Full Mortality by Sasscer Hill Read Free Book Online

screwy.”
    I could picture Jim exasperated by a horse with misaligned leg bones, and another lacking the pleasing proportions in the head-to-tail line denoting a potential runner. Some trainers would have a client buy any horse, just so they could charge their owner the day rate. But Jim suffered from honesty.
    When I’d finished for the day I stuck my head into his office, trying to gauge his mood. He sat at his desk, shaggy eyebrows drawn in concentration, writing entries in a log book.
    “He ain’t never going to believe all this stuff.” Jim refused to look up and continued muttering to himself about the costs of getting a horse to the starting gate.
    Maybe this wasn’t the best time. He hated book work, but had to charge the day rate, then bill out separately for blacksmith fees, medicines, special equipment, and even procedures as exotic as acupuncture. I pulled a wooden chair over, scraping its legs on the floor.
    Jim’s head came up and he glared at me. “You want to explain this bill to Mr. Why-is-it-so-expensive Peterson?”
    “Not really. Just talk about cutting-edge technology, how his horses should get the same stuff the other trainers use.”
    Jim’s glare eased into a slow smile. “That’ll work.”
    “Jim, what’s with this new guy in Clements’ barn — Jack Farino?”
    “Came down from New York?”
    “Yeah. Him.”
    Jim’s unruly brows climbed in question. “What’s your interest?”
    “He asked me about Gildy, made me nervous. And why would anybody want to move into Clements’ barn?”
    Jim’s smile disappeared with the mention of Clements and his shoulders sagged. “People are gonna talk, Nikki, and probably that barn space got allocated by the stall manager. Far as I know, Farino’s just another trainer hoping for better luck in Maryland.”
    Probably smarter not to ask, but I couldn’t ignore the problem. “Kenny told me about Crockett taking his colts from you. I can’t believe he did that.”
    Jim’s head turned away and he held up his hand, refusing to discuss it. Jim avoided subjects that might pierce his shell and draw blood. Maybe I followed his example too closely. He stabbed his log book with the pencil. “Anything else?”
    I stood up and stepped near the door. “Yeah, you know anything about a horse Clements has, called Helen’s Dream?”
    “Nope.” Jim glared again. A quick exit might be wise.
    * * *
    I went looking for my buddy with the unlikely name Lorna Doone. She galloped horses for a trainer who had an office computer and online racing and pedigree accounts. I jogged over there and found her in the trainer’s office with a bag of doughnuts. Her frizzy red hair haloed her face, and a gold ring pierced one auburn brow. A tattoo of Pegasus engraved her left forearm. She might have been short and a bit round, but no one would mistake her for a shortbread cookie. Why would parents name their kid after a Nabisco product?
    I’d met Lorna about a year earlier. Jim had sent me to the track near the 10 A.M. closing time to exercise the stable “pony.” Always a treat to take out an older, sensible track pony like Mack that has a big old western bit in his mouth, knows he can’t run off with you and rarely wants to.
    Lorna had been out there on a two-year-old colt. Trainers send these unseasoned, often volatile youngsters out late when the track is less crowded and most of the speedy breezing’s finished. I’d jogged Mack about a mile, stopped him and dropped the reins, his signal to just stand and watch a bit. Mack loved to loiter about, feeling superior as he watched the shameful antics of some of the uneducated two-year-olds.
    A big colt blew past us, eyes wild and fearful, a broken rein dangling uselessly from his bit. A girl clung to his mane, her face tight with panic.
    “Yah,” I’d yelled at Mack, gathering the reins. Being a track pony, he knew what to do and took off in hot pursuit. In his day he’d been a useful sprinter, and with his quick