Full Mortality (5 page)
I rolled into Laurel Park at dawn the next morning, cut my engine, and headed for Jim’s barn. A light drizzle cooled the air, and a potpourri of molasses, liniment, and neat’s-foot oil hung heavy in the damp air. I ran my fingers through my newly shorn hair and stepped into the shedrow.
Kenny Grimes barreled around the corner and stopped abruptly. “Hey Latrelle,” he said, sounding puzzled. “You look different. You look . . . good.”
“Was that supposed to be a compliment? Never mind,” I said, waving my hand. “Have you seen today’s schedule?”
He had, and we tacked up the horses for our first set. I took out Bourbon Bonnet for her first strong gallop since she’d raced. Jim gave the horses three or four days off after a race, then maybe a couple of easy gallop days before sharpening them up. I pushed her into a two-minute-lick, Kenny right alongside on a bay colt entered to run in four days. I had a pretty good clock in my head and could tell by Bourbon’s rhythm and speed we moved at about 15 seconds to the furlong. There’s eight furlongs to a mile, so at this rate a mile took two minutes, giving it the name two-minute lick. We zipped counterclockwise around the track, staying near the inside rail. Slower-moving horses went the other or “wrong” way. They mostly jogged or walked near the outside rail.
There’s a little lake in the infield at Laurel, and that morning Canada geese swam on its surface and pushed beaks into the damp ground near the water’s edge. A pair of the birds flew in, low, over our heads, five or six goslings flapping and honking in their wake. They splashed down on the lake, wings folding, tail feathers wiggling. A set of three horses, hugging the rail, abruptly blocked my view of the geese. The trio blasted by in a high-speed work, probably going in 12s, way faster than our 15 seconds to the furlong. The sound of their breathing and the cadence of their hooves played my favorite music.
When we’d done our mile, we walked the horses back to the barn. I finished untacking Bourbon Bonnet, and Juan, one of the Mexican grooms, led her away while I leaned my elbows on the shoulder-high perimeter barn wall. A laundry line strung between roof support posts held green, red, and blue horse bandages above my head. I settled beneath some dry red ones and looked out across the way, catching a breather.
Helen’s Dream busted around a corner in Clements’ shedrow, an alarmed exercise boy astride. He yanked her mouth, and she went straight up in the air and fell sideways into the wooden stall wall. The rider shrieked. A groom rushed up, grabbed Helen’s bit. She lashed out with a front foot, knocking the groom to the side. Then she proceeded to buck and leap on down the shedrow, carrying her terrified rider out of sight around the far corner.
I shook my head, feeling bad for the rider. Was Helen’s Dream a hopeless hellion, or did she have some physical problem like an abscessed tooth? Anyone with a bad toothache would go berserk if somebody shoved a piece of metal in her mouth and jerked on it. Equine dental problems weren’t uncommon. Oh boy, here she came, cantering around the near corner, her saddle empty, stirrups flopping. Another groom joined the one she’d knocked aside, and together they managed to drag her into a stall.
Good thing those horse bandages partially hid me, because I couldn’t drop the big grin off my face. The exercise boy reappeared and seemed okay, except Clements followed right behind, reaming him out, his voice loud and angry. This rider guy was having a bad day.
Suddenly he whirled on Clements. “I don’t have to take this shit from you!” he yelled. I quit.”
Clements raised a fist and I cringed, thinking he would hit the boy. But the kid turned and stomped away, cursing and muttering under his breath. Clements moved opposite Helen’s stall, grabbed an empty bucket and hurled it inside. Helen responded by kicking the wall and shoving her head into the aisle way, ears pinned, bared teeth clacking.
I put my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter inside, mentally applauding her. Right then I renamed her Hellish.
Martha Garner emerged from Jim’s office, spotted me and came over. “Honey, are you hiding under those bandages?”
“Oh no, just watching a horse in that barn lying catty-cornered to ours. She’s a bad actor, but gorgeous as hell.”
“My Ed used to have one like that. All the talent in the world, but more likely to misbehave than win. Drove Ed crazy.” Martha stared over to Clements’ barn. “Now there’s a handsome one.”
I felt his eyes even before I found the subject of Martha’s interest. Jack Farino stood outside Clements’ barn in the shadow of a hay truck. This guy always spotted me first, like he was spying on me.
“Look at him. Makes me think of those Gypsies,” said Martha. “Kinda dark and mysterious?”
Farino knew he’d been noticed and eased around the edge of the truck, disappearing from our sight. “That one could steal your heart away,” said Martha, “like a Gypsy in the night.” This last part she sang out loud.
The old Martha had returned. I should have known when she’d shown up in a raspberry jacket.
“That’s the second hunk I’ve seen today,” she continued. “That Clay Reed stopped by here earlier. I think you were out with Kenny. Now he’s a cutie pie.”
“Clay, what did he want?” I didn’t mention I had a date with him Saturday night, afraid Martha might expect girl talk and tell me again how I should put a hook in him.
“There’s a two-year-old colt with two crosses of Destroyer in the pedigree, out of a nice mare. He thinks he can get him for a good price. Jim’s going to look at the horse today, and if he likes him, Clay will seal the deal, and I’ll have a new horse.”
“That’s great, Martha.” I grinned at her enthusiasm and also with relief. We needed another horse in the barn, and I needed to get ready for Coca Mocha and the red dress.
I said goodbye to Martha and passed Clements’ barn on my way to the car, wondering about Farino and what connection he had to Clements.
I stood before my bathroom mirror, amazed by the rounded cleavage escaping from my red dress, finally understanding why they called it the Miracle Bra. Slippers, fluffy and purring, hopped from floor to toilet seat to the counter, where he inspected the can of Spike! Earlier, inspired by Alfonso’s magical ability to transform mediocrity, I’d groomed my kitty to cat-show readiness, maybe even Madison Square Garden. He’d almost purred himself to death when I did this, then spent time showing off his legs, which resembled feather pantaloons.
I’d done my best with my new makeup and mousse and thought I looked pretty good. I stared at Slippers for a moment, grabbed the Spike! and squirted a little onto my palm. I dabbed it on the top of his head and made a little point, which quickly stiffened, creating the illusion of a miniature knight’s helmet. We both gazed into the mirror, in awe of our appearance.
Carla and Louis were picking me up and driving to Coca Mocha, where we’d meet Clay. This date was excessively arranged. I hadn’t even spoken to Clay since I’d met him at the Laurel Jockey’s Club, and to be truthful, the evening felt awkward. Yet a low level-hum of excitement pulsed in my core as I stuffed some essentials into my new black bag.
Someone knocked on my door, and I peeked through the view hole and saw Louis. I opened the door. Louis stood there wearing a loud blue shirt and gold neck-chain and cologne.
“She made you look gorgeous,” he said. “I heard about the makeover. Carla sure knows her stuff. Is she amazing or what?”
Another one who needed to work on his delivery. Louis came in while I grabbed my bag and a lace shawl. Slippers strolled silently into the middle of my living room and sat motionless, gazing up at Louis.
“Does that cat have a point on its head?” Louis asked.
How do you explain putting mousse on your cat’s head? “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said and closed the door behind us.
We climbed into Louis’s Jaguar and headed downtown. Carla, who’d been waiting in the passenger seat, wore a leopard-print outfit that appeared painted on her body. Someday I’d figure out how she did this without looking cheap. Maybe the confidence and intelligence radiating from those brown eyes stopped disparaging thoughts cold.
But here I sat in a shiny Jaguar, feeling pretty and rolling into the big night out. Definitely cool. The Jag’s engine purred as we motored downtown, city night lights reflecting off its silver hood. We pulled up to a ruby-colored awning with the words
Coca Mocha
lettered on the side in fancy gold script. A man dressed in white shirt and pants opened the car doors for Carla and me. A valet took the Jag and we went inside.
The room held a spicy, exotic scent and glowed with low, warm lighting. Club music blasted, and a dance floor pulsed with male dancers in tight pants and women in eye-catching cleavage. Louis conferred with the maitre d’ and we were led away, past tables draped in ruby cloths, with candles burning in glittering red-and-gold jars. A woman in an astonishingly short skirt leaned over one table, using a miniature flame-thrower to light a man’s cigar. I hoped she didn’t lean over any further — I might embarrass myself by gawking. We rounded a corner and there, ensconced in a booth, lounged Clay Reed.
I’d forgotten how good he looked. Tonight he’d dressed in black, dynamite with his blond hair, and those blue eyes lit with pleasure when he saw me. My stomach lurched and my tongue tied up, not that it mattered with the loud music. We settled into the booth, and I sat, thigh to thigh, with a guy that probably broke hearts on a regular basis.
Clay ordered drinks, and the waiter returned with frosted glasses filled with pink foam, amber liquid and floating umbrellas. These things looked dangerous. I took a sip. Smooth and sweet, went down like honey. Definitely dangerous.
The music broke, and a bald man in a white silk jacket approached our table. His eyes bulged slightly over a nose as large as a horse’s, only not as pretty. “Carla, sweetheart. Louis, a pleasure to see you.”
Carla introduced him as Enrique, the Coca Mocha manager, and his gaze swept over us and came to rest on Carla with a look of adoration. Her blond hair tangled with the leopard print that stretched like skin over her chest and shoulders.
“Darling, you always look so fabulous.” He turned to Clay and me. “This woman keeps our diners hungry for more. Her steaks and chops . . .” He rolled his protruding eyes toward the ceiling. “And her breasts. Carla, your breasts are so delicious.”
“And for you, Enrique, they always will be,” Carla said, with a slow smile.
I managed not to spit my drink out, but my eyes watered furiously. Carla glanced at me and burst out laughing.
“Chicken breasts, Nikki. We’re talking about chicken breasts.”
Yeah, right.
Clay grinned. “Such an innocent,” he said. Come on, dance with me.”
Since nobody has more aerobic stamina than a jockey, I wowed them on the dance floor. Besides, I’d acquired some good moves following my mom when she used to boogie around the rowhouse, where she weaned me on Little Feat and The Rolling Stones.
Later, sated with drink, laughter, and dancing, I figured I’d never had a better time. Clay had been funny, sweet, and attentive, and had never once looked down the front of my dress. But he moved closer now, caught my eye, and slid one arm around my shoulders, fingers lightly grazing my skin. An electric connection jolted me.
“You fascinated me the day I met you,” he said close to my ear. “Beauty and bravery is a hard combination to resist.”
My tongue refused to make words. I think I smiled.
“I’d like to talk to you, but this music. . . .,” he made a frustrated gesture with his hand. “There’s a place near here. You want to go?”
Like wild horses could keep me away. “Sounds good.”
Clay said something to Louis, who sent me a vague wave. I wanted to say goodbye to Carla, but she’d gone to powder her nose and Clay’s hand on my wrist was insistent. Outside a line to get into the dance club snaked down the block and disappeared around the corner. We stepped along the wide pavement, soaking up the cool, smoke free air, and talked about horse racing, a subject my tongue handled with agility.
A face near the end of the club line stopped me cold. Dennis O’Brien stood there sucking on a cigarette, his arm around a young woman. I hadn’t seen him since he’d whipped a welt onto my face and pushed Flame Thrower into the rail. Maybe Jim thought I should let it go, but a hot eruption of anger produced a desire to tear into Dennis. I took a step toward him, but Clay touched my arm.
“What?”
“That guy over there,” I said, my voice almost a hiss.
Clay scanned the line and his touch turned to a grasp.
Then Dennis saw me, his stance becoming arrogant, his lips smirking. “Hey, little miss Nikki. Lost any races recently?” He waved his hand through the air like he held a crop, until his eyes slid to my date and he suddenly looked worried. Maybe he should have noticed the stud before he whipped the pony.
“Look, buddy,” said Clay. “Why don’t you shut up before you get yourself into trouble?”
I thought Dennis would spout off at Clay — he was that cocky. But he surprised me by shrugging and turning away.
Clay’s hold on my arm tightened. “Come on, Nikki, let’s get out of here. You’re way above brawling with trash like that.”
I digested his advice. Maybe I’d continue this fight on the racetrack. I let Clay lead me away. We moved through a canyon of tall buildings, any available stars blanketed by the murky fog of light pollution. Instead, city lights twinkled from the canyon walls, street lamps loomed above us, and car beams bounced and dipped as they swept along the broken concrete of the downtown streets.
A small, posh hotel stood between two office buildings, an elegant awning and doorman drawing us in. Clay led me into a small, quiet bar with green velvet upholstered booths. In my red dress, I felt like a Christmas card as I sank into the cushy fabric. Clay surprised me by sitting close, on my side of the booth. A waiter appeared.
“Nikki, let me order you a nightcap?”
I didn’t have to ride in the morning, but I didn’t want to lose a day from booze indulgence the night before. “I’ve probably had enough,” I said, hoping I hadn’t just committed some kind of date-night faux pas. I’d learned fancy words like that from the rich girls who ate my mother’s cooking at Miss Potter’s School. I’d been exposed to their upscale chatter during riding classes. I’d also been exposed to their derision. My head felt spongy. How much had I imbibed?
Imbibed?
I giggled.
Clay grinned. “You are so adorable. One last drink won’t hurt you, and this is a special night.” His fingertips traced a small circle on my wrist.
The liquor accelerated the sudden eroticism that surged through me, headed south, and pooled as liquid warmth between my thighs. I met Clay’s gaze and noted his quick intake of air.
“Bring us two champagne cocktails,” he said, his fingers never leaving my wrist, his eyes stroking my lips.
Our drinks arrived, and I grabbed the glass like a lifeline. I couldn’t remember feeling this aroused. I didn’t even know this guy.
Clay straightened up, moving away from me slightly, as if sensing my confusion.
“I met Martha Garner recently. She thinks the world of you, Nikki. A shame about that stakes mare, Gilded Cage.”
“That hurt a lot of people,” I said.
“Someone told me you had her for the Venus. You must’ve been upset.”
When I shrugged and looked away, Clay forged ahead.
“You’re a talented rider — just need some good horses that’ll let you show your stuff. I’ve got an excellent replacement in mind for Martha. This guy’s a two-year-old with pedigree up the ying-yang. He’s about two works away from his first race and he just threw in a bullet. It’s an awesome opportunity for Martha. You too, Nikki.”
“I think Martha will get another horse when she’s ready.” She didn’t need a horse pushed on her, not so soon after losing Gildy. And a bullet — the fastest morning work at a given distance, same track, same day — only rated if the competition was good. Suppose the horse produced a bullet work breezing against a bunch of cheap has-beens?
The waiter appeared with additional champagne glasses effervescing with a concoction that seemed to glow. Clay leaned into me, sort of enthusiastic and bubbly, like the drink the waiter set before me.
“That’s just it. If she waits, she could lose out. Talk to her Nikki, tell her you’ve heard great things about this horse. Don’t blow this opportunity.” His eyes shone with a driving intensity.
“Clay, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t be comfortable telling Martha what to do.”
He looked a bit taken aback, then said, “No pressure, babe. I’ll work another angle.”
Somewhere nearby a familiar tune played. Wait, I knew that one. The lyrics “we’re in the money,” floated through my head. I watched Clay dig in his jacket pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, and it was still playing that melody. He must really like money.
He gave me a what-can-you-do look and took the call.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, then listened. “Don’t you worry, he’s all but sold. Yeah, right.” He grinned, “those two crosses of Destroyer will clinch the deal. Yeah, like we talked about. You’re damn right that’s good money.
Super
money.”
He listened some more, a smug expression settling on his face. “Okay. Yeah, later.” He folded up the phone, and it disappeared into his pocket.
Hadn’t Martha said Clay wanted her to buy a horse with two crosses of Destroyer? Was Clay brokering a deal at both ends, taking his five-percent commission twice? If not illegal, surely unethical? And he wanted me to help him? I pushed the champagne away and glared at him.
“What?”
“Martha told me you wanted her to buy a horse with Destroyer in the pedigree. Is that the same horse you’re selling for your buddy here?”
A wary expression flitted across his face. “Not at all, Nikki. There’s plenty of horses with Destroyer in the family.”
“Yeah, but two crosses?”
He looked annoyed. “Nikki, this is my business, how I make a living, not some Girl Scout Cookie drive.”
He had that right. “I don’t like that your padding the price to line your own pockets. And Martha’s the one paying. She’s paid enough already.”
“You’re wrong, Nikki. There’s two different horses. I wouldn’t do that to Martha.”
Why didn’t I believe him? Maybe the earlier smug look, like a satisfied con who’s pulled a scam. He reached for my hand, but I snatched it away, sad to feel the magic dissipating. I wanted that warm rush, that seductive thrill, but not like this.
“I want to go home,” I said.