CHAPTER 8

The next morning, I arrived at Gulfstream before six. Low clouds scudded over the Hallandale Beach area, and a sea breeze chased after the warmth created by little bursts of sunshine. Warm in January. I still couldn’t get over it.

Several doves of a type I’d never seen before perched on the roof of a nearby barn, their calls forlorn and unfamiliar. The mile-oval track opened for training at six, and a few horses with exercise riders aboard walked along the dirt aisle in barn number two. No doubt a brief warmup before they followed one of the paths leading to a racetrack entrance.

Eight hours of sleeping like I’d been in a coffin had put some life back into me and I was humming a Maroon 5 tune as I stepped onto our shedrow in barn three.

A dark haired man of medium height, probably in his forties, stood a few feet from Diablo’s stall. I approached him from the side and felt that little thrill I get at the first sight of an exceedingly handsome man. Smooth olive skin, a well proportioned nose and jaw, and a dark eye with thick lashes. Something about his profile suggested a man used to commanding respect.

The heavy, linked gold around his neck would probably have paid for my by-the-week motel for years. I bet his white shirt, black pants, and reptile patterned shoes didn’t come from Walmart, either.

“Excuse me,” I said. “This is Mr. Ravinsky’s barn. May I help you with something?”

He turned, revealing an angry red-and-white scar, long and jagged, through the outside corner of his right eye. His lower lid drooped and fluid leaked from the corner.

As he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eye, I tried not to stare. He put the kerchief back, and smiled, revealing strong, even teeth. He stepped toward me and held out his hand.

“I am Currito Maldonista. I see someone takes good care of my horses. You?”

“Yes,” I said, and told him my name.

His handshake was firm and quick, but his dark eyes studied me a bit too long for comfort. Stepping back, I returned his smile. Poor guy, he must hate the inevitable reaction to his appearance.

By now it was six a.m. and Orlando, ready for duty and right on time, appeared around the corner of our barn. His steps slowed as he took in Maldonista’s disfigured eye. Or maybe the gold necklace caught Orlando’s attention. His own hair was pulled into a ponytail, revealing the gold flash of all four of his earrings. I introduced him to Maldonista, handed him the key to the feed room, and told him to get started. Before he unlocked the door, Orlando turned back for another look at the newcomer.

“Mr. Maldonista,” I said. “Tell me about Diablo.”

The man’s face lit up. “A powerful colt. Very swift. But you must call me Currito, and I may call you Nikki, yes?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping for more information.

Currito turned, and we both looked into Diablo’s stall. The horse stood with his massive hind end facing us, his head busy with his hay rack that hung in the corner.

“He has the fire,” Currito said.

Straight from Hell. I forced a bright tone. “Yes, and he’s a stakes winner.”

Currito’s eyes glowed with pride, but I found the right one extremely unnerving. I tried to focus on his mouth and failed. Damn. It looked like someone had gone after him with a knife. Yet the light in his eyes was a light I knew. This man loved his horses.

Warming to his subject, Currito relayed a race by race tale of Diablo’s prowess, finishing with, “So, you see, to be a true champion, he must run here. He must conquer the great American horses.”

Diablo had come to the right place, but Currito hadn’t answered questions about the simple stuff, like how was I supposed to get the colt saddled and out on the track?

“Currito, does Diablo pony?”

“Pony?”

“Will he allow a rider on another horse to lead him? To the starting gate, for instance?”

“But of course. You must be sure to use a gelding.”

Did he think I’d use a filly with his horny devil? Smiling, I nodded. I’d learned the hard way that some owners didn’t want to hear anything negative about their horse. You had to work around it, and until I knew more about Currito, I didn’t want to risk angering him and cause Jim to lose this opportunity.

Diablo shifted from the corner, moved to the stall gate, and shoved his head out. Currito murmured something to the horse in Spanish, but didn’t attempt to touch the colt.

I hadn’t had a chance to study the horse the day before. Fierce, intelligent eyes stared at me from above the bold curve of a Roman nose.

“We had some difficulty with him yesterday…” I left it vague, hoping Currito would fill in the gap.

“You cannot fight him. He will battle you to the death.” Currito nodded knowingly. “You must persuade him.”

“Or outsmart him,” I said.

“Exactly!” He smiled at me. “You will be good with him, I see that.”

I didn’t, but kept it to myself.

“So, he will go to the track now?” The man’s expression was childlike in its eagerness.

“After he’s had some breakfast,” I said.

Currito appeared disappointed and I thought I might have seen a little tick in his right eye. He glanced at his gold wristwatch.

“I have an appointment. Perhaps tomorrow I can see them train?”

“We’ll be here,” I said.

Currito pulled for his kerchief and dabbed at his eye, then slid on a pair of sunglasses with an interlocking crystal G on the frames. Guccis. He gave me a formal nod and strode away.

An interesting man. But who had cut him? And why?