“You don’t walk away from me,” he said, his voice a hiss. “And you mind your own business, yes?”
“Yes.” I stood rooted. His liberal use of cologne only worsened a stench of unwashed body.
He recognized my fear and laughed, a high girlish sound. He had what he wanted, folded the knife. “You go now, you have my permiso.” Up close his olive-toned face revealed an underlying pallor.
I stepped backward. Carefully.
Get me out of here.
Made tracks to Hellish’s stall, noticed a hose and twisted the nozzle at the end. Sprayed cold water on my hands and wiped my face.
Mello sat on a broken-legged stool that at one time had been painted yellow. He’d placed the stool before the filly’s stall door. Hellish’s chestnut face peered out above Mello’s gray hair. She had an orange baseball cap in her mouth that she’d probably snatched from Mello’s head. She looked real pleased with herself.
Maybe I should gallop her before I returned Jim’s truck. In her stall I knelt in the straw next to her front legs, looking for evidence of heat or swelling and found none.
I got my gear from the storage compartment in Jim’s trailer, and Mello helped me tack up Hellish. His quick hands moved in familiar territory as they slid the bit into Hellish’s mouth, buckled bits of leather, adjusted the saddlecloth. He walked out ahead of us to the track, and the horse followed him like he was a grain wagon. Once we stepped onto the track, he pushed Hellish’s head away and gave her a light slap on a hindquarter. She jogged off, eased into a gallop, neck arched, chin almost tucked into her chest.
About half way through our circuit, she took off and I had trouble holding her. The filly had a talent for speed. Not that it’d do me any good if she remained uncontrollable. When I finally pulled her up I felt a trace of soreness, her rhythm off a half-beat. Still something in that right front leg. I had no money for X-rays, but she wasn’t lame, just off a hair. Light training, if I could just hold her to it, shouldn’t hurt her. But if I was serious about racing her, I had some things to figure out.
I emerged from my apartment bathroom in clean clothes around one that afternoon. Someone was knocking on my door. Nearby my phone flashed with red message lights I hadn’t bothered to play. Earlier I’d met Jim outside Laurel Park, returned the rig and driven my Toyota home. Slippers had met me at the door howling. I’d fussed over him, checked his dishes and plunged into a hot shower.
Now the cat trailed me to the door, watching me squint through the peephole. Cops. The Anne Arundel homicide detectives, Trent Curtis and Charlie Wells. I opened the door.
“Miss Latrelle,” said Curtis, “we’ve been trying to reach you.”
I’d forgotten the deep resonance in Curtis’s voice. I stepped back. They moved in. Wells gave me a quick smile. A tight pattern of teeny silver bullets decorated his blue tie. Wells’ big shoulders stretched a brown suit jacket, while his thick neck strained the collar on a cream-colored shirt.
“A lot’s happened,” I said.
“So we hear,” said Curtis. “Can we have a seat?” He gestured at my couch, sat on the edge. Slippers went right for his brown suit pants. Rub, purr, rub.
Wells chose a wicker chair. I remained standing.
Curtis impaled me with a hard stare. Those jaded eyes. Wished he wouldn’t look at me like that.
“You know,” he said, “your fingerprints were on that hypodermic we found near O’Brien’s body. State lab found remnants of insulin inside. Nice way to kill a horse. Doesn’t leave a trace, either. But you probably know that.”
Gildy
. Dr. Dawson saying he’d found no traceable toxins. “
No.
I didn’t know that.” I stepped back and sank onto the other wicker chair, then stood up again. Maybe these guys would hear me out. “I figured something out last night.”
“I’m listening,” said Curtis.
I told them about Kenny and the syringes. How Kenny had disappeared. Sketched Clements and Farino back into the picture. When I started in about Whorly and Vipe, I lost Curtis. He came back at me.
“You kill Kenny?”
My jaw dropped.
“Ah, give it a rest, Trent,” said Wells. “Maybe she’s got something there with this Clements guy. We could run priors on the bunch of ’em.”
More good cop, bad cop?
The two of them hung around a while longer, digging at me for answers I didn’t have. With hard looks and a warning not to go AWOL again, they left. I snuck a peek out my window to make sure they drove away. Curtis stood with one foot raised on the bottom stair step, picking at a fringe of gray fur blossoming on his pants leg. Served him right.
The phone shrilled. I grabbed it, heard the voice that always stirred me.
“You doing anything tonight?”
Sleeping, I’d hoped. “An early evening might work.” The sudden proximity to Clay sped me up, pushed sleep down my priority list.
“Great. Let’s grab an early dinner. Got a flight to Kentucky tomorrow morning at seven. How about Mama Stellina’s? Meet me at six?”
I said I would and hung up. Looked at the blinking message lights and turned my back on them. Went to the bathroom and rummaged for the can of Spike!
Clay stood in the foyer at Mama Stellina’s with his back to me, but I knew those wide shoulders and narrow hips. He turned, saw me, and smiled. A glow of heat spread through me. So he wasn’t honest to a fault. Who was?
A stout woman with dark hair pinned high on her head showed us to a table covered with a standard red-and-white checkered cloth. A Chianti bottle, partially buried under wax drippings, stood at the center of the small round table. A candle sprouted from the bottle’s mouth, flickering hot with yellow flame.
We sat in wooden chairs. I set my elbows on the table and reached for a menu. Clay’s hand closed over mine. “What would you like?”
Oh boy. “Chianti’s good,” I said, pointing to the centerpiece.
A waitress who might have been related to the hostess came by with a notepad. Her hair was pinned up, teased, and sprayed. Little plastic butterflies, flowers, and barnyard animals nestled in her beehive. Like the hostess, she was mid-40s, same dark eyes and generous figure, with the addition of heavy makeup. She gave Clay the once-over, taking in the streaked blond hair, the good face bones, intense blue eyes.
Clay smiled at her. She fluttered. He ordered wine and asked if she’d give us a few minutes.
A silly smile grew on the woman’s lips. “Sure, honey. I’d give you as long as you wanted. Anytime.” She gave me a wink and minced away, hips swaying.
After we’d ordered and I’d worked partway through a plate of shrimp scampi, our conversation changed direction. We’d made small talk about the Kentucky yearling sale Clay was attending and the upcoming Maryland Million stakes races.
Now, as Clay sopped up the remnants of his thick tomato sauce with crusty Italian bread, he gave me an intent look. “You’ve been through a lot. Was it hard finding O’Brien like that?”
“Wasn’t pretty,” I said.
“Is that the same guy we saw outside Coca Mocha that night? Made you angry?”
More incriminating evidence. “Guy almost got me killed at the races. Anyone would be mad.”
“Hey, take it easy,” Clay said. “I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. Wouldn’t do that to you.”
A row of Italian opera singers in full costume gestured from picture frames on the wall behind Clay. A dark-eyed young man in a white apron rushed up with a pitcher of ice water, frosted over with condensation. He tumbled water into our half-empty glasses.
I pushed a shrimp around my plate. “It’s been . . . humiliating.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, like he felt bad about my predicament. “Do the police have any leads?”
“Only the ones I’ve given them.”
“Really?” He looked interested. “Like what?”
I gave him the rundown on Clements, Farino, Kenny and the syringes. Decided to leave out Vipe and the horse with the strange cowlick. Too much information.
Clay looked curious and started to ask another question.
“Look,” I said, “this whole thing has ground me down. Can we talk about something else?”
He shrugged. “How about we share a tiramisu?”
Our waitress brought the dessert on a plate with two forks. She hung around until Clay forked a mouthful of chocolate and whip cream through his lips. She shivered and rolled her eyes, animals and insects bobbing in her beehive. I was afraid a cow might fall into my half and pulled the plate away from where she hovered near the table edge.
Clay hid a smile, turned those baby blues on the waitress. “Thank you. Could you bring us a check?”
By the time we went outside I was beginning to wish we hadn’t driven there separately. But I’d asked for an early night.
At my car Clay’s hands closed around my forearms, slid down and held my wrists. He pulled me in, the light in his eyes close enough to burn. He brushed his lips against mine, drew back and studied my expression. Smiled.
I wasn’t exactly beating him off.
The man leaned in, kissed me, and I felt his tongue flick into the left corner of my lips. Surprised, I realized I wanted the warm, wet surge of a French kiss, but Clay only teased at that crevice with slow strokes, never slid his tongue inside my mouth.
Imagining how that would feel made me shiver.
He wrapped his arms around me, held me close. “We’ll do this right,” he said. “When we have time.”
Remembering those words on the drive home, I almost whimpered.
I loathed the Washington Beltway, thought of it as the “Death way.” Even at five
A.M.
I preferred commuting to Dimsboro by taking Route 197 to 301, then rolling south to Pallboro.
New development crowded up to the pavement, suggesting the long anticipated housing collapse hadn’t yet reached the area. Probably wouldn’t, what with all the companies that fed on government contracts protecting the local economy.
I’d read an article in the
Washington Post
interviewing a Prince George’s County group. They’d complained about overcrowded schools, highways, and strained emergency services. One man had asked how it was that developers were allowed to shove in poorly planned housing, get out with their money, and leave the county holding the bag for additional infrastructure and social service expenses. “Look at the results,” he’d said. “Gridlock and higher taxes.”
As I motored down 301 at dawn, I felt empathy for the guy. Vinyl-sided housing mushroomed on gentle hills where only months before cows had grazed on open green pasture. Where would they stash all the cars that came with the houses? How many more fast-food factories and strip malls would spring up to feed these people’s appetites?
I wondered how the area had looked in Mello’s time. When I’d called Jim the previous evening, I’d asked him about the old man.
“Has trouble with the bottle, but he knows his horses,” he’d said. ”Must be up in his 80s.”
“He thinks Hellish is a reincarnation of Gallorette.”
“Huh.”
“Why does everybody keep saying Mello knows things?”
There was a two-beat pause, then Jim had said, “Lot of people think he’s got the second sight.”
“You believe in that stuff?”
“Nikki, if you’re in horse racing long enough you’ll believe anything. Things happen you can’t explain.”
Gee, that had cleared everything up. Now, as my car bumped over the Tavern Branch bridge, my mind drifted back to the previous night, memories of Clay outside Mama Stellina’s. I went right by the turn into Dimsboro and had to make a U-turn to go back.
* * *
I’d brought a bottle of Acepromazine with me, hoping a small dose of the horse tranquilizer might calm Hellish, allow her to be more businesslike in her morning gallops. Mello wasn’t around, so I cleaned the filly’s stall, fed her breakfast, then headed for Bubba’s barn.
The early morning still retained a cool, freshly washed quality from Sunday’s heavy rain. The previous day’s paper containing the development article was stuffed in a nearby trash can. I searched for the date. Monday, September 28. October 1 would arrive Thursday. How would I pay rent? My feet double-timed it to Bubba’s barn.
I found him and Junior in the office. The room was neatly organized and large enough to accommodate the big men and two boxes of doughnuts. I didn’t think there was room in there for me, so I stood in the doorway
They were both talking on cell phones, Bubba seated at a metal desk next to the door, and Junior on a sturdy oak bench. A flat-screen TV with a cable news station droned from a wall shelf, and down the shedrow the grooms had a radio playing loud hiphop. Bubba nodded at me, stuck his head into the aisle and hollered. The boy with the pierced nostril brought a gray horse around.
I rode four for Bubba, got forty bucks, and found two more Dimsboro outfits willing to pay cash. They’d heard I’d mastered Andy Blue and brought me their hard cases. I got through it, but riding horses like that, it was only a matter of time before I got injured.
I pocketed ninety in cash and went back to my filly. I put a needle on a syringe, slid the thin steel through the rubber cap on my Acepromazine bottle and drew out three ccs of tranquilizer. Pulled the needle off the syringe, put it away and got a hold of Hellish’s halter. She dragged me around the stall, not wanting any part of the syringe in my other hand.
“Stop fussing,” I said. “You’d rather me stick you with a needle?” Mello appeared outside the stall, a timely distraction. I zipped the syringe into Hellish’s mouth and squirted the drug on the back of her tongue where it could absorb.
“Gotcha,” I said. Any round won with Hellish was a victory.
I thought I’d ask Mello about Gallorette while we waited for the drug to soak into Hellish’s system. This morning he sported a bow tie in maroon with old stains. His almond-shaped eyes looked tired, one hand trembled slightly.
“Mello, why do you think she’s a reincarnation of Gallorette?”
He scratched at his cheek. “I don’t thinks it. I knows it.”
I squinted one eye shut. Okay, I’d bite. “How do you
know
it?”
“Because I knew Gallorette,” he said, like he was talking to a halfwit.
There it was again, the “k” word. “You saw her at the races when you were a kid?” I asked, hearing the sarcasm in my voice. “You met her in a dream? What?”
“Don’t be gettin all fluffed up with me, Missy. I worked for Mr. Christmas. Trained Gallorette. Back in the 40s.” His head nodded, then turned toward the plaintive sound of the freight train’s horn as it headed through Pallboro.
Mello’s eyes took on a faraway look I hadn’t seen before. “Time was, you could board a train right here in Pallboro. Ride on into Baltimore, Washington. Anyplace. One time Mr. Christmas put me on a train with Gallorette. Rode up to Long Island for the Brooklyn Handicap. Beat Stymie by a nose that day.”
I thought Jim had a picture of that very race on the wall in his office, but I’d never read the fine print, never heard of anybody named Christmas. Hadn’t seen any commuter trains come through, either, just the freight trains with coal cars and containers, like the one that rumbled through now.
“Christmas?” I asked. “Like Santa Claus?”
“Like Jesus,” he said. Anger transformed his gentle voice into a rebuke from the pulpit. “And don’t you be such a doubting Thomas. Christmas is a fine old name in Maryland trainers. Donnelson, Edward, Yancey. Those gentlemen knew how to train. Not like folks today — every kind of drug made legal, sneaking stuff that ain’t. Who knows what all?”
He was really fired up. Then his shoulders sagged, and the bright light from a distant fire receded into the old eyes of a man with a drinking problem.
Hellish yawned. The Ace had hit her. I got her tacked up, and she galloped along agreeably. Truth was, even without Ace, she seemed calmer at Dimsboro. Maybe it was the quieter location, perhaps Mello’s presence soothed her.
Riding back from the track, we passed Marteen’s barn of sorry horses. Chocolate was crawling out of a huge black Mercedes. She stood on the gravel, stretched and yawned, the top on her hot red outfit riding up to reveal a ruby-colored jewel in her navel. Another girl with pearl white skin, long legs, and a shiny black leather getup staggered out behind her. Looked like they’d had a long night. They made for the red door in Marteen’s barn and disappeared. One of Marteen’s grooms slouched behind the Mercedes wheel in a black cap. He drove the car out of sight behind the barn.
I didn’t want to know.
I spent the drive back to Laurel worrying about my October rent. I had visions of an eviction notice, my furniture and cat on the pavement, a big guy with a shaved head repossessing my Toyota. I hoped to find a solution, didn’t want to ask Jim for a loan.
At my apartment I stretched out on the couch. Slippers purred on my stomach while we listened to phone messages. Three old ones from Trent Curtis before he’d found me, an electronic solicitation from a dry cleaners, and a call from Lorna. I’d hoped for a message from Clay. No dice. I called Lorna back.
“Wonder dude,” she said.
“What’s up?” I didn’t feel much like talking.
“My big sister. She’s making me homicidal. Blows in from Florida. Big divorce settlement. Lah-di-dah. Moves right into my room ’til she finds a place to live. I have no closet.”
Being only 18, Lorna still lived at home with her parents. A small house, built in the 50s when they didn’t know about walk-in closets and big bathrooms.
An idea floated by, and I grabbed it like a life preserver. “Think your sister’d like to sublet my apartment?”
Lorna squealed. I held the receiver away. Slippers flattened his ears and hissed at it.
“I’ll ask her! Call you back, Nikki.”
I sorted through my clothes, trying to decide what to take with me. Most stuff could be stored in my extra closet if Lorna’s sister, Lucy, moved in. I had to sublet, if not to Lucy, then to someone else. Couldn’t lose my home, face a new security deposit somewhere else. Hoped Lucy would go for it, take care of Slippers for a reduction in rent.
But where would I go? I might have to sleep in Hellish’s stall for a few days. This thing had to blow over soon, right?