Bullet Work (18 page)

“Hold on,” Biggs said, extending the palm of
his hand. “We think the deal with Hudgins’ groom is separate.
You’ve been around. Fights break out all the time. We don’t like
it, but what are you going to do? Couple of hotheads get together,
and the next thing you know you gotta brawl.”

Hudgins’ groom was a victim of the ramped-up
tension on the backside. With his jaw wired shut, it would be a
while before he’d be telling folks why he was in the other barn
late at night.

“That’s bull. People get in fights; they
don’t send each other to the freakin’ hospital. Something’s up, and
you don’t want to be covering it up, ’cause it’s coming out,” Cregg
said. “May not be me, but it’s coming out somehow.”

“What, are you trying to win that Eclipse
this time?” he asked sarcastically.

“No, Allan. I’m just trying to tell the
truth. You ought to try it.” He flipped his notebook shut and
glared at Biggs.

Rosalind knocked on the door, then walked in
bearing porcelain coffee cups with saucers and set them delicately
on the desk.

The pause allowed Biggs to calculate a
response but also released some tension from the room. Biggs leaned
forward and sipped his coffee.

“Okay, I’m going to give it to you all. But I
want a promise,” Biggs said.

“I’m not into promises. That’s not how I
work.”

“Make an exception here,” said Biggs. Cregg
nodded. It wasn’t an “I agree” nod. It was a “Let’s see what we
have” nod. Biggs wasn’t going to do any better by begging, so he
continued. “I don’t need to remind you that both of our jobs depend
upon a strong thoroughbred industry, especially in these
times.”

Cregg nodded, the “I agree” variety this
time. He reopened his notepad.

“Okay,” Biggs said, exhaling loudly. “The
night before opening day, two horses were killed and another was
kidnapped. The next day someone put a note in each of the trainer’s
message boxes demanding twenty bucks a horse per week protection
money.”

The pen in Cregg’s hand scribbled frantically
as Biggs recounted all of the events, including the trainer list,
the drops, and the barns involved.

After several minutes Cregg collapsed back in
the chair and whispered, “Jesus.” Biggs nodded.

“I need your help. Just for a little while,”
Biggs said.

Cregg cocked his neck, as though considering
the request. “This is too big,” he said finally. “This story’s
getting out one way or another. Trainers and owners, you can’t
count on them to keep quiet. Can’t believe they’ve held it this
long. What’s the track doing? Who’s involved on the law enforcement
side?”

“Tim Belker’s our lead security guy. He’s
working with local authorities, but we want to keep it low-key on
the backside. Don’t want a show of police force over there.”

“Maybe you could use it,” Cregg said.

“We’ve increased security and carpeted the
backside with cameras. For now, we need to focus on catching this
guy, not putting the backside in turmoil,” Biggs said. “Hard enough
for the barns to keep their help as it is.” After a pause, he
continued. “Just give us some time, Jason. You’re the only reporter
I’ve given this to. And you’ll be the only one. Give us a few
weeks.”

“Few weeks? You can’t keep the top on this
for that long.”

“Okay, one week. You know what a story like
this could do to our handle and attendance. I’m being straight with
you. I won’t give this to anyone else—just give us some time to
resolve it. If we get a break, I’ll give it to you. Just play ball
on this one. Having an exclusive after we catch the guy will be
better than a piece that just rips us and damages everyone.”

Cregg nodded slowly but didn’t speak.

“I respect you,” Biggs said. “If you feel
like you’ve got to run with this, just let me know first. At least
give me a shot to get our side out.”

The reporter leaned forward and took a long
sip on his coffee, then stood and walked toward the door. “Thanks
for the coffee.”

Chapter 32

Dan dialed Jake from his office.
He’d timed the call to be around the mid-morning break. It was when
the track was reconditioned between early and late works. If he
called any other time, Jake wouldn’t pick up. He was pretty good
about returning calls, but Dan knew the best times to get a hold of
him, and they needed to talk.

Now.

Dan made a decision, either Jake was going to
pay the fee, or Dan was going to yank his horses from him. He hated
the decision, but he might never get a filly like Aly Dancer again
and couldn’t take the risk. He’d move her to another barn or just
get her off the grounds.

It wasn’t worth it. It killed him to think
that he might have to take a pass at the filly stake, but it was
just one race. Just one race he desperately wanted to win.

Jake’s only option was to accept. It was the
only answer that would allow Jake to keep the horse in the barn.
Dan had fired trainers before, and it was never easy. Everything
was personal, but this was his money—his horse, his shot. He either
agreed or that was that. The phone rang, and Dan took a deep
breath. He didn’t even give him time to exchange pleasantries.

“Jake, I’ve been thinking, and I don’t think
we can wait any longer.”

“They tried to kill the filly last
night.”

“What?” Dan shouted, jumping out of his
chair. “I thought we had her under watch. Jake, this is bullshit.
It has to stop. I’m going to—”

“Already done. I’m going to pay. Son of a
bitch, if I ever get my hands on him.”

“Jake, I think it’s the right thing. I’ll
cover the cost of my horses.”

“Nope. I’ve got it.”

“What happened?”

“Guy threw a bunch of Japanese yew in the
feed tub.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Beats the shit out of me. Dancett says it’s
some kind of plant, but if eaten by a horse, it kills them. Killed
Bob Crater’s mare, Breaking Dawn, and Tom Posten lost a horse last
night, too. Same thing. Dirty motherfucker.”

Bob Crater was one of Jake’s biggest owners.
Jake had half a dozen of Crater’s horses at any one time. The call
Jake had to make to Crater this morning made Dan shutter. He
probably lost an owner because of his pride, certainly lost day
money because he had an extra empty stall and probably more to
follow when Crater yanked the rest.

Jake continued, “Doc Dancett was here this
morning. Said he’d read about this kind of thing in vet school but
had never seen it in action. Apparently, it slows down the heart
rate of the horse to the point that it just drops dead. Found
traces of it in Posten’s feed tub and figured Crater’s mare was the
same.”

“Why do you think they were after the filly?
I thought Beth and Jorge had twenty-four-hour watch on her.”

“They do. Aly Dancer was in that stall
yesterday. I had Beth move her. Trying to get her used to new
surroundings and changes. Bastard had his sights on her, sure as
hell.”

“Jesus, Jake. What if you hadn’t moved her?
Good lord.”

Jake was silent. Dan knew it killed him to
give in to the extortion. If it was just him, he wouldn’t give in.
The idea that property in his possession was harmed made all the
difference. Dan had visions of Jake standing bloody in front of
those high school bullies, saying, “I’m not paying”—but pride can
take you down alleys you can’t escape.

“Jake, I know you hate it, but it’s the right
thing.”

“Whatever. Gotta go.”

  

Jake hung up the phone and leaned back, his
hands covering his face. The catch up for the safety fee to the
start of the meet, plus the juice he owed Ginny ate up all his
cash. Despite the purse from the maiden win and his cash on the
bet, Jake was nearly underwater again. The funds for the purse
money were released the day before. He had withdrawn his ten
percent share and deposited the balance in his owner’s trust
account. By agreement with his owners, he could tap that account to
offset trainer, vet, transportation, and farrier bills.

Farrier bills.
He
shook his head.

Fifteen years in the business and he’d never
tapped that account to meet his own needs. Keeping them separate
was the price of integrity. With the load he’d owe for extortion
come Monday, plus Ginny’s juice, he’d be stone-ass broke. He had
three horses entered the next two days. He had to get purse money
out of them, but even if they did get checks, the funds wouldn’t be
released by the track until the following week. He hated making
receivable calls on his owners. He was just plain bad at it. He
could pull some funds from the trust account and replace them. No
one would know. Then again, he would know.

Crooks took money from trust accounts. Jake
wasn’t a crook.

He had Gentleman Tim, a six-year-old gelding
that he owned outright. Jake had claimed him a year back, and he
consistently hit the board between a dime and twelve-five claiming.
He could drop him in for a nickel. He’d lose him sure as hell but
get the five grand out, plus the purse. Thing was, even if he found
a race for him in the next week, the funds wouldn’t clear in time
to help. A private sale would be at bargain basement prices and a
flashing sign of desperation to the world.

Jake picked up the condition book and looked
for an open $5,000 claiming race. Maybe Ginny would let him slide a
week on the juice. He didn’t want to get crosswise with Ginny, but
he needed time.

Time and some wins.

Chapter 33

there was one sound that struck fear
into the hearts of horsemen everywhere.

It wasn’t a sound made by their animals,
though they were always on the alert for signals from their stock
that something was amiss. It wasn’t a sound emitted by stable
hands, veterinarians, or backside help. It wasn’t a sound that
someone unfamiliar with a racetrack would deem
significant—noticeable but not terror-filled.

That sound was the loud tone broadcast
through the track speaker system that signified “loose horse.” Just
after the break on Thursday, Jake and Dan were sitting in the
makeshift office off the shedrow, reviewing vet bills, when the
alarm sounded. The response was instantaneous.

Jake shot out of his chair and shouted down
the shedrow for Jorge and Beth. “Count ’em.” He ran down the line
of stalls, checking inside each one. “Secure them.”

The horses sensed the panic as they reacted
to the alarm over the speaker system. They whinnied nervously,
rocked, and stomped in their stalls.

Jorge pushed a wheelbarrow out of the way and
raced to the far side of the stable to check the horses. Beth moved
toward Jake, stopping every five feet to poke her head into a stall
to make sure the stock was where it belonged. They met halfway down
the shedrow. Jorge came spinning around from the far side. “It’s
okay, boss. It’s not us.”

This dance took about ten seconds and had
been replayed in every stable on the backside. Once it was
determined that their stock was safe, it was time to look outward
to find the loose horse.

Jake turned and rumbled back toward the
office. Over his shoulder he yelled, “Beth, stay here and keep them
calm. Jorge, let’s go.” When he reached the end of the shedrow, he
turned out toward the main road, looking left and right for the
loose horse.

What little motor traffic there was had
stopped. A loose horse was a frightened horse and could do anything
and come out of anywhere into the path of any moving vehicle.
Several other trainers and stable hands were out looking for the
horse as well. Lynn Johnston pointed toward the break in the track,
and all eyes moved that direction.

A jet black, rider-less horse sprinted past
the break, just inside the track surface. Two men on horseback were
trying to corral and contain the animal, but the jet black would
have none of it. It dodged left, then right, haltingly in one
direction, then sprinting for a hundred yards up the track.

The two men were trying to steer the horse
away from the break in the track. Keeping the horse on the
racetrack was safer than allowing the horse onto the stable
grounds.

Two more riders on horseback were moving from
the far end of the track to lend support. The jockey’s racing
saddle was on the black horse, and the reins dangled loosely around
its neck. It reared on its hind legs and kicked out toward its
pursuers. The loose horse let out a whinny that shrieked through
the air and caused many other horses on the backside to join the
equine conversation. The men on horseback moved toward the black
horse slowly, trying to limit its ability to escape.

The two horses from the far side of the track
were approaching rapidly, and, between the four of them, they were
quickly containing the loose horse. Jim Dagens raced down from the
clocker’s station and jumped the railing onto the track. He ran
stiffly through the loam and sand in his cowboy boots—hardly the
equipment for running on a racetrack. When he was about fifty feet
from the horse, he slowed considerably to avoid spooking the
colt.

The alarm continued sounding, causing the men
to shout and gesture in exaggerated motions to communicate with one
another. The horse was jumping with his front legs back and forth.
It spun around and would run twenty feet, then turn and run twenty
feet the other direction, then bounce side to side.

Dagens stepped closer and closer. He extended
his hand to the side and slowly moved toward the horse. The riders
were closing ranks, reducing the area by penning the horse against
the inside rail and limiting any avenues of escape.

Dagens reached out to grab the loose rein.
The jet black horse bolted, rearing on its hind legs like a
desperate boxer striking at an opponent. Dagens fell backward, and
the horse shot past him, between the men on horseback, and sprinted
toward the break.