Full Mortality (4 page)
Martha Garner finally appeared early Wednesday morning. The sight of her forlorn figure hanging outside Gildy’s empty stall stopped me cold. Her clothes were drab shades of gray that added a dismal aura to the petite, elderly woman. Startling not to see her in her usual pink or lavender nylon jog-suit, the colors she’d habitually worn when Gildy would prance into the winner’s circle carrying a beaming jockey decked out in Martha’s lavender-and-fuchsia racing silks. Now she swiped ineffectually at the tears that spotted her lined cheeks.
“I miss her too, Martha.”
“Oh, Nikki. Hold these.” Martha pulled her thick, pink-framed glasses from her face, thrust them at me, dug a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
“That insurance investigator, Beakfeather? He won’t return my calls. First he accuses half of the county of murdering Gildy, and now, with them not finding criminal evidence, he doesn’t want to talk about my payment.” Martha’s cigarette cough took center stage for a moment, and then she fidgeted with her glasses, settling them on her nose.
I knew Martha’s husband, a successful developer, had left a substantial inheritance. Gildy had been the last of a string of quality racehorses Martha inherited after Ed Garner’s heart attack.
“I hope you won’t give up on the horses, Martha.”
“Everybody says that. Even this nice agent I met, Clay Reed. He thinks I should get back in the saddle, so to speak. And of course Jim thinks I should buy one —”
“Clay Reed?” I asked. Boy, he sure got around these older widows.
“Yes, polite young agent, a real charmer.”
“That’s the one.”
“You should put your hook in him, see if you can reel him in.” A familiar spunk had returned to Martha’s voice and a smile worked the corners of her lips
“Not looking for a man,” I said. Was that true? “But if you want a horse, Jim knows how to pick ’em.”
“We’re supposed to look at a couple of two-year-olds, so I said I’d come by.” Martha’s expression darkened. Probably Gildy’s death haunting her again. “I don’t think I’m ready,” she said slowly. Then she touched my arm and headed for Jim’s office.
I tacked up my next horse, a gray colt, joined Kenny Grimes on a bay filly and we all headed for the dirt path leading to the track.
“What’s old-lady Garner up to?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Martha and Jim, rolling by on the paved road in Jim’s truck.
“Jim’s trying to get her another horse.”
“Hope he hurries up — we got two more empty stalls this morning.”
“What?”
“Mr. Crockett fired Jim last night. Sent his two colts over to Arthur Clements.”
“Clements?” I almost shrieked. “He’ll ruin them.” Like Helen’s Dream. “Why did Crockett do that?”
“Something about too many things going wrong for Ravinsky, and he likes Clements’ win percentage.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Clements runs a slaughterhouse the way he goes through horses. He gets wins, but he breaks horses down doing it, and then throws ’em out like trash. I thought Crockett was smarter than that.”
“It’s business, Nikki.”
Some business. Suddenly my hands were full of my colt who’d spooked at a rooster perched on the rim of a nearby trash barrel.
“Damn chickens,” Kenny said, as his filly stared bugeyed at the bird, then plunged sideways. “Why does anybody want a chicken?”
The rooster puffed himself up and flapped his red wings, causing my colt to bolt forward and a few swear words to escape my lips. I stood high in the stirrups, and after reining him in, felt the laughter bubbling up inside me. The rooster crowed, the early morning sun warmed my back,and Kenny broke into a verse of “Camptown Races.” I loved this world.
But when we rode into the barn it hit me. We’d lost Gildy, Flame Thrower, and now the two colts. If Jim lost any more horses, he’d have to cut our salaries. After dismounting, I sank onto a bale of straw. With those colts gone, I’d have even fewer race rides in the upcoming weeks. I hoped Martha found a horse, but a moment later she emerged from Jim’s office, looking weary,and disheartened. I left my straw bale and moved toward her. “Good thing I’m not ready for a new horse. Jim didn’t like those two-year-olds.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Jim said one looked crooked as crap, and the other’s top line’s all screwy.”
I could picture Jim exasperated by a horse with misaligned leg bones, and another lacking the pleasing proportions in the head-to-tail line denoting a potential runner. Some trainers would have a client buy any horse, just so they could charge their owner the day rate. But Jim suffered from honesty.
When I’d finished for the day I stuck my head into his office, trying to gauge his mood. He sat at his desk, shaggy eyebrows drawn in concentration, writing entries in a log book.
“He ain’t never going to believe all this stuff.” Jim refused to look up and continued muttering to himself about the costs of getting a horse to the starting gate.
Maybe this wasn’t the best time. He hated book work, but had to charge the day rate, then bill out separately for blacksmith fees, medicines, special equipment, and even procedures as exotic as acupuncture. I pulled a wooden chair over, scraping its legs on the floor.
Jim’s head came up and he glared at me. “You want to explain this bill to Mr. Why-is-it-so-expensive Peterson?”
“Not really. Just talk about cutting-edge technology, how his horses should get the same stuff the other trainers use.”
Jim’s glare eased into a slow smile. “That’ll work.”
“Jim, what’s with this new guy in Clements’ barn — Jack Farino?”
“Came down from New York?”
“Yeah. Him.”
Jim’s unruly brows climbed in question. “What’s your interest?”
“He asked me about Gildy, made me nervous. And why would anybody want to move into Clements’ barn?”
Jim’s smile disappeared with the mention of Clements and his shoulders sagged. “People are gonna talk, Nikki, and probably that barn space got allocated by the stall manager. Far as I know, Farino’s just another trainer hoping for better luck in Maryland.”
Probably smarter not to ask, but I couldn’t ignore the problem. “Kenny told me about Crockett taking his colts from you. I can’t believe he did that.”
Jim’s head turned away and he held up his hand, refusing to discuss it. Jim avoided subjects that might pierce his shell and draw blood. Maybe I followed his example too closely. He stabbed his log book with the pencil. “Anything else?”
I stood up and stepped near the door. “Yeah, you know anything about a horse Clements has, called Helen’s Dream?”
“Nope.” Jim glared again. A quick exit might be wise.
* * *
I went looking for my buddy with the unlikely name Lorna Doone. She galloped horses for a trainer who had an office computer and online racing and pedigree accounts. I jogged over there and found her in the trainer’s office with a bag of doughnuts. Her frizzy red hair haloed her face, and a gold ring pierced one auburn brow. A tattoo of Pegasus engraved her left forearm. She might have been short and a bit round, but no one would mistake her for a shortbread cookie. Why would parents name their kid after a Nabisco product?
I’d met Lorna about a year earlier. Jim had sent me to the track near the 10
A.M.
closing time to exercise the stable “pony.” Always a treat to take out an older, sensible track pony like Mack that has a big old western bit in his mouth, knows he can’t run off with you and rarely wants to.
Lorna had been out there on a two-year-old colt. Trainers send these unseasoned, often volatile youngsters out late when the track is less crowded and most of the speedy breezing’s finished. I’d jogged Mack about a mile, stopped him and dropped the reins, his signal to just stand and watch a bit. Mack loved to loiter about, feeling superior as he watched the shameful antics of some of the uneducated two-year-olds.
A big colt blew past us, eyes wild and fearful, a broken rein dangling uselessly from his bit. A girl clung to his mane, her face tight with panic.
“Yah,” I’d yelled at Mack, gathering the reins. Being a track pony, he knew what to do and took off in hot pursuit. In his day he’d been a useful sprinter, and with his quick acceleration we drew alongside the colt in no time. I grabbed the dangling rein, then stood in my stirrups, leaning back slightly to get leverage on both horses’ bits. We’d rocked and careened a little, but eventually I’d pulled the horses down to a jig.
“Wonder Dude, you saved my life,” the girl said after struggling for her breath. Lorna’d been a loyal buddy ever since.
Now she grinned up from her chair and held out the bag of doughnuts. I peeked inside. Fresh, fragrant, and chocolate-covered. Oh boy.
“Can I pull the past performances on a horse?” I asked, taking a bite of doughnut.
The way her brow ring rose up I could tell she was curious, so I told her about Helen’s Dream.
“This sounds like a karma thing,” she said, licking chocolate from her fingers and firing up the computer. The filly’s life history materialized on the monitor, and we got busy tracing Helen’s story in
Daily Racing Form
charts listing information like breeding, racing dates, speed figures, and order of finish.
“Dude, this filly’s bred like a queen.” Lorna’s finger pointed to the sire, Dream Boat Special. “Like, he’s a Kentucky Derby winner. And look here, your Dream’s dam earned over three hundred grand. Whoa dudarina, the dam’s name is “Helen’s Last Wish”
I got blind-sided again, emotion welling up.
“Nikki, baby dude, you crying?” Lorna’s voice quivered with concern. “You want more chocolate?”
I shook my head and fingered away tears. Lorna stared at me, curious. “I was thinking about Gildy,” I lied. No, we weren’t going to ponder my mother’s dying wish. Not going there with Lorna. Instead, I pointed to the monitor, hoping to distract.
“Look how they treated her,” I said. Helen’s first trainer had run her three times in five weeks, maybe too much for a two-year-old. She’d had a second, a third, and gotten her first win. Nine days later, she was entered in a stakes race. At Belmont.
“Ignorant trainer,” Lorna said, indignant. “Why not just shoot her?”
We stared at the page. In the stake the filly led most of the way around, then died in the stretch. After that, a long layoff.
“Bet she cracked a cannon bone,” I said.
“Pulled a suspensory ligament,” Lorna offered. “Some of these guys’ll cut off their own foot to make an extra buck.”
We shook our heads, thinking about greed and stupidity. Fortunately, many trainers lived for their horses, lavishing them with the best feed, conditioning and love.
Helen’s next start listed a new owner and a cheaper purse. We read comments like “unruly at the gate” and “fractious at the start.” Her story went downhill through the claiming ranks, where one trainer after another bought her, then ran her back for a cheaper price. Finally she hit bottom, claimed by Clements.
Carla’s black Mercedes sped over the Potomac River on the I-95 bridge, while Cheryl Crow sang “My Favorite Mistake” on the radio. We’d left the capital city’s marble testimonials to our forefathers behind in a haze of heat and pollution. Ahead lay the air-conditioned shopping-extravaganza of the Pentagon City Mall. I’d never been there, but I’d heard about Nordstrom’s, our apparent destination.
Carla eased back the volume and pointed her Gucci sunglasses at me. “Nikki, I’m curious about something.”
When wasn’t she?
“You’ve never talked about a family or how you got into horses.”
I paused, glancing outside. To the right, the Pentagon stood in a huge parking lot, encircled by looping highways. I stared at the spot where terrorists had crashed a plane, and took a breath. Life was so short. I’d locked up my past, letting it fester. Maybe it was time to crack a window.
“I grew up in inner-city Baltimore,” I said. “In one of those narrow rowhouses.”
“And?”
I sighed and the words tumbled out, an unhappy list. “My father died when I was two. Heart attack. No brothers or sisters, just my mom. She worked for this prissy girl’s school as a cook. Got me a job working in the school’s stable for free riding lessons when I was 10.” I paused. A jet flew behind us, declining steeply for its landing at Reagan National Airport. I could feel my spirits going down with it. “She remarried this . . . person, and then she . . .”
“What?” Apprehension laced Carla’s voice.
“She died when I was 13.”
“I’m so sorry.” Carla chewed her bottom lip between perfect white teeth. “I didn’t mean to push . . .”
“A traffic accident.” We didn’t need the details.
“Sounds pretty rough, Nikki.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” We could both hear the anger in my voice.
Wisely, Carla let it go, zooming up a ramp into the mall’s parking garage. We focused on happier things, like shopping.
* * *
Carla powered into Nordstrom’s like she owned the place, and I followed in her wake, sniffing the perfume-saturated air. Glitzy makeup counters swarmed the entrance, while fashionably dressed women with painted faces lay-in-wait behind elegant displays of cosmetics and products touting high-tech ingredients, all of it Greek to me.
“I could move into this place,” Carla said, bee-lining for the Christian Dior counter.
She grabbed a lipstick and peered at the color. She wore a stretchy black suit, with silver buttons. A silver clip fastened French braids at the nape of her neck.
A cheap Goody band corralled my ponytail, and from there I slid downhill. Wait, my sneakers were clean.
Two saleswomen purred over Carla, while a suspiciously perfect redhead insisted on spraying the blonde with sample perfume. Graciously, Carla extended her wrist. I didn’t mind being invisible; this was entertainment.
Carla purchased more products than I could figure out how to use in a year, then slowly turned her gaze to me. “Can you do a make over for my friend?”
“Certainly,” the two saleswomen replied at once, staring at me. At least they didn’t shudder. They frowned, scrutinized, conferred, and pulled lipsticks, brushes, bottles of foundation, mascara wands, eyeliners, blusher, and powder puffs. They stuck me on a stool and went to work.
Later we rested in the Nordstrom’s coffee bar, inhaling buttered scones and sipping mocha latte. I’d stopped at every mirror along the way, amazed at my dramatic eyes and the illusion of perfect skin. Were those my lips? Surrounded by shopping bags, my head spun from a glut of purchases that included a red dress, a black evening bag, a pushup bra, and three shades of lipstick. Outwardly shocked by the indulgence, somewhere deep inside a thrill sped through me.
Carla finished her coffee and gave a feline stretch. “So now you’re beautiful, which is no surprise to me. But we need to do something about your hair.”
Mentally I resisted. Cinderella gets dragged to the ball kicking and screaming. “Most people think my hair is pretty,” I said, folding my arms against my stomach.
“Your hair’s lovely, the style needs help. Wait! I’ve got the answer.” Her eyes took on an alarming gleam. “Felix Alfonso. He’ll transform your hair.” She inspected her Rolex. “It’s just 2 o’clock. I’ll call now, see if he has a cancellation.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, feeling a sudden sympathy for the racehorse’s fear of those large, electric clippers.
But Carla had already whipped out her cell phone and connected the call. The salon must be on speed dial. The conversation raced to a rapid finish and Carla disconnected. “You’re in. Let’s go.”
I sat in Felix’s pink-and-chrome chair gazing at my reflection in the mirror. Most of my ponytail lay in heaps on the black-and-pink tiled floor. My eyes looked huge, my hair — okay, I’ll admit it. My hair looked fantastic. Carla knew style. Short and spiky with tendrils at the neck, an amazing improvement.
Alfonso tweaked a spike more upright, admiring his work. “Darling, you look divine. But you simply
must
use my product.” He held up the can of Spike! that displayed a picture of an effeminate bulldog wearing a pink metal-studded collar.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll get some on the way out.”
Carla, appearing way too pleased with herself, examined the can. “My treat. This way I know you’ll have it.”
“Sweetheart,” Alfonso said, shooting a glance at Carla “Make sure she
uses it.” He looked sternly at me. “It doesn’t work sitting on your shelf.” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he stroked my hair: “I’m
an artist!”
Skinny and dressed in black, I might have taken him seriously, except for the pink shoes. I paid my bill, a major ouch, and we headed out. Collapsing into Carla’s Mercedes, we made tracks for Laurel.
Armor-clad in Spike! and new makeup, perhaps I appeared invincible. Whatever the reason, Carla decided to dig some more. “So you wanna tell me about it?”
“What?”
“Tell me to shut up if you want, but maybe you should talk about what happened, when your mom died.” Carla’s expression grew tentative. “I mean, if you want to.”
Her body held the tension of someone creeping through a mine field. Would you do that for somebody you didn’t like? I exhaled some air.
“I was an orphan, left with a pedophile.” There, I’d said it and hadn’t experienced a mental breakdown.
Carla watched the road. “I’m listening.”
“Stanley, my stepfather, one sick dude. He was after me even before Mom died. I’d probably have run anyway.” I spoke to the dashboard.
“Maybe two weeks after she died . . . I’d been locking my bedroom door at night, sleeping with my clothes on. Then he tried to break in. I went out the window and down the fire escape. That was it.”
“So he never . . .”
“I said that was it!” My voice shook, my hands curled into fists.
“Right.” Carla paid close attention to her driving for a few beats. But curiosity rode her hard. “You’ve been on your own since? How’d you ever avoid social services?”
I sagged into the leather upholstery. “I climbed the goddamn chain-link fence at Pimlico.” I remembered the cold barbed-wire at the top, how it drew blood. “I spent the night, balled up in the corner of a stall, hoping I wouldn’t get trampled.”
“Why Pimlico?”
“My mother loved the race track, she used to take me there. She was crazy about horses and she liked to bet. The first time I went, I fell in love with those horses. They seemed almost supernatural, so beautiful and proud. They gave me a whole other world.”
Carla slowed the Roadster, and pulled onto Route197 from the Baltimore Washington Parkway. “So you slept in a stall?”
I sighed, my body slowly relaxing. “I lied about my age, begged this trainer for work, walked hots.”
“Hots?”
“You’ve seen the people leading Louis’s horses around after they’ve galloped or raced?”
“Right. But where did you live?”
“This groom, he knew I slept in stalls, got me some ID, told me to apply for a groom’s license and backstretch housing. It worked.”
“Jeeez. Weren’t you scared? I couldn’t have done that.”
“Beat living with Stanley. Kind of like running away to the circus. Everyone sort of looked after me.”
Carla appeared dubious. “I think your spinning a rose on this picture.”
Maybe I was, and I still overreacted when guys, like the one in the 7-Eleven, leered at me, but I felt safe now. No one could abandon me, and nothing would ever equal the terror of the night I ran from Stanley.