The Dark Side of Town Read online

  We left the restaurant and walked down Broadway to stretch our legs. The temperature had dropped as it does at night in Upstate New York, and I buttoned my blazer over my blouse. We walked past shops, boutiques, more restaurants, and a Starbucks, when I saw the most amazing building and stopped. “What is this place?”

  “The Adelphi Hotel.”

  “Wow. It’s like a fantasy. Was it modeled after an Italian villa?”

  “Exactly,” Calixto said.

  I stared up at the lit façade of the four-story hotel. An ornate porch, maybe ninety-feet long, stretched across the second level. From there, slender three-story columns rose, finally joining intricately carved arches that formed the roofline.

  “A famous Saratoga landmark,” Calixto said. “Perhaps we should stay here some time,”

  “What?”

  “Only as part of our romance cover, of course.”

  I couldn’t think of a comeback and was grateful when my phone buzzed to remind me a message was waiting. I pushed Play.

  Around me, everything receded. A voice I hadn’t heard in seventeen years sparked the anger that still smoldered in my gut. A sense of betrayal rushed forward from the past as I listened to the voice of Joan McKee Gorman.

  Calixto stared at me. “What? Who has called you?

  I could feel the anger contorting my lips. I stared into the dark beyond him. “My mother.”

  7

  Early the next morning, I found Becky Joe passed out in a chair inside the tack room with an empty bottle of gin by her feet. When I leaned over to make sure she was just sleeping it off and not seriously ill, I caught the sour smell of intoxication. I liked her and didn’t want her fired, so I placed the bottle in the trash barrel before Pizutti could arrive and find it.

  I remembered how the blood had drained from her face after she’d witnessed Rico’s cruel behavior to Stevie. Rather than admit what she’d seen, or talk about it, she’d gotten drunk. Had she been here all night?

  At 4:15 A.M., it was still dark outside, with only a trace of gray to the east. I hoped I could rouse her before anyone else arrived. They’d be showing up soon.

  Using the water spigot by the shedrow, I filled the coffeepot, poured it into the coffeemaker, and spooned a strong portion of java in the filter to brew. When the rich scent of coffee filled the air, I made us both a cup and quickly swallowed a few mouthfuls.

  Gently, I shook Becky Joe’s shoulder. She didn’t wake up, so I shook harder, and when her eyes opened, I held the second cup out to her. She grimaced and pushed my hand away, spilling hot coffee on her knee.

  “Ow! Crap … I’m gonna be sick.”

  She rushed out of the tack room with her hand covering her mouth, sped off the shedrow, and barfed in the grass. Lovely.

  “You drink the whole bottle last night?”

  She walked away, jerking an angry, backward wave in my general direction before she lurched along the path leading to East Avenue. This was not good. She was Ziggy Stardust’s groom, and Pizutti had scheduled the colt to work that morning. The colt’s weekly speed drills were critical, and this was a terrible time for his groom to be missing.

  The replacement worker for the one Pizutti had fired should arrive momentarily, but with Becky Joe absent, we’d still be one groom short. It would be a long morning, and I regretted not going to bed earlier the night before. Wished I’d had less wine, too. Couldn’t fix that, so I drank more coffee.

  Once I’d started working for him, I’d soon realized the trainer liked to use his assistant, Carl, as a hatchet man. Despite his soft spot for his help, if anyone screwed up, Pizutti would see to it Carl gave the offending groom the axe. I was afraid his blade was about to fall on Becky Joe.

  A few minutes later, two yawning grooms appeared, and Carl drove up in his truck, leaving it parked near the barn. A couple more grooms shuffled in, and moments later, I heard the sound of Pizutti’s diesel approaching. I finished my last sip of coffee, and watched as he climbed from the Mercedes and headed toward me.

  Mars had a reputation for loving the fast lane—gambling, flashy women, booze, and drugs. Did these vices ever spiral out of control? His most likely downfall would be gambling debts, unless he had an equally expensive cocaine habit. But he seemed too on top of his game for heavy cocaine use.

  From the doorway to the feed room, Carl called out to him. “Becky Joe’s AWOL.”

  “She’s not effing here?” When Carl nodded, Pizutti said, “Man, can you believe that woman?” The whining note in his voice intensified. “Carl, I want you to—”

  “She’s sick,” I said. “Saw her last night. She had a bug or something.”

  Pizutti looked doubtful. “Nah. Broad probably hit the bottle.”

  “No, really,” I said. “Last time I saw her, she was throwing up.”

  “Huh. Maybe you’re right, ’cause she usually comes to work no matter how messed up she is. And she does know how to get messed up.” He nodded to himself, then his gaze came to rest on me. “So, can you rub Ziggy this morning?”

  Carl frowned. “Fay may be a bit new to be working on Ziggy. Besides she’s a hot walker. What about Javier?”

  “Nah, I’ve watched this one. She knows what she’s doing. She’ll be fine.”

  Pizutti’s compliment worried me. Was my cover as a hot walker that transparent? My years at Pimlico as a groom and exercise rider for my dad might have seasoned me too much to fool a horseman like Pizutti. Or maybe living a double life just made me paranoid. I shook it off.

  “I’d love to groom him!” No need to fake my eagerness; putting my hands on the sleek coat and muscles of a great racehorse like Ziggy Stardust would be a treat.

  Pizutti turned to Carl. “Get his breakfast ready.” He pointed an index finger at me. “You feed it to him, and as soon as he’s finished, get to work on him. He’s going out after the eight o’clock break.”

  When Carl handed me the feed bucket, I grabbed the rake so I could encourage Ziggy to stand back. Happily, I was able to serve the grain without having his teeth embedded in my arm. With that accomplished, I watched him devour his oats while banging his feed tub against the wall. The way he darted fierce glances at me, you’d think he hadn’t been fed in weeks.

  As soon as he licked up the last oat, I grabbed a brush box and carefully entered his stall, telling myself that if Becky Joe could groom the horse, I could, too. Luckily, he tolerated my presence, but eyed me suspiciously as I squatted beneath him and removed his stable bandages. But when I massaged his neck with the rubber curry comb, he nodded his head up and down with enthusiasm, apparently in equine ecstasy.

  “Oh, you’re just a big old pussycat,” I said, and rubbed harder. Next, I used a comb on his mane, tail, and forelock, a stiff brush on his legs, and a hoof pick on his feet before going over his entire coat with a soft brush. My finishing touch was to polish his coat with a soft, clean cloth until he gleamed.

  The energy that flowed from his body into my hands was almost magical, definitely electrical, and totally awesome. I’d always believed the best racehorses possessed a magnetic quality. Some said I had an overactive imagination. Personally, I think those people are obtuse, and don’t belong near a good horse.

  By now, I’d broken a sweat, had horse dust all over me, but was happy as a sunbeam, at least until I thought about the previous evening. The cloud of indecision about my mother, which I’d ignored all morning, had gathered strength. Now it loomed large, darkening my horizon. Couldn’t I just not call her?

  I’d avoided the bitch for seventeen years, and wanted nothing to do with her. Suddenly, she wanted to see me? Now? Did she feel guilty about leaving me behind all those years ago? I hated her for it, and doubted I could ever forgive her. I wiped the sweat off my face with Ziggy’s towel, and after easing out of his stall, I stood in the aisle staring at nothing. I didn’t want this uncertainty hanging over me.

  Find out what she wants, Fia. Get it over with. I decided I would as soon as I got back to my ro
om.

  * * *

  When the track reopened after the eight o’clock break, I was surprised to see Carl give Stevie a leg up on Ziggy Stardust for the speed work. I’d assumed Ziggy’s regular jockey, the legendary Cornelio Valentinas, would work the horse. Valentinas must have been unavailable, because I knew Stevie would never be named to ride Ziggy when the horse ran in the Jim Dandy, whether he’d worked the horse or not. The owners would only accept a top jockey like Valentinas for their horse. They’d never want a rider as inexperienced as Stevie.

  Once Carl had tossed Stevie onto Ziggy’s back, he led the horse and rider for a few turns around the shedrow. This was done in the sometimes vain hope the walk would settle the horse and avoid a sudden explosions of pent-up energy on the way to the track. The trio had just disappeared around the far corner of the barn without mishap, when Calixto, leading another horse and jockey, came around the near corner.

  He threw me a meaningful look before glancing up at his rider, and saying, “Oscar Mejias, this is Fay Mason.”

  Damn. The guy I’d read about in the Form, the friend of Fragoso, the jockey who’d shot himself. This one looked to be in his early twenties, his face thin and honed from constant dieting.

  “Hola, Oscar,” I said.

  He smiled and said, “Cómo estás?” revealing seriously crooked teeth with a gap where one canine was missing.

  Was it a coincidence Calixto had hooked up with Oscar Mejias? I doubted it. More likely, Gunny and the Saratoga County Sheriff’s Office wanted Calixto to investigate deeper into Fragoso’s suicide, and if Mejias was riding for Maggie Bourne, it gave Calixto the opportunity he needed.

  Fragoso’s death still haunted me at night, the memory of his bloody head crawling into my dreams. I shook the ugly vision off, watching Calixto lead the horse and rider down the aisle instead. The way his leather chaps accentuated his long, lean legs brought a sudden flush of heat.

  I almost berated myself, but my desire to live had always burned hottest alongside my fear of death. Nothing wrong with that. It’s the way it should be.

  * * *

  Later, I stood on the edge of the Oklahoma Training Track with Pizutti and Carl, staring through binoculars, holding my breath as Ziggy Stardust broke from the gate. He was working five furlongs with two other horses, and Mars had told Stevie to let him rip.

  “Wanna see him go really good,” he’d said. “Just show him your whip. Don’t be hittin’ him with it, okay?”

  Through the lenses I watched Stevie sit chilly on Ziggy’s back, not asking, just seeing what the horse wanted to do. Fast and straight as a falcon dive, Ziggy shot down the backstretch, opening up on the other two horses, leaving them behind.

  I’d only seen the horse run live that one time at Belmont, the day he’d stopped running. Now, he took my breath away. He gained more momentum, rocketing around the turn and exploding down the stretch with dizzying speed. When he hit the wire, Stevie stood up in the irons, and Mars clicked his stopwatch.

  “Fifty-nine flat! And all within hisself. Man, he went good.”

  Mars slapped palms with Carl, and through the binoculars, Stevie’s face was flushed with happiness. I felt it, too.

  Exhilarated, I bounced back to the barn and finished the morning chores, before hurrying up Union Avenue to the rental, where I zipped up the three staircases and entered my room. After showering, I scrolled through my messages for my mother’s number.

  I stared at it for a moment, my buoyant mood shriveling. I gritted my teeth and hit Send.

  When she answered, I reverted back to my childhood.

  “Fia … darling! So delighted you called me back. I really, really want to see you.” She spoke in the breathless, dramatic, and manipulative voice I remembered from childhood. “When can we make that happen?”

  I exhaled a breath, “How are you, Mother?”

  “Oh, darling, call me Joan. Patrick always does. I so prefer it.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I don’t really think of you as my mother, anyway.”

  “Now, sweetie, don’t be like that. I want to see you. I need to see you. I’ve felt so bad about what happened with your father.”

  I ground my teeth. What was she talking about? “You mean when you took his money and walked out?”

  An edge of steel sharpened her voice. “I told you, don’t be like that, Fia. Your father forced me to leave. Surely you realize that?”

  “First I’ve heard of it.”

  She paused, came back with a softened tone. “Fia, please. I want to talk this through. We’ve been estranged for so long. It’s been very painful for me.”

  For you?

  “I talked to Patrick,” she continued. “He told me you two have made up, and I was thrilled to hear it. But he said you lost your position with the police force? That you’re working at some barn up here now?”

  The disapproval I remembered so well. Her words oozed with it. I closed my eyes and took another breath. “Yes, Joan.” I almost spit the name out. “That’s correct.”

  I heard her sigh, the one that said I was such a trial for her. “Fia, I want to help you. Get you back on your feet.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because you’re my daughter. I want our family to reknit.” She paused a beat, then played what she must have considered her ace in the hole. “Patrick says Jilly is crazy about you, and I thought I would invite her up. To Saratoga … so she can see you.”

  I adored my niece who I’d only come to know recently. She was cute, tough, and like me, at age fifteen, a handful.

  “Do not,” I said, “use your granddaughter as a bribe. Don’t suck her into your games. Leave her out of it!”

  Joan seemed speechless. But I should have known she’d only paused to regroup. “Oh … Fia. I am so sorry. I’ve hurt you.” Her voice broke with tears. “Please, sweetie, let me see you. Please.”

  I wanted to scream at her. Tell her she hadn’t hurt me, couldn’t hurt me, because I cared so little about her, she’d never even come close. But talking to her for the first time in seventeen years had torn the scab right off my wound. I saw the denial I’d clung to for so long was a big fat lie. When this woman had walked out on me, she’d broken my heart, shredded my soul.

  But she wasn’t giving up. “Fia, you should know I was in that plane crash last month at LAX. If you saw the news, you know sixteen people died! I was one of the lucky ones. And it’s made me—”

  “You were on that American Airlines flight?” It had been all over the media. Why hadn’t Patrick mentioned this? Because he knows you hate her.

  “What I’m trying to say,” she continued, “is coming that close to death has made me reconsider many things in my life. I want a second chance.”

  I’d been marching about the room, clutching the cell to my ear, and had wound up standing before the window. I stared at the Adirondack Mountains in the distance. They looked so desolate and cold. Was it possible she wanted to reconnect? If she did, should I let that happen?

  A sudden avalanche of emotion buried me and I heard myself saying, “All right … I’ll see you.”

  Damn her. Why had I weakened like that? Sounding like a sixteen-year-old. Young and vulnerable. Just pathetic.

  “Oh, Fia, darling. I’m thrilled to hear it! You won’t regret this.”

  8

  I turned my phone off and crawled under the comforter, trying to ignore the large merry-go-round print that covered its surface. I was afraid if I stared at it, the carousel would begin spinning in time to the images that whirled in my head—Stevie’s frightened face, the day I’d realized my mother had abandoned us, and the terrible pain she’d left in my father’s eyes.

  Eventually, the previous evening’s events with Rico, followed by too much wine, too little sleep, and the draining reconnect with my mother did their work, and I slid under for almost two hours. I awakened with renewed energy and a text message from Calixto.

  “See me at pm feed?” he’d asked.

&n
bsp; I made coffee, added a dollop of cream, and drank from my landlord’s china mug picturing a pink and green unicorn. Sitting on his merry-go-round comforter, I realized the man had a penchant for fantasy horses. Maybe I’d introduce him to Ziggy Stardust.

  A short time later, when I arrived at the barn, Becky Joe was back in action.

  “I hear you covered for me, Fay. I appreciate it.”

  She looked a little gray around the edges.

  “No problem,” I said, and followed her to the feed room where Carl was setting out buckets of grain.

  Unfazed by his sensational work, Ziggy was his usual devilish self, and I had to wave the rake at him before I could dump grain into his tub. Wiggly Wabbit dove into her feed, the fatigue from the previous day’s race replaced by a bloom of energy. Another good sign.

  I worked through my chores, finished topping off everyone’s water buckets, and wiped my hands with a clean towel, before beating it to the ladies’ room to wash my face. After adding more mascara and black eye shadow, I fluffed my hair, and headed to see Calixto.

  I found him sitting in a squeaky desk chair in Maggie Bourne’s office where the smell of molasses, grain, and liniment seeped in from the shedrow. Calixto was studying a condition book from Monmouth Park racetrack.

  “Maggie running a horse in New Jersey?” I asked.

  “She wants me to see what is available down there, yes.” He closed the book, stood, and came around the desk. Lowering his voice, he said. “Regarding Fragoso. I—”

  “You’re looking into his suicide through his friend Oscar Mejias, aren’t you?”

  “No cucarachas on you, querida.”

  His grin was so damn cute, I had to resist an urge to touch him. “So what have you found out?”

  His cautious glance around the office told me he worried the walls might have ears. “We will graze Secret Wish, yes?”

  I nodded and followed him onto Bourne’s shedrow, where he grabbed a lead shank, haltered a chestnut filly, then led her from her stall out to the grass to graze. We walked to where no one could hear us. Still, Calixto kept his voice so low that I had to stay close. Close enough to smell his light spice cologne and feel his body heat in the cooling air.