Murder at the Racetrack (33 page)

“You need to relax, then. A day at the track is just what the doctor ordered.”

He frowned. “Who said I’m going to the track?”

“Didn’t you just ask me for a horse? Besides, if you lean out the door and spit, you hit Belmont. Why else come to
this
dump?”

“I was making conversation, all right? I never said where I was going.”

She’d annoyed him, somehow. But lisa knew how to backpedal.

“Sure, my mistake. Whatever you say. You’re the boss.” She raised her dark eyebrows slightly on the last word. She could tell
he liked that.

Earl tapped the bell on the counter.

’ “Scuse me,” she said, breaking off eye contact first. “That’s gonna be yours.”

“That was fast.”

“Just like you wanted.”

She could feel the guy’s eyes on her ass as she walked away. They were required to wear black pants under their aprons. Hers
were low and tight. Lisa had a slamming body, and she worked it.

When she came back with his burger, his eyes followed her the whole way. Whatever she’d done to offend the guy, he’d obviously
forgiven her.

“So stay for a minute if nobody else is calling you,” he said, glancing around as he took a big bite of the cheeseburger.
The diner always cleared out in the middle of the afternoon. It was empty now except for two old ladies, virtually indistinguishable
from one another, sharing a piece of lemon meringue pie at a table near the window.

Lisa shrugged noncommittally. When the time came to reel them in, it was never good to look eager.

“Seriously,” he continued, chewing, then licking some mustard off his hand. “Have a seat. Take a load off.”

“We’re not allowed to sit down with the customers.”

“Who’s gonna know?”

“The manager’s in the back. Sometimes he comes out.”

“If he yells at you, I’ll give you a big tip. Promise.”

You don’t even know the half of it, baby,
she thought. “No. I can’t, really. But I won’t say no to a french fry.”

“Help yourself.” He nodded at his plate, taking another gigantic bite of the cheeseburger. He was eating like a starving man.
Lisa picked up a french fry, dipped it slowly in the ketchup and chewed it. She enjoyed the way he watched her; it made her
feel powerful.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” she said. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m Bruce. Pleased to meet you.” He wiped his hand with the napkin, then put it out for her to shake. Lisa took it, looking
into his eyes and squeezing for an extra second, just long enough to turn the handshake into something more. He flushed.

“Bruce,” she said. “Nice name. Bruce the Lawyer.”

“Bruce the Lawyer,” he repeated. “Yup. That sums it up.”

“You talk like you don’t like it. But that’s a goodjob, being a lawyer, right? You rake in the bucks.”

“Yeah, if you’re successful at it, it can be very good that way.”

“Well, that’s what counts, right? Finishing in the money? Just like at the track.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said, shoving some fries into his mouth, talking through his food.

“And have you? Been successful at it?”

“You cut to the chase, don’t you, Lisa?” he said, smiling.

She shrugged, holding his gaze.

“I do very well for myself,” he said. “But enough about me. What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a shithole like this anyway?”

“Me? I’m between modeling jobs.”

“Oh, yeah?” He was chewing.

“Sure. I’d be booked all the time except I’m only five-three.”

“Mmm.”

“I was in nursing school for a while, too. Nights. But it got to be a lot, with my son and all. And I’m not much for books.
So I quit, but I’m definitely going back. Soon. This is only temporary.”

“I don’t really see you as a nurse.”

“No?”

“No.” He laughed. “Although you’d look hot in one of those uniforms.”

“They don’t wear those slutty uniforms no more, you know. It’s like, drawstring pants and a smock top. Real serious, like
doctors.”

His phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching for his pocket and pulling out the phone. “Yeah? Uh, hold on a second.” He
placed a hand over the mouthpiece, looking up at her. “Can I get a refill on the coffee, please, and the check?”

Shit. And she’d had this guy, too. “Okay, sure,” she said, flashing a phony smile.

The thick, burnt liquid in the bottom of the coffeemaker wouldn’t even fill half a mug, so lisa had to make a whole new pot.
Fucking Paulette should’ve been in by now to set up the next shift. Second time she was late this week. lisa made the fresh
coffee, vaguely aware that Bruce was arguing in low tones with whomever was on the other end of his call. By the time she
brought the pot over to refill his coffee cup, he’d hung up. She poured, giving him the cleavage view again, but he didn’t
seem to be checking it out this time. He looked stressed, upset.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Ah, just business.”

She nodded understanding, giving a little pout of sympathy. “I’ll be right back with your check.”

She stowed the coffeepot and wrote up the tab, adding a couple of extra bucks for good measure. He hadn’t looked at the menu
anyway; he’d never know the difference. All the while, lisa was trying to figure her next move. Damned if she was gonna let
this one slip through her fingers. But when she walked back to his table, it turned out that no further effort was necessary.

She reached out to place the check on the table, and Bruce grabbed her by the wrist. Her heart thumped, part triumph, part
lust.

“You’re off now?” he asked, looking up at her, his grip tightening. Some guys could surprise you.

“Yeah,” she said.

“You have to be anywhere?”

She shrugged. “Not for a few hours.”

“Feel like going to the track?”

“Sure. Whatever. I have to get my stuff, though.”

“Go ahead. I’ll meet you out front. It’s a black Porsche Boxster.”

A dingy hallway leading out to the trash cans behind the diner served as their locker room. Lisa hung up her apron and checked
herself out in the small mirror hanging on the back of the door. She sniffed her underarms, then reached for her handbag,
pulling out a purse-size Obsession perfume and spraying it liberally over her wrists and down her shirt. She brushed her long,
dark hair and touched up her makeup. When she was satisfied, she took out her cell phone and dialed.

“Yeah?” Manny answered thickly.

“What are you, sleeping?”

“Mmmf.”

“Get your lazy ass out of bed. I got a guy.”

“What?”

“A guy. Gold Rolex with diamonds. He’s on his way to the track. From the looks of him, he’s gonna have mad cash.”

“Aw, shit, I don’t feel like it.”

“Just do it, Manny, we need the rent. And take Brandon downstairs so Damarys can watch him, okay?
Don’t leave
him alone.”

“Yeah, awright.”

“I’m gonna try to get the guy in that lot where they keep the trailers. Look for me there. It’s a black Porsche.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. What did
I just
say? The guy’s loaded. And you wonder why I complain that you don’t listen. Now move your ass.”

Lisa hung up and headed for the front exit. Outside, the heat and the glare smacked her in the face. Bruce was waiting in
a sexy little convertible with the top down. He leaned over and pushed open the door, and she lowered herself into the tan
leather seat. It smelled fancy.

“Nice car, Brucie,” lisa said, smiling and letting the wind take her hair as he accelerated. This was fun. It almost made
her think she should go back to dancing, meet some guys with real money again. But Manny was crazy jealous, and shit was always
getting out of hand. The drama had gotten to be too much for her.

Neither of them spoke. After a minute, they were cruising along a seemingly endless loop through deserted, gravel-topped parking
lots. It was a while since Lisa had been here, and she worried momentarily that she’d forgotten which lot they used to use.
But closer in toward the clubhouse she spotted it. It was empty except for five or six horse trailers off to one side and
a few abandoned-looking cars, and its gravel was dotted with prickly lumps of horse manure.

“You know, if you park out here, you don’t have to pay nothing,” Lisa remarked.

He glanced over at her. “This is a Porsche. I’m not parking it in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Suit yourself. Just trying to save you a few bucks.”

So much for Plan A. Lisa wasn’t worried, though. Manny would find her in the stands if he had to, or else she’d get Bruce
to stop here on their way out, after he loosened up a little. All she’d ever had to do was tell a guy the best spot for a
blow job was in this lot, behind the horse trailers. Never failed.

They reached the paved lot. Bruce pulled up to the valet stand. He leaned over, his head brushing her chest, and fished around
on the floor beneath her feet.

“Could you lift up, please? I need that briefcase,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t even realize I was stepping on it. Hey, that’s
hot,”
she said, as he pulled the briefcase onto his lap. It was shiny black alligator, as expensive-looking as everything else
Bruce owned.

“Yeah. I don’t like to leave it in the car.”

“I don’t blame you.”

They got out. Bruce handed the keys to the valet along with a twenty-dollar bill. “Park it in the shade, and it better be
fucking perfect when I get it back.”

“Of course, sir.”

They rode the long escalator up to the clubhouse level, which was air conditioned to an arctic chill. Smoking was prohibited
in here, but the place still reeked with the acrid odor of cigars. A race had just started. Knots of old men—mostly white,
a few black—stood shouting in deep outrage at the horses’ images on the flat screen TVs.

“Buccaneer, you fucking faggot!”

“Six? Where the fuck is Six? Ah, crap, look at him back there!”

“Fucking disaster!”

Lisa glanced over at Bruce. “So do you wanna—”

“Hold on,” he said. His phone was buzzing in his pocket. “Yeah… Where?… Yeah, okay.” He hung up and turned to Lisa. “So listen,
I gotta meet some clients.”

“Now? We just got here.”

“Yeah, they’re here, too.”

“Oh.”

“In a private skybox. Up on the third level.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “Okay.”

Other people and a private box could screw up her plans, but what could she do except roll with the punches?

Bruce led her to an elevator and pushed the button. They stood waiting. He seemed distracted and made no effort to talk to
her. Lisa was starting to get a little confused as to why he’d brought her along. But then they got on, and the second the
doors closed Bruce shoved her against the wall and started groping and kissing her, his tongue tasting unpleasantly of the
onion from the burger. As his pelvis ground into her, she felt his hard-on. This whole thing was what it looked like, then,
she thought with some relief. She reached down to unzip his fly, but he pulled away the second the elevator door opened.

Bruce stepped out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like you, Lisa.”

“Yeah, I like you, too,” she answered automatically.

“Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, almost thinking she was being dismissed. But then he motioned for her to come along.

This guy was starting to strike her as weird.

She followed him down a deserted hallway lined with doors until he stopped in front of one and knocked. It swung open and
they both entered. It was a decent-size room lined with plush movie theater-style armchairs. Its front wall was made of glass,
with a door opening directly on to the stands, three tiers above the finish line. There was a fully stocked wet bar in one
corner and a door to a private bathroom opposite, which stood open, revealing gleaming white tile within and a toilet with
its seat up.

It wasn’t until lisa had finished appreciating the unaccustomed luxury that she looked around and registered the people in
the room. Bruce’s so-called clients. Then she saw just how badly she’d lost her touch.

Lisa had grown up in Marcy Projects and lived there until she ran away at fifteen. Actually, running away had really improved
her life. She made decent money the way she knew how, and lived in better places. But Marcy taught her a few things, things
she thought she’d never get soft enough to forget. Like how to take the temperature of an elevator or a stairwell
before
she walked into it, so she didn’t realize the guy sharing it with her had a knife when it was already too late to do anything
about it. Where the fuck had that knowledge gone? How could it have deserted her at this critical moment? Looking around the
room, she felt sick—short of breath, like she might vomit.

There were five men in here, not counting Bruce, but counting the guy who had closed the door behind them when they walked
in and now stood blocking it with his massive bulk. That guy was over six feet tall and well over three hundred pounds.
Muscle,
she thought, guys like him were called muscle. She remembered that from the projects. Somebody with his build could count
on a long and lucrative career hurting people. The other four were no less fierce looking, but not because of their size.
It was their manner, the look in their eyes. From their features, complexions and dress, she made them all to be Puerto Rican
or Dominican, local rather than island-born. And from their fade haircuts, tatts and the guns bulging beneath their ghetto-fabulous
clothing, guessing their occupation was a no-brainer. They were in the drug trade, to a man.

“Check him for heat,” said one of them, a skinny one with an angry scar on his cheek, who lounged in a plush chair with a
highball glass full of scotch in his hand.

Muscle threw Bruce up against the wall and patted him down expertly, coming out with two guns—a nine-millimeter from a holster
under Bruce’s arm, and a small revolver from a complicated-looking holster strapped to his ankle. Lisa was impressed. Who
knew Bruce the Lawyer was packing? Muscle stuck Bruce’s guns in the waistband of his own pants and looked back at the guy
with the scar, who was clearly the boss.