Something for Nothing (31 page)

Martin nodded. He was thrilled to hear Val sound so confident, and doubly thrilled to hear that Sanchez was feeling good. But he had a feeling Val wasn't done talking just yet.

“One more thing, though,” Val said, confirming Martin's hunch. “After we count up our money from this race—and we're gonna win, Martin, I just know it—after that, let's talk. Because I'm hoping to make another run down to Ramirez's place pretty soon. Within a few days, in fact. The stuff is already in, waiting for us.”

Martin looked at him in surprise.

“I know you were just down there, but that's how it works, I guess,” Val said. He held his hands up, as if to say, What can I tell you?

“The shipments just come in when they come in,” he continued. “And it's a big one, so more money for us. Ramirez said he'd hold it for a few days, but if we're not down there soon, he's got someone else who'll take it off his hands. And I don't know about you, but I'd like the extra money.”

He patted Martin on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but it made him nervous just the same.

“Plus,” Val said. “I want to stay on Ramirez's A list, if you know what I mean. I don't want him thinking we're not really interested, or that he should start sending business to other people.” He looked at Martin now, in that Val Desmond way of his, making sure that he was really listening.

“It's not a problem, Val,” Martin said. “Tomorrow is a stretch, but after that, fine, not a problem.”

Val nodded. “Good,” he said. “I knew I was making the right decision with you, Martin. And Ramirez says you're doing a good job, by the way. Touching down on the landing strip, chilling out in Ensenada. All of it.”

Martin thought about how nervous he'd been on his first trip, and then how drunk he'd been in Ensenada. The girl at the bar, and then waking up sick in the motel room. And her looking at him in the mirror. He was a little bit haunted by that last moment, by how inscrutable she'd seemed. That was the word all right—inscrutable.

“This is all pretty easy, isn't it?” Val said. “Fly in, fly out, make some money. Why mess with a good thing, right?”

“Val,” Martin said. “I'm on board, okay? I said I'm on it.”

Val reached out and patted Temperature's Rising. When he looked up and started talking, he seemed more serious, somehow.

“Look,” he said, “I'm a little worried about Hano. Have you seen him yet today?”

“Here?” Martin asked. “No, I haven't.”

“Well, he's around,” Val said. “The Barker people have some horses on the card in the later races. And I've heard Hano's been sort of running off at the mouth down there. Acting like a big shot, saying that I'm taking too much of a cut, that sort of thing.”

“Really?” Martin asked. But he wasn't surprised. Hano had a big ego—a huge ego, in fact. Of course he was talking. It was exactly the kind of thing Hano would do.

“Listen,” Val said. He pointed at Martin, and narrowed his eyes
just a little bit. He looked scary all of a sudden. “Let's get something straight, okay?
I'm
the guy that knows Ramirez. And
I'm
the guy with the up-front money. This is
my
fucking operation—not Derek Hano's.”

Jesus, Martin thought. Did Val actually think he needed to get something straight here? That there was something he didn't understand about who was in charge, or who he was supposed to be siding with? And besides, the race was in an hour or so. Was this really the time to talk about a feud between drug dealers—or drug runners, or whatever they were?

“Okay, okay,” Martin said. He was about to say something else to try and placate Val, but Val cut him off before he could get it out.

“Just do me a favor,” he said. “Just keep an eye on him when you're down there. You know what I mean? Just let me know if you see him wander off with any of Ramirez's guys for a little chat. Or if he says anything to you about me. Or—and this is the most important thing—if he says anything to you about wanting to work out a side deal with Ramirez's people.”

Val looked over at Temperature's Rising, and then reached out and stroked his mane. Martin watched him, remembering the way Hano had stood talking with Ramirez while he sat in the car, waiting. They'd talked for a long time. What had they been talking about? Should he mention this to Val right now?

“Because look,” Val said. He looked up at Martin again, making sure to hold his gaze. “Ramirez and I go back a long way. He's not gonna work out any side crap with Derek Hano. The only thing that will happen to Hano if he tries to get cute is that he won't be coming back from Mexico. You'll be flying all by yourself. Okay, Martin? You get it?”

Martin nodded yet again, but more slowly than before. He swallowed, and then licked his lips, which were dry. “Yes,” he said, making sure to speak clearly and precisely, and making sure not to look away from Val's gaze. “I get it. I definitely get it.”

“Good,” Val said. “Excellent.” His expression relaxed, and he gave
Martin one of his signature smiles. Then he reached over and put a big meaty arm around Martin's neck. He used the crook of his elbow to pull Martin's face close to his.

“Your horse is going to win this afternoon,” he said to Martin. “I guarantee it. Seriously—I fucking guarantee it. I've never seen Sanchez so confident.” His face was right up against Martin's, and Martin could smell his lunch. It smelled like fried food. Maybe something from the fair. Maybe a corn dog. Yes, Martin thought in his discomfort—his breath smells like corn dog.

Val let go of Martin, and Martin found himself wondering suddenly if there really was a fix on—the sort of thing he'd been talking about earlier with Ted Reasoner. Maybe there was an agreement with the others that this was Val's race (or Temperature's Rising's race). Maybe, Martin thought, that's how things worked at these big races.

But he knew this was ridiculous. In a little while Temperature's Rising was going to run, and he'd either win or not win on the merits of his own talents. And yes, Martin was going to plunk down some money on the race. It was bad luck not to bet confidently on your own horse. Right now Temperature's Rising was a five-to-two favorite. Not great odds, but certainly good enough to make some money. Bet a hundred bucks and come away with two fifty. And so on. Plus, the purse on the race was about two thousand dollars, so even if he didn't bet a dime, he'd be into some serious money if Temperature's Rising won. Some would go to Val, some to the jockey. But still, he'd be driving home with a lot of money.

Martin forced himself to look Val in the eye one more time. “I'll see you in the winner's circle,” he said to Val, smiling.

But it was a forced smile. He was trying to be confident, but Val had thrown him off, both with the talk about Hano and with his unusually forthright talk about the race being a sure thing. Maybe it was simple; maybe this was just the first time Martin had been in a position of real strength with a horse. Maybe this was just the confident Val, as opposed to the guardedly optimistic Val that Martin had come to know over the years. But Martin couldn't help but feel that Val was a little
rattled, that he was off his game a little bit. This was surprising, because if someone had asked Martin an hour ago to name the one person least likely to be rattled by anything, he'd have said Val Desmond—for sure.

H
E MET UP WITH
Ludwig and Jenny and a few other friends in the owner's box, and then he and Ludwig peeled off from the group to place a few bets on the eighth race. Martin didn't know much about the horses that were running, but he wanted to get the juices flowing. It was a long line, one of several in front of the five or six betting windows that were open. The ground around them was littered with torn-up tickets. Peter would have had a field day, crawling around and picking them up. He wished for a second that he'd brought him, but he knew it would have been more trouble than it was worth. He'd want something to drink, and then something to eat, and then he'd have to use the bathroom. And Martin would have to do all this with him, because he couldn't send him wandering off alone in this crowd. No, Martin thought, this is my day.

“Hey,” Ludwig said, slapping him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Isn't that your neighbor? You know, the good-looking one? Marilynne, or something like that?”

Martin looked at Ludwig for a second, trying to figure out how he could have come up with a joke like that. But then he looked over to where Ludwig was pointing and he saw that he was right. It was Miriam—down-the-street Miriam. She was in the betting line just opposite them, with Hal. They were standing there looking at one of the betting sheets you could buy when you walked in, and Hal had a
Daily Racing Form
tucked under his arm.

Holy crap, he thought. They're here to bet on the horses. How about that?

“That
is
her,” he said to Ludwig. “What the fuck are they doing here?”

“I don't know,” Ludwig said as they stood there, looking over at them. “But look at her. Jesus Christ, how can you stand it? Do you ever peek in their window when you're walking the dog at night?”

Martin thought for a second about having rifled through Miriam's
underwear drawer, and how he lay there on her bedroom floor, terrified, listening to her pee. What would Ludwig say to that?

He was about to answer Ludwig—something witty about Miriam at a pool party—when Hal saw Martin. He broke into a wide grin and came walking right over.

“Hey there, Martin!” he said. He reached out and shook Martin's hand—a big up-and-down, I'm-a-steel-magnate handshake. “I
thought
we might see you here. We were just talking about you, in fact. You own some race horses, don't you? Hey, Miriam,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Look who it is. It's Martin, from down the street!”

Miriam waved, and then walked over, coming to a stop next to Hal.

“Hi, Martin!” she said. She was smiling—a wide, friendly smile that showed off her big, incredible mouth and her beautiful white teeth. Oh my God, Martin thought. He took in her blue eyes, her thick black hair, and her porcelain skin (that was how Linda had described it, porcelain). And he took in her white slacks, her black sleeveless shirt, and her bare shoulders. He willed himself to avoid looking at her breasts, but he had the feeling that he'd already glanced at them. Had he? He wasn't sure.

“Well, well,” Martin said. “What have we here? Sneaking off for an afternoon at the track? Do your parents know you're here?” He was going to go for confident and jocular. He hadn't planned it—he hadn't had time to plan anything, obviously—but it seemed like the right tone to strike.

“That's right,” Hal said. “You caught us. The kids are down at my brother's place in Carmel for the Fourth, so we decided to sneak over here and give it a whirl. We're gonna hit the fair later on. You know, what the hell, right? But if you'd been watching us for the past hour, you'd see that we're really out of our league here, I think. It's kind of embarrassing, actually.”

“Well,” Martin said. “There's a lot to consider. The favorite doesn't always win, you know. He usually doesn't, in fact.” He shrugged, looking at Hal and trying to convey sympathy. In fact, of course, he was
pleased to hear that Hal wasn't hitting any winners—though his admission about being inept was itself a little irritating. Martin knew the shtick: you offered a posture of self-effacement, but your real goal was to show that you were confident enough to own up to your shortcomings, or your limitations. It's true that I can't do this thing very well, you were saying. But I do so many other things really well that I don't really care. Enough already, Martin thought.

“What about you, Martin?” Miriam asked. “Are you here with Linda and the kids?”

Martin shook his head. “No,” he said. “That was the plan, but they were too hot and tired after the parade this morning, and so they backed out.”

Hal and Miriam both nodded, but Martin had the feeling that they didn't believe him—which was ironic, of course, in that he was telling the truth.

“So, Martin,” Hal said. “I was just saying to Miriam here that you have a horse running later on today. In the main event, in fact. Is that true?”

“Oh, it's true all right,” Ludwig said, chiming in finally (Martin was surprised it had taken him so long). He gave Martin a big pat on the back. “Martin's horse is running in the big championship race in a little while. He's a big-shot racing guy around here. Didn't you know that? He's like a local celebrity, at least at the track. Isn't that right, Martin?”

Martin shook his head and laughed, aiming now for sheepish. “No,” he said, looking at Hal and then at Miriam (and making eye contact with Miriam for an extra fraction of a second). “Don't listen to him. I mean, yeah, my horse is running today. But the rest of what he's saying is a bunch of baloney.”

But at that moment Martin could have hugged Ludwig. Yes, Ludwig was just being an asshole, teasing him. But it was exactly the way Martin wanted to be represented to the Weavers. Our neighbor is a big shot with the ponies? Wow. That's actually pretty interesting.
Maybe we
should
have them over for one of our cocktail parties again. Maybe there's more going on there than we realized.

“Well, look,” Hal said. “I'm sure you're busy getting ready for your race and everything. But if you've got two minutes to spare, how's about giving us a few pointers here about which horses to choose, and what to look for? I mean, I've got to leave with at least a shred of dignity, you know?”

Within a few minutes they were all back in the owner's box. Martin was beside himself. It was the first time he'd seen Miriam since he'd broken into her house. But more significant was that he was actually at the race track with her—and on his big day, no less. It was almost too much. He couldn't have come up with a better fantasy. (Well, okay—Hal could have been off at a steel conference in Pittsburgh, leaving him here alone with Miriam. And after Temperature's Rising's win, Miriam and Martin could head off to a hotel for a few hours.
That
was a better fantasy.)