I was hurrying back to the barn, ready to apologize to DeMott for running off, but I never got the chance.
Sal Gag stood next to my fiancé and asked, “How many horses?”
“Twelve.” DeMott stepped aside, giving Ashley room to walk Cuppa Joe from his temporary stall to the hot walker. She still looked glum.
“A dozen ponies is a good start.” The bookie watched Ashley. “Got plans for more?”
“My sister does. She’s the equestrian. She bought her first horses from Rokeby.”
Sal Gag’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean, Sea Hero—that Rokeby?”
“Her husband grew up just down the road from the farm.”
It sounded so quaint—“down the road.” But Rokeby Farm belonged to billionaire Paul Mellon, whose thoroughbred Sea Hero took the Triple Crown. And the man DeMott was referring to, his sister MacKenna’s husband, was a dubious achiever named Stuart Morgan. I had strong reservations about Stuart, but they paled in comparison to Sal Gag, perched at the top of my suspect list. And now I was worried about what DeMott had revealed, what information might have slipped out. And where did Eleanor go?
“Hi,” I said.
DeMott turned around. “There you are.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Mr. Gagliardo was just telling me how rough it’s been for you.”
And this is what a heart attack feels like.
He said, “No wonder Eleanor kept changing the subject last night.”
“Speaking of Eleanor,” I said, smiling like a wooden puppet, “where is she?”
“She demanded her breakfast.”
“Your aunt,” Sal Gag said, shaking his head. “Ten sharp.”
DeMott squeezed my shoulder. “I told her I wanted to wait for you. But she said something about everyone being sentenced to solitary confinement inside their own skin. Whatever that means.”
My hands felt hot, clammy. I glanced at my watch. By the time we reached the private dining room, Eleanor would be finishing her dry toast. “I know where we can get a great bacon-and-egg sandwich.”
“Let me guess. Burger King?”
“No, not Burger King.”
“I’m not eating at McDonald’s.”
I glanced at Sal Gag. He watched us with a shark-like smile. But DeMott wasn’t getting it.
He said, “Raleigh takes in more grease than Jiffy Lube. But I can’t handle that food.”
“You kids are welcome to eat with me.” He was still smiling when he said it. “I got a private table.”
“Oh no,” I said, “we—”
“We would love to,” DeMott said, giving my shoulder a good hard squeeze, letting me know my manners were failing again. “We would enjoy that very much. Thank you.”
Eleanor was sipping from her gold-rimmed coffee cup in the members-only dining room.
“You’re late!” she bellowed.
“Don’t berate me.” I leaned down, whispering, “I’m already being punished enough. DeMott accepted another invitation.”
Her white-haired head made a slow swivel, like a turtle, until she was facing the table reserved for Sal Gagliardo. The large man set his unlit cigar on the white china, while DeMott took the seat across from him. When she turned back to me, just as slowly, her voice was surprisingly quiet. “I might bear some fraction of responsibility.”
“How big a fraction?”
“I was trying to help.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought if DeMott knew how hard you were working, and how hard it was for you to get to know people at the track—”
“That would help, how?”
“He seemed so upset; you don’t call him enough. I explained that you’re working day and night. But really, Raleigh, you need to call him more often.”
“Don’t start.”
“Then be glad he wants to help.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Probably his.” She sighed. “I have such a terrible weakness for handsome men.”
Sal Gagliardo was waving his paw-like hand, urging me to join the table. I threw Eleanor one parting glance worthy of her own abilities to wither, then walked over to the men with a fake smile on my face. Ever the gentleman, DeMott stood and held out my chair. Sal Gag remained seated while the waiter poured coffee for us and brought espresso for the bookie. When I picked up my white cup, holding it with both hands, I gazed out the window. The men fell into another competitive banter about horses and money. I listened vaguely but was too busy sending up silent prayers and fist-shaking worthy of the Psalms. Outside the wind blew disc-shaped clouds across the face of Mount Rainier. Lenticular clouds, a sign that rain was coming. I placed my lips on the cup’s gilded rim. Please. Do not let this blow up in our faces.
“We get these stop-and-start summers,” the mobster was telling DeMott. “One day it’s eighty-two degrees. Bee-you-tee-ful. Next day, clouds and rain. The ponies, they don’t know what to run. Mud. Dust. Who knows? It’s been a tough season.”
DeMott nodded. “How did you get involved in horse racing?”
I choked on my coffee.
Sal Gag looked at me. “You all right?”
I nodded, eyes watering. DeMott patted my back, then looked back at the mobster.
“You must have quite a few stories to tell.”
“How’s that?”
DeMott gestured to the sign beside the table: Reserved for Salvatore Gagliardo. “You’re a fixture.”
“Yeah, I got stories,” he said. “Me and this place, we go way back. I started out small but hired the right people. Close. Like family.” He glanced at Eleanor. She was staring at the wall, chin raised, lips moving. “Like what Eleanor’s doing with Raleigh. Only I heard Raleigh don’t know nothing about ponies.”
“That is certainly true.” DeMott took my hand. He held it on top of the table, and I wondered if he could feel the sweat on my palm, my pulse hammering like a blacksmith. “Horses aren’t Raleigh’s passion. But we’ll have a barn on our property, once we’re married.”
“Married.” Sal Gag pinched the handle of his demitasse. “When’s the big day?”
“Soon,” DeMott said.
He looked surprised. “You don’t got a date?”
I jumped in. “Aunt Eleanor needed me here right now. So we put the wedding on hold. Just until things settle down for her.”
His dark gaze shifted to DeMott. “Nice-looking girl and she waits for her wedding to help out family? That’s some girl. Don’t let nobody steal her.”
DeMott’s hand tightened. “Excuse me?”
Sal Gag held the cup midair, ready to sip. “What?”
“What did you say?”
“I said something?”
“Yes.” DeMott smiled. Politely. “You said somebody might steal her.”
I tried to pull my hand back. “No, DeMott, he—”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Don’t let nobody steal her.’ Is there something I should know?”
Sal Gag placed his little cup in the white saucer. Carefully. “I was just saying, Raleigh seems like a good catch.”
“She is a good catch,” DeMott said. “But who else is fishing?”
“DeMott.” My voice sounded odd, probably because my heart was beating in my throat. “It’s just a saying.”
He suddenly released my hand. It slumped into my lap, the fingers numb. I turned to stare directly into his blue eyes, hoping to reach him telepathically. Stop. This. Now. But the fire inside was burning like internal combustion, the blue flames too hot to be extinguished by any words. I tightened my smile.
“You must be tired from that long flight.”
“Planes,” grumbled Sal Gag. “Madonn’, don’t get me started. The lines. The X-rays. I’m gonna buy one of those Winnebagos. No more airports and no more . . .”
But DeMott wasn’t listening. He was glaring at me as though Sal Gag didn’t exist. For the first time in my life, I could say he was being rude. And my face hurt from smiling, looking back and forth from DeMott to the mobster who was continuing his diatribe about airports.
DeMott looked at me. “I just don’t understand. Is that it?”
Sal Gag paused.
“No,” I said. “I just don’t think—”
“You don’t think I know jack.”
The waiter appeared. “Are we ready to order?”
The silence hung over the table for several moments. Sal Gag opened his big hands, indicating I should order first. My voice still didn’t sound right, but I asked for a deluxe Denver omelet, hash browns, toast with jam, an English muffin, a side order of bacon, and a Coca-Cola, no crushed ice.
“Where you putting all that,” Sal Gag said, “in your purse?”
The waiter turned to DeMott. “And for you, sir?”
“Thanks, but I just lost my appetite.”
Oh, terrific.
He handed the waiter his menu.
I glanced across the table. Sal Gag’s dark eyes were on DeMott. A clever man, sizing things up. I folded my starched napkin and placed it on the white tablecloth, all very ladylike and Southern and Raleigh Davidish. But inside I was wondering whether God had finally tired of my pathetic pleas for help.
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I’m not feeling a hundred percent either. We better take a rain check.”
Sal Gag lifted the espresso cup to his lips. The dark eyes stared over the delicate rim and shifted between DeMott and me. But they came back to me. To stay.
I smiled. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “I understand.”
As we were leaving, I saw a new expression in his eyes.
Not just mischief. Not just malice.
It was mendacity.
Pure mendacity.