Secretariat Reborn (25 page)

“Well, you can go to the dog track tomorrow and watch the race on their TV.”

“I plan on it.”

“Okay, wish us luck.” She stretched up, embraced his neck, and they kissed.

“Luck.” he said through his breath. Allie climbed into the driver seat of his SUV. His newer vehicle was more reliable for the long trip than her old pickup. The SUV and horse trailer traveled down the drive. Christian was left standing by the barn. In frustration, he punched the wall and watched Allie disappear down the empty road.

Everything he had told Allie, of course, was a lie. There was no fishing trip or out-of-town friends of Vince’s. His whole life had
become a jumble of lies—the cloned horse, the loan from a gangster, and now he could add drug smuggling to the list. The only truth was how he felt about Allie.

Allie had entered the colt in another maiden race, this time one going a little farther, seven furlongs, and Vince had called on the morning they planned to leave for Miami and told Christian he was needed that night to make his first run with the Scarab. Vince had probably given him little warning on purpose.

Allie had suggested scratching the colt and entering him in another race on another day, but finding the right race for Mystery might take a week or more. Christian wouldn’t hear of it and gave the go ahead. The purse money was an issue, more important than his being there. He wanted to pay Vince off or at least start to.

Vince had been vague when Christian asked what would happen if and when his debt was paid off. “We’ll see,” Vince had said.

Christian held his tongue, despite the urge to question Vince and get a straight answer. The sick feeling that Christian had come to know, chewed at his insides. Had he unknowingly signed a lifetime contract with the mobster?

Christian drove to work in Allie’s old truck. He checked the weather, tides, and sea chop. In the afternoon, the daily dark clouds gathered and the thunderstorms moved west from the center of the state to the Gulf and caused an hour-long downpour on the bay. With the lack of heat, the storms would disperse in the evening. Christian expected clear skies and calm seas for tonight’s run.

Meg planned to feed the horses, so Christian had no need to return to the farm. At five, he packed up at work, changed from his cutoffs into jeans, and headed for Vince’s house.

“Come in, Christian,” Vince said after opening the front door. “We’re in the livin’ room.”

“We?” Christian questioned and stepped inside.

“Yeah, Sal and Vito are here. You know Vito. He was with us
when we first took the Scarab out. He’ll be goin’ with you tonight.”

“Great,” Christian said sarcastically. He followed Vince down the marble-tiled foyer into the spacious living room with its contemporary furnishings.

Sal sat in a large stuffed chair and raised his cocktail glass when Christian walked in. “There’s that speed demon,” he cackled. “Every time I think about losing my lunch on that Scarab, I wanna beat your ass.” He burst into a belly-shaking laugh.

Sal wore a constant grin; every sentence ended with a chuckle even when he threatened someone. Perhaps it was meant to throw a person off, since it was hard to tell if Sal was sincere or joking.

“Sorry I caused you to puke, Sal,” Christian said quietly. He sensed someone behind him, a looming shadow that breathed down his neck. He swirled on his heels and saw Vito, standing only a foot away. “Hey, Vito.”

Vito gave Christian an icy glare and sauntered past him into the living room.

Christian fidgeted, gnawed on his lower lip, and rubbed his clammy hands on his jeans.
Of all the bum luck
, he thought,
stuck on a boat with this guy
. He considered Vito the worst of the lot. With his harsh features, beady eyes, disgruntled personality, and his shoulder-length black hair slicked back into a tight ponytail, Vito resembled a water moccasin; dark, silent, deadly, with a nasty reputation to slither out of its way to bite you. The guy, it seemed, would rather cut a throat than smile.

“Take your shirt off, Christian,” said Vince.

Christian frowned, but did as he was told. Vito came up and patted down Christian’s pants, checking for wires, recorders, or weapons. “Clean,” Vito said.

Vince nodded. “Just a precaution. Can never be too careful.”

Christian put his shirt back on. “I’m not going to mess you over, Vince. I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

They gathered around a table and looked at a map of the area. Vince pointed out where the Scarab would meet the large freighter, trail it, and retrieve the floating bags the crew tossed overboard.

Christian scratched his head. “Isn’t using speed boats a little old-fashioned, Vince?”

“It is,” said Vince. “In the seventies and eighties, we used fast boats and small planes to bring in goods, but we lost too much product to the feds and Coast Guard. We switched and began importing on large freighters, concealing the goods in shipping containers, but the cops went to drug-sniffing dogs in the ports. Nowadays, most goods are brought in over the Mexican border, but you can’t trust those bastards. That’s why we’ve gone back to the old ways and moved our operation to Sarasota. No one expects any trafficking to be done here.”

“There’s also no competition, like there is in Miami,” said Sal, “Goddamn Haitian and Jamaican fucks.”

At ten o’clock, Christian and Vito boarded the Scarab and slowly motored south through the dark bay. The water was pancake flat, with the lack of a breeze. A few miles away, the red-and-green lights of another boat streaked across the still water, probably a fisherman heading in for the evening. They entered New Pass and, to the left were the City Island jetties, a long row of boulders that sagged toward the water. Past the rocks was a seawall where a few late-night fishermen sat with their glowing lanterns. The lights hung just above the waterline to attract baitfish. On the Longboat side of the pass was a sandbar and beach lined with mangroves and Australian pines webbed throughout with hiking trails that wound their way through a bayside park.

The Scarab glided past floating clumps of still seaweed, telling Christian it was slack tide. “It’s pretty quiet tonight and no incoming or outgoing current,” Christian said, trying to make friendly conversation while keeping the Scarab barely above an idle in the no-wake zone.

Vito eyeballed him for a moment and then turned away.

Christian shrugged.

They motored past a marina, small restaurant, and bait stand on City Island and cruised under the New Pass Bridge. Christian eased the throttle forward, increasing their speed. South of the pass, large waterfront homes lined the shore, and across the water were the Longboat Key condos. In ten minutes, they entered the gulf and, a mile out, Christian opened up the Scarab. Vito sat in the passenger seat, clinging for dear life, as the boat leaped and crashed down hard in the open water.

Christian followed the GPS coordinates to the meeting place. After twenty or so miles, they arrived at the location where they would hook up with the freighter. He shut down the engines, turned off the boat lights, and waited in the dark silence. The Scarab gently rolled in the small swells.

“Everything okay, Vito?” Christian asked, still trying to be pleasant to the jerk.

“
Sì
,” Vito answered, but his hands still gripped the boat handles.

Christian leaned back in the seat, propped his feet up on the dash, and tossed his head back, gazing at the night sky. Without city lights spoiling the view, the stars numbered in the millions. He felt no need to talk further to the man with limited English and a sour disposition.

Normally, he would have loved the tranquil setting on the gulf, but he hated this, being here, doing this, and wasn’t fond of the company. After some time, Vito released his hold, cautiously stood, and scanned the dark waters. He pointed and said something in Italian.

Christian leaned forward and saw a green speck of light dancing on the black horizon. “Lights are too low for a freighter,” he said, “probably a shrimper out of the panhandle or Louisiana.” He wondered if Vito understood and rephrased, “No freighter.”

An hour later, Vito excitedly rattled off more Italian, but ended the sentence in English. “There it is.”

Christian stood and glanced at the boat lights high above the waterline
as the large ship cruised toward them. “Yeah, that’s our baby.” He cranked up the engines, swung the Scarab around, and pointed to a hatch. “Get the light out.”

Vito took out an enormous strobe light and scurried back into his passenger seat. They soon were trailing the freighter without lights. Vito flashed the deck, a signal to the crew to drop the goods overboard. The freighter never stopped or slowed, continuing its speed and course to the port in Tampa Bay.

Vito scanned the light across the surface and spotted the first of ten large duffel bags that had been tossed overboard. They were sealed in plastic and floated with buoys. Christian pulled the boat alongside the bag. It took both him and Vito to haul the hundred-pound package aboard. They carried the bag to the bow deck and dropped it down through top hull hatch. Christian scrambled back to driver’s seat, and they searched for the rest. Forty-five minutes later, they had collected all ten packages and headed in.

Reentering Sarasota Bay was the tricky part, a time to get nervous, but all was quiet, not a boat light in sight. Christian slowly steered the Scarab wide around the moored sailboats off City Island and hit a switch that raised the motors’ props halfway out of the water. The large Scarab glided over the shallows, never touching the grass flats, sandbars, or oyster beds below. He maneuvered the boat up a short, narrow channel shrouded with mangroves on each side.

Christian cut the engines, and the boat drifted perfectly up against a small dock. Alongside the dock was an obscure boat ramp with a parking lot. The ramp was sandwiched in between the park at the end of City Island and a wild-bird sanctuary, with a marine laboratory beyond.

At that laboratory, Al Gore had prepared his Democratic convention speech when he ran for president. An odd place, Christian thought, since the majority of Sarasota residents were Republican.

Sal stood on the dock with two other men and glanced at his
watch. “Right on time, kid,” he said with a grin. A large, paneled bread truck and Sal’s black Cadillac were parked near the ramp.

Vito tossed Sal a boat line. Christian hopped into the forward hatch and handed a heavy duffel bag up to Vito. He, in turn, passed the bag off to the two men on the dock. They hurriedly loaded the truck, concealing the goods behind bread racks, while Sal held the boat lines and supervised the process. Within fifteen minutes, the bags were offloaded and in the truck.

Christian wiped the sweat from his brow and lifted himself out of the deep hatch. “Vince didn’t come?” he asked Sal.

“The boss doesn’t get his hands dirty,” Sal said, smiling. “You did good, kid, real good.”

Christian nodded and watched the bread truck drive away.

Vito stepped off the Scarab and joined Sal on the dock.

“See ya next time, kid,” Sal said and tossed the boat lines aboard. Sal and Vito conversed in Italian while they walked to Sal’s car.

Christian pushed the boat nose away from the dock, leapfrogged over the windshield, landing behind the helm, and cranked up the noisy Mercury engines. He cruised toward Vince’s house, feeling relieved that everything had gone so quickly and smoothly.

A thousand pounds of dope, he thought, trying to figure out its street value. Ten million, if the bags held pot, and an unimaginable amount if it had been cocaine. He huffed.
No wonder Vince wasn’t concerned that I didn’t pay off my measly horse loan
.

In the predawn hours, he pulled into the farm and caught a few hours of shut-eye. Soon he was up, helping Meg feed the horses and then hurrying off to work. At two in the afternoon, he left the business in Jake’s hands and drove to the dog track near the Sarasota Airport. In the upstairs clubhouse, he entered the sparse bar. The majority of tables and stools were empty of bettors. At the bar, he took a stool in front of an overhead TV that was tuned to the Miami track.

After ordering a cocktail, he opened the catalogue he’d purchased downstairs and studied it.

“Who you betting on, son,” asked an elderly man sitting on a nearby seat.

“I own a colt in the sixth race at Calder,” said Christian. “He’s the five horse.”

The man looked at his catalogue. “Clever Chris. Says this is only his second time out, but last time he finished with a strong fourth. So you must be Christian Roberts.”

“I am.”

The man turned to the other men seated at the bar, a few older guys and some middle-aged workmen. “Hey, this young fellow owns a horse in the sixth at Calder, Clever Chris.” He looked back at Christian. “Think he’s gonna win?” All eyes focused on Christian and waited to hear the inside scoop.

“If the jockey doesn’t fall off, he’s a sure bet.”

Christian had ordered and read several books on Secretariat. He had Amazon ship them to his mother’s house so Allie wouldn’t get suspicious and make the connection. He had only read about the horse’s early racing career but learned that Secretariat was also a slow, clumsy clown as a two-year-old and was called a pretty boy with no talent. With his second race, Secretariat put a gag in the skeptics’ mouths when the pretty horse easily won. Christian hoped now that his beautiful clone would follow in his famous donor’s footsteps.

Everyone at the bar placed a bet on his colt, and the bartender turned up the volume on the TV.

The starting gate doors swung open, and Mystery was the last to leave, causing sighs at the bar. Christian wasn’t worried. Secretariat was known for leaving the gate late and stalking the field from the rear. With the race half over, though, and his red colt still lumbered along in last place, Christian’s faith began to wane. “Come on, Mystery,” he whispered.

Going into the turn, Mystery began to move and pass the trailing horses on the outside. He had the same jockey, but this time Jeffrey
followed Allie’s instructions. The field rounded the turn, and the track announcer included Mystery’s name. “Here comes Clever Chris. He’s moving fast into third, overtaking Midnight Peace.” The horses were on the homestretch, racing toward the finish line. “Clever Chris,” said the announcer. “He’s neck and neck with Leonard G.”