Cactus Jack

by Brad Smith

  “But you intend to?”

  “What would you think if I said I no to that?”

  Billie laughed. She could hear the rumble of exhaust from the direction of the gate, meaning Luke had arrived. She thought it was strange that Skeeter was not there yet. Skeeter who was always at the track at first light. It took her a moment to realize why he wasn’t.

  “You were talking to Skeeter,” she said.

  Tyrone nodded.

  “You here to work the colt this morning?”

  “That’s up to you, Ms. Masterson.”

  “Stop calling me that. It’s Billie.” She turned as Luke rolled to a stop and got out of the Ford, looking ragged and half-asleep. Billie wondered if he ever woke up looking any different from that.

  “This is Tyrone Howe Junior,” she said to him. “He’s a jockey and he wants to work my horse today.”

  Drowsy appearances aside, Luke was quicker to put two and two together than Billie. “I guess you were talking to Skeeter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Still got your bug?”

  “I do.”

  Luke turned and looked at the horses out on the track and didn’t say anything else. Tyrone, uncomfortable under the silence, walked over and made a show of admiring the horse in the stall. Billie watched Luke, who seemed to be taking his own sweet time considering the young man. She grew impatient; they weren’t buying a house here, just hiring an exercise rider for the day. What was he waiting for?

  “What do you think?” she finally asked.

  Luke was still watching the horses on the track. “Well, I said I wanted to stretch that colt out this morning.” He turned to Billie. “And Skeeter ain’t here, I’m too heavy—and you’re a girl.”

  “You are such a fucking asshole.”

  Luke smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you were listening. Let’s put Mr. Howe on the horse. See if there’s any mutual admiration happening there.”

  With Tyrone in the irons, they ran the colt flat out for six furlongs. When the young jockey loped the horse back to the rail where Billie and Luke stood, his eyes were like a kid’s at his own surprise birthday party.

  “Wow,” he said as he slid down from the horse. He stood there a moment, looking at Billie.

  “What did he do?” Billie asked.

  “One eleven flat,” Luke said.

  “And how’s that?” Billie asked.

  “If it ain’t wow, it’s damn close to it,” Luke said. He slipped through the rail fence and took the reins from Tyrone. “I’ll walk him out.”

  Tyrone stood uncomfortably as Luke led the horse for maybe twenty yards before turning. “You around tomorrow?”

  Tyrone nodded. “I’ll be here at six.”

  “Put your feet up then,” Luke said. “I’ll be here at seven.”

  With the horse walked out and rubbed down, Luke told Billie to come with him to his truck. She got in the passenger side, pushing aside a pile of clothes and fast food wrappers and empty beer cans. Luke took a copy of The Racing Journal from the dash and opened it to a page he’d marked.

  “This is where we’re going to try him,” he said. “A sprint right here at Chestnut, for juvenile non-winners. Purse is twenty-two thousand five hundred.”

  Billie looked at the date. “That’s just a week from Saturday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is he ready?” Billie asked. “Are you ready? You need to get reinstated.”

  “Done.”

  “What?”

  “I went down yesterday and got my license back.”

  Billie thought about that. “Seems like you all of a sudden want to move on this.”

  Luke nodded. “I got to thinking after I left here yesterday— either we’re going to do this or we’re not. I got no desire to play fiddle-fuck around with the horse for three months just to have the animal spit the bit his first time out. Let’s run him and see if he’s got some mojo.”

  “And after today you figure he has?”

  “He’s got speed,” Luke said. He looked out the truck window to where the colt was standing in the stall, his head over the half door, watching them. “You used to play softball, Billie. You ever—”

  “Still do.”

  “What?”

  “First base for the Broken Bombers.”

  Luke gave her an annoyed look. “Yeah, whatever. What I was saying—you ever see a guy warming up in the bullpen, throwing a hundred miles an hour, and then he comes in the game and can’t get nobody out? Well, sometimes a horse is like that. What you see in the workouts doesn’t make it to an actual race, where he’s got seven or eight other horses crowding him, not to mention the crowd noise, the lights, the starting gate, all that song and dance.”

  Billie had a look at the form. “Let’s be optimistic here,” she said. “Let’s say he runs a good race, maybe finishes in the money. When could we run him again?”

  “Now who’s the one wants to move fast?” Luke asked.

  She sighed and put the form on the dash. “I went to the bank yesterday. The old man wasn’t what you would call diligent about making his mortgage payments. They’re getting impatient. The loans manager is somebody I went to high school with—Kellyanne Cruickshank. We weren’t exactly tight back then. I might have even been mean to her and I think she just might be harboring ill feelings. She said they’ve been waiting for me to put the farm up for sale. Who is she to assume that I don’t have the money to pay off the loan? Do I look like I don’t have a pot to piss in?”

  Luke gave her the once-over, the dirty jeans and faded work shirt, stained now with slobber from Cactus Jack.

  “Oh, fuck off,” she said.

  Luke laughed. “You’re saying you need some money short term. By the way, I’m deferring my fee until we race the horse. But don’t you get to thinking I’m not in this for the dough-ray-me. I’m not exactly flush myself these days.”

  “When were you ever?”

  “Which one of us is crying poor here?” he reminded her. “All right now, say the horse runs a good race and comes out sound. We could run him again in—oh, three weeks. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First thing you need to do is enter the horse in that race on the sixth. It looks as if they have a couple spots open.” He searched through the debris on the seat and produced a paper. “I made a copy of my license for you. That shithead Caldwell might want to see it. I’m a little worried about that boy. Is he going to give you friction on this?”

  “No.”

  “You seem pretty sure about that.”

  “He’s afraid of my giant.”

  Luke looked at her. “Are you stoned?”

  Now Billie laughed. “We don’t have to worry about Caldwell.”

  Luke shrugged. “Another thing—has this horse been in a starting gate yet?”

  “A couple times, according to Skeeter.”

  “We need to work on that too, starting tomorrow. And I didn’t notice you paying Tyrone anything for the ride today.”

  “Oh, shit,” Billie said. “I need to pay him.”

  “Sounds to me like you got a lot of people out there need paying,” Luke said.

  “No shit,” Billie replied.

  Caldwell was polite to the Masterson woman, even though she didn’t know what the hell she was doing. The horse she was entering, for instance, was still in her father’s name and so was the stable called Masterson Thoroughbreds. He told her that she needed to get both things changed over. But he entered the two-year-old Cactus Jack in the sprint she requested anyway, contingent on the changes. He resisted a strong urge to tell her to get the fuck out of his office and come back when she didn’t have her head up her ass, but he knew that telling her that would only result in another visit from David Mountain Clay and that this time the old lawyer would be thoroughly pissed off, as opposed to his last visit, when he was merely simmering, a state that just the same put the fear of God—or w
homever it was that Clay represented—into Chuck Caldwell.

  So he did what he had to do and then showed Billie Masterson the door. Getting shed of her didn’t improve his mood any, as now he had to call Reese Ryker to tell him what had just happened. Reese Ryker was not going to like it.

  Caldwell sat there for a time, his cell phone on the desk a couple feet away, dreading the conversation. He wouldn’t tell Ryker about the advice he’d given the woman about taking ownership. What Ryker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Well, it might, but when it did at least it wouldn’t have Caldwell’s fingerprints on it.

  Caldwell thought back to the conversation he’d had with Ryker a few days earlier. As he was leaving, he’d asked about submitting his résumé to the Double R and Reese had told him he could drop it off. He hadn’t been enthusiastic about it but he had said it. Today would be as good a day as any, Caldwell decided. If he was going to get his ass reamed, he could at least get something out of the trip. He opened his laptop and brought up the résumé and printed it out.

  It was just before noon as he approached Lexington. The home farm for Double R Racing was southeast of town about ten miles. Caldwell had been by the place many times but never inside the gates. Getting close, he decided he needed a drink before breaking the bad news to Ryker. He kept going, to the outskirts of the city, where he pulled into the parking lot of a strip club called Honey Bunnies. Unlike the Ryker stables, Caldwell had been there many times.

  He sat at the bar and ordered a steak sandwich, then drank vodka with tonic and watched the girls as he waited for his food. There was a stage at each end of the bar, and—as the sign outside boasted—continuous entertainment. When Caldwell walked in, a black girl was just beginning her routine. She wore a faux leopard-skin bikini and then she didn’t wear it. At the far end, a young woman with long red hair was suspended on a stripper pole, her legs wrapped around the pole above her, her hair reaching the floor. Caldwell enjoyed his vodka as his gaze went from one dancer to the other, like a man watching a tennis match.

  When the redhead finished, another girl—introduced as “the mesmerizing Jasmine”—came out immediately. She had close-cropped dark hair and looked a little like a young Audrey Hepburn. A very young Audrey Hepburn. She wore a short white dress and cowboy boots. Caldwell was certain there was an age requirement for strippers in the state but he didn’t know what it was. He assumed it would be at least the same as the drinking age. The girl on the stage looked no older than sixteen. Of course, looks could be deceiving, as she was also staring at Caldwell right now in the most alluring way. She looked as if she were infatuated with him when all she really wanted was for him to come closer and slide some folding money in her G-string. Good luck with that, Caldwell thought.

  He had two more vodkas along with his lunch. He was about to settle up when the young Audrey Hepburn known as Jasmine slid onto the barstool next to him. She was now wearing a short black skirt and a yellow V-neck that showed her cleavage. She asked that Caldwell buy her a drink, so he did. They flirted for a bit and then she suggested a transaction that had a lot of appeal, one he probably would have taken her up on if he weren’t on a mission. Out of curiosity he asked for her rate and she told him two hundred for an hour. He scoffed at the number and she got a little pissy. Sensing there was no deal to be made, she took her free drink and moved on. When Caldwell left the bar, she was sitting with two guys in business suits at a corner table.

  He was feeling the liquor as he drove toward the Ryker estate. He was also feeling a bit nervous about showing up unannounced. He had no idea if Reese would even be there. He could be in Louisville, pretending to run his TV station. A half mile from the stables, where the white fencing began, Caldwell pulled over and punched the number into his phone. The man answered on the fourth ring, calling Caldwell by name.

  “Yeah, there’s been a development,” Caldwell said.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m just down the road from the stables,” Caldwell said. “Thought I’d drop off my résumé. Are you there?”

  There was a pause. “Pull up to the house.”

  Caldwell had his invite to the big house. Approaching, he saw the Porsche parked in the circular drive alongside a Jaguar roadster and a black Land Rover. Caldwell pulled his Cherokee up behind the Jag, wishing now he’d stopped to run the car through the car wash on the way. As he was getting out, Ryker’s wife, Sofia, came out of the house. Caldwell had seen her at Keeneland once but only from a distance. Today she was wearing tight black jeans and a white T-shirt with a lunging panther across the front and stiletto heels that had to be five inches high. Caldwell had no idea how women didn’t fall over wearing those things.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a strong accent.

  “Chuck Caldwell,” he said. “I run Chestnut Field.”

  “Yes?”

  “Reese asked me to stop by.”

  “He is in the house,” she said as she walked to the Jag. “Bye bye.”

  As Caldwell climbed the wide steps the front door opened and Reese stepped out. His hair was mussed and his eyes heavy. He looked as if he’d just gotten up from a nap. Maybe Caldwell had woken him with the phone call. He indicated some white wicker chairs on the porch to his left and moved to sit in one.

  “She entered the horse,” Caldwell said as he sat down.

  Reese took a deep breath but didn’t say anything. Then his eyes seemed to notice the Jaguar, just now pulling out of the long drive and turning onto the highway out front.

  “Where the fuck is she going?”

  Caldwell hesitated. “She didn’t say.”

  Reese shook his head. “When are they running him?”

  “A week Saturday, a sprint at Chestnut.”

  “So I guess she has a trainer,” Reese said. “You wouldn’t let her enter a horse without a trainer, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Luke Walker got his license back. I saw the paperwork.”

  “Luke Walker,” Reese said. “What a joke. Mr. O’Hara did some digging on him. He’s a habitual fuckup, it would appear. He’s a boozer and a gambler and whoremaster. Earns a dollar and spends two.”

  “I’ve heard the stories,” Caldwell said. “He showed up driving a truck I wouldn’t give you five cents for. But they gave him a license, so I have to let him race if he wants to.”

  “At least until he fucks up again,” Reese said. “We’ve been keeping tabs on him. He stays on a farm outside Junction City and spends his evenings drinking in a bar down the road.” Reese glanced over. “And every morning he pays you a visit at Chestnut.”

  “He’s not coming there to visit me,” Caldwell assured him. “I’ve never even had a conversation with the man.”

  “Perhaps you should. You could ask him why he’s working for Billie Masterson.”

  “Maybe he’s fucking her. Good-looking woman.”

  Reese shook his head. “Even if he is, why would he want to hire on with a one-horse stable? Unless he sees something in that colt.”

  “He can train other horses, too,” Caldwell said. “He’s a free agent.”

  “Do you see him training other horses?” Reese asked.

  “No, but he was just reinstated. I doubt he’s exclusive to the Masterson woman. Like you said, she’s only got the one horse and who knows if the animal can even run?”

  “He may have options he hasn’t considered,” Reese said. “Think about it. If you were Luke Walker, with a five-cent truck and the ass out of your jeans and no prospects other than a colt that has never been raced—what would you do if I asked you to come and work for me? I have more two-year-olds on this farm alone than I can count. Wouldn’t that have appeal?”

  Caldwell nodded but remained silent. He was thinking about how Reese Ryker had described Luke Walker. Boozer, gambler, whoremaster. How hard could it be to trip up a guy like that? And how grateful would Reese be if he could do it?

  “But then you’d be stuck with him,” Caldwell said.

&nbs
p; “Temporarily,” Reese said. “The price you pay. But Billie Masterson would not be racing that horse next Saturday.”

  “That would be one way to handle it.”

  Reese turned. “Well, at the moment I don’t have another. Do I?”

  Eighteen

  THEY HAD TEN DAYS TO GET the colt ready to run. Billie kept asking Luke if that was enough time and he kept ignoring her. He and Tyrone would breeze or gallop the horse on alternate days. With Skeeter up, Will Masterson had already had the colt switching leads and he took to it well. There was a training starting gate in the infield and Luke had the colt in there every day, with Tyrone in the irons, practicing the break.

  Most of the time Billie hung around the track, watching and feeling useless. Most days Jodie came with her. Cactus Jack seemed to love the kid, probably because she’d been around the colt more than the rest of them and had a habit of spoiling him. She’d been quiet of late, uncharacteristically, and Billie wondered if things at home were more fucked up than usual. The kid was still at the farm every morning at first light.

  Billie had made nominal payments to the feed store and the power company. She went back to the bank and met again with her old high school acquaintance, Kellyanne. Since their first meeting, Billie had been trying to remember the nature of their relationship back at good old Marshall High. Kellyanne Cruickshank had been snobbish and petty and Billie recalled that her father was an accountant for a John Deere dealership, which meant that he was a white-collar type, which also meant that Kellyanne considered herself to be on a slightly higher social plane than the other kids. She and Billie didn’t hang out. Kellyanne was in the math club, while Billie smoked joints and drank lemon gin in the parking lot on Fridays before the football games. To make matters worse, from Kellyanne’s perspective anyway, joint-smoking and gin-drinking Billie got better grades than math-club Kellyanne, and a scholarship to boot.

  There had also been an incident at a school dance. Billie’s memory was fuzzy on the details but it seemed to her that she might have left with a boy who Kellyanne had set her sights on. It also seemed that Kellyanne was taking a long time to get over high school.