Secretariat Reborn (17 page)

At least once a month, Christian made a point of stopping by and feasting on his grandmother’s southern cooking that always included pickled watermelon rind, grits, and fried green tomatoes. Every time he walked through their door, his grandmother would say, “Chrissie, what the devil you been eatin’? You’re lookin’ too thin, boy.”

His thoughts returned to the present. He strolled through the Ritz lobby and entered the restaurant that overlooked a small inlet off the bay. He stopped in front of the hostess. “I’m Mr. Roberts. I’m supposed to meet—”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts, your party is waiting.”

He nodded and followed her past tables of diners. In a far corner with a view of the water, she stopped at a table with two middle-aged, dark-haired men in black silk suits. One man with thick curly hair was huge, three times Christian’s girth and easily twice his weight. The other guy was of average build with a pencil-thin mustache and receding hairline. Their dark hair and eyes and olive-colored skin suggested they might be Italians. With their looks and dress, they stood out in the room of lightly clothed diners like two crows among a flock of parakeets.

“I’m Christian Roberts,” he said and shook their hands.

“Nice meetin’ ya,” the big guy said with a Brooklyn accent. “I’m Sal Lamotte, and this here’s Vince Florio. Sit, take a load off.”

Christian eased into the chair and thought,
Lamotte and Florio, definitely Italians
.

“You wanna drink?” asked Sal. Before Christian could respond, Sal snapped his thick fingers and called to a waitress several tables over. “We need a drink over here.”

“So, do you want to hear about the colt?” Christian asked.

“Sure, sure,” said Sal, “but we’re really more interested in you.” The waitress came to the table, and he asked, “What’ll ya have, kid?”

“A Cuba Libre,” said Christian, and Sal waved her away. “You’re interested in me?”

“A hundred eighty G’s is a lot of dough,” said Vince, speaking for the first time. “And betting on a horse is risky, so we’re betting on you. We’ve learned you’re a local kid with ties to the community, makes you less likely to run off, and you’ve never been in trouble, another plus. You also gotta squeaky-clean little business, proves you’re reliable.”

“I see,” said Christian.

Vince slicked back his thinning hair and ran his fingers over his mustache. “Let me spell out this loan for ya. We give you the money right now, and you got two years to pay us back with interest. Your horse comes through, you give us our money, and we go our separate ways.”

“What kind of interest?” Christian asked as the waitress set his drink on the table.

“Hundred percent,” said Vince.

Christian fumbled for his glass, nearly spilling his drink. He was not dealing with horse investors, but loan sharks.

“Relax, kid.” Sal laughed. “We ain’t havin’ you for lunch.”

Christian took a large gulp. “With interest, I’d owe you—”

“Three hundred sixty thousand,” said Vince.

“What happens if my horse doesn’t earn the purses, and I fail to pay you back within the two years?”

“Then you’ll have to work it off,” said Vince.

Christian swallowed and slipped a finger under his collar to loosen his choking tie. “My boat business doesn’t make that kind of money, so what kind of work are we talking about?”

“You ask too damn many questions, kid,” said Sal.

“No, it’s okay,” said Vince. “Christian should know what’s in store.”

Vince leaned back in his chair. “In a few years, I’m fixin’ to move here from Miami and set up shop. Fact, I got an appointment with a realtor this afternoon. My business in Miami just ain’t pannin’ out.”

“Too much goddamn competition,” Sal grumbled.

Vince raised an eyebrow and turned to Christian. “Sarasota is a nice, quiet place, and you and your little boat rentals sounds perfect for an investment. And I bet you know these waters like the back of your hand, know where to find the fish.”

Christian straightened in his seat. “Sure, I fish, fresh and saltwater, and I know how to find and catch them.”

“The boss wants his own personal guide,” said Sal. “He likes fishin’ and gettin’ on a boat, but—” He chuckled, his huge belly shaking like Jell-O, “Vince can’t swim a stroke.”

Vince glanced sideway at Sal and pulled out his checkbook. “You work for me, you’ll be doin’ pretty much what you do now—goin’ on the water, handlin’ a boat. So what d’ya say, Christian?”

“It’s a damn easy job,” said Sal.

Christian took the last swallow of his cocktail and played with the straw, contemplating. His instincts screamed walk away, don’t take the risk—that Vince and Sal were shady. He also recalled his father once saying that the mob had ties in horseracing. If he took Vince’s money and failed to pay it back, he might face more than an
easy job
. But a loan from these guys was the only way to get the cloned colt. “If my horse comes through, and I pay you back in full and on time, we part ways, right?”

“Absolutely,” said Vince, who started filling out the check. “The worst that’ll happen is you’ll end up with a new fishin’ buddy.”

A week later at Allie’s farm, Christian backed his SUV up to his father’s old horse trailer as the sun rose on the horizon. He got out and hooked up the hitch while Allie watched. All the money had come in from Hunter’s purse, awards, and claiming, along with the boat insurance payoff on his burned Morgan. Added to Vince’s huge check, Christian had two hundred and forty-five thousand. The McGregor hadn’t sold, and he was forced to borrow the last five thousand from Frank, using the lame excuse he needed to pay a bill, another white lie.

His life had become a mass of secrets and deception, and he hated it. He couldn’t tell anybody about the colt’s cloned conception, the fraudulent Jockey papers, or the money he had borrowed from loan sharks. Except for Detective Samuels, he also kept quiet about his suspicions concerning Kate—that she probably had burned his boat, maybe murdered her parents, and was stalking him.
All these problems were his, and he didn’t see the need to involve and worry Allie, his mother, or Frank.

Hank had told him people with imagination and who took risks got ahead, but his father had failed to mention the enormous stress. And Christian wasn’t gambling with just horses and money anymore, but his life. Borrowing from Vince wasn’t smart and racing the illegal colt might land him behind bars, but he plugged ahead, fulfilling a promise and his father’s dream.

Allie watched him attach the chains from the old two-horse trailer to his SUV. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she asked. “Meg, my assistant, needs the money and would be happy to feed my horses while I’m gone.”

Christian straightened. “No, Allie. You don’t need to know anything about this colt.”

She lifted her shoulders with a shrug. “I don’t even know exactly where you’re going.”

“That’s right.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I should be back in four or five days.” He climbed into his SUV and shut the door.

“Okay,” she said and leaned into the cab window. “I can’t wait to see your mystery colt.”

Christian traveled north on I-75 up the center of Florida. Before the Georgia border, he turned west on I-10 and headed toward Tallahassee and Alabama. Towing the cumbersome horse trailer that hampered his speed, he spent most of the day getting out of his lengthy home state. At night he reached the outskirts of New Orleans and decided to call it quits. He pulled off the highway and located a rundown Cajun restaurant, knowing off-the-beaten-path places were generally reasonable and offered better authentic food. He ordered a bowl of gumbo and feasted on boiled crawfish. Stuffed, he found a cheap motel and slept for the night.

Christian woke before dawn to start the second half of his trip. He drove through Louisiana and entered Texas. Before leaving home,
he had contacted the scientist who ran the cloning department. He made the arrangements to pick up the colt for Hank Jones and would be paying with a money order. Purposely, he didn’t divulge that Hank Roberts, alias Jones, had died, or that he was his son.

Christian reached Houston, got off I-10, and drove another hundred miles northwest to Bryan. By late afternoon, he arrived at the university and located the stables where the mares and cloned foals were kept. In the office, he gave the manager the money order, the shipping papers, and a copy of the cloning contract, saying that Hank Jones had hired him to bring back the colt. The man handed him a health certificate and said there was no guarantee on the colt, but once a clone survives the first six months, its life expectancy is the same as any normally bred animal.

The transaction was fairly cut and dried. Christian was grateful that he wasn’t asked many questions concerning the colt. After the paperwork, he and the man left for the stables, and a young woman led the little red colt out of his stall.

Between his wide-set eyes he had a big star and narrow strip that traveled almost to his nostrils, and he had three white socks, two on the hind legs and one on the right front. The flashy little colt danced across the ground as he was led to Christian’s trailer.

“He’s really nice,” Christian said.

“Yes, he looks more like a show horse than a barrel racer,” the man said.

Christian chewed his nails and didn’t comment.

The colt was given a mild tranquilizer and loaded into the straw-deep trailer. Christian gripped the steering wheel to stop his shaky hands and headed home with his precious cargo.

Christian drove straight through to Florida, stopping only briefly to water and feed the colt and himself. Possibly having a living legend in the old trailer, he was nervous and wanted the journey over. On the third morning, he reached Allie’s farm in record time and breathed a sigh of relief.

Storm clouds blocked out the rising sun when he drove past the house and small lake. He pulled up to the barn, and Allie walked out holding a rake.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

He stepped from his ride. “Long and tiring. I haven’t slept in a couple of days.”

“I’ll get him out. I have his stall ready.” She opened the trailer door, put a lead on the colt, and led him onto the grass. The colt dropped his head and grazed while Allie walked around him, her roaming eyes studying every feature.

“He looks good, doesn’t he?” Christian asked.

She didn’t answer and continued to stare at the colt.

“Allie, what do you think?”

She glanced up. “This colt is not a full brother to Hunter. He’s too damn perfect.”

“He’s a chestnut, like Hunter.”

Her eyes flashed at Christian. “Don’t try and sell me a load of crap, Christian. Now, what’s the deal with this colt?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said quietly and dropped his head.

She gathered up the lead. “Come on, Mystery,” she huffed. “Let’s get you into your stall. I’ve got work to do.” She led the colt into the first stall and released him. In passing, she glared at Christian and disappeared into the feed room.

Christian slipped into the stall and locked the door. “She’s mad at me,” he whispered to the colt. “Thinks I don’t trust her with the truth.” It was for Allie’s own good. If the cloning hoax was discovered when the colt was raced, she could also get in trouble—lose her right to train and breed Thoroughbreds, or worse, she could be charged with fraud and face jail. Better she remain uninformed and blameless.

He sat down on the shavings, and the colt came over and chewed on his shirt. The little guy then lay down next to him as the cool wind swept through the barn and rain began to fall. Christian stretched out, using hay as a pillow and placed his arm over the colt’s
neck. His eyes were so heavy he could not keep them open, and he and the colt drifted to sleep.

The colt’s excited, high-pitched whinny woke Christian in the afternoon and he staggered to his feet. The colt’s chin rested on top of the stall door as he strained to look out of the barn at the other horses. He whinnied again, calling to them.

“You’ll get your chance to play in those pastures,” he said, patting the colt. He brushed the hay and shavings off and left the stall. His SUV was still parked in front of the barn, minus the horse trailer. Allie must have taken it to the back of the property and unhooked it. He climbed in his SUV and ran his hand over his mouth, wondering if she was still angry.

He drove to the house and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Allie called from in the house.

He trudged in and closed the door. “You still pissed at me?”

“Christian, I was married to a liar. I won’t go there again. Never in a million years could your stallion and that old mare produce something that good. Did you buy a stolen colt and have to fake his papers?”

“No! He’s not stolen.” He rubbed his forehead. “Look, I can’t tell you anything about that colt and, believe me, it’s for your own good.”

She stared up into his eyes. “What have you gotten yourself into with this foal?”

“I don’t know.” He stepped away from her and her accusing stare. “I really don’t.”

“All right, I won’t ask about the colt again, but I understand why he cost so much. He’s really beautiful.” She walked up and pulled a flake of hay from his hair.

“So, I’m forgiven?”

“When I saw you sleeping in the stall with your arm around the foal—” She smiled. “How could I possibly stay angry at that kind of a guy?”