Gargantuan (28 page)

“Not now, fella,” I say, “not yet. Give me one more burst and we’re there, Jack.” I lift my hands ever so slightly. One of his ears flicks in acknowledgment and I feel him surge once more.

We’re now neck and neck with Ricky Fisher’s horse.

Jack surges again and flies ahead just as the wire comes.

I stand up in the irons, letting Jack know it’s over and he’s done it.

I feel tears in my eyes again and I let them flow as I coo at the horse. His ears are forward now.

I turn him around and start cantering back to the winner’s circle a little sooner than I normally would. I want to cut it short and get off the track where I’m so vulnerable. I don’t imagine a sniper would take a chance in a crowd like this but you never know.

Sophie meets us near the winner’s circle. She is beaming as she reaches up and shakes my hand then pats Jack’s neck and kisses him on the nose. The gelding is tired but proud as he lets Sophie lead us. I see Henry and Violet, both glowing, both radiant. I lean forward on Jack’s neck, studying the intricate network of veins, taking in the smell of a tired but triumphant thoroughbred. My last time.

I
can’t say I’m sorry to see the state of Florida becoming smaller beneath me. As the plane gains altitude and the city of Ft. Lauderdale recedes, I feel lighter. Chances are, I’ll be back soon, but I’m damn glad to have been called up to Belmont where the Bureau operative is in over his head. An exercise rider is dead, a filly is injured and, according to the operative, there’s more where that came from.

My boss didn’t call me till late yesterday afternoon. I’d just come home to take a break before evening chores and I was feeling good. After seeing Lucinda’s exhilaration over her cathartic incident aboard
Mike’s Mohawk, I’d decided the time was ripe to have a talk with her. I had successfully ended things without causing her any evident flickers of pain. I’d come home, fussed over Cat like some sort of lunatic, and was debating whether or not to call Ruby again. We’d actually had a good talk the previous night and though she hadn’t divulged that she’d been knocking boots with some other guy—hadn’t even really told me what she’d been up to at all—I felt like the thread between us was stronger. But I was afraid of jinxing things by calling her again. I jumped halfway out of my seat when the phone I was staring at with so much concentration started ringing.

It was just the office calling. I was pleasantly surprised when they told me I was needed up there and should find someone to look after my horses while I came to New York for an indefinite period of time. I’d rushed back to the track, found Roderick, and offered him an overly generous amount of money to feed, muck out, and walk my horses. It didn’t seem to strike him as odd that I was suddenly abandoning my string. Maybe this was customary behavior for inexperienced claimer trainers with too many irons in the fire.

I stood for a few minutes with each of my horses, feeling shitty about leaving them, particularly since Karma Police was supposed to run two days later. But I didn’t guess he’d mind. As long as the horses got fed and walked a little they’d be okay. Not fit, but okay.

I went back to my place and booked a flight for Cat and me for early the next morning, then packed up my laptop and some clothing. I soaked in the tub for a while, mulling over the whole Ruby situation, wondering what would happen once we were face-to-face again. I kept thinking I should call her but something prevented me. I’d wait till I landed at JFK.

I tried to get to bed early but found myself tossing and turning. Got up and watched three back-to-back reruns of
Law and Order
, a bit disgusted to find that two of them were newer episodes and featured the unappealing blond assistant DA as opposed to one of the tough brunettes. Eventually, I slept. A little fitfully. Waking up earlier than I needed to. I got to the airport well ahead of schedule and sat in a brightly lit doughnut shop, sipping coffee that tasted like old tires.

There’s nothing but blue sky and ocean outside the plane window and I feel better than I have in many weeks. Since there’s no one in the seat next to me, I reach down and pull out Cat’s Sherpa bag, bringing it to my lap. I open the bag a few inches and look in. She shoots me a withering glance. I stick my hand in and scratch her neck until I finally get a purr out of her. Satisfied, I put the bag back under the seat and start to tangentially think of the racehorse Sherpa Guide, a cocky little bay gelding that Ruby’s been obsessed with since watching him break his maiden a few years ago at Belmont. The horse caught her eye in the paddock that day and she bet him. And won. She followed his career and was probably the only one who had ten bucks on him to win in an undercard race on Belmont Stakes day a while back. Sherpa went off at 34-1 and ran four wide to come on like gangbusters in the last furlong of the race, winning by a length and a half over a horse named Personable Pete. Ruby has tried to be there for every one of Sherpa’s races. She takes his losses personally and frets during his layoffs. Once, she was cheering him so vigorously during a race that a stranger standing nearby asked her if she owned an interest in the horse. I grin to myself as I think of the little picture of Sherpa Guide that Ruby has taped to her fridge. This soothing thought helps me doze off and I wake as the plane begins its descent into the homeland.

AS I STEP
out onto the curb to catch a shuttle over to the car rental place, the wind hits me and my breath catches in my chest. I feel a wave of anger—at the cold gray sky, at the vicious wind, at the bleakness that is New York City in late winter.

I rent a nondescript compact car and head toward Long Island. I get myself a room at the less-than-lovely Boulevard Motel just a few blocks away from the track. Cat is pretty upset with me when I finally open the Sherpa bag and invite her into the garishness of the motel room. She seems to scowl as she looks around, taking in the pressed-wood dresser, the fluorescent lighting, and the bedspread printed with pink flowers. Eventually, she deigns to hop out of the bag and go
sniff at the food and water I’ve put down for her. I stare at her as I take my phone out and dial Ruby’s number. The answering machine comes on. I start talking, telling her I’m unexpectedly in New York. Asking her to call. I try to keep my voice level. I dial her cell phone but I’m forwarded to her voice mail. I leave the same message. I put the phone back in my pocket and start wondering where she could be at nine in the morning. I suppose I don’t want to dwell on it.

I watch Cat lap water from a plastic cup and, when I’m sure that she’s comfortable and has suffered no adverse effects from the plane ride, I bid her adieu, lock the door, and reflect that I am in all likelihood the only FBI agent who travels to his assignments with a cat. Last time I checked I didn’t even
like
cats. I walk to the nondescript car, get in, and drive.

SPRING HASN’T EVEN
thought of putting its touches on New York yet, but the entrance to the Belmont backside looks inviting all the same. Feels like home. A little less so when I pull up to the gate and a young security guard scowls, removing any trace of attractiveness from her face, and asks me my business.

“My name should be on your sheet. Sam Riverman,” I tell her. She looks down at her clipboard.

“Okay, go,” she says, waving me on without looking at me.

I haven’t been gone long but I realize I’ve already gotten used to the friendlier environment of Florida.

I park the car and start walking over toward the barn area. Before I’ve reached the first shedrow, the sounds come. Radios, hooves against cold dirt, buckets banging into wooden stalls. The Belmont backside population has been thinned by winter, with the heavy hitters gone south or west. Those left behind have settled in, grinding their teeth and bearing the cold.

I find my way to Jim Radcliffe’s barn where Carmelo Jimenez, our operative, is posing as a groom named Carlo Sanchez. The first person I see at Radcliffe’s shedrow is a sturdy but slightly stooped Latin man leading a sleepy bay mare.

“Hi, I’m looking for Carlo,” I say.

“You found him.”

“Oh.” I’m genuinely surprised. The man
really
looks like a groom. “Carlo Sanchez?” I double-check.

“Yep. And you’re Sam Riverman,” Carlo says.

Carlo is a weathered man in his mid-forties. He has a pencil mustache that doesn’t belong on his thick-featured face.

“Got a minute?” I ask.

“Sure. Let me just put this girl away.”

I make myself comfortable on a tack trunk in the aisle while Carlo finishes up with the mare. I note that our operative has found a good outfit to work for. Though I don’t know much about Jim Radcliffe, it’s obvious the man runs a tight ship. Everything in the shedrow is tidy, clean, and color coordinated in maroon and yellow. I feel a sudden stab of anxiety wondering how my three claimers are faring down at Gulfstream this morning with only Rod to tend to them. I’m about to take out my phone to call Rod when Carlo materializes before me and indicates that I should follow him. He leads the way to the tack room and shows me in, pulling the door shut behind us.

“This is okay?” I ask, a little surprised since it doesn’t seem like the most secure place to talk.

“Fine,” he assures me. “Radcliffe isn’t coming in till afternoon and no one else will walk in with the door closed, they know I come in here to make phone calls. They think I’ve got a hot mama tucked away somewhere.” Carlo smiles faintly.

He indicates a chair and tells me to make myself comfortable. He flips a bucket over and sits on it. He brings his enormous calloused hands to rest on his knees then looks up at me with an almost mischievous expression. “I got the job done about two hours ago.”

“How’s that?”

“Got it on tape,” he grins.

“Got what on tape? I’m not up to speed with the situation here. You were bugging this Nick Blackman individual?”

“Oh yeah. Bugging him. Dude couldn’t have been more stupid.”

It surprises me to hear
dude
issue from Carmelo’s mouth.

“What happened?”

“Talked in his car. Seemed to know we had his barn office wired but didn’t seem to think we’d get his car. Took a ride with his boss, Davide Marinella. You heard about Marinella?”

“Yeah. Sure, I read the file. Bookie, mob, et cetera.”

“And proud racehorse owner. Which was his downfall. Guy got fucking sentimental about his racehorse. Tried having the race fixed. Little allowance race with a bunch of nobody riders in it. Got to most of the riders except Jasper Lee who don’t bend that way, and Attila Johnson, a bug boy. From what I’d heard, Johnson was crooked, but I guess he all of a sudden got a conscience. He won’t play ball. They try to take Johnson out right in broad fucking daylight on the track yesterday morning during works. Got some girl rider instead. All this just so Marinella’s lousy horse could have a chance in a race. Un-fucking-believable. But this Attila Johnson, he rides the race of his life and wins it.”

“You got all this on tape?” I ask, incredulous.

“Nah, that I pieced together. What I got on tape this morning was Marinella telling Nick Blackman he’s gotta get rid of Attila, that the guy’s a loose cannon. Apparently they’d been trying to scare Attila for a few weeks with little incidents but it hadn’t done the trick. So Marinella tells Blackman he’s gotta help him take Attila out.
On tape
.” Carmelo grins.

“Now we got warrants coming and most of it gets wrapped up today. I’m not having anything to do with it from now on. They want to keep me useful, so I’m not blowing my cover. I’ll keep working for Radcliffe another couple weeks so it seems unrelated when I quit.”

“And what do I do?” I say, feeling left out.

“I guess it’s back to the sunshine state for you, friend. Check in with the office.” Carmelo adds, “Maybe they want you up here a few days before you go back.”

“Right. I’ll do that,” I tell him.

“It’s a bitch, huh?” he says apropos of I don’t know what.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “Good work,” I add, even though I feel left out and a little bitter about having taken this trip north for no good reason.

I walk away from the shedrow feeling at a loss until I remember Ruby mentioning some burgeoning friendship with Violet Kravitz, the wife of Henry Meyer. I stop the next hotwalker I see, asking if he knows where Henry Meyer’s barn is. The guy just shrugs. I ask a few more people until someone finally points me in the right direction.

It’s nearing midday now but the sun hasn’t won its battle with the steely cloud bed and the wind is working overtime.

I find Meyer’s shedrow but it’s deserted. Lunchtime I guess. I go to what I assume is the door to the barn office and knock, not expecting a response.

“Yes?” a female voice answers. I open the door and find an elegant gray-haired woman sitting at a desk, looking immensely guilty about something.

“Oh,” she says, visibly relieved, “who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Ruby Murphy’s?” I venture, smelling smoke and noticing a half-extinguished cigarette sticking out from under the woman’s boot.

“Oh!” The woman looks pleased. “Where is that girl?”

“I was going to ask you. Are you Violet Kravitz?”

“Yes I am, and you?”

“Sam Riverman,” I say, extending a hand.

“Oh.” Violet seems disappointed.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me smoking, Sam Riverman. My husband prohibits such recklessness,” she says cheerfully. “Please don’t mention it to him.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Nice of you, Sam. Now tell me what brings you here looking for Miss Murphy?”

“She’d mentioned spending time with you. I happened to be on the backside visiting a friend. Thought I’d see if you had Ruby secreted away in here since I haven’t been able to reach her.”

“I haven’t been able to reach her either, actually, but since I
haven’t seen hide nor hair of Attila, I’m assuming the two have reconciled and disappeared together.”

“Attila?” I say with a sinking feeling.

“Oh, you don’t know Attila?”