father’s bedroom. They were women’s boots, with red stitching and soft tooled leather. They were beautiful, and Billie was pretty damn sure she knew who owned them.
Reese and his wife were already there when she arrived, sitting at a table by the floor-to-ceiling front windows that overlooked the track. Billie hadn’t been there in years—the place had undergone an extensive renovation. The restaurant was large, maybe a hundred feet long, with a retro-looking bar running along the back wall, done in oak paneling and brass railings. The bartenders, both men and women, wore crisp white shirts with red suspenders. The thick carpet underfoot was the color of Kentucky bluegrass. Classical music played softly in the background.
Reese stood as Billie approached. “There you are. This is my wife, Sofia. Billie Masterson.”
Billie shook hands with both. The woman was more beautiful up close than she’d appeared from a distance. Her eyes were dark, nearly black, and her skin a natural tan. She said hello, solemnly expressing her condolences. She had a slight accent—Spanish or possibly Portuguese. She wore a short blue skirt and a red top of some silky material. There was a diamond on her ring finger the size of a hickory nut.
The two of them were drinking red wine and Billie joined them. Reese had already ordered appetizers—smoked salmon and shrimp puffs and sushi—but told Billie to add anything she wanted. She deferred.
“The chef’s special tonight is quail,” he said as he poured wine for her. “But everything on the menu is good. The steaks are amazing, first class.”
They held their glasses toward one another and drank. The wine was good, better than the boxed stuff Billie had been buying back home at the Piggly Wiggly.
“How are you called Billie?” Sofia asked. “Are you named for the famous outlaw, Billy the Kid?” The word kid emerged from her ruby lips as keed.
“I was named for a more obscure outlaw—my father,” Billie said.
Sofia smiled. “What nature of outlaw? A politician perhaps?”
“Billie’s making a little joke,” Reese said. “Her father was not an outlaw. His name was William.”
Sofia nodded. “Ah, yes. I see.”
Reese announced that they should bet a little during dinner, so while they waited for the appetizers, they looked over the program. The restaurant offered tableside wagering. The first race was a sprint with nine entries and everyone at the table came up empty. The winner was an older gelding that paid thirty-eight dollars to win.
“Oh, that is the horse I should have bet,” Sofia exclaimed.
“Hindsight,” Reese told her.
“The bane of every horseplayer who ever drew breath,” Billie said.
“So you know about this business?” Sofia asked.
“Just that part.”
The food arrived. The server who brought it was not the one who had taken their order, and there had been a mixup somewhere along the line. She brought antipasto instead of sushi. Reese explained the error to the woman, in a voice usually reserved for errant children, his tone bordering on sarcasm.
They began to eat. Billie tried the shrimp and had a sip of wine, watching Sofia over the rim of her glass. She could not have been much older than thirty, somewhat earthy and sensuous, not what Billie would have expected. She went after the food with enthusiasm.
“How did you guys meet?” Billie asked.
Reese waved at the scene beyond the windows, where the track ponies were leading the horses for the next race out from the tunnel below. “This game. Sofia’s father is the best tho
roughbred trainer in Europe. We did business together, and Sofia and I met through him.”
“He would not say he is the best in all of Europe,” Sofia pointed out. “He works at a small track near Pamplona.” She smiled. “We are peasant stock.”
“False modesty,” Reese said. “Who needs it?”
Billie put a sliver of salmon on a cracker and popped it into her mouth. “So you work with horses, too?” she asked Sofia.
“I know nothing about horses.” Sofia gestured to the track. “This is the distance I like to be from them, so I can see how beautiful they are, how fast they run, but I don’t have to know how they sometimes will kick and bite a person.”
Billie smiled at her and was about to ask what—if anything— she did for a living when Reese interrupted.
“What are you doing now, Billie? You’re in Ohio, right?”
Billie nodded. “Chillicothe. I’m a waitress at Freddie’s Fish Shack. You ought to try our deep-fried cod bits.”
Reese smiled thinly. When he reached for an appetizer, Billie noticed how soft and pink his hands were, the nails perfectly manicured. She doubted his involvement in every aspect of his stable—top to bottom, he’d claimed—included cleaning out stalls or throwing hay bales, or doing anything that might risk a man getting a hangnail. But she couldn’t hold that against him. It was one of the privileges of ownership.
They ordered their entrées. A few minutes later, the second race was off. The lead horses came down the stretch four abreast and remained bunched as they crossed the finish line, too close to call.
“It was six!” Sofia shouted. “I am certain it was six number horse.”
She was right. In a photo finish, the number six was the winner, paying five dollars and eighty cents on a two-dollar bet. Still, Sofia was ecstatic.
“I win!”
“The woman has a knack,” Reese said. He looked at her a moment, as if indulging her, before turning to Billie. “What did you bet?”
“The two horse,” Billie told him. “It should be crossing the finish line any time now.”
By the time the third race ran, their food was there. Sofia had the winning ticket again, another favorite. Her delight in this never faltered. Billie picked another pretender that finished far up the track. Reese, cutting into a slab of prime rib the size of a hubcap, nodded toward her.
“What are your plans long term?” he asked. “I assume you’re not looking at being a waitress forever. Don’t you have a journalism degree?”
“How would you know that?” Billie asked.
His mouth full, Reese shrugged. “I heard it somewhere. Not true?”
“It’s true.”
“But you’ve never used your diploma?”
“Once,” Billie said. “I rolled it up and swatted a fly with it.”
Sofia looked up from her quail and laughed out loud. Reese appeared annoyed as he went back to his beef. Chewing slowly, he looked out over the track. The crew was setting up the temporary fencing for the next race, a mile and an eighth on the turf.
“You must have had a notion of using it at some time,” he suggested after a bit. “Were you thinking of reporting?”
“I’m not sure,” Billie said as she reached for her wine. They were on their second bottle now. “I may have watched His Girl Friday too many times when I was a kid. I was a big Rosalind Russell fan.”
“Did you ever think about TV?” Reese asked. “Maybe in the field—news anchor, something like that?”
“I might have,” Billie admitted, thinking of Athena. “I finished school over ten years ago. I can’t recall what I was thinking. I really can’t recall what I was thinking ten days ago.”
“You probably wouldn’t know this, but I own a TV station,” Reese said. “WTVK in Louisville. It’s regarded as one of the top small-market stations in the country. We’re always looking for talented people. And you certainly are attractive enough to be on air.”
Billie glanced at Sofia, who was watching her, her eyes bright. Billie wondered about the people who were deemed not attractive enough to be on television. Or at least on Reese Ryker’s station. Were they ever invited for seared quail with asparagus tips? Probably not, unless they had farmland to sell, as well.
“I have no experience,” Billie said. “I wouldn’t know which end of the microphone to hold.”
“They could put a little sign on it,” Sofia said. “This side up. No?”
Billie smiled as Reese gave his wife the look of indulgence once again. He let the matter slide; apparently he’d said all he wanted to for the time being. He was one for planting seeds, Billie thought.
The stakes race was the seventh on the card. Reese guaranteed that his filly—a sleek bay named Kiss Me Kate—would win without breaking a sweat. He was wrong on both counts—the two-year-old was perspiring quite heavily as she crossed the line behind six other runners. Reese sat stone-faced, looking down at the horses as they filed back toward the tunnel.
“I knew he was the wrong jockey.” He was seething quietly, his upper lip curled. “Maybe next time they’ll listen to me.” He took a moment to settle himself before glancing over at the two women. “As long as the horse is healthy, what do I care? I think it’s time for some brandy.”
They had a round of cognac, a vintage from France that Billie had never heard of but endorsed by Reese as “the best,” and then, after deciding they would bet the last race, they ordered another. When it arrived, Reese finally got down to it.
“What are your plans for the farm, Billie? Are you thinking of selling?”
“I am,” Billie said. “Isn’t that why you invited me here tonight?”
“Absolutely,” Reese said. “We thought we would ply you with food and liquor and offer you ten cents on the dollar.”
Sofia turned her smile on Billie. “How are we doing?”
Billie raised her glass. “I can’t recall when I’ve encountered better plying. Although we need to talk about that ten-cent figure.”
“Oh, they are off!” Sofia exclaimed, meaning the race.
It was a mile on the dirt. A squat chestnut gelding left the field in its dust and paid twelve dollars to win. Sofia again had the ticket. As she went to cash in, she was beaming like a child showing off her prize calf at the county fair. Billie, for her part, never picked a single winner the whole night. Looking at Reese Ryker, considering the man and his intentions, she wondered if that was a bad omen or a good one. Or nothing at all.
“I’m obviously interested in the property,” he said. “It’s the size I want and it’s close enough to the home farm to be practical in terms of moving horses back and forth.”
“Would you bulldoze the buildings?” Billie asked.
Reese had a drink of the cognac. “I probably would.” He paused, making a show of reconsideration. He was a lousy poker player. “Actually, I would hang onto the house. I have a groom renting a place in town. Got a wife and a couple of little kids; he could stay there.”
“Well, I need to talk to a realtor, I guess,” Billie said. “I have no idea what the place is worth.”
“I would call more than one, if I were you,” Reese told her. “Have the place assessed and then I’ll make you a proposition; perhaps you and I can make a deal outside of real estate. Save you the broker’s fees. That money might as well be in your pocket as theirs.”
Billie had already considered the possibility and would have suggested it if Ryker hadn’t.
“Tell you what,” Reese said then. “I’ll even take the stock off your hands. Turn those old broodmares out to pasture and let them graze. We can figure out a price for them, too.”
Billie nodded as Sofia returned with a fistful of dollar bills and a smile as big as the moon.
“I guess you’ll be picking up the check,” Reese suggested.
“The horse wins me nine dollars,” Sofia said. “Do you think that will cover it?”
“Not even the sushi,” Reese said, looking impatiently across the room, wher
e their server was chatting with the bartender. “Looks as if Beyoncé there is on a break. Imagine that.”
He went off to settle the bill. Sofia drank off the last of the cognac and pushed the snifter away before turning to Billie.
“You two have discussed your business?”
Billie, still focused on Reese’s attitude toward the waitress, turned. “To a point.”
“Do not let him lowball you,” Sofia said, smiling. “Is that the correct word—lowball? He has plenty of money. He might as well give some of it to you. But not all, of course.” She laughed.
“I appreciate that,” Billie said. “Although I’m sure he wouldn’t.” She found herself liking the woman, whereas she had been thoroughly prepared not to. “What do you do when you’re not taking advantage of the pari-mutuel system?”
“I am a singer,” Sofia said. She seemed surprised that Billie didn’t know this. “I make . . . pop music . . . you call it here. I am recording next month some new songs. In Los Angeles.”
Since arriving back in Kentucky, it seemed that things were being revealed to Billie in slow motion, as if she were walking underwater. Her father’s relationship with Marian Dunlop, for instance. David Mountain Clay’s review of the finances of the farm, and his petulant take on Billie’s intent to sell. Reese Ryker’s invitation to dinner with his gorgeous young wife. At least now Billie could see that situation for what it was. A fifty-ish billionaire with hair plugs and a fake tan, and an aspiring singer twenty years or so his junior. Nothing new under the sun here. As deliberate in their arrival as these revelations had been, none had been particularly surprising when they got there. Billie wondered if she would ever be truly surprised by anything again.
They walked out together. Reese’s Porsche was in a preferred lot somewhere, while Billie’s car was in general parking, with the rest of the great unwashed vehicles of the ordinary punters. When Billie thanked the couple for dinner, she received a handshake from Reese and a rib-cracking hug from Sofia. For someone who looked like a runway model, she was incredibly strong. Peasant stock indeed.