Bullet Work (16 page)

“Anybody follow you?” said Raven.

“Nope.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I drove all over around hell and back. No
way anyone followed me through all that.”

A Van Halen tune pounded out of the jukebox
in the corner. Guitar riffs and heavy bass lines filled the air.
Two guys at the pool table were laughing and setting up trick
shots, apparently for tequila shooters.

Raven leaned in. “How’d we do?”

“Sixteen.”

“We’re getting there.”

“Six guys came current,” said Falcon. “That
gave us a boost.”

“How many are out?”

Falcon produced the sheet of paper containing
the trainer names. “Eleven.” He turned the page around and slid it
toward Raven.

“We’ll have to try and help motivate these
leftovers.”

“We’re doing okay now,” said Falcon. “Got the
pump primed. We can cool it for a while.”

Raven just stared at him.

Falcon continued, “Seriously. We’ve got the
money coming in. No need to take on more risk. Not that much to be
gained. Everybody is ramping up their security. Hell, you can
hardly walk around outside the barn without being interrogated.
Let’s just play it cool for a while and let the cash roll in.”

Raven just nodded like he was agreeing, then
stopped suddenly. “No way in hell I’m letting those fuckers off.”
He pointed at the list. “They owe us too much money.”

“You’re taking this too far.”

“I tell you what. Once we have all the names
crossed off, we stop. ’Til then, these bastards are fair game.”

Falcon shook his head. Raven reviewed the
paper in front of him. He tapped on Gilmore’s name. “Fella’s got a
nice filly. Lotta talk about her on the backside. Be a shame if
anything happened to her.” Raven could see the stunned look on
Falcon’s face.

“I thought we were only gonna hit old
claimers. Horses nobody’d really miss,” said Falcon.

“Never said that.”

“That was the deal,” Falcon said. “This is
bad enough. I don’t wanna be killing two-year-olds. ’Specially good
ones. No point in it.” Falcon looked down at the table and shook
his head. “Just wrong.”

Raven pressed on, “I don’t need you wimping
out on me. Too much money to make. You stay cool. I’ll take over
the wet work for a while. You just worry about holding up your
end.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You ever study biology?”

“Never studied nothing but a racing
form.”

“Nature has a way of evening out life’s odds.
When you know what you’re doing, you can put the odds in your
favor.” Raven tipped his head back and killed off the last half of
his beer. “After that I’ve got an even better plan. I don’t even
have to be near the damn horse to kill it. It’ll be a thing of
beauty.” Raven slid out of the booth, swooping up the envelope of
cash. “All in due time, my friend.”

Then he walked out of the bar.

Chapter 28

The
Washington
Post
broke the story
Wednesday morning, under Jason Cregg’s byline. An unnamed source,
had confirmed the death of four horses at Fairfax Park, including
two scheduled to run in the same race the previous Thursday.

Details remained sketchy. It wasn’t clear
whether an outside force was responsible for the deaths or some
kind of battle among rival stables on the backside. The report was
less than three column inches at the end of an article that
recapped the upcoming stakes schedule. But now the story was out. A
storm was coming.

Track President Allan Biggs had no comment as
an internal investigation was currently underway. He did express
deep regret for the loss of some of the track’s most courageous
athletes. He vowed to use all available resources to uncover who
was behind these heinous acts.

Biggs threw the paper onto his desk.
Who the hell was his source?
There was no
mention of the extortion demands, but that was just a matter of
time. The internal investigation line would work for now, but Cregg
was persistent. He was dangerous. The knuckleheads on the backside
were primed to blow it at any moment.
Can’t
believe Cregg didn’t get more dirt from them. Maybe they’re holding
together, as he’d asked them. No, he could never get that
lucky.
He was running out of time.

He leaned back in his chair, then shot
upright. “Belker! Get your ass in here!”

  

Most of the jocks had cleared out. Those who
didn’t ride the last race had long since evacuated the jockey room.
When the final horses hit the wire, the crowd emptied out of the
grandstand. The few remaining winners had cashed their tickets,
laughed, bought the last round of beers, and marveled in their
mastery.

Tomorrow would be a new day for the early
departers. Those who closed down the concessions bragged about
their day, mostly to concession workers who wanted to clear out and
head home themselves. Cars snaked their way off of the property and
dumped onto the freeway. Soon the parking lot turned to its normal
shade of black.

Kyle leaned back against his locker,
exhausted but happy. He didn’t dare smile. Today he’d broken
through. Two wins, a third, and one race up the track. The wins
moved him into the top ten at the track. He still trailed Dagens
and Masterson, who led the colony this meet, but he was
gaining.

Neither winner was a favorite. He rode so few
favorites, but if he could keep up the pace, he would start
attracting attention from the better barns. Gilmore’s filly gave
him a legit shot at stakes money—if he could keep the mount. Even
though several days had passed since that maiden win, Kyle was
still exhilarated by the ride. She was the real deal.

But he had to keep improving. Today’s third
place was a legit long shot at 15-1. He leaned forward and pulled
his boots on, then slid back and rested his head against the
locker.

After several minutes of enjoying the
solitude, Kyle walked out of the jocks’ room and moved toward his
car. His path took him down a narrow corridor and past the employee
entrance.

Cyndi would know the results before he got
home, but he would give her the blow by blow of each race as he did
on days he won. She would have calculated his take for the day.
When he didn’t win, they seldom talked. She’d learned. Growing up
on the backside, she knew the code.

There were no paychecks in his world; there
was only performance. When he won, they dreamed. When he lost, they
worried. Tonight they would dream.

“Hey, punk.” It was Dagens. He was standing
at the end of the corridor with two other jocks, Skip Delacroix and
Jose Moreno. Dagens stepped forward. “I’ve about had it with your
shit, Jonas.”

Dagens ran second on a heavy favorite when
Kyle won the tenth race. Kyle had gotten through on the rail again
and beat Dagens’ horse in the last two jumps. Beaten favorites were
the death of jocks. Fans jeered, owners complained, and trainers
got antsy. The jock was where the rubber met the road.

Kyle stopped about five feet short of Dagens.
“That’s the way it goes.” Delacroix and Moreno stood back, smiling
with their arms folded.

“That’s not the way it goes, dipshit. Not
around here.” Dagens stepped forward and pushed Kyle in the chest.
“I told you once, not gonna tell you again.”

Kyle couldn’t remember the last time he was
in a street fight. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been in one since
grade school skirmishes. The last thing he wanted to do was tangle
with Dagens. “That’s horseracing,” Kyle said, hoping to diffuse the
situation.

“Bullshit.”

Dagens was moving forward with fists
clenched.

Just stay calm, Kyle thought. He’s bluffing.
He just wants to appear tough; then, he’ll throw some more verbal
abuse, and it will be over.

“I told you I’d put you through the rail,
fucker. But I think I’d rather just kick your ass right here.”

He’s bluffing. One more tirade and it’ll be
over. Stay cool.

“You’ll get ruled off,” Kyle said. The
stewards would give him days for fighting. Everyone knew that.
Dagens wouldn’t risk days over a fight. It’s almost over. Stay
calm.

“It’ll be worth the days to teach you a
lesson, shithead.”

Kyle put his open hands forward. Dagens kept
advancing.

He won’t do it, Kyle thought. He wouldn’t
risk it.

Dagens was catlike quick, and an overhand
cross ripped across Kyle’s face. The punch caught him flush on the
side of his face, smashing his nose against his right cheek. Kyle
spun and fell forward onto his hands. His eyes watered from the
searing pain in the place where his nose used to be. He looked up.
Delacroix laughed. Moreno kept a lookout for anyone coming into the
corridor.

“Get up—I’m not done with you.”

Through most things Kyle was able to keep his
anger in check, but the reaction by the two other jocks bothered
him more than the punch. He sprang at Dagens and tackled him,
throwing both of them onto the ground. Dagens rabbit-punched him as
they went down. Kyle brought his fist down, hoping for Dagens’
face, but only glanced off his shoulder. He lifted himself, pulling
away from Dagens’ grip and swung again. This time he connected, but
the close quarters meant there was little energy behind the
blow.

Dagens swung him off and scrambled to his
feet. Kyle was up breathing hard. Blood was running from his nose,
and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. His eyes were still
stinging. They circled to the left. Kyle clenched his jaw and
snuffled blood into his throat. He looked for an opening. Dagens
smirked. That was it.

Kyle lunged and delivered a right cross.
Dagens deflected it with his hand, but it still connected. Keeping
his momentum, Kyle pushed Dagens. The move surprised Dagens, and he
slammed against the wall. Kyle hit him again, this time catching
Dagens flush on the cheek. Kyle’s knuckles screamed out in pain.
Dagens threw an upper cut that buried his fist into Kyle’s stomach.
Kyle doubled over and drove his head into Dagens, jamming him into
the concrete block wall.

Kyle wasn’t done yet. He threw a left, a
right, another left. They weren’t crushing blows but had cumulative
impact. He saw fear in Dagens’ eyes for the first time. Blood from
Kyle’s hand had been transferred to Dagens’ cheek. Kyle kept
throwing punches.

“Hey, someone’s coming,” Delacroix
yelled.

Kyle turned to look. He instantly knew it was
a mistake. Dagens made him pay with another right. Kyle stumbled
back but kept his feet. A man in a suit came around the corner.
“Hey, what the hell’s going on here?” Men in suits at a racetrack
this time of day meant management.

Dagens wiped his nose and turned toward the
man. “Guy dropped something. Was just helping him find it.”

“You okay?” the man in the suit said to
Kyle.

“Yeah,” Kyle said, snuffling in blood and
pulling his hand over his lip to mop off the blood. “Yeah, no
problem. Like he said, just dropped something.”

“Right,” said suit. “Well, take it somewhere
else. I don’t have time for this.”

Dagens moved past Kyle and whispered, “We’re
not done.” He walked past the suit. “We’re just going out to get a
few beers.” The three jocks turned and walked out toward the
parking lot.

Suit watched Kyle. “You sure?”

“Fine,” Kyle said, wiping more blood from his
face.

“Your nose is pointing over your shoulder.
Might want to have that checked.” With that, the suit followed the
jocks toward the exit.

Chapter 29

The horses had just come onto the
track for the third race. It was a good card for a Sunday. A light
rain from the night before had broken the heat wave. The track
dried quickly, before the morning works were finished. The track
was again labeled fast.

Lennie hit the first two races and was
building a ticket for the pick six. A wager depended upon selecting
the winners of the third through eighth races. It was a daunting
task but one that had the possibility of paying off handsomely. The
carryover for the bet was $230,000. It was worth the long odds if
Lennie had some races he could narrow to one or two horses.

“I think I’ve got solid singles in the fourth
and sixth. The seventh is a crapshoot. We may want to go deep
there. I have a ticket that’ll be $420,” Lennie said.

“Put me in for ten percent of whatever you
do,” Dan said.

“I’ll go in for twenty,” added Milt.

“TP? You want in?”

“You got Emilio’s ride in the seventh?”

Lennie checked his sheets, “Yep, sure do.
Would love to have him bring that one home.”

“All right, give me ten percent. Emilio
thinks that horse is live. I don’t know if he knows something or is
just hopeful. He’ll give him an aggressive ride; I can guarantee
you that.”

Lennie got up, carefully laid his printed
pages with myriad calculations on his chair, and moved out of the
box to place the wager. They would settle up after the bet was
placed. Sometimes Lennie would make last-minute changes, but they
were all in, regardless of what he wanted to do.

Lennie had cashed three pick sixes in the
past two years, one for $130,000 and one for $85,000; he also hit
one for $235,000, but a series of favorites meant the pool was
divided among five winning tickets. He had cashed so many five of
six tickets that no one could keep track. If Lennie went to the
window for a pick six ticket, smart money was along for the
ride.

“Lennie, would you grab a hotdog on the way
back?” Milt called after him.

Lennie half turned, then resumed his walk up
the steps. It was even money whether Lennie would return with
sustenance for Milt.

“Hey, I saw Kyle this morning,” Dan said to
TP. “What the hell happened to him? He wouldn’t talk about it.”