donkey's leg. He wondered if they could move up their job interview to that afternoon. Apparently another vet had just turned in his notice at the track, which meant there were two openings for D.V.M.'s, which, Leah surmised, largely improved her chances of landing one of the positions.
At
two forty-five
she pulled Shamika' s van into the Downs parking lot. She checked her face in the rearview mirror. Makeup minimum, just enough to partially conceal the purple bruise over her eyebrow. A light touch of mascara to her lashes. A kiss of blush to her cheeks. Lip gloss, no color. Hair French braided. Clean jeans. Starched white blouse that buttoned at the throat—annoying, but necessary when she was walking into a world that functioned strictly on testosterone.
Her papers were in order, tucked neatly into her briefcase. She'd spent the last hour retyping her résumé. There were letters of recommendation from her former employer—Dr. John Casey, of Pilot Point , Texas —and from previous satisfied clients. Her most prized reference, however, was the one written by Professor Carlisle. He'd presented it to her the day of her graduation, declaring that anyone who could fight her way through vet school despite the awful obstacles that had been thrown in her way obviously had a calling.
At three in the afternoon the parking lot was mostly empty. The horse owners and trainers parked in lots beyond the offices, near the barns. Soon, however, the influx of traffic would begin. By
five o'clock
, bettors would drift in to take their places along the rails, stubs in hand as they waited for their pick to come racing over the finish line, hopefully winning them enough to put down on the next race. By the end of the night there would be so many losing stubs littering the ground that one would think the sky had blanketed the ground in snow.
Immersed in an animated phone conversation, Hunnicutt smiled broadly at Leah and waved her in, pointed to an empty chair before his desk, and proceeded to tell the caller that no way in hell was he going to allow a trainer renowned for drugging horses and blackmailing jockeys to run on his track … but it was nice talking to him anyway. No hard feelings. Sure, sure, they were still friends. No problem along that line. His best to the missus. Good luck in California .
Still smiling, Hunnicutt hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. His teeth looked like yellowed piano keys, his nose red as a Christmas bulb. "Trainers, God love 'em. They shoot up a horse and get caught and we're supposed to look the other way. Can you imagine how long the state would let us stay in business if we allowed shootin' up a horse? 'Bout that long." He snapped his fingers and rocked back and forth in his chair. "Glad you could make it on such short notice."
Leah crossed her legs and smiled.
His gaze took a slow trip up and down her person. "So how's your daddy? I ain't seen him since, oh, last Fourth of July."
"That makes two of us," she said.
"Stays busy, does he?"
"Very."
"Been a lot of controversy lately about his dealin's with the gambling issue and Formation Media."
"Such is life for politicians, I guess."
"I thought of runnin' for office once. Major brain fart." He laughed and scratched his beer belly. "One thing I ain't is stupid. Besides that, I got too damn many skeletons in the closet. Know what I mean?"
She nodded and shifted the briefcase on her lap.
"I don't get it. These dudes in office go around breakin' the law, screwin' interns, et cetera and think they ain't gonna get caught? Major brain fart. Hell, the goddamn press is like a buncha vultures circlin'. If you show a smidgen of weakness they'll swoop down on you and pick your bones clean as toothpicks before you can squawk ouch."
"Silly, isn't it?"
Hunnicutt sat forward, elbows on the desk, his face losing its almost comical animation as he fixed Leah with an intensity that made hot color creep up her neck. "I suppose you've got résumés
At
two forty-five
she pulled Shamika' s van into the Downs parking lot. She checked her face in the rearview mirror. Makeup minimum, just enough to partially conceal the purple bruise over her eyebrow. A light touch of mascara to her lashes. A kiss of blush to her cheeks. Lip gloss, no color. Hair French braided. Clean jeans. Starched white blouse that buttoned at the throat—annoying, but necessary when she was walking into a world that functioned strictly on testosterone.
Her papers were in order, tucked neatly into her briefcase. She'd spent the last hour retyping her résumé. There were letters of recommendation from her former employer—Dr. John Casey, of Pilot Point , Texas —and from previous satisfied clients. Her most prized reference, however, was the one written by Professor Carlisle. He'd presented it to her the day of her graduation, declaring that anyone who could fight her way through vet school despite the awful obstacles that had been thrown in her way obviously had a calling.
At three in the afternoon the parking lot was mostly empty. The horse owners and trainers parked in lots beyond the offices, near the barns. Soon, however, the influx of traffic would begin. By
five o'clock
, bettors would drift in to take their places along the rails, stubs in hand as they waited for their pick to come racing over the finish line, hopefully winning them enough to put down on the next race. By the end of the night there would be so many losing stubs littering the ground that one would think the sky had blanketed the ground in snow.
Immersed in an animated phone conversation, Hunnicutt smiled broadly at Leah and waved her in, pointed to an empty chair before his desk, and proceeded to tell the caller that no way in hell was he going to allow a trainer renowned for drugging horses and blackmailing jockeys to run on his track … but it was nice talking to him anyway. No hard feelings. Sure, sure, they were still friends. No problem along that line. His best to the missus. Good luck in California .
Still smiling, Hunnicutt hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. His teeth looked like yellowed piano keys, his nose red as a Christmas bulb. "Trainers, God love 'em. They shoot up a horse and get caught and we're supposed to look the other way. Can you imagine how long the state would let us stay in business if we allowed shootin' up a horse? 'Bout that long." He snapped his fingers and rocked back and forth in his chair. "Glad you could make it on such short notice."
Leah crossed her legs and smiled.
His gaze took a slow trip up and down her person. "So how's your daddy? I ain't seen him since, oh, last Fourth of July."
"That makes two of us," she said.
"Stays busy, does he?"
"Very."
"Been a lot of controversy lately about his dealin's with the gambling issue and Formation Media."
"Such is life for politicians, I guess."
"I thought of runnin' for office once. Major brain fart." He laughed and scratched his beer belly. "One thing I ain't is stupid. Besides that, I got too damn many skeletons in the closet. Know what I mean?"
She nodded and shifted the briefcase on her lap.
"I don't get it. These dudes in office go around breakin' the law, screwin' interns, et cetera and think they ain't gonna get caught? Major brain fart. Hell, the goddamn press is like a buncha vultures circlin'. If you show a smidgen of weakness they'll swoop down on you and pick your bones clean as toothpicks before you can squawk ouch."
"Silly, isn't it?"
Hunnicutt sat forward, elbows on the desk, his face losing its almost comical animation as he fixed Leah with an intensity that made hot color creep up her neck. "I suppose you've got résumés
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