Gargantuan (27 page)

“You’re Fred, right? Didn’t I meet you last week?”

The man’s eyes dart around. Clearly I’m interfering with his stalking of Attila.

“I’m not Fred,” he says finally. He’s gazing at me firmly now. “We have something to talk about though,” he adds.

All my alarms go off at once. I glance at the racing secretary’s door to see if Attila is emerging. He’s not.

“Why don’t we go over there,” the guy says, motioning toward the far wall of the clubhouse where the elevators and emergency exit stairs are.

“Whatever for?” I ask, trying to keep a light tone.

“Trust me, you want to talk to me. It’s to do with your boyfriend.”

I doubt that any of this is good. But I have to know. Who is this guy? Why is he shadowing Attila?

I follow him over to the stairs. He pushes through the door marked Exit and we are in a quiet stairwell.

“Now,” he says, producing a gun and leveling it at my heart, “I would like you to come with me.”

For a moment all I feel is lightheadedness. Then the fear comes.

“Don’t scream,” the guy warns. “I have no qualms about shooting people.”

I keep quiet.

C
arla drives the horse van and I follow in my car as we head over to Aqueduct where we’re running a nice claiming filly in the ninth race. My boss didn’t understand why I wanted to bring my car so I told her I had some errands to run after the races and left it at that. I have Crow with me too since I may not be able to get back to Belmont to retrieve him later. I follow Carla in through the backside entrance and over to the receiving barn. I leave Crow in the car as I help Carla unload the filly. She’s a fairly bombproof filly and unloads without fussing. As soon as the filly is settled in her stall, Carla tells me I’m free for a few hours. She seems to be brewing something with Lalo, a groom who works for Shug McGaughey and who happens to have some horses in the stalls right next to our filly. I’ve noticed my boss getting buttery around Lalo for a few days in spite of the fact that I’d previously thought she batted for the other team. Lucky for me, Carla’s fixation on the groom makes her want to hang around the filly’s stall doing all my work and freeing me to hunt for the Jockey. I walk past the stall where Henry Meyer’s got Jack Valentine, the horse the Jockey is riding in the fifth race. I see Meyer there, in the horse’s stall, taking some shipping wraps off the horse’s hind legs. No sign of the Jockey though.

I wander over to the track and then into the clubhouse. I walk slowly. I don’t have a clear plan, just a mission.

Post time for the first race draws close and I still haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Jockey. Truth is, I’m not sure how I’m going to
take care of matters but from what Ava told me, Robert Cardinal’s planning to have the Jockey work Darwin tomorrow. Time is of the essence.

As I head toward the jocks room, luck falls my way. I see him, just coming through the turnstile between the grandstands and the clubhouse. He’s got a hat on and looks like he’s attempting to travel incognito but I’d have picked him out five miles away and wearing a wig. He walks right by me. Once he’s a few feet past, I follow him. He’s apparently not going to the jocks room though. He veers to the right and walks into the racing secretary’s office, closing the door behind him. I walk on a few paces and then park myself to the left of the door. The frustrating thing is that I still do not have a clear plan in my head. I’ve got a little gun Ava gave me, and she has helped by telling me what to do and where to take the Jockey. She gave me keys and directions to a little house upstate that belongs to a friend of hers. I can bring the Jockey up there until Ava sorts things out and can prove to the cops that Attila is no good. Providing I can ever get close enough to the man to capture him.

I try to quiet my mind but it’s a tornado in there. Then, the Girl approaches me. The Jockey’s girlfriend. It’s obvious she doesn’t know who I am or exactly what I’m doing. She may have noticed me following the Jockey but that is all. I manage to lure her to the exit stairs. She is quite gullible. Once I have her there on the cement landing, I take the gun from my jacket pocket and point it at her. She looks terrified.

“Don’t scream. I will hurt you,” I tell her in a quiet voice.

Her skin looks gray. She doesn’t scream though.

I walk behind her, nudging her ahead of me down the stairs. I stay slightly to her left, with the gun in my right hand but pressed so closely into her back that it can’t be seen. Not that anyone is looking. It’s a slow day at Aqueduct and we pass few people as we walk out into the clubhouse parking lot.

The Girl is being good, keeping her mouth shut. We make it to the lot where I’ve got the Chevy parked and I tell her to get in the backseat. Crow, my slut of a dog, immediately starts licking
the Girl. I have to order him into the front seat. The Girl looks baffled.

“What do you want?” she asks me.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her.

She pleads with me as I get the rope out of my glove box and start tying her hands. I put the gun to her temple and that quiets her.

“Please don’t do this,” she says after a few moments of silence.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I tell her. “Just shut up, all right?”

I bind her hands and as I lean down to find a rag to gag her, she screams. I put my hand over her mouth and she sinks her teeth into it. I shove her away and clutch my bleeding hand. Though Crow is looking from me to her and back, he hasn’t seen fit to come to my rescue and I mentally curse him. Usually, anyone makes one false move toward me and Crow is on them like a bad dream.

“Don’t do anything like that again!” I yell at the Girl, looking into her huge frightened eyes. For a moment, I almost feel badly for her. Then I gag her, pat her down, and find a cell phone and forty dollars, which I take for safe keeping. I leave the half pack of cigarettes I find in her pocket though I can’t tell you why. I cover her with an old blanket I’ve got in the backseat for Crow, before getting behind the wheel.

“We’re gonna drive a coupla hours. You’ll want to get comfortable.”

I get back into the front seat and put the car in drive. It occurs to me to go leave a note for Carla but then I might run into her and have some explaining to do. I figure she’ll get by without me. She won’t be happy about it but she’ll get by.

Crow has settled into the passenger side of the front seat and I pat him with one hand as I start driving out of the backstretch, my cargo quiet and still in the backseat.

I
t seems like entire days have passed by the time I start changing into my silks for the fifth race. I move slowly deliberately knowing it’s the last time I’ll do this.

I notice Santarez, one of the particularly unscrupulous young riders, giving me the once-over. I don’t know why he’s eyeballing me and, to be honest, I don’t give a flying fuck.

We file out of the room and into the paddock. Henry and Violet are standing at the mouth of Jack’s saddling stall. Violet seems to be talking to the gelding as Henry pulls his legs out, ensuring there isn’t any flesh trapped under the girth.

As my fellow jockeys stand in the center of the walking ring, talking to owners, I go over to greet my mount. Jack is an exceptionally kind horse but I’d be fussing over him even if he were a cantankerous prankster since he’s the last horse I’ll ever ride in a race.

Violet and Henry both greet me and Violet steps aside as I go to rub Jack’s face. I’m surprised when Jack stands perfectly still, letting me scratch his cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever known a three-year-old that would stand so quietly ten minutes before a race. His eyes droop half shut and he moves his head, indicating that he wants me to scratch his chin and jawline. Jack has a soulfulness that you barely expect to find on a fifteen-year-old school horse, never mind a three-year-old racehorse. I lose track of everything as I stand there, taking in the smell of the horse. I even shut my eyes for half a
second, remembering the first time I touched a horse, how the smell reached a place in my heart. Who knew it would come to this?

I take a deep breath, trying to push the gloom away.

As Sophie leads Jack out of his stall, I crane my neck to look at the spectators. I’m vaguely hoping to spot Ruby even though I don’t truly want her to be present should anything terrible befall me. I don’t see her anywhere. The faces all belong to the typical dead-of-winter Aqueduct crowd. Middle-aged and old men. Men clutching newspapers and tip sheets. Men with angry faces, fat faces, lonesome faces. Men who rarely taste happiness.

The paddock judge calls for all riders to go to their horses and Henry gives me a leg up. I feel Jack’s massive body igniting. We walk out onto the track to meet Juan and his pony horse. Jack nuzzles the pony’s neck. Normally, Juan and I would be chatting but there’s nothing normal about this afternoon. Juan’s eyes look puffy. I imagine he’s been mourning Layla whom he’s known for several years. It seems ludicrous that Layla’s dead and I’m here, alive and on a horse, a fine, big-hearted, talented horse. Juan unsnaps the leadshank and I steer Jack into the chute, unaided by the assistant starter. Jack stands perfectly still as the other colts and geldings file in with varying degrees of irascibility.

A few seconds later, the bell goes off and Jack breaks perfectly flying straight out of the gate and immediately finding his stride. At seven furlongs, this race is a furlong longer than what he’s used to running but not long enough for him to dawdle. I see that Ricky Fisher has sent his colt, a second-time starter called Bed of Nails, to the lead. I position Jack neck and neck with Santarez’s horse, a compact chestnut with a lot of white markings.

When I’d watched a tape of Jack’s last race—a six-furlong race three weeks earlier—I’d seen that he’d been left to lag at the back of the pack a little too long. By the time he came on, there wasn’t enough ground left and he ended up third. I won’t let that happen today.

“Keep at it, guy,” I tell Jack, giving him his head a little more. I feel the gelding pulling strength from his core as his massive lungs
take in air and distribute it through his body. More than anything though, I can feel Jack Valentine’s willingness.

To our right, a gray long shot named Golden Gizmo has caught us and there are now three of us across the track. A length in front of us, Ricky Fisher’s mount is kicking clods up into all our faces and my goggles are covered in mud. I pull up my first pair of goggles, having a few good moments of visibility before the second pair also gets dirty. I notice Ricky Fisher pulling farther ahead of us and, at the same time, Santarez’s horse, who seemed full of steam, suddenly starts giving in. To my right, Golden Gizmo begins struggling. I can hear his breathing getting choppy and his jock, an old-timer from the Maryland circuit, is beating on the poor colt who just doesn’t have anything left in the tank.

Ricky Fisher has now pulled almost four lengths ahead of us and it’d be a relatively simple proposition to just leave him there. The man who threatened me yesterday failed to tell me which horse I was supposed to let win. If it was indeed Fisher’s horse, then the horse doesn’t need much help. It would require a monstrous effort on Jack’s part to get ahead now.

Jack is by Compelling Sound by Seattle Slew and this lineage is nothing to shrug at. His ancestry kicks in now and, just when I thought he was done for, he finds another gear. I feel him dropping lower to the ground as his massive heart pumps. He switches leads, gaining a length on Fisher. I see the jock turn to look over his shoulder at us. Then I am blinded as a clod of dirt gets kicked in my face. I pull my third pair of goggles up. Jack’s strides are monstrous. From nose to tail he is one fluid line of power. He gains on Fisher’s horse. I can’t hear the announcer or the crowd or anything other than my own blood rushing in my ears and the thunder of the narrow but powerful horse underneath me. Then I feel Jack tiring. It’s the last furlong and though I tried to let him know he had to go a little farther than last time he’s weakening.