“They got free food over at the arena today.” Chocolate lounged against the door frame next to Andy Blue’s stall, inside Bubba’s barn. She wore a black track suit with gold running shoes. Black swooshes decorated the sides, and gold threads were braided into her black-and-blond dreadlocks.
“I like your hair,” I said, unbuckling the girth and sliding the saddle from Andy Blue’s back.
She twisted a braid against her neck, pointed a long gold finger nail at the horse. “I heard he’s a mean sucker.” She threw the horse a nasty look, then broke into a smile. “But you fixed him
good
.”
“Just got his attention.” The horn of the freight train sounded from the south. Must be 10 o’clock. I hollered down the aisle at Bubba’s boys where they were jiving and listening to a rap CD. One of them sauntered over, led Andy Blue away.
“Who’s having free food?” I asked.
“One of those conventions. Food sellers or some such. Heard last year you just walked in, they was handing stuff out. Real food. Chicken. Beefsteak.”
As the train drew near the engineer blew the horn. The loud rumble increased, kind of like the one in my stomach. I’d gotten too thin, could use some food. Who knew when I’d ever have to worry about racing weight again?
“So,” I said, “walk over with me when I finish with Hellish?”
She said she would, and I headed for my barn wondering if Farino’s magic trick would still work. Had there really been no kindness of heart behind Farino’s exceptional work on the filly? His only interest setting up a betting scam? When he’d left the previous morning, I’d ridden Hellish out to the track, amazed to find the little hitch in her stride had evaporated. She’d felt eager, yet relaxed. I’d been real careful not to let her get into full gear, didn’t want her running off with me, especially not at Dimsboro. The track suffered from hordes of small rocks and uneven dirt that could damage her legs at a canter, let alone racing speed.
Mello stood outside her stall with a shiny metal horse bit in his hand. He held it up. “You needs to use this.” He had on his shabby black jacket and a polka dot bow tie.
“What kind of bit is that?”
“This be Gallorette’s. Polished it up this morning.”
Didn’t know if I believed him, but my scalp prickled anyway. I touched the gleaming bit where it hung from Mello’s hand, free of leather reins or bridle head piece.
Most of the bit was standard — a couple of two-inch rolled and curved metal pieces joining together to form what’s called a “broken” snaffle. The outside ends were joined to three-inch rings that would hang from the cheek pieces of a bridle. When fully assembled reins would also be fastened to these rings.
An unusual rolled metal piece, shaped like a W atop a small oval, attached to the center of the bit where the snaffle pieces came together.
“How’s this work?” I pointed to the odd-shaped portion.
“This here,” Mello wiggled the part, showing it rotated on the snaffle, ”go over her tongue, like so.” He moved the bit as if sliding it into a horse’s mouth, using two fingers to show how both the snaffle and the “W” would rest on the tongue.
The dreaded occurrence of a horse “getting his tongue over the bit” came to mind. I realized the additional piece could keep the horse from doing just that and said as much.
Mellow stroked the metal, nodding. “Gallorette always ran off with the boy ’til we got a holda this. She won’t be able to get away from you so easy now.”
It made sense. “I’ll try it.”
I dosed Hellish with tranquilizer, put the new equipment on and rode out. She took right to that bit. Her head came down, her neck extended, and she galloped along like a stakes horse. When she’d cooled out and was back in her tall, I stood outside staring at her. Between Mello’s Gallorette mythology and Farino’s magic, this filly might come around.
Chocolate showed up, and we left for the arena. Close up I read the marquee: “Welcome D.C. and Baltimore Area Food Wholesalers.”
“Chocolate,” I asked as we pushed through the double glass doors. “Do you work for Marteen, or . . .”
“We’re in sales,” she said, her shoes squeaking on the arena’s smooth concrete floor. She grabbed the handle of a metal door, pulled it open, and stepped through. “Look at this.”
I moved through the door to find myself in the stadium’s crow’s-nest. Cement steps, flanked by rows of padded seats, dropped down to the convention floor below where platters of food on draped tables were surrounded by placards, banners, and people in white aprons and chef’s hats. Thronging about them were guys in business suits and women in skirts and jackets, all jamming food into their mouths. The smell of steaks and baked bread almost made me swoon. Chocolate bolted down the steps; I dashed right behind.
We didn’t look too businesslike, but nobody seemed to care. At the closest booth a man carved pieces from a tenderloin he’d just pulled off a gas grill. His partner offered us a platter of sizzling meat studded with toothpicks. We got busy. The two men wore badges advertising “Potomac Beef and Poultry.” Next door a woman tossed a pan of garlic shrimp beneath a “Metropolitan Seafood” sign. Hot sliced bread sat on a platter with butter.
Chocolate dove into the bread, then resurfaced, her lips shiny with butter. She rolled her eyes. “I’m gonna have an orgasm.”
“You might want to save that for later.” I speared a shrimp as the tantalizing scent of ribs reached my nose. I moved down the aisle, spied a slab of barbequed beef ahead and made tracks.
Carla Rubin stood behind the booth’s counter slicing into the ribs.
How could I have forgotten she sold wholesale meat? “Carved any hearts lately?”
She looked up, her expression warm with recognition. “Nikki! Your phone’s been disconnected. Are you okay?” Then my words registered. “What did you say?”
“Louis tells me you’ve been running around with Clay.”
Carla’s brown eyes narrowed. “That piece of crap. Did he mention I found him naked on top of a redhead?”
Hadn’t told me that. “I asked you about Clay, not Louis.” An edge of anger roughened my voice.
Chocolate appeared beside me, grabbed a rib from Carla’s white ceramic platter. She took a bite and watched us like she was at the movies.
The booth lights lit Carla’s hair to a luminous blond. Her eye makeup was perfect. At that moment I hated her. “Think you can have any man you want? No matter who gets hurt?”
She appeared confused. Then awareness widened her eyes. “You’re still interested in Clay.”
I stared at her.
Chocolate jabbed a partially gnawed rib bone at Carla. “Girl, don’t you be taking Nikki’s man. She got enough troubles.”
“Stay out of this,” snapped Carla. She turned back to me. “You told me you didn’t like Clay. Remember? After the date?”
“That changed.”
“Well, it’s news to me. Clay told me you weren’t interested. Didn’t you turn him down?”
Two men in navy blue suits eased up to Carla’s booth. Both held plates loaded with food. They listened to our heated exchange with open interest. Chocolate picked up a fresh pineapple garnish, then started on a second rib.
“Clay took me to dinner,” I said. “The night before he left for Kentucky. Heard you went along . . . for the ride.”
“Clay had dinner with you
Monday
night?”
I nodded, remembering how I’d almost whimpered at his seductive words about doing it right, taking the time. My face must have mirrored the memory. Carla’s anger visibly defused.
“Nikki, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Chocolate set her hands on her generous hips. “Huh.”
One of the two guys in blue suits seemed compelled to rush to Carla’s defense. “Hey. She said she didn’t know.”
What was it about men and blondes? “Whatever,” I said. “You know what? Clay’s a liar and a con artist. He’s all yours.”
“Sounds like sour grapes to me.” Carla tossed her hair.
I wanted to say something smart about her roots showing, but of course they weren’t. Like a prize show horse, I couldn’t fault her. No wonder Clay moved on.
Chocolate put her hand on my arm. “Come on, Nikki, let’s get away from this trash.” She pulled me down the aisle. “They got pastries and ice cream over there.” She pointed to the opposite side from where we’d entered.
“I’ve kinda lost my appetite.”
“Girl, don’t let that bitch get you down. She ain’t nothing.” Chocolate still had a hold on my arm, tugging me toward the dessert section.
I stopped cold. Two booths ahead Vipe lounged against a counter, decimating a wedge of pie. A turtleneck hid his snake tattoos. His oily ponytail glittered under the arena lights.
My abrupt halt broke Chocolate’s grasp. Her gaze followed mine. “What’s with that Vipe guy?” I asked.
“He a trainer.”
“They’d never let him on the Maryland tracks. Isn’t that a prison tattoo under his eye?”
“Uh-huh. Served up at Jessup.”
My eyes slid from Vipe to Chocolate. “For what?”
“Rape.”
I felt a chill. “He tried to get at me the other night. I think.”
“What you mean, you think?”
We’d stopped in the middle of the aisle, and people flowed around us on the gray concrete floor. A woman with a briefcase gave Chocolate a curious look.
“What I mean is, he must keep horses for someone who’s not on the level. Maybe someone who needs to keep them out of sight. Got one in his barn I know is a ringer.” Is that why he came after me? “Who’s he work for?”
Chocolate took a half-step away from me. “I don’t know nothing about any of that. That man scare me.” Suddenly she looked very young. “And he lookin at us right now. Why you wanna get us in trouble?”
Vipe dropped his plate into a trash can. Slipped his hand into his pocket, came out palming a closed switchblade. His lips spread into a nasty smile, his gold eyetooth winking as he headed our way.
“Shit, Nikki.” Chocolate clutched my wrist.
My glance darted around the exhibit units, display walls, and crowds of people, searching for a way to run. A cop crossed through an intersection of booth aisles about 30 yards away. Not a rent-a-cop, either. A fully loaded Prince George’s County police officer. He wore the big utility belt. I could make out the handle of a revolver.
A week after I’d run to the cop for help, I gazed at the distant rectangle of the arena’s service door on the far side of Dimsboro’s racetrack. With the county cop hard on his heels, Vipe had slithered through that door and disappeared like a snake in the water.
After losing the Latino, the officer, Jacob duCellier, had hustled back to get our names, made us stand beside his squad car while he radioed checks in on the two of us. And Vipe. Chocolate and I had shuffled around uneasily, worried information might broadcast back featuring one of our names. The radio squawked about an outstanding assault warrant for somebody named Ricardo Margoles. Vipe’s real name? More garbled words caused officer duCellier to give Chocolate a hard look, but I’d gotten lucky. Apparently, Anne Arundel wasn’t sharing information with Prince George’s County.
I stood outside Hellish’s stall waiting for Lorna, the mid-October sun trying to reassure me with its Indian summer warmth. I knew better. The increasing chill of the past few nights held a warning. Winter, with icy claws, crouched just beyond the northern horizon.
In the distance, Lorna’s battered Jetta turned into the Dimsboro entrance near the arena, and I stood up, stretching out some kinks left over from the Dimsboro horse that had thrown me. Earlier in the week I’d finally driven up to Laurel to visit Lorna and my cat, check my mail, make sure sister Lucy wasn’t trashing my apartment. After a show of indignation, Slippers had finally climbed into my lap at the Doones’ kitchen table. I’d told Lorna about the Vipe incident, and how Clay had taken Carla to Kentucky. Lorna had promised me a return visit.
Now her red Jetta bumped over the gravel lot and stopped next to my car. Swirls of dust from the dry ground rose beneath the tires leaving a thick coat on both our vehicles. Lorna slammed her car door, crunching gravel as she walked toward me. “Nikki, dude, seen any vipers lately?” She had a great smile, and those silly green streaks still curled through her mop of red hair.
“Nah,” I said, giving her a hug. “He’s disappeared.”
A bright reflection caught my peripheral vision. A black Mercedes with glossy chrome nosed around the turn into the backside. “We might have a visitor.” I turned toward the car.
Lorna squinted, read the tag. “Vanity plate says Carla 1. Nice wheels.”
“Too bad the driver isn’t.” What was she doing here?
“That’s
the
Carla?” Lorna drew herself up and glared at the approaching car. “She’s got a lotta nerve showing up here.”
The Roadster stopped next to Lorna’s Jetta and more dust swept up, forming a column of particles floating in the hard noon light. Carla stepped from her car, a butter-soft black leather jacket wrapping her breasts, her favorite pair of cowgirl boots accentuating her long legs.
“Oh.” Lorna sounded deflated.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I know.”
“Before you say anything, Nikki,” Carla said, striding toward me, “you’re right and I’m sorry.”
Though I’d had a week to cool off, anger and hurt welled up inside me. Still, I was curious. “Go on.”
Carla’s eyes searched my face. “Clay lied to me about you, but I should have checked with you, not taken him at his word.”
“Duh,” said Lorna.
Carla took in Lorna’s red streaks and brow ring. Restrained herself.
“He took me to this elegant restaurant. Dinner, champagne, the whole works. Then this older man joins us for dessert.” She stopped for two beats, a grimace twisting her face. “Guy’s a name-dropping jerk who made sure I knew he was rich. Next morning Clay calls me about how anxious he is to sell this guy a racehorse. Wants
me
to go out with the old goat. Schmooze him into buying the horse. Can you imagine?”
Carla looked so appalled and astonished, I burst out laughing. She almost swallowed her tongue burying a comeback. She waited a few beats. “I guess I deserved that.”
Unspoken words hung in the warm air. Behind me Hellish rattled her empty feed bucket. In the silence that followed, a man pushed a squeaky wheelbarrow piled high with dirty straw toward the nearby manure pit.
Carla shrugged. “I guess there’s nothing else to say.” She turned away from us.
“He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” I said.
She swung around, a glint in her eye. “Total prick.”
Lorna chose that moment to ask the question I’d burned with. “So did he stud you with his heavy metal?”
Carla’s eyes drifted briefly to the ground. A warm pink colored her cheeks. I had my answer.
“Lorna.” I made a placating motion with my hand.
Carla dove into the awkward silence that followed. “I’m finished with him. He knows it.” She took a breath and looked around for the first time. The broken pavement, decayed wood, rotten roofs. Several abandoned cars and a tractor that looked like it had been rusting since the 60s. “What’s with this place? Why are you here?”
As I recapped events leading to my arrival at Dimsboro, the three of us began to relax. Starting with the cold shoulder I’d received at the Maryland training farms, I ended with my arrival at Pallboro.
Carla’s gaze swept across the decrepit Dimsboro grounds. “I wouldn’t send a serial killer to this place.” She stared at an old metal shed on the other side of the potholed car lot. Three seedy-looking guys sat in there playing cards, passing a bottle. “What have the cops found out?”
“Ongoing investigation,” I said.
“Nikki, you can’t sit in this dump waiting for them to clear your name.”
“She’s right.” Lorna favored Carla with a hesitant smile.
Where had my fire gone? I’d planned to find out where Clements and Farino lived, spy on them, but had never followed through. Dimsboro had enveloped me with a lethargic hopelessness. I had to fight back.
“I think there’s a betting scam going on,” I said. “A guy named Arthur Clements, maybe a guy named Jack Farino, and —”
Carla jumped in. “Farino. That sexy guy, looks like a gypsy?”
I started to add my two cents on Farino but Carla was on a roll. “Wait. Let me tell you. He has a new owner up at Laurel. You should see it. Old lady on a walker, has a big Mercedes with a driver.”
No doubt she was a widow. I exhaled some air. “He’s one of them.” A ring of thieves. The three of us shook our heads. Why did all the hot men have to be scum bags?
“There’s another guy. Lorna knows about this other creep called Vipe,” I said, nodding at her red head. I quickly rehashed the Vipe story for Carla. “But there’s this connection between all three of them and those Dark Mountain horses.”
“Like what?” Lorna’s eyes glowed wide and round.
“Remember the horse I called Whorly?” When Lorna nodded, I turned to Carla and brought her up to date on Hellish’s Dark Mountain rescue. “So this thin boy that worked for Vipe always rode Whorly. Still works in Vipe’s barn with some Latinos. I nosed around, asked who paid their salary. If they’d ever heard of Arthur Clements or Jack Farino. They clammed right up.”
“I don’t understand,” said Carla. “What do you think these people are doing?”
“Suppose,” I said, “they have Whorly and another bay horse with a cowlick? Suppose both sets of Jockey Club papers simply state, ‘single whorl on left side of neck, no white markings.’” I glanced at Carla. She appeared to be following.
“So,” I said, “the second horse might not even need to have an unusual cowlick, just one on the left side. Let’s say they run Whorly at Laurel, Delaware Park or Charles Town, and he has a bad case of the slows. He gets lousy speed and performance ratings.”
“Wait a minute,” said Carla. “Doesn’t somebody check these horses?”
“Totally,” said Lorna. “There’s this guy called the identifier. He’s got, like, this booklet, describes blazes and socks, whorls, any odd markings and the tattoo numbers — for all the horses running that day.” Lorna’s short-sleeved shirt revealed the Pegasus tattoo on her forearm. She tapped it with her right index finger, emphasizing her point. “You’ve been to the races, Carla. Didn’t you ever see that guy, stares at every horse, gets a hold of the upper lip, reads the tattoo number underneath?”
“Didn’t notice,” said Carla.
Lorna rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s call the other horse Rocket. Suppose he’s a good horse, they fake his papers up, and can find a way to get around the tattoo ID? Rocket can impersonate Whorly for the day.”
Lorna’s eyes gleamed. “And the bad dudes bet big bucks and Whorly, who’s really Rocket, comes in, pays maybe 90-1.”
Carla frowned. “But Louis told me if you win a big pot, the IRS is waiting for you. They’re stationed right behind the betting windows. Everyone would know.”
“Right,” I said. “But there are so many gambling outlets now. You can bet on the phone, the Internet, overseas. They’d spread their bets. Hell, there’s even offshore betting accounts now.”
Carla, raised an eyebrow. “Seen any fast bay horses around here?”
My breath caught. “As a matter of fact . . .” I stared toward Vipe’s barn.
Told them how I’d seen another bay breezing around the Dimsboro track one morning like he was running on rocket fuel.
The thin boy had ridden him.
“I’m going over there later, take a look at what’s in that barn. Then I need to figure a way to look at those horses’ papers.”
Lorna all but squealed. “Vernal, my buddy in the secretary’s office. He could take a peek in Clements’ file. Check out the papers on any bays.”
Carla looked clueless, so I said, “The track identifier keeps a folder for each trainer. Any time a trainer runs a horse, the papers have to be in that folder, available to track ID. Most trainers leave ’em there. It’s more convenient, unless a horse is racing out of town.”
“Yeah, but that’s totally discouraged.” Lorna nodded knowingly. “They’re always threatening to take stall allocation away if you race out of town.”
Carla’s eyes started to glaze over. Too much information.
“Clements wouldn’t keep both sets of papers in that file,” I said. “He’d pull the old switcheroo. I need to get into his office. If I could just figure a way to get back inside Laurel.” I closed my eyes. God, how I longed to return to Laurel.
“Louis may be a two-timing piece of crap, but he bought me a Maryland owner’s license,” said Carla. She turned those brown eyes on me. “I can get you in. The rest is up to you.”
“Better be careful, Nikki.” Lorna looked worried. “These could be seriously dangerous people.”
Later, I’d remember her words. Wish I’d taken them to heart.