Venom

Nikki Tate

Orca Sports

Copyright © 2009 Nikki Tate
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage
and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission
in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Tate, Nikki, 1962-
Venom / written by Nikki Tate.
(Orca sports)
ISBN 978-1-55469-071-8
I. Title. II. Series.
PS8589.A8735V45 2009      jC813'.54        C2008-907420-3
Summary:
Spencer is sure someone is doping the racehorses
at the stable where he works, but no one will listen to him
until he gets some proof.
First published in the United States, 2009
Library of Congress Control Number:
2008941143
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada
through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the
Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through
the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
Author photo by E. Colin Williams
Orca Book Publishers                    Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Stn. B                              PO Box 468
Victoria, BC Canada                          Custer, WA USA
V8R 6S4                                         98240-0468

www.orcabook.com

Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.
12   11   10   09   •   4  3  2  1

For Cyd, muck bucket queen

“You're fired!”

I step back and kick over a feed bucket. The horses answer with a chorus of whinnies. They're expecting breakfast.

“After you clean up that mess!” Scampy spins away from me and stalks off.

“You can't—” I yell at the trainer's back.

Scampy wheels around. His face is purple and the veins in his temples look like they might pop.

“I can do what I want. This barn”—he waves his arm at the horses on both sides of the wide aisle—”this barn has room for one trainer. And that trainer would be me!” Scampy jabs his thumb into his chest and bugs out his eyes. Then his jaw starts working.
Chomp. Chomp
. He mashes his fat wad of gum like he wants to destroy it.

“Understand?”

There's no chance to answer. Scampy is gone. The sound of his cowboy boots clicking on the concrete fades as he stomps off down the barn aisle and around the corner.

“What was that all about?” Em steps out of the tack room behind me. It's chilly this time of the morning. She's wearing one of those wool caps with earflaps and a pom-pom.

“Your uncle just fired me.” I'm impressed by how calm I sound. I've never been fired before.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Why do you always have to take his side?” I've worked for Jacob “Scampy”
Scallopini's Racing Stable for a little more than a year. Em's been here forever. Her parents own a couple of horses, but it's her Uncle Scampy who is always at the barn.

Em tips her head to the side, making her pom-pom swing.

“Scampy wouldn't fire you for nothing.”

My gaze slides over to the big bay gelding whose head pokes out of his stall. Lord of the Fires watches us intently, waiting for someone to start feeding him.

“Spencer, you are an idiot,” Em says. “There is nothing wrong with Lordy.”

My jaw clamps shut. There
is
something wrong with Lord of the Fires. I'm his main exercise rider, and I know. The horse hasn't felt right for weeks.

“How did he do on Saturday?” Em asks, her fists jammed against her hips. “Hmmm?”

She doesn't really expect an answer. I don't give her one. We both know that Lordy ran well. He came in second, just behind the favorite.

“What did you say to Scampy?”

The scene replays in my head. I had arrived at 4:30
AM
to start work. The lights were on and Scampy was already here. He came out of Lordy's stall and slipped some-thing—a syringe, maybe—into his pocket. All I did was ask what he'd given the horse. I didn't say the words
illegal doping
. I didn't say anything about cheating. I asked a simple question.
What did you just give the horse?

That's when Scampy lost it. That's how I got fired.

“Well?” Em demands.

“Nothing. I didn't say a thing.”

Em sniffs and tosses her head. “Fine. Be like that. Scampy will tell me.”

She marches off, leaving me to sweep up the mess of spilled grain.

How can it be that my day is already going so badly? It isn't even 5:00
AM
!

I fetch a broom and start sweeping. The short conversation with Scampy and the longer one with Em repeat in my head.

“So the old man gave you the boot?” Tony Harper, Scampy's other groom, shows up as I sweep up the last of the grain.

“Word travels fast,” I say.

Tony folds his beefy arms across his chest. “I heard Scampy talking to Em outside the barn. Want some advice?”

I don't. Tony gives me some anyway. “You're a good rider, Spencer. And people know you're a good worker; they like it when you help out.”

I sense there's a
but
coming.

“But you have to learn when to keep your mouth shut and your nose out of other people's business.”

Tony reaches out to give my shoulder a squeeze. His hand rests there a little longer than it needs to. When he squeezes, it hurts. I'm careful not to let anything show in my face. Tony doesn't need to know that he creeps me out. He doesn't need to know how ticked off I am. Or how worried.

Word does travel fast here in the barns at Hilltop Racetrack. Most people never see the backside of the track. It's like a world of its own. The last thing I need is to get a reputation as a troublemaker in this tight community.

I force myself to smile. “Thanks, Tony. I'll keep that in mind.”

“You do that,” he says as he releases his grip on my shoulder. It feels more like he just gave me a warning than a friendly piece of advice.

After I finish cleaning up the grain spill, I figure it's best if I leave. I hop on my bike and start for home. The ride only takes six and a half minutes, but I'm not even halfway there when my cell phone rings.

“Get your ass back here.”

“Scampy?”

“Who else would it be? You're late for work.”

“Does this mean I'm un-fired?”

“You're on probation.”

That's all he says. No apology. No explanation. Then the line goes dead.

Getting un-fired makes me almost as mad as getting fired. Who does he think he is? I nearly keep on pedaling.

What makes me turn the bike around is the horses. The riding. The races. And, if I'm really honest, Em.

I might love the track, but I make a promise to myself as I pedal up to Scampy's shedrow. If he is doing something illegal with Lord of the Fires, I'm going to find out what it is. Then he'll be sorry for firing me—and even sorrier he hired me back.

I hiss at Chiquita Manana and crouch low over her neck. The three-year-old filly kicks into another gear. All the tension I felt back at the barn evaporates as we speed up. We hug the rail and shoot past the crowd of trainers watching their horses run in the soft misty glow of the early morning workout. The filly's breath comes in short punches, timed exactly with the
thud-thud-thud
of each big stride.

The beat of the Thoroughbred's hooves drives my heart rate through the roof. There's nothing quite like the lift and thrust of a thousand pounds of muscle pulsing beneath me.

Chiquita doesn't need much encouragement. My hands move back and forth on either side of her neck. I'm in perfect rhythm with the galloping horse. We move easily around the final turn, and I let her go.

We flash past Scampy's red and black jacket. I can't see the stopwatch in his hand, but I know it's there. I gasp for breath as if I've just finished a fast workout myself. Easing back a touch, I let the big chestnut filly know it's time to slow down.

The horse's neck is slick and dark with sweat. She pulls against me. She wants to keep running. I guide her away from the rail, still moving at a healthy clip. She tosses her head, fussing, when I suggest she slows.

We communicate through muscle and tendon and bone. From hand to leather
reins to bit to mouth and back again. Human to horse, horse to human. Our conversation lasts halfway around the track. Finally I insist it's time to steady and slow. Chiquita insists she'd rather keep playing than head back to the barn.

I know what she means. It's 7:30
AM
, and despite all that's happened this morning, I'm not looking forward to the end of my shift. Leaving the track means I have to start my day all over again with morning classes at Reston High.

“Not bad, not bad,” Scampy says, meeting us at the gate. As usual, one cheek bulges with grape bubblegum. “Damn, she's a nice-moving filly. How'd she feel?”

Scampy has been like this ever since I got back to the barn. It's like nothing happened. Would it have killed him to apologize? Or does he think being nice will convince me he didn't do anything wrong?

Chiquita dances lightly beneath me, her neck arched, feet barely touching the ground. She's still excited, breathing hard.

Well, two can play at being nice.

“She felt good,” I say. “Fast. Strong. She's a good filly.”

Scampy has a chew on his wad of gum and then shifts the bulge to his other cheek.

“Em's waiting inside with Caravaggio. Nice and slow for him. He's racing two weeks from Sunday—and he's been going good. Then I'll get you to do Big Bad Billy. Same as yesterday. Then you're good to go. You don't want to be late for school, do you?”

He slaps Chiquita's backside a bit harder than he needs to. She squirts forward into a jog.

Back in the barn, I slide off Chiquita and hand her off to Em. Tony gives me a leg up on Caravaggio. I avoid Tony's eyes and resist the urge to wipe my knee where he touched me. Caravaggio is already moving off along the shedrow while I find my stirrups, organize my reins and get settled for another gallop, my seventh this morning.

I reach forward and run my knuckles along Caravaggio's neck. My back and
shoulders ache, and there's a spot on the inside of my left knee that's rubbed raw. I've been fired and un-fired and almost had a fight with Em. Yeah, it's tough some days at the track, but there's no place I'd rather be.

On Saturday, Grandma nearly scares the crap out of me when she pops her head into my room before I'm even awake and asks, “Who do you like better in the third? Cinnamon Puff, Whoyourdaddy or Spideylegs?”

“What time is it?”

“Just after four. I didn't hear any noise in here. I thought you might have overslept.”

“Thanks. I was just waking up.”

I roll over and stretch. “I like Cinnamon Puff. She blew past me a couple of weeks ago.”

“Thank you, love.”

The door closes softly behind her. I pull the covers back over my head for another few minutes. It's still dark. Normal teenagers are barely getting into bed after a Friday night of hard partying. And me? It's four in the morning and I'm giving my grandmother hot tips for today's races!

When I drag myself down into the kitchen, Grandma's got a pot of coffee on and the race program printed out from the computer. It's already marked up with her secret code. She highlights horses she likes in yellow, underlines jockeys who are winning with red and puts a big black
X
beside a horse or rider she really doesn't like.