Bullet Work (17 page)

“Walked into a door,” he said, gazing at the
toteboard.

“Sure he did. What’s the door’s name?”

“Jim Dagens. But you’ve got to keep that on
the QT. If the stew’s find out, they’ll give both guys days.” The
code of silence allowed each of them to keep riding.

“What happened?”

“Little disagreement about etiquette on the
racetrack. Been brewing for a few weeks. Dagens is a hothead.
Figures if he gets beat, it’s ’cause the other guy cheated.”

“Kyle okay? He seemed fine, but I don’t need
him getting his brains rattled a few weeks before that filly
stake.”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Sometimes you just gotta
fight a guy to end the tension,” said TP. “It’s amazing. I remember
punching guys and rolling around on the floor in the jock’s room
when I was still riding. Then two weeks later, we’re out having
cocktails. It’s a respect thing. Not that much removed from the
school yard in junior high. If you don’t fight, those guys will
just punk you on the racetrack every chance they get.”

“Sounds like the mafia.”

“Yep, it’s the code they live by. Kyle can
handle himself.”

Lennie slid back into his seat. “Four forty,
went five deep in the seventh.”

They pulled out cash and handed it to Lennie.
“Hey, how ’bout that hotdog?” Milt said.

“Oh, did you say something to me when I was
going to bet? I must not have heard you,” Lennie said, smiling.

“Great,” Milt said. “I’m gonna go play the
seven here anyway. And I’ll get that hotdog I ordered.” He had his
bankroll in one hand and motioned visibly to TP and Dan. “You guys
need anything?”

They waved him off. “Hey, Maj, you’re not
going to make a bet with that?” Dan pointed toward the $50 bill on
the outside of his bankroll.

“Why not?”

Lennie looked up and noticed the same thing.
“Bad luck. Nobody ever cashed a ticket on a bet made with a fifty
dollar bill. Where you been?”

“That’s BS. Watch and learn, gentlemen. Watch
and learn.”

Several minutes later Magic Milt made it back
to his seat, accompanied by two hotdogs, a large lemonade, and a
bag of peanuts. He was just in time to see the break. His seven
horse ran fifth, but Lennie’s pick won. They were alive in the pick
six.

After dramatically tossing his tickets in the
air, Milt began unwrapping one of his hotdogs. “And I still say
that fifty dollar bill thing is a bunch of crap.”

“Keep trying it, Milt,” Lennie said. “Can’t
beat fate. Kind of like doubling up to get even. That’s a game you
can’t play unless you wear long pants. Even then, you better have
some serious cash behind you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Milt mumbled with half the
hotdog in his mouth. He swallowed hard and said, “Any break on the
extortion scheme on the backside?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” Dan said.
“They’ve increased security, and folks are guarding their barns
like Fort Knox, but two more horses were hit this week.”

Lennie pulled down his glasses and shook his
head. “I had money on one of those. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Two
horses in the same race.”

“They autopsy either horse to see why it
died?” asked Milt.

“They don’t autopsy dime claimers,” Lennie
said, then turned toward Dan. “Are there guys still holding out? I
heard almost everyone was paying, at least to buy time ’til they
catch this guy.”

“Heard Dillingham was still out,” said TP.
“And Jake’s out, isn’t he, Dan?”

“Yeah, for now. I told him I’d pay for my
stock, but he’s pretty pissed off about it. More trainers agreeing
to pay puts a bigger bull’s eye on those who don’t. Need to catch
this guy.”

“Ya know,” said Milt. “They catch this guy, I
know what to do. It’s what they talked about if they ever caught
bin Laden. Don’t need a trial or any legal proceedings. Just
announce the time they were going to release him at Times Square in
New York. They catch this guy, they oughta just release him on the
backside. The problem will take care of itself.” With that, he
jammed the remainder of the hotdog into his mouth.

“It has to be someone with a license,” said
Lennie. “I mean a trainer, groom, owner, vet, someone with a
license to access the backside. Can’t believe anyone in this game
could harm one of these horses. Just makes me sick. This keeps up,
owners and trainers are gonna pack up and go somewhere else to
race.”

“A few have,” Dan said. “But it’s tough to
get stalls anywhere now that other meets are in full swing. Whoever
is doing this knew the timing would be good. You either take your
horse home, in which case you have no chance to make money, or you
risk being here. That’s why a bunch are just paying. It gives them
a chance to make some money.”

“That’s why we’re all here,” said Lennie.
“Chance to make money.”

Emilio’s horse won in the seventh and paid
$28. They all got well there, but the single in the sixth lost a
photo, and they ran out in the eighth. Four winners of six didn’t
pay, but it was always a good idea to be with Lennie on exotics.
There was always tomorrow. Over time, he was going to win more than
his share. Like he said, they were all there for the chance to make
money.

Chapter 30

cowboy Hat wasn’t wearing it
tonight. Darkness had fallen on the backside, and he smiled to
himself. He was like the invisible man. He could walk anywhere on
the backside and not draw attention. Many barns had sentries posted
as fear gripped the backside. Raven had created the fear, and there
was nothing any of the sentries could do to stop him.

Two nights before, a raucous fight had
erupted on the backside. A groom from Hudgins’ barn was caught
prowling around a neighboring barn. Three stable hands jumped the
guy, then beat and kicked him until he was unconscious.

An ambulance took the victim. Prince
William’s sheriff’s department took two of the assailants. The
third had disappeared, yet to be seen again.

Protecting the horses was the justification.
In the backside’s court of public opinion, the beat down, though
brutal, was deemed righteous. Raven smiled at the thought.

Prior to tonight’s mission, Raven had checked
the list of unprotected trainers and zeroed in on Gilmore and Tom
Posten. Gilmore had that kick-ass filly that wowed everyone a few
days ago. Damn, if someone got to that horse, then everyone would
know that there was no protection. If Gilmore had only come clean
and paid up, that filly would turn into a hell of a horse, but
pride was one of the seven deadly sins. Pride would kill Gilmore’s
precious filly.

Raven wore a light jacket. The weather was
sweltering, but he needed the pockets to carry his little packages.
He approached Posten’s barn. A short Mexican stepped out of the
shedrow. “
Que pasa?
”

“Nada
,” Raven said.
Then he walked around the side of the shedrow out of the man’s
sight. At the sixth stall he turned and leaned on the webbing
slightly, just enough to retrieve the plastic baggie and empty the
contents into the feed tub. He stroked the horse’s neck as he
crumpled the emptied bag in the other hand.

Raven leaned back and quickly deposited the
bag into his jacket pocket. He walked back to the side of the
shedrow where the Mexican was standing. “Take care,
amigo
.” The Mexican waved back. Raven walked to the
end of the shedrow and ducked around the corner.

Gilmore’s barn would be a little more
difficult as that hot chick and some Mexican were keeping a
constant vigil. Raven waited in the shadows. After several minutes
he heard the babe tell Ricki Ricardo that she was going to Crok’s
for a soda and did he want anything. Raven needed to get to the
fifth stall on the far side of the barn. Ricki moved to a chair and
leaned back on the rear legs, tipping against the outside wall of
the Gilmore’s office.

This was his opening. Raven didn’t hesitate.
He zipped around the far side of the shedrow, then after scoping
out the scene, he raced to the fifth stall, and as he had done at
Posten’s barn, emptied the contents in the feed tub.

“That a girl, eat it up,” he whispered, as
the horse dipped its head into the blue tub. He chuckled to
himself, scratched behind the horse’s ears briefly, then zipped off
into the darkness.

The substance was largely harmless and, in
proper use, made a beautiful garden. Not many people knew about the
more unusual properties of
Taxus
cuspidata
. Raven was able to pick up a large plant at the
nursery in Merrifield, Virginia.

It was a gorgeous plant, but he cut it up and
trimmed the piney needles from the branches. He mixed the trimmings
with a little molasses to make sure the horses would lick out the
tubs, hopefully cleaning up all traces of the substance. And the
horses would eat it, Raven knew.
Hell, they’ll
eat anything you put into their feed tub. Stupid
animals.

Yes,
Taxus cuspidata
was largely harmless. Funny thing, though: If ingested by a horse,
it proved fatal. At the nursery the non-scientific name was
Japanese yew.

For centuries, this plant formed the
centerpiece of intricate and stunning Asian gardens. The health of
the plant bore directly on the beauty and stature of the garden,
and as a result the face and prominence of the garden’s owner.

Each plant told a story. Only a skilled
gardener knew how to bring out the best in the plant and the unique
way to trim it. Only through years of study and reflection could a
master alter the growth of a
Taxus
cuspidata
. The gardener and the plant were forever
connected. An error in trimming the plant forever changed its
character and, as a result, the character of the gardener.

The amount Raven had dropped in the feed tubs
would slow the horses’ heart rates, and within twelve hours, both
horses would be dead. Nothing could stop it. Nature was a beautiful
thing, Raven thought. The strong survived; the weak got their just
desserts. Stupid bastards should have paid up.

  

Beth walked back to the barn, carrying her
plastic bottle of soda. She’d been in the business her whole life,
yet she was amazed by how Jake individualized the regimen for each
horse. Each horse had a personality. Each was unique, and rather
than treat them like widgets on an assembly line, Jake got into the
heads of each of his horses. He made them happy and confident.
Happy horses trained better; confident horses won purses.

She loved how he managed Aly Dancer’s daily
experiences, from workouts with older horses to allowing dirt to be
kicked in her face to changing the physical environment
constantly.

If this filly was what they thought, she
would be on the move frequently. If she could compete at the top of
the game, she would ship from track to track, attempting to take
down big purses.

That filly was special.

There was nothing going to separate her from
this one, nothing.

Chapter 31

biggs paced in his office. Jason
Cregg was stopping by soon, and he pondered how to play his hand.
He couldn’t keep stonewalling the guy. Biggs had ridden that
strategy as long as he could.

Normally, he would do a walking interview
with a reporter and show off the customer improvements and upgrades
like a used car salesman. Today the meeting would be in his office
and only in his office. He didn’t know who to trust and sure as
hell didn’t want to bump into a horseman or official that Cregg
could latch his teeth into.

Biggs had done his research. Cregg had been
with
The Washington Post
for the past two
years; prior to that he had been a beat writer for the
Daily Racing Form
, based in Southern California. He’d
put out feelers on the guy with his network in the racing
community. The feedback was that Cregg was fair-minded as a
reporter but typically bore a bias against management. He was
always angling for the little guy, and management was just a means
to keep the little guy down.

Cregg did an exposé on impoverished backside
workers at San Gabriel Race Track in 2006. With that effort he’d
won a nomination for an Eclipse Award. And that was the problem.
The track took the hit. The legislature wanted to pull funding and
made a huge human rights stink over it. In the end the backside
help worked for the stables, not the track. But why address the
problem when there’s a big bad corporation that can be strafed for
publicity’s sake?

How can anyone be in this business and not
see management’s side? We take all the risk. We provide the purse
structures. We do the advertising and promotion. We invest in
structures, barns, and amenities for horsemen. In the end, we get
treated like we’re the problem.

His phone buzzed, and Rosalind came over the
speaker. “Mr. Biggs? Mr. Cregg to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Biggs positioned himself behind his desk, the
power spot, as the door opened. “Jason, how are you?”

A slender thirty-something with long,
uncombed blonde hair walked forward and shook Biggs’ hand. He wore
a wrinkled blue polo shirt over faded jeans and muddy tennis shoes.
The shoes indicated he’d been on the backside already this morning.
A black satchel was slung over his shoulder, and a pad and
ballpoint were gripped in the other.

“Good, Allan, I’m good.” Cregg sunk into a
side chair and crossed an ankle over the other knee.

“Rosalind!” Biggs shouted. “We need some
coffee in here.” Pointing at Cregg, he asked, “Black?”

“Fine.”

“Two, Rosalind, both black.”

“Thanks for meeting with me, this morning,”
said Cregg. “How’s the investigation going?”

“Always takes longer than you think. We’re
making good progress, but—”

“Allan, cut the crap. What’s going on? I was
just on the backside. I watched them drag a dead horse out of
Gilmore’s barn this morning. Posten woke up to a dead animal in his
barns as well. Hudgins had a groom nearly beat to death a few
nights ago. Guy’s still in the hospital. What the hell’s going
on?”