Lucky Thirteen (2 page)

“Three thousand dollars?”

Alex began jumping up and down with me. I was flushed with happiness, but then I remembered the rude little man at the betting booth and realized that he’d just won thirty grand. I felt a slight damper fall over my mood. I excused myself to go collect my winnings.

After filling out and signing a form for tax purposes, my mood became elevated watching the cashier count out thirty crisp one hundred dollar bills onto the counter. I scooped up my winnings and slipped them into my purse. Then I headed back to my seat to show Alex and to plan out my next bet.

Three races later and I’d lost three hundred dollars, since I was now betting one hundred dollars per race. I decided that I needed to slow down. Besides, my mood had soured, due in part to the fact that I was losing big but mostly because I was missing my dog, Blue. Blue loves horses and would have adored the track.

Needing a change of scene, I invited Alex to lunch in the clubhouse which he joyfully accepted. But first, it was getting chilly. I borrowed the car keys from Alex and headed out to the parking lot to get a sweater I’d brought to the track but left in the rental car.

The track was composed of outdoor grandstands positioned below a soaring canopy and set before the private boxes housed behind glass. The outdoor stands were filled with the common folk, which I assumed to be mostly tourists like Alex and me. The private boxes housed the elite, composed of horse owners and other regulars who could afford the rent. The clubhouse was located above the private boxes so it provided a spectacular view of the track. The adverts scattered throughout the track showed pictures of the wonderful dishes served in the clubhouse. I looked forward to a meal of filet mignon and lobster tail, which I knew would eat up even more of my winnings.

I made my way through the elaborate foyer past the concession stands and onto the sidewalk out front. There I paused trying to remember where Alex had parked the car. It was while I was looking around to get my bearings that I noticed the rude little man from the betting line not ten feet away attending a lady dressed all in white. He was also guiding a beautiful gray-colored greyhound on a lead. I was about to dismiss the man with a flip of my disapproving head when I saw him bend to retrieve the lady’s kerchief and in so doing drop the dog’s leash. The dog began to wander into the street directly in front of an oncoming tour bus.

“Stop!”
I called as I ran recklessly into the street.

I was able to retrieve the dog’s leash in time and use it to hustle the dog out of the roadway. Unfortunately, that left me standing in the dog’s place. The bus driver stomped on the brakes but the bus still flattened me. I hit the road hard.

Voices murmured. They didn’t sound angelic. I moved my
hand,
glad to fins it was still there. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t dead, but of course relieved. When I opened my eyes again, my face was being licked by the animal I’d just succeeded in saving.

“Good Lord, Charles. What have you done?” I heard a woman exclaim.

Pushing the dog’s muzzle gently aside, I looked up to observe the woman in white and her rude attendant, Charles, peering down at me. Glancing down at my feet, I saw that I now lay with my body half-under the bus. The bus driver and a handful of passengers soon joined my audience.

“Jeez, lady.
Are you alright?” the driver asked in a decidedly Cuban accent.

“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “Can you help me up?”

The bus driver grabbed my hands and dragged me from under the bus. I stood shakily and started to dust off my jeans. I put my hand to the back of my head where I felt a lump beginning to form. Other than the dirt on my jeans and the lump, I felt fine.

“Thank the heavens you’re not dead,” the driver declared. “But why did you jump in front of my bus like that?”

“She was saving my dog, Flying Miss Lady,” the woman in white explained. “
Which wouldn’t have been necessary if it wasn’t for you, Charles!
”

“Wow!” the driver said. “Then you’re a hero instead of an idiot.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” asked the woman in white.

I noticed the bus driver crossing himself as he awaited my response.

“No, I’m fine,” I replied.

“
Muchas
gracias, Madre de Dios
,” the driver exclaimed.

We all looked to the bus driver and I raised a questioning eyebrow.

“My insurance company said that if I hit one more pedestrian they’d cancel my insurance.”

I frowned at him and he smiled back sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders.

Meanwhile, we were blocking traffic and people were starting to honk their horns. The bus driver excused himself to guide his passengers back onboard. The woman in white took my arm and guided me to the sidewalk. Now that I got a good look at her, it was hard to judge her age. I guessed that she might be in her late fifties, but her spinsterish attire made her look older.

“You’re very lucky, young lady,” she informed me. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“No,” I told her. “Besides, I have to meet my husband in the clubhouse for lunch.”

“I was about to take lunch myself, while Charles walks the flying lady,” the woman explained. “It would be my distinct pleasure if you would join me for lunch in my private viewing box.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I declared.

“Please, I insist,” the woman said. “I’ll have a page sent to the clubhouse to intercept your husband.”

“That’s very kind of you. Are you sure it’s no bother?”

“No bother at all. Besides, I enjoy the company of young people.”

And with that, our lunch plans had been changed, hopefully for the better. Meanwhile, Charles stood by looking confused as to what he should be doing.

“Go walk the dog,” the woman in white commanded. “And this time mind her lead.”

Charles scowled and then skulked off without speaking a word.

“My name is Miss Elizabeth Hightower,” the woman in white said, extending a gloved hand.

“Chloe Boston,” I replied, accepting it.

“What a cute name,” she observed.

The woman and I walked slowly, not because Miss Hightower was infirm, but because of her concern for my wellbeing. I appreciated her concern but was a little frustrated by our slow pace since I felt fine. Of this I couldn’t convince her. We took the elevator instead of the stairs to the private boxes. All the while Miss Hightower maintained a running monologue regarding the history of the track.

“You know that Rancho Downs Park and the associated equine club were established in 1932. Since that time it has been one of the most prestigious organizations in the country and the home of some of racing’s most famous horses. A Hightower has been on the board of directors since the track was first opened.”

Miss Hightower named a string of horses, jockeys, trainers, breeders, and owners of which I’d never heard. She told me of the great races she’d attended at this very track, beginning in her youth. She boasted of the admittedly beautiful décor and the wonderful food that I had yet to sample. In a short time my head was spinning trying to retain all the esoteric facts she related. By the time we made it to her box, I was starving.

“Please, have a seat,” Miss Hightower offered.

I took a seat in a comfortable leather swivel chair positioned before an elegant wood table that afforded an amazing view through a wall of glass upon the track far below. Miss Hightower lowered herself gracefully into a chair opposite mine.

“I’m sorry if I bored you with all my talk of racing on the way here,” she apologized.

“Oh no,” I assured her. “I find everything related to these beautiful animals and the racing to be fascinating. Tell me, did any of your horses race today?”

“Oh yes. Perhaps you saw one in particular, See Captain?”

“Did I see him? I won three thousand bucks on that race!” I blurted, and then covered my mouth in horror.

“Smart girl,” Miss Hightower observed with a smile. “It was his first win—the first of many I assure you.”

“I like horses, but I also like dogs,” I stammered. “What about Flying Miss Lady? What’s her background?” I asked to cover my excessive boisterousness.

“Flying Miss Lady was a great racer herself, winning twelve races during her career. She’s now in retirement as my personal pet.”

“How wonderful.”

“She is indeed a wonderful dog. And she’s a
stablemate
and best friend of my current winner, a stallion named Soft Spoken Hal. In fact, Soft Spoken Hal will be trying to break her record on this very track this weekend.”

“Lucky thirteen,” I quipped.

“How’s that?”

“The horse’s thirteenth win would be a lucky number.”

The woman started to make a noise that emanated from deep in her throat. At first, I thought she might be choking or about to be sick. Eventually, the sound worked its way to her mouth where it burst forth as a resonant barking chuckle. I couldn’t help but laugh along.

“I like you, Chloe Boston. I like the way you think.”

“Thank you,” I replied, trying not to blush.

“What do you say we find your husband and have some lunch?”

“Oh, Alex!
I nearly forgot.”

Miss Hightower produced a telephone handset from beside her and requested that a page be sent to the turf club in search of Alex. While we waited, she regaled me with even more stories of races past. I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. Her descriptive powers were such that she made me feel that I was there by her side, watching each race as it originally occurred. I was sorry that the stories stopped when Alex appeared at the door.

“Am I in the right place?” he asked tentatively, poking his head through the door.

I noticed that he was carrying a martini glass in his hand. He’d been waiting in the bar for me, and I knew that he’d had a long wait.

“Alex, you made it,” I said, jumping to my feet to embrace him.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said in my ear. “I was beginning to worry.”

“It’s entirely my fault,” Miss Hightower said, rising gracefully from her seat.

“Alex, I’d like you to meet Miss Elizabeth Hightower,” I said, breaking our embrace. “Miss Hightower, this is my husband, Alex Lincoln.”

Alex stepped carefully forward and accepted the proffered white-gloved hand. Miss Hightower smiled demurely.

“Please, won’t you have a seat?”

Alex was busy looking all around at the grand décor of the private box. I could just imagine what he was thinking. Something akin to, now what has she gotten me into? He accepted a seat and addressed me as I took mine.

“So, Chloe, what have you been up to?”

“Your wife was almost killed this afternoon,” Miss Hightower provided.

“What, again?”
Alex squawked. “What happened this time?”

“She was saving my dog, Flying Miss Lady, when she was struck by a tour bus,” Miss Hightower explained.

“Oh, is that all,” Alex replied in relief.

Miss Hightower looked surprised by Alex’s response, but she didn’t understand. Alex had either seen or heard of me nearly being murdered so many times that he was most likely relieved that this time my death would have been due to a mere traffic accident. I considered explaining, but realized that any explanation I could come up with would only lead to additional unwanted questions. So, I clammed up.

“Your wife and I were about to order lunch,” Miss Hightower said, breaking the awkward silence. “Are you hungry, Alex?”

“I’m famished. What’s on the menu?”

I blanched at this gauche reply. Just how much had he had to drink? I wondered.

“I thought we might begin with the crab Louie and gazpacho soup.”

“Will there be bread?” Alex interrupted. “I like to dunk my bread in my soup.”

I nearly gasped at these words.

“You know me, Chloe. I can’t eat soup without bread.”

Again, that deep rumble came from deep within Miss Hightower’s throat, culminating in an eruption of laughter.

“I am so enjoying myself,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Chloe, you and Alex are such refreshing company. I’m so glad I ran into you, or more accurately, that the bus did.”

We all burst out laughing at this statement though it wasn’t really all that funny.

“About the bread,” Alex reminded her as soon as the levity had settled.

“Of course, Alex.
There must be bread. Now, why don’t you leave it to me to iron out the rest of the details of the menu with our steward? I’m sure you’ll be more than satisfied with your repast.”

No truer words had ever been spoken. The meal was exceptional, and Alex didn’t even complain that his soup was cold. The main course was pheasant done three ways. I’d never tasted anything so mouthwatering.
Except maybe the fish course.

Alex augmented his meal by having two more martinis with his lunch before I gently cut him off. He and Miss Hightower swapped stories which became exceedingly more ribald as the meal progressed. During our meal we were afforded two additional races, the last of the day. I found it amusing that Miss Hightower became almost as agitated as I did during each race.