Damn it, I was going to be late. I pushed the accelerator, willing the road to reel in faster beneath me, determined to make up time lost in a Washington Beltway backup. The dash clock said I had 15 minutes before check-in time at the jock’s room. My horse had a real shot to win, but if I was late, I’d lose the ride. And the $40 jockey fee. The race came by default, as the regular rider’s ego was too inflated to follow Ravinsky’s horse to a second-rate track like Shepherds Town. No such illusions here.
Not so long ago, before Jim took me under his wing, I’d been a runaway in Baltimore. I still shoved away memories of stealing packaged snacks from gas stations and quick-stop food shops, of sleeping in stalls where my only comfort had been the warmth of the horses. I’d worked hard to boost my life up the ladder, and I’d never slide back, not ever.
The aging Toyota shuddered and balked at my insistent pressure on the pedal. I eased back on the gas, crossing the Potomac River bridge. Far below white water surged over gray protruding rocks, and a lone kayaker struggled against the torrent. I crossed a second bridge over the Shenendoah River and climbed the steep hill past Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. Maybe I’d make it. I didn’t want to let Ravinsky down. A good guy, he hadn’t wasted time commiserating about me losing the stakes race on Gildy. Instead he’d found me this ride at Shepherds Town.
The grandstand loomed ahead. Rubber burned as the Toyota slid to a stop in an illegal parking spot near the building. I ran in, flashed my badge at the ticket-seller, and flew up the steep, narrow steps to the jock’s room.
A round-faced man, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his cheek, sat behind a desk in a cramped foyer. “You Latrelle?”
“That’s me. Did I make it?”
“Just. Sign here.”
I did, then entered the room beyond. A TV monitor sat high on one wall, a race rerun playing in black-and-white. Orange plastic chairs littered the floor beneath, and two guys in racing britches and undershirts played pool in one corner. Vending machines and a battered row of lockers lined one wall. The smell of sweat, steam, and laundry detergent hung in the air.
A short, ferret-faced man, dressed only in white breeches and dirty socks, crumpled the racing charts he’d been reading.
“I see the little piece from Maryland’s here.”
I worked to keep my lip from curling. Dennis O’Brien. I’d run into him before and was careful to ignore him now.
“Don’t plan on stealing the feature race today. Might be unhealthy,” he said.
He fancied himself a tough guy, but the way his small eyes nestled up against the bridge of his nose, I’d always thought of him as a meany-weeny. I walked past him, but he grabbed my arm, his fingers hard.
“We don’t like when outsiders come up here to take our money.”
His breath reeked of onions, and I tried to back away. “Dennis, I wanna make a living like everybody else. Give me a break. Let go of my arm.”
My voice might have grown a little shrill. I thought about stomping my boot on his foot, but another rider pushed between us.
Unlike Dennis, Will Marshall’s green eyes reflected some intelligence. He wore his thick hair cropped short. “I don’t like it when they come in from out-of-town on the favorite, either, but leave her alone, for Christ’s sake, before you get yourself in more trouble.”
I jerked away from them, rubbing my arm, and found a seat in a far corner. I laid down my canvas tote, picked up an abandoned program and turned to my race, the Sunday feature race with a purse of $10,000. Impressive for Shepherds Town. The winning jockey’s share would be $600. Reading on, my breath sucked in. A jockey change since yesterday’s
Daily Racing Form
. Dennis O’Brien named on Vengeance, with post position number one, in my race. Damn. He spelled nothing but trouble. He didn’t like women, had no regard for racing rules or ethics.
The tinny loudspeaker crackled, then rattled the first call for my race. I found the silks man, grabbed the owner’s racing colors and slipped into a curtained cubicle to change. They didn’t have a whole lot of amenities for women. I shrugged into the shiny fabric, my fingers hurrying to fasten the velcro down the front. The colors were hot-yellow and electric-orange, not exactly flattering to my pale skin and freckles. With the orange against my dark hair, I looked like a psychedelic Halloween cat. I pulled the helmet on, making sure the gaudy cover stayed snug.
My stomach tightened with nerves as I headed for the paddock, so I did my mental mantra.
Just another race, like dozens before, no big deal
. Jim waited for me in Flame Thrower’s saddling stall, and I hoped the smile I flashed him held the confidence I didn’t feel. Iron rails encircled the Shepherds Town dugout paddock. Above, bettors crowded against the barrier, examining the horses parading below, hoping to pick a winner.
Flame Thrower had drawn post position six in the field of nine, and with those yellow-and-orange blinkers blaring from his face, I picked him right out. The colors didn’t do much for him, either. He was a small bay gelding who habitually displayed speed early in the race. My job was to make sure enough gas remained for the finish.
I knew he had a tough scrappiness and had won over a hundred grand at the Maryland tracks. But five years of racing developed sore hindquarters that Ravinsky couldn’t cure. Though he was an experienced trainer and a good horseman, Jim could only do so much when a horse had that many miles on his legs.
I watched the bay walk around the paddock. I galloped him every morning and knew him well. Today his movement appeared fluid.
The saddling stalls lined one wall of the paddock. I stepped into number six and joined Jim where he stood with Bob Davis, the horse’s owner. Davis appeared to be over 50 and way too fond of the dinner table. He pumped my hand and wished me luck. Sweat trickled down his wide cheeks and left his fingers slick.
“Do you think he’s got a good chance in this race?” Davis asked.
“I appreciate the ride, Mr. Davis. He’ll probably toy with those other horses,” I answered
. Well maybe
. Davis turned to admire Flame, and I swiped my hand on my breeches to remove his sweat. . . .
The paddock judge called for riders to mount, and Jim gave me a quick leg-up onto Flame Thrower. He touched my ankle. “You know what to do, Nik.”
Flame’s groom, a tall, thin black guy named Ron, led us around the paddock once, then into the tunnel leading to the track. Outside the sun flamed hot, and a heavyset pony girl named Kathy rode alongside us on her dun horse. She waited while Ron pulled a strap through Flame’s bridle.
This West Virginia girl was something. Even squished under a helmet, Kathy’s teased blond hair attained the obligatory “big-hair” look, and her bright orange lipstick complemented the Davis silks. She leaned over, grabbed the strap and broke the two horses into a jog, beginning our warm-up.
The late-day heat cooked my helmet, while a stiff breeze from the backstretch blew the track flags and scuttled discarded paper cups and plastic wrappers along the concrete. We’d just eased into a gallop when Dennis sped by on Vengeance. He steered his horse in close, causing Flame to pin his ears and fight Kathy’s hold.
“Idiot,” I said.
“Yeah, Dennis the jockey menace,” said Kathy.
We snickered, Flame Thrower calmed down, and I got a chance to study the rest of the field. Not much talent appeared in the race, and a little thrill sped through me. I could win this thing.
I lined up with the other horses waiting at the starting gate. O’Brien, with the one hole, went in first. The next four horses loaded right up, and a man from the gate crew took Flame Thrower into number six, then climbed onto the side platform and steadied the bay’s head. Someone shut the bar behind us, and Flame Thrower thrust his nose against the exit door, staring straight ahead, waiting.
“You game old thing,” I whispered, patting his dark neck.
The last horse loaded, and the announcer cried, “They’re all in line.”
I moved forward on Flame’s neck, anticipating the shock of his rocket start. The bell rang, the doors crashed open, but the gate assistant held onto Flame’s bridle for maybe two-fifths of a second.
Stunned, I started to yell, but he released Flame, who burst into action, a good two lengths behind the rest of the field. No choice but to use his early speed and pick up stragglers down the backstretch.
Flame’s acceleration carried us to midpack, past Dennis, definitely startled to see us roll by. Now we lay third. I saw room and angled my horse toward the rail, and then, hating to use him up, I “sat chilly,” reins long, my body and hands quiet, almost motionless. I let him run at his own pace as we raced toward the first turn.
Nearing the tight curve I sensed Dennis asking his horse for more speed, and Vengeance responded by bulleting from behind until his nose drew even with Flame’s. They lay outside us now, and Dennis pulled Vengeance onto Flame, forcing the smaller horse dangerously close to the rail, where he took a bad step in the softer dirt before steadying himself.
“Stop it, you son of a bitch!” I screamed.
Dennis grinned at me idiotically, until I shook my whip at his face.
He yelled, “Bitch,” and cut me across my right cheek with his crop.
Tears from the stinging pain flooded the inside of my goggles, blurring my vision. Rocketing into the turn, the centrifugal force peeled Vengeance away, and Flame moved off the rail and found good footing again.
Screw this.
I flicked my whip forward where Flame could see it. I didn’t need to hit him, just show him, he was that game. His stride extended. The eighth pole flashed by in a blur of green-and-white stripes.
“Go, baby!” I screamed.
We were ahead by two lengths, closing in on the wire, when Flame took another bad step. He stumbled and went down, engulfing me with the panicked dread of falling through space. A flash of white. The rail appeared to flip upside down. Hard, sharp thuds as I hit the track and bounced. I curled up, making myself a smaller target. I could hear Flame beside me, struggling to get up.
The ground shook. Dirt peppered my body as the field overtook us. Jockeys screamed, frantic to stay clear. Flame became a protective barrier until another horse slammed into him. Close to my face, his legs churned in a blur as he fought to climb over Flame.
Something smashed my head. An explosion of noise, lights, then nothing.
Light pierced my lids. I turned my head away, then stilled as pain stabbed my skull. I cracked one eye open. Floating freckles and curly red hair. A voice.
“Hey, she’s coming around.”
I remained quiet, getting my bearings, while noting the scent of iodine and rubbing alcohol.
“How you doing?” Cool fingers on my wrist. Probably reading my pulse. “Can you tell me your name?”
I realized I was in the emergency alcove in the track security office, a place jockeys hope to avoid. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t woken up in Jefferson County Hospital . . . or worse.
The face beneath the red hair belonged to a guy. He peered at me. “What’s your name?” he repeated.
“Nikki Latrelle.”
I studied the pattern of his freckles, trying to stay focused, while I stumbled through his neurological show-and-tell quiz. Suddenly the track rail flashed by, white and unyielding. The screaming of jockeys, the fear.
“Did we fall? What happened?” I asked
“You got a bonk on your head,” the freckled guy said. His head turned toward the far side of the small, cinder-block room.
Jim Ravinsky sat in a gray metal chair against the cream-colored wall. I squinted at him, confused and disoriented, then the memory surfaced.
“Is Flame Thrower all right?”
A long breath escaped him. “We had to put him down, Nikki.”
My resolve crumpled, and I couldn’t stop the tears. A tissue box sat beside my cot on a metal cabinet. Jim appeared, grabbed one, and pushed it into my hand. I swiped at my eyes with the tissue and struggled for control. “He took a bad step. That Dennis O’Brien pushed us into the rail. I felt it. I should have pulled up. Why didn’t I pull up?”
“Stop it, Nikki. You don’t know that. Don’t beat yourself.”
“But Dennis . . .”
“Let it go, Nik. People like that, sooner or later they get what they give.” Jim’s calm gray eyes rested on me.
I grabbed some air, and a thought crept into my head. “Mr. Davis. Is he upset?”
“Nah, not him. Horse was insured for $30,000. He figures he made out.”
I looked away. A big-hearted horse gives his life for the guy, and Davis figures
he made out?
“For some people it’s just business,” Jim said. “And if at the end of the day they show a profit, they’re happy. They don’t get attached to the horses and maybe they’re better off that way.”
I stared at him. For Jim, who didn’t have much to say on a good day, this was a mouthful. His eyes were hollowed, and he put his hand on the metal cabinet as if for support. Guilt over Flame’s death probably rode him harder than it did me.
Two horses dead in less than two weeks. A question flickered in my head. I turned to Jim way too fast and stopped, my head jolted by mesmerizing pain. I waited a few beats and the ache receded. “Did Gildy carry insurance?”
“I don’t know if Mrs. Garner had a policy.”
“How could I find out?”
“Ask.” The sudden creases around Jim’s eyes and mouth signaled his impatience. “Why do you want to know?”
“What you said about Mr. Davis not caring because of the money. They snuff people for 20 bucks, killing a horse would be nothing.”
“Mrs. Garner? You gotta be kidding.”
“She could’ve had it done.” I’d gotten the bit in my teeth and couldn’t slow down.
“Not Martha Garner, no way. Her horses are her children.”
With great care I moved my legs over the edge of the cot and waited to see what happened. I figured I’d probably live. “Have you heard anything from Security about Gildy? Anyone see something that night?”
“Maybe you should worry about getting home and into bed, Nikki.” Exhaustion shadowed Jim’s face.
I felt kind of bad, the way I’d asked about Martha Garner pulling an insurance scam. “I know Martha loved Gildy. How’s she doing?”
“Upset. Said on the phone she didn’t want to come to the track.” Jim rubbed at one of his brows, leaving a few hairs pointing my way. “Maybe you oughta take a few days off.”
“No way. How many rides will I lose if word gets out I need time off?” I’d nailed that one and Jim didn’t argue. Superstitions haunted many owners and trainers. They’d bolt at the first sign of trouble.
“Gotta get back to Laurel, Nik.” Jim went back to the chair and retrieved his cap. His movements seemed slow and uncertain.
I kept quiet, restraining the urge to ask more questions. The insurance. Who would gain from Gildy’s death — or my loss on Flame? Was it a betting scam? Had someone paid the gate guy who’d delayed Flame’s start? And Dennis O’Brien . . .
The cream wall began to dance and circle before me. I put my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. The head pain blossomed, overruling curiosity, making me think I should take Jim’s advice.
Ron drove my car back to Laurel Park. From there I nabbed a ride home with a jockey who lived in my apartment complex off Route197. The wooden structures where we lived appeared well-made at first glance. My place was on the second floor. An outside staircase with suspect wooden railing led to my door. This close the building looked seedy, stained with mold, the siding warped and peeling away. I’d fought back, lining the landing with terra cotta pots overflowing with cheap-thrill petunias and gaudy pansies.
Inside I got as far as the couch. Slippers, my Heinz-57, part-Persian cat, appeared at my feet. He sat and opened his mouth in a silent meow. I lay down, carefully placing my head on a pillow. The couch, like the rest of my yard-sale furniture, hid beneath blue-and-white batik slipcovers. A bronze statue of a horse — my only home-decorating splurge — stood on the floor at the edge of a straw rug. I loved books, and a collection of favorites stuffed a battered IKEA cabinet. Those books, with the help of a dictionary, had taught me a lot.
Slippers stretched and rubbed against the couch, his tail a plume. He inspected me for a moment, then levitated himself onto my stomach and rumbled into full purr.
The ringing phone woke me. I let the machine take Jim’s call.
“Nikki. I’m entering Bourbon Bonnet in a claimer, going a mile and a sixteenth. Wanna put you on, if you’re up to it. Let me know.”
A mediocre horse, running in a mediocre race, but I’d take the ride. Just hoped my luck improved, and the
horse’s
luck.
Louis Fein owned this one, and a couple of promising two-year-olds almost ready for their first starts. Sometimes I worried. Louis seemed flighty, and Jim was so terse, with little ability to sweet-talk clients. Some owners needed pampering. Jim didn’t dish that out and had probably lost good horses because of it.
A few days, several nightmares, and a half-bottle of Ibuprofen later, I walked into the Laurel paddock wearing Louis’s black-and-silver silks. Bourbon Bonnet looked dull, but she’d been known to produce a late kick. I hoped she would, as I rode her onto the track, a pony escort hardly necessary. Bourbon tended to be quiet and lazy. I booted her into a gallop, chirping and shaking the reins, trying to wake her up. I let the other horses and red-coated outriders move ahead on the backside. Away from the spectators, I whacked her once with my whip. Her head came up and she grabbed the bit.
“Good girl. Don’t go back to sleep.” And
don’t fall
.
Push back the fear, the images of Flame buckling, the white rail upside down, flying past my head. I focused on the immediate present, throwing up mental battlements against panic. Think about Bourbon drawing the number one post position, dwell on the old track saying, “First one in, last one out.” Bourbon was a prime candidate, likely to fall asleep in the gate while waiting for the remaining eight-horse field to load.
Sure enough, when the bell rang and the pack erupted from the gate, seven horses blasted away from me. Their hindquarters churned, muscles bulging as they sprayed hard, stinging dirt into my face. The pounding of aluminum-shod hooves was loud and rhythmic. Their bodies pumped air, adrenalin, and blood, producing a hot horse smell that flew back to me.
There was no point asking Bourbon for speed. She’d run her early, plodding pace, tucked just behind the gang ahead. I sat chilly through the first turn and midway down the backstretch I went for the whip, but my hand froze. Would she take a bad step? So much safer not to push. And what . . . retire?
I don’t think so.
I cracked her twice, she lengthened her stride, and we passed three horses on the inside going into the last turn. At the top of the lane my filly ran fourth, and I got into her again with the whip, hoping to evoke that late run. She kicked in suddenly, passed the number three horse and drove for the wire. The lead horse faltered and bore out, her stride losing the rhythm of speed. We swept by, leaving one horse still to catch. Here comes the wire. We flashed under in second place. It was over. I’d made it. My legs felt shaky and tears of relief stung my eyes.
My 10 percent of the place money gave me $240, not bad for less than two minutes work. A Venus Stakes place on Gildy would have paid $4,000.
The Mexican groom, Ramon, waited for me, his gold earring bright in the afternoon sun. I slid off and handed the reins over.
“Hey Nikki, great ride.” Carla Ruben, long legs supple beneath a short white skirt, stood next to Louis. They were out in the deep sand of the track, Louis in shiny tasseled loafers and Carla in turquoise sandals.
Louis wore the satisfied owner’s grin. “Way to go, Nikki. After the way she broke, I don’t know how you got her up for the place.”
Carla darted a glance my way. “Louis and I are going back to the box. Join us?”
“Why don’t you?” Louis said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Sure, thanks.” I went to the jock’s room, showered, and changed into street clothes, relieved I’d brought the black slacks and clean polo shirt.
Inside the Laurel grandstand Carla and Louis were sitting in a box near a glass wall that sealed away the late summer humidity. Outside, the immense mile track stretched in the distance, a vista shimmering in heat. In the infield geese swam in a miniature lake. Carla, wearing silver and turquoise jewelry, looked cool and beautiful. Somehow her sandals remained spotless. Louis patted a seat for me next to her.
Bright laughter from the next box turned my head. A well-dressed, polished woman, maybe 60-something, sat close to a younger man who spoke in her ear. Her salon-perfect makeup and hair complemented her blue eyes, but were no competition for the diamonds that flashed from her fingers. The man touched her wrist and murmured something. She flushed and laughed again.
Carla leaned over to me, her voice low. “Who’s that guy?”
“No idea.”
“He’s hot. You should meet him.”
I hadn’t asked to meet anyone and opened my mouth to protest.
Louis’s face lit with recognition. “Clay Reed. I can’t believe it.”
Introductions circled around. The woman, Janet LeGrange, said she was a friend of Clay’s uncle. Yeah, right.
“Janet, are you an owner or just a fan?”
It seemed Carla liked to dig. The woman’s name sounded familiar. I thought Bill Burke, the trainer in the barn behind Jim’s, might be her trainer.
“Janet has a great little horse running later this afternoon,” said Clay. “You guys might want to put a couple of dollars on.”
Carla turned to him. “And what about you, Clay?”
“I enjoy racing and dabble a little in the industry.”
“He’s so modest,” said Janet. “Clayton’s really in the loop, buys and sells, consults, knows
everybody
. He’s really helped me, and such a dear to keep me company since my loss.”
Janet gushed, obviously quite taken with Clay. But he was a handsome one. Streaked blond hair, blue eyes, great bones and the pronounced curve in his nose kept him out of “pretty boy” territory. His eyes roamed over Carla and me. He surprised me when his gaze made a final landing on me.
“You rode in the last race.” His stare made me nervous.
“Nikki’s wonderful,” said Carla. “She rode Louis’s horse and almost won.”
“Almost isn’t the same thing as winning,” I said. Did I have to sound so sharp?
“No, it’s not,” Clay said. “You strike me as someone who likes to win . . . . I am.” His eyes on me again, speculative, almost too familiar. My blood rushed.
“Since you two have so much in common, maybe we should all go out sometime.” Carla put a hand on Louis’s arm. “Do you think Clay’s a candidate for the limbo stick at Coca Mocha?”
This moved way too fast for me. Clay wasn’t interested in going out. Why did Carla have to play match-maker? What would I
wear
?
Janet seemed to rear up in her seat. “Clayton’s quite busy most of the time,” she said, her smile thinning.
I glanced at Carla’s program. It listed Burke as Janet’s trainer, though I’d never seen her around his barn. She probably didn’t want to dust up her diamonds.
Louis chose to ignore Janet’s outburst. “What do you say, Clay? Been a while since we’ve partied.”
Janet studied a perfectly manicured fingernail, scowling as if the pink polish had become offensive.
Then Clay surprised me, saying he’d like to go. He’d call Louis.
Well, that’s an easy out. He just won’t call. But he was so good-looking, his voice sexy, his gaze a caress.
Easy,
Nikki. I took a mental breath, then stole a surreptitious glance at Clay while he spoke to Louis. I sensed something then, under the surface, a depth unclear and disquieting. Like the dark man who had stared at me from the catty-cornered barn, Clay disturbed me.