Full Mortality (7 page)
A knot of people milled around the red Budweiser wagon. Fancy gold lettering decorated its wooden sides and the interior held squat, metal kegs that spouted foaming brew, permeating the air with the smell of beer. Buzzcut released me and ordered two tall ones from a man with a handlebar mustache and a yellow straw hat.
“I’m Butch,” he said, handing me a plastic cup.
Maybe he should consider a name change, although butcher certainly fit his line of work. I couldn’t think of anything to say, my brain too busy with escape plans. Like throwing myself on Hellish, bareback, and racing for the mountains. My ears strained to hear the auctioneer’s hammer price on the filly.
Butch pulled me to the side and then behind the beer stand, leaning forward, tracing two fingers down my neck. He’d already downed half his beer, and I worried how much the full cup would accelerate this behavior. In the distance, barely audible, the auctioneer chanted for Hellish.
“You must really like horses,” I said.
He blinked, then laughed. “Sure thing, darlin’. Horses are my business, got a whole trailer load of ’em. Got a nice little camper over there too. Wanna see?”
The alcohol on his breath, the escalating sense of being trapped, echoed a past I wanted to forget. The warm breeze shifted, carrying the auctioneer’s voice our way. The bidding stalled a moment, then I clearly heard him: “I’ve got $500 who’ll give me $550?” He repeated himself three times. An endless pause followed, then his hammer dropped on $500.00
“Yes!” My fist pumped in the air and I could feel the grin stretching my face.
“Baby, are you cute when you get excited or what?” Butch stared at me like I was a slice of birthday cake with his name on it. He grasped my wrist. “Are you excited?”
I snatched my hand away. “Not about you.” I took two steps back. “Hey, thanks for the beer.”
“Wait a minute.” Dried foam clung to Butch’s stubble, making him look foolish, but there was nothing comical about his narrowed eyes or the big hand that reached for me. “You’re not leavin’. We’ve got some business to take care of.” He grabbed my wrist again, only this time it hurt.
“No . . . we don’t.” I threw my drink in his face, jerked loose, and made a run for it.
“You cock-teasing bitch.” His sharp words stung my back like darts.
My beer may have doused his fire, or perhaps the two bodybuilder types throttled his anger. They’d been watching from the beer wagon, and a last look back found them marching toward him, frowns darkening their faces. Whatever the reason, Butch didn’t come after me.
I ran past a pen crammed with bleating sheep, startled to see Jack Farino lounging against its wooden rail, watching me, shaking his head. Could that be a grin tugging his lips? I moved too fast to tell and felt an odd regret that he might have seen me playing the tart. Why would I care? I sped even faster.
Back in the office Bertha sat behind the counter savoring a candied apple. She gave me another just-a-minute sign, wiping her mouth with a paper towel, laying the partially eaten apple on a paper plate. The tart smell of fresh apple and caramel made me realize I hadn’t eaten since the chocolate bar at the gas station earlier. Some diet — coffee, chocolate, and beer. I was starving for something healthy, but first I had to settle up.
“Did I get number 13?”
“You sure do rush. Boys just brought a sheet over. Lemme take a look-see.” She stared at the paper while I fidgeted from one foot to the other. She gave the apple a longing glance but restrained herself. “You’re Latrelle, right?”
I nodded.
“You got her for $500.” She paused, a puzzled frown flitting over her face. “Huh, wonder where Butch was?” she said mostly to herself.
You don’t want to know.
I felt a grin tugging my lips and inside my head I was dancing.
Bertha signed a release for Hellish and gave me my change, minus the auction company’s 10 percent commission. I’d use the $265 to buy feed for Hellish.
I thanked the woman, headed for the barn, and ran smack into Dennis coming out the entrance.
“I know what you did,” he said without animosity.
I tried to sidestep around him.
“I saw you up there with Butch. Girl, you know how to operate.” He looked impressed.
How typical of Dennis that deceit earned his respect.
“You wanna watch out for Butch. He can be a nasty shit.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, surprised to get any support from Dennis. I moved around him and headed for Hellish.
“Liked you better with your top undone.” His laughter chased me down the aisle.
A hot shower, lots of soap. Couldn’t get home and cleaned up fast enough. Had to get Hellish first. I rounded the corner into the next barn aisle. The tall brown-haired guy stood next to his placards and equine sale prospects. I slowed and moved toward him.
“Any luck?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Sold these three to one guy.” He had a bag of apples and offered one to a fine-boned mare. “Said he’s gonna turn ’em into show horses.”
“Great.” I moved closer, inspecting the three animals in question. Bays with no white markings, they wouldn’t catch a judge’s eye. They were quite plain, except for one fellow who sported a peculiar whorl down the left side of his neck. The hairs grew in opposite directions from the cowlick. The top hairs pointed to his mane, the ones on the bottom toward his legs.
I hurried on and found Hellish standing with her face in the stall’s far corner. Her formidable hindquarters barred my way. I returned to the brown-haired guy and asked if I could borrow a lead shank and buy an apple.
He handed over a shank and the sack of apples. “Take the bag,” he said. “I’m done with ’em.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking inside. Two shiny apples lay in the bottom. I bit right into one, double-timed it back to Hellish, and stood outside her stall, munching on the apple and ignoring her. I let the tart scent drift to her nostrils. She did a slow about-face, and pushed her head toward me, ears pricked, nostrils slightly flared. I held out the remaining half, and it disappeared into her mouth. While she snuffled at the remaining apple, I snapped the lead shank to her halter. Using the fruit as bait, I led her to Ravinsky’s trailer, hoping we wouldn’t run into Butch. She balked at the trailer ramp, and before she worked herself into a rage, I bit into the second apple, releasing more fragrance. She changed her mind and followed me into the rig. When I had her all fastened up, I fed her the remaining fruit as a reward. Time to crank up the Ford engine.
Threading Jim’s rig carefully through the crowded parking lot, I drew alongside a big stock trailer. Someone had jammed horses and ponies inside without thought to safety or comfort. The bony horses with the old patient eyes I’d seen earlier stared at me through the open bars. The crippled palomino. Silently, I blessed the charities out there, like Rollin’ On Racehorse Rescue and CANTER. They did what they could to save horses from slaughter.
An image of Butch appeared in my side-view mirror. He hadn’t seen me yet. Time to leave. I promised myself — any future race won, any windfall that came my way, a piece of it would go to one of those charities.
A last backward glance. Through the bars of the stock trailer the mournful eyes of the palomino seared me, branding my brain.
Kenny Grimes and I rode back to Ravinsky’s barn. Our horses’ metal-shod hooves clip-clopped on the pavement, accompanied by the squeak of saddle leather. A horde of pigeons skittered along the roof ridge of a nearby building. Probably taking a breather after scrounging for grain. They liked to peck up anything spilled from a feed bucket, would land inside a bucket if a horse didn’t clean up. Management kept saying they’d do something about the birds, but as far as I could tell the population continued to explode.
Kenny hummed a Sting song. I looked for something besides pigeons to help block out images of Butch’s crowded stock trailer. Approaching Clements’ barn, my inner radar began to hum. Jack Farino stood talking to Dennis O’Brien outside the hard-eyed man’s section of shedrow. What brought Dennis here? I’d never seen him on the Laurel backside before. His presence irritated me, like a wad of gum that follows you around, stuck to the bottom of your shoe.
Kenny and I applied boot-heel pressure to urge our horses into Ravinsky’s barn. Who could blame their reluctance to leave the air and sunshine? Inside, I handed my gelding over to Ramon. He’d tuned the radio to the Spanish station, cranked it to a high decibel. Salsa music blared, and Ramon sang along, painfully off-key. When he disappeared around the corner with my horse, I eased over and twisted the volume knob to a less excruciating level.
Curious about Farino and Dennis, I turned to the catty-cornered barn. Had Farino been at the auction
with
Dennis? I hadn’t seen them together, just Farino skulking behind a news paper. Now he disappeared into one of his stalls, but Dennis remained, as if waiting for someone.
A flash of jagged white caught my attention. Helen’s Dream, her head over the stall gate, looking around, bright-eyed and curious. I’d gotten her settled in the night before and fed her a bucket of grain laced with chopped carrots and apples. Now she saw me staring and pinned her ears, withdrawing back into her stall. God forbid anyone should see her looking happy. I pictured her life, a long road paved over hard by ignorance and human error. It’d be a while before she came around.
Clements appeared across the way, clutching a bottle of eye drops. He spoke to Dennis, who jogged off toward the gravel lot where horse vans parked. Farino emerged from his stall, stood next to Clements, said something. Thick as thieves.
I turned back to Hellish. She’d get a day off before going to the track. I checked her water, hay, and bedding. Keeping her stall fell to me, not Ravinsky’s salaried grooms. Good horsemanship consumed time, took planning. I remembered I was supposed to give the filly a five-in-one shot. Who knew if Clements bothered to inoculate his horses against tetanus, flu viruses, rhino, or encephalomyelitis?
Only licenced veterinarians were allowed to give injections at the racetrack. Anyone else using a syringe broke racing commission rules and Maryland state law — a law seeking to keep Maryland free of doped horses and fixed races. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize vaccinations could be purchased through a catalogue and administered “privately” for a fraction of the vet’s fee. Especially when talking upwards of 30 horses in a trainer’s barn.
Jim had asked earlier if I’d inject some of his horses for a free dose for Hellish. I didn’t have any problem with it since the inoculation wasn’t a prohibited substance. Besides, who was I to frown on the practice with my past history of stealing food from convenience stores?
Kenny’d volunteered to help and appeared now with a box of pre-loaded syringes. They hid under a couple of brushes inside a tack box. He held Hellish while I slid the needle into her neck muscle and depressed the plunger. She took it surprisingly well, and Kenny and I went around the shedrow with Jim’s list, Kenny holding and me sticking over a dozen horses. We finished up, and Kenny brought a half filled trash bag into the last stall, stuffed the box of empty syringes inside, and filled the top with an old newspaper and some 7-Eleven coffee cups.
The loud rumble of a diesel engine sounded on the pavement. Dennis pulled up in a four-horse rig, left the engine droning and climbed out. He dropped the ramp on the trailer. Clements joined him right about the time Kenny ambled by with his trash bag. Farino came out to give a hand. Then the three of them waited for Kenny to drive away in his Dodge truck.
They took three nondescript bay horses off the trailer and into the barn. I just knew they were those Dark Mountain horses, the ones supposedly sold as show horses. If so, Clements’ had brought three horses that couldn’t run worth a damn into his racing stable. What sense did that make? I was dying to hear any conversation, but fat chance with that diesel blasting. Besides, I had a race to ride later, needed to clean up and catch a nap.
* * *
I finished a good third, only a length off the pace that afternoon, in a maiden claimer. Afterwards a respected trainer asked if I’d ride one of his good horses in an allowance race the following week. Things were looking up.
On my way out, Martha Garner waved at me in the horsemen’s parking lot. I hadn’t seen her since my night out with Clay. She’d finished shaking that desolate expression that rode her after Gildy’s death. She wore a magenta Nike outfit and squinted at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. A huge pink diamond grabbed my attention, winking through the haze, lying on her right ring finger. I tried not to gawk at it while we exchanged greetings. I wondered if tobacco companies shouldn’t roll out cigarettes in pastel papers. Women who liked their clothes and accessories to match wouldn’t be able to resist. Might be a lot of money in pastel cigarettes.
Then I remembered Clay and the horse with Destroyer in the pedigree. “Martha, you ever find a horse you liked?”
“Nah, Jim didn’t like that horse Reed was pushing.” She started to say more, but broke into a series of coughs. She glared at her cigarette, dropped it on the pavement and ground it under her heel. “I gotta give these things up.”
“I’m kinda glad you didn’t get that horse,” I said. “I’m not sure I trust Clay.”
Martha threw me a sharp look.
I hesitated a moment. “I think he might like money more than ethics.” Was I out of line?
Martha’s eyes danced with humor. “Lord, Nikki, I’ve got better sense than to trust a man that good-looking. What a charmer. You mark my words, honey, a man that charming’s hiding a snake in a basket somewhere.”
Her comment lit me up. I pictured Clay piping a tune for a big cobra and giggled.
Martha nodded. “We’d both do well to stay clear of him. Too bad he’s so damn good-looking.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
I left Martha and drove back to Jim’s barn. Though I’d set out a bucket of grain and flakes of hay for Ramon to give Hellish, I still had an itch to see my filly. Her stall probably could stand a little pitchfork work. Ramon had agreed to clean in the morning for six bucks a pop, but morning was a long way off.
Besides, curiosity about those three bays plagued me. Maybe I’d slip over to Clements’ barn later and have a look. The trainers and stable foremen were rarely around in the late afternoon, unless they had a horse racing. Clements didn’t. Of course, who knew when Farino might be lurking about, but I could always mumble something lame about searching for the barn cat.
The mindless work of tossing Hellish’s stall allowed my thoughts to roam without direction, and they settled on Gildy’s death. Seemed the apprehension of her killer lay low on the county law enforcement’s priority list. That bird-like insurance investigator Beamfelter had finally okayed Martha’s payout, and dropped me as a suspect. Clay Reed. He hadn’t given up — had left a couple of messages on my phone, but I’d avoided him, fearing my attraction for him would override good sense. I could almost hear that sexy voice, feel those warm fingers.
I stabbed the pitchfork at a lump of manure.
Hellish avoided me by moving to whatever part of the stall I wasn’t cleaning. Apparently we’d reached some sort of truce, as she kept her head facing me. I had great respect for that other end. Those hindquarters could drive metal-shod hooves in multiple directions faster than speeding bullets.
I thought about Gildy, the man running from her stall, Dennis and his “show” horses. A snake-like presence slithered somewhere on the Laurel backstretch. I could sense its evil influence, just couldn’t see it. Probably coiled in somebody’s basket.
I finished my work, hung the pitchfork on its nail in the tackroom, and studied Clements’ barn for a moment. I sensed no movement, heard no voices. The place had a deserted feel. I slipped over there, ducked inside the narrow opening of a partially closed sliding door. Stood waiting for my eyes to adjust to the barn’s low light. Odd that Clements had fastened the shutters above the low cinderblock wall so early in the year. Most trainers waited until later to close up against the winter’s chill
To my left, Farino’s small section was raked and tidy. His horses munched hay and examined me with alert eyes. As I moved into Clements’ area looking for those three bays, I frowned in distaste at the heavy smell of dirty bedding. Horses skulked in the back of stalls, sour and uninterested in human contact.
After 10 minutes of creeping around Clements’ shedrow, I found only one of the horses. A horse I recognized instantly with that weird cowlick running down his neck. The whorl had been on the far side when they’d led him into the barn earlier, and I hadn’t seen it.
The bay wore a halter with a brand-new name plate that read “Noble Treasure.” Yeah, right. Horse probably couldn’t win a $2,500 claimer at Shepherds Town. Had I stumbled into the basket?
The metal frame shrieked as someone shoved the sliding door and moved into the barn. Overhead lights flicked on. I froze. Clements and Dennis O’Brien stared at me from the entrance.
“What the fuck?” Clements, loud, heading right for me. “What’re you doing in here?”
His pale eyes were moist and cold, like melting ice. An involuntary half-step away from him put the stall wall against my back. I’d never been this close to the man. Those eyes.
I swallowed some air. “Our barn cat’s been sick — he’s missing. Thought he might’ve crawled in here.”
“You’re full of shit.” Clements’ face so near I could smell his breath. Cough medicine.
Screw this guy. “I told you, I’m looking for our cat. He’s not here, so I’ll leave.”
“She was up at Dark Mountain,” Dennis said.
“Shut up,” Clements’ hissed at Dennis.
I eased sideways and stepped around Clements. Probably stupid, but I couldn’t resist pointing at the whorly bay. “Isn’t this one of the horses you bought at Dark Mountain, Dennis?”
Dennis adopted his sneering punk face. “You stupid bitch. You think you’re so smart.”
Clements’ low voice stopped Dennis like a wall of ice. “You don’t listen, O’Brien. I told you to shut the fuck up. You’re stupid as they come.” Then he turned on me. “I got no horse from Dark Mountain. This horse came down from New York. Mind your own damn business and stay the hell out of my barn!”
Seemed like a good time to leave.