Something for Nothing (23 page)

“Yeah,” Hano said. “Really. Do you think I'm making this shit up?”

“No,” Martin said. He forced out a chuckle. “I just . . . you know. You caught me off guard. I've got a lot going on up here, and I guess I'm surprised. I thought it would be a while, that's all.”

Martin heard Hano let out a sarcastic snort. He wasn't buying it.

“Well, look,” Hano said. “I'm busy, too. But not too busy to say no to a nice little paycheck. I mean, that's why we're doing this, right?”

“I know, I know,” Martin said. He sighed. “So what's the plan? When do you want to go?”

He looked at Ludwig, who was pretending to read the newspaper while he listened.

“At the end of the week,” Hano said. “Val said he wants us to head down Friday night. So it's not like we've gotta just drop everything and leave tomorrow, right?”

Martin was quiet for a second. “Yeah,” he said. “You're right. It's fine.” He looked out the window, at the empty parking lot. “But do you think it'll go a little smoother this time?” he asked.

“Sure,” Hano said. “Probably. I think so, anyway. But if we do get delayed, at least you know you've got a friend down there that you can visit. I mean, you wouldn't mind a chance to sneak off and visit your little Mexican girlfriend, would you?”

Now Martin offered up a quick chuckle—tried to just laugh it off.

“Hey,” he said. “What about you?
You're
the one who's hoping to get back out there.”

Hano laughed. “Shit yes, I'd like to go back out to Ensenada again,” he said. “Are you kidding me? That was some Grade-A pussy, my friend.”

Martin rolled his eyes. He recognized the advantages of this posture—the one where you embrace the thing you're being teased about or accused of. Ludwig was good at this. “Hell yes, I jerked off last night,” he'd say. “And I'm gonna go do it again right now, in the bathroom. Will you hand me my
Penthouse
magazine, please? Bottom drawer. The one with the blonde on the cover. October nineteen seventy-three.”

Martin had never been good at it. He was too self-conscious for
effective bantering, too worried about how he was being perceived. He knew it, and he'd tried to overcome it, but it was no good. Whenever he tried the bluster and bravado, he sounded fake. Plus, his friends had his number—Ludwig and Beaton and those guys were all over him whenever he tried to swagger a little bit. Maybe if he moved someday and took up with a new set of friends—maybe then he'd be able to become the person who doesn't give a shit what anyone else thinks.

A few minutes later Hano hung up the phone in Santa Barbara, and Martin did the same in Hayward.

“Looks like I'm heading down to Mexico again,” Martin said to Ludwig. “Val's got another scouting trip he wants to make.” He shook his head. He'd already given Ludwig a story about how he and Val were thinking of buying some horses down in Mexico. Not to race, he'd told him, but to resell or to breed. An investment. He'd even thought about asking if Ludwig wanted to get in on it, but he didn't, just in case Ludwig said yes.

“Uh-huh,” Ludwig said. He didn't even look up from his work. “Horses and hookers, it sounds like.”

“Yeah, well, that's an important part of the transaction,” Martin said. “The seller wants to show you a good time. You really can't say no.”

Ludwig looked up at Martin, and they smiled.

Then pretty soon they were talking about some movie Ludwig had seen. But even as they talked, Martin's mind kept drifting back to Hano . . . and the girl in Ensenada. Because Martin had in fact been thinking about what would happen if they had to go back. He'd avoid the tequila—that was for sure. But when he thought about the feel of Lucille's firm, bare legs, or the sight of her bare breasts in his hotel-room mirror, he was excited. And curious. Would he be able to experience the thing he'd missed out on? Because even if they'd had sex—which was doubtful—he couldn't remember it.

I
T WAS CLOUDY ALL
along the coast on the way down to Santa Barbara. They were the kind of low stratus clouds that hugged
the coastline and only came up to about six thousand feet, and so it was easy to pop up above them and not have to fly blind. The extra bonus was that the low clouds meant a smooth flight—no turbulence. But flying above them was disorienting, because from above the clouds everything looked the same. It was a lot like driving the Viking, actually: just a big sea of gray. He was skimming along the top, reassuring himself every now and then that the instrument panel was reliable and that he wasn't actually lost. A couple of times he had to resist the urge to dip down through the clouds, just to see land and convince himself that he wasn't off course and maybe fifty miles out to sea. It was exciting to be up there, feeling as if you were weightless—feeling as if you were floating, defying gravity. But you had to be careful, because the truth was that you weren't weightless at all. Gravity hadn't forgotten you. It was just giving you a temporary pass while it waited for you to screw up.

He descended into Santa Barbara at about six o'clock. When he walked into the tiny terminal area, Hano was sitting there in a plastic chair, looking at him with a big shit-eating grin.

“There he is,” he said to Martin. “Charles Lindberg, Jr.”

“Hi, Derek,” he said.

Hano looked like he'd been spending time in the sun—his dark skin was now a deep shade of brown. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt that made him look even darker than he already was. Martin had decided on khakis, a white T-shirt, and a blue v-neck sweater. He'd ditched his alligator shoes for some navy blue boat shoes. He had a feeling that neither of them had managed to effect the drug-smuggling look. He knew this was a good thing—dark leather jackets and mirrored sunglasses were probably a bad idea—but he was a little embarrassed just the same. What would the Mexicans think? Look at those two jackasses, they'd say. Can't we sell to someone with a little more style?

They had some time to kill, so they went to the same outdoor patio place as last time. It was busy, but not bustling—mostly pairs of people
having drinks and chatting quietly. Martin had the feeling that Santa Barbara was one of those towns where no one worked, and where everyone hung out in cafés and looked good. Kind of like Berkeley. The only people who actually had to do anything were the waiters and waitresses, the cooks and bartenders. But even that was a job where you really didn't expend much effort—especially at this place, Martin thought as he looked over at their waiter. He wasn't the same guy they'd had before, but Martin noticed that he was standing right where the other waiter had, leaning up against one of the white stucco archways and looking out at the street. Maybe his plan was to just stand there and wait to be discovered by some Hollywood director who happened to be walking past. Then the waiter could become famous and not have to work anymore.

“So,” Hano said as he sipped his beer. “I've been hearing about that horse of yours. That he's got a good chance at the Pleasanton Fair. A really good chance.”

Martin felt a surge of excitement. He couldn't think of anything he'd have rather heard at that moment—aside from the sudden news that the trip to Mexico was cancelled but that they were going to get paid anyway.

“Really?” Martin said, trying to sound casual—casual and surprised. “Who said that? Val?”

Hano nodded. “Yeah,” he said, drinking again from his bottle. “Val and a couple of other guys. Do you know Dale Jenkins?”

Martin shook his head, no.

“Well,” Hano said. “He's one of the trainers with me at Barker Stables. He's got a client who might have a horse running in that race, a guy from somewhere in Orange County, and he was saying that you're the main competition. Or that your horse is, I mean. Temperature's Rising, right? Ricky said he's the horse to beat.”

Martin sat there, absorbing the notion that he, Martin Anderson, was the owner of a horse that people he didn't even know were describing as the favorite in a championship horserace. And these were people
who knew what they were talking about—not just some clowns at the local track. How about that?

“Huh,” Martin said. He was trying to contain himself. “It does seem like he's running really well right now. And Pleasanton is a good distance for him—he likes the longer races. He's not a sprinter.”

“Sure,” Hano said. “Yeah, that's right. That race is a mile.” Martin wasn't sure what to say; he didn't want to come across as too eager to talk about his horse, and so he took a long drink from his beer. Evening was setting in, and the air was actually a little chilly. The low clouds had hung in there all day, never clearing, and so the warm air hovered up above. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The sidewalk was busy with people. But you could see that no one was in a hurry; these people were ambling, strolling. They were making their way from one place to another, but they weren't really headed anywhere specific or important. They were fine with a chilly summer evening.

“Hey, listen,” Hano said. He looked around, checking out the woman a few tables over who was laughing at something her date had said. “How long have you and Val been working together? With him as your trainer, I mean? A while, right?”

Martin shrugged. Now he was looking at the woman. “I don't know,” he said. “Six years? Seven years? Something like that. He's trained three horses for me. Why?”

Hano raised his bottle with his left hand and motioned to the waiter.

“No reason,” Hano said. “Well, actually, that's not right. I guess I'm just thinking about your options. I mean, with Temperature's Rising. Don't get me wrong, Val's a pretty good trainer. A really good trainer, in fact. He definitely produces good horses. But it's a small operation. And, you know, there you are, up there in Northern California, and the truth is that there isn't much of a racing scene up there. Not really. There are some good horses, but it's nothing like Southern California. And in L.A., or the L.A. area, you get a lot more exposure. Especially if you're looking to break into Grade One races—which, from what it sounds like, you should be doing with this horse.”

The waiter walked up with two beers, one for Hano and one for Martin, then headed back toward his spot at the stucco column.

“Anyway,” Hano said. He picked up his beer. “I'm just saying that if you're interested in making a move, you might think about working with Barker Stables. With us, I mean. With me. I think we can do a good job for you: get your horse into some good races, help him move up the chain a little bit. I mean, look, we're not talking about the Derby here, but he might qualify for some races with pretty nice purses. Really nice. And I just don't see that happening if you stay located up in the Bay Area. No offense to Val, of course. It's just that, well, I don't know if he's thinking outside of his little domain up there. You know?”

Martin sat, looking at Hano. He knew that there was a bigger racing circuit down south, but he'd never thought seriously about being a real, active part of it. Maybe a race or two, but that was about it. Locating down there? He didn't know if it was realistic. There was the money, for one thing. But also the horse. Deep down, he wasn't sure that Temperature's Rising was the real deal. Wasn't he just a big fish in a small pond—a tiny pond? But here was Hano, suggesting that he really did have the goods.

“Well,” Martin said. “That sounds interesting. It sounds great, actually. But I don't know. Like I said, Val and I have been together for a long time. And it's really because of him that I've had some solid horses. I mean, it's not like I showed up at his stable with Temperature's Rising fully formed. He's the one who kind of brought him along.”

“Look,” Hano said. “I'm not trying to do anything behind Val's back. Really. I'm just thinking about the bigger picture. And besides, this kind of shit happens all the time. It's not a big deal. If you owned Secretariat, then yeah, that's a big deal. But that's not what's going on here. You've got a nice horse, and you're a good client, but Val and I won't be going to the mat over something like this. We've known each other for a long time, too. Five years, or something like that.”

Hano stood up. He stretched and yawned, and Martin noticed that one of the women at another table snuck a quick glance his way.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Hano said. “But then we should probably hit the road, okay? Or hit the skyways, or whatever you guys say.”

Martin looked at his watch. It was about eight-thirty. They were supposed to make it to Ramirez's place sometime between twelve and one.

“Okay,” Martin said. “Go ahead. I'll pick up the tab.”

Hano nodded. “All right,” he said. “And I'll pay for the drinks in Ensenada.” Then he leaned over and gave Martin an open-handed whack on the shoulder.

“Listen,” he said, looking right at Martin. “I wasn't trying to pressure you about your horse. Honest. It was just an idea. If you want to stick with Val, great. I was just talking, that's all. Just shooting the shit. You know?”

Martin forced out a smile. Hano was leaning in a little closer than he needed to, but Martin resisted the urge to lean away. He could smell the beer on Hano's breath.

“Sure,” Martin said. “I know. I'll think it over. We can talk about it.”

Hano looked at him for another second or two, then patted him again on the shoulder.

“Good,” he said. “Great.”

Then he straightened up and headed off toward the bathroom. Martin watched him walk up to their waiter and say something, and then point toward Martin. The waiter nodded. Martin knew that he'd told the guy to bring the tab, but he couldn't help feeling as if Hano had told the guy that he had a loser at table three. “See that guy?” Martin imagined him saying. “He doesn't know a good thing when he sees it.”