Full Mortality Read Free Page B

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    The saddling stalls lined one wall of the paddock. I stepped into number six and joined Jim where he stood with Bob Davis, the horse’s owner. Davis appeared to be over 50 and way too fond of the dinner table. He pumped my hand and wished me luck. Sweat trickled down his wide cheeks and left his fingers slick.
    “Do you think he’s got a good chance in this race?” Davis asked.
    “I appreciate the ride, Mr. Davis. He’ll probably toy with those other horses,” I answered . Well maybe . Davis turned to admire Flame, and I swiped my hand on my breeches to remove his sweat. . . .
    The paddock judge called for riders to mount, and Jim gave me a quick leg-up onto Flame Thrower. He touched my ankle. “You know what to do, Nik.”
    Flame’s groom, a tall, thin black guy named Ron, led us around the paddock once, then into the tunnel leading to the track. Outside the sun flamed hot, and a heavyset pony girl named Kathy rode alongside us on her dun horse. She waited while Ron pulled a strap through Flame’s bridle.
    This West Virginia girl was something. Even squished under a helmet, Kathy’s teased blond hair attained the obligatory “big-hair” look, and her bright orange lipstick complemented the Davis silks. She leaned over, grabbed the strap and broke the two horses into a jog, beginning our warm-up.
    The late-day heat cooked my helmet, while a stiff breeze from the backstretch blew the track flags and scuttled discarded paper cups and plastic wrappers along the concrete. We’d just eased into a gallop when Dennis sped by on Vengeance. He steered his horse in close, causing Flame to pin his ears and fight Kathy’s hold.
    “Idiot,” I said.
    “Yeah, Dennis the jockey menace,” said Kathy.
    We snickered, Flame Thrower calmed down, and I got a chance to study the rest of the field. Not much talent appeared in the race, and a little thrill sped through me. I could win this thing.
    I lined up with the other horses waiting at the starting gate. O’Brien, with the one hole, went in first. The next four horses loaded right up, and a man from the gate crew took Flame Thrower into number six, then climbed onto the side platform and steadied the bay’s head. Someone shut the bar behind us, and Flame Thrower thrust his nose against the exit door, staring straight ahead, waiting.
    “You game old thing,” I whispered, patting his dark neck.
    The last horse loaded, and the announcer cried, “They’re all in line.”
    I moved forward on Flame’s neck, anticipating the shock of his rocket start. The bell rang, the doors crashed open, but the gate assistant held onto Flame’s bridle for maybe two-fifths of a second.
    Stunned, I started to yell, but he released Flame, who burst into action, a good two lengths behind the rest of the field. No choice but to use his early speed and pick up stragglers down the backstretch.
    Flame’s acceleration carried us to midpack, past Dennis, definitely startled to see us roll by. Now we lay third. I saw room and angled my horse toward the rail, and then, hating to use him up, I “sat chilly,” reins long, my body and hands quiet, almost motionless. I let him run at his own pace as we raced toward the first turn.
    Nearing the tight curve I sensed Dennis asking his horse for more speed, and Vengeance responded by bulleting from behind until his nose drew even with Flame’s. They lay outside us now, and Dennis pulled Vengeance onto Flame, forcing the smaller horse dangerously close to the rail, where he took a bad step in the softer dirt before steadying himself.
    “Stop it, you son of a bitch!” I screamed.
    Dennis grinned at me idiotically, until I shook my whip at his face.
    He yelled, “Bitch,” and cut me across my right cheek with his crop.
    Tears from the stinging pain flooded the inside of my goggles, blurring my vision. Rocketing into the turn, the centrifugal force peeled Vengeance away, and Flame moved off the rail and found good footing again.
    Screw this.
    I