A Perfect Six

Prologue

September 16, 1973

Puella, Chile

Prisa Rosa. Somos atrasados!

Twelve-year-old Rosaldo Calandaria Santiago hurried as fast as her legs could carry her. She had to be careful not to spill the goat’s milk even though the sandals around her neck hurt when they bounced against her emerging breasts. She hated that she wasn't allowed to wear them like her best friend Isolde. It announced her poverty to everyone in the Lof.

Her brother Nahuel had run ahead and was waiting for her on the steps of the iglesia. They quietly slipped on their ushutas and poured milk into the many large, empty metal pitchers set out by the elders just as their ancestors had done for centuries. With their offering complete, they took their assigned seats next to the polished confessional and waited. They waited in silence. They waited all day, but the priest never came. No blessing. No schooling. They whispered among themselves. Some wanted to go. Others wanted to stay. Quidel, the eldest, made the final decision and ordered Rosa to take the young ones back to the Lof while he and the rest would wait for Father Pepe. Nahuel insisted on staying. It was the last time she would see the brother she called Bobo.

When Rosa returned to the Lof, she told the Machi what had happened. She called for counsel. The Toki had warned them of the revolution in Santiago and the men who wore iron hats and burned houses. The elders went to Puella to investigate and upon their return, word spread quickly. Nahuel and the other children had joined the ranks of the disappeared.

Rosa was grief stricken and angry. That night she snuck behind the ruca to overhear the Lonko take a vote. Their decision was one she didn’t like. They would seek refuge in Argentina. She cried. She didn’t want to leave her home; the land she loved and prayed to. Mother Machi was teaching her the healing way, but no herb or plant could take this pain away.

At sunrise, she watched family after family abandon their home and begin the ancient trek through the Vuriloche Pass and over the Andes to Puerta Blest on the western shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi. She and her mother were the last to join the Lof along with several others from the Aylla Rewe. They listened to the tales of massacre and torture some carried like the clothes on their backs. The very mention of the Dirección de Inteligencia Nacional used to terrify her, but after listening to story after story, Rosie’s heart turned to stone.

At the divide at Puerta Blest, some of the refugees took the northern path and loaded their lives onto reed boats and dugouts to pole their way to San Carlos de Bariloche. Rosa and her mother went in the opposite direction toward Villa Mascardi, taking the main road that led to the province of Chubut and the town of Leleque where their cousins’ herded sheep for a rich Italian. They were taken in without complaint.

Rosa had the good fortune of beauty and was assigned work inside the villa of Senore Ciccone, but the hours of scrubbing tiles on hands and knees allotted her too much time to anguish over the fate of Bobo. She prayed daily, but as she watched her hips widened, her legs lengthen and her breasts swell in the mirrors she cleaned, any hope she would ever see him again dissolved into a resentful acceptance.

The only thing she remembered about the day was it was very hot for early spring. The Senore had just ridden in from overseeing fence repair and smelled of wet leather and salty sweat when he slid his hands around her waist. She didn’t flinch when his hands cupped her breasts, but instead watched him fondle her in the mirror as if it were happening to someone else. He slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders and kissed her neck and shoulder, then turned her around and caressed her nipples. She found it pleasurable and when he broke through the wall inside her body, she surrendered herself to passion.

By the end of the second month, Rosa knew she was embarazado. When she started to show, the maggiordomo quietly moved her into the main house. She had never known such luxury. She reveled in the silk and linen and as the months passed, she began to believe she was entitled to them. Members of the Lof began to shun her, but it only made her feel superior.

When the baby arrived, the Senore named her Antonia after his beloved grandmother. She was beautiful and was constantly doted upon, but Rosa knew if she didn’t receive the Machi’s blessing soon, her baby would be cursed. So one night, she slipped away with her bundled in a Mapuche blanket and brought her to the Lof. No one attended the blessing ceremony except the Toki and Machi. When she returned to the hacienda, the Senore was waiting. He beat her and then inflicted the worst punishment of all. He gave Antonia to his barren sister to raise. She begged and promised to never visit the Araucanos again, but he did not relent and he did show mercy. Instead, he banished her to an isolated huinca to live out her days.

Rosa became a pariah and only her mother visited her. The Machi kept her informed of Antonia’s progress; her baptism, her first spoken words in Italian and the English tutors her father hired. She also told her of the most recent atrocities committed by Generalissimo Augusto Pinochet Ugarte and the continued silence as to the whereabouts of Nahuel. Rosa could no longer wait. That night she bribed a house servant and snuck into Antonia’s room where she gazed fondly upon her mestizo daughter wearing an embroidered, white sleeping gown. The knowledge her child would grow up speaking her father’s tongue and know nothing of her Mapuche brothers and sisters broke her heart. She prayed that she would one day and then leaned down to gently kiss her forehead before running away to join the ranks of the disappeared.

Chapter 1

It is strange how steady my hand becomes when I hold it. It has taken weeks for me to look at it without my hand trembling. Maybe it’s the familiarity of the weight. Who knows? Right now, it feels like a cure. There was a time I had one just like it strapped to my hip every day and it took months and several gun shops to find one that felt just right. It was the only way I could justify its existence in my life.

The M1911A1 .45 lay field-stripped on the kitchen table as I watched the second hand of my grandfather’s gold watch hit twelve. Forty-seven seconds later, it was ready to kill. I used to be able to give these pieces of steel life in less than fifteen. I’ll have to do better.

It’s been a long, cold winter. Winter. It was the reason Winnie and I packed up the old Plymouth and headed to California. The day we arrived and stared out on the expanse of the Pacific, I was certain we would never spend another day below zero the rest of our lives. The feel of a warm January sun on your face is euphoric. We called friends back in Chicago with schaden freude delight on the weekend of the Crosby Pro-Am, telling them to turn on their television so we could rub it in. It was our four-year-old daughter Annie, who brought snow back into our lives. She had just finished watching the animated cartoon Frosty the Snowman and squeezed her small frame behind the couch to look out the picture window of our Pacific Grove cottage. She turned a small, concerned face around and asked.

When do we get snow daddy?

The following weekend we drove to Tahoe.

Winnie never missed winter. She was content with a rainy season wedge between a lengthy, colorless fall imbued with mottled brown hills and fog. It was a seductive, indulgent backdrop for lulling self-reflection; a place to wander in wonder. It was no surprise to me when Annie grew up and chose the University of Illinois to pursue her degree. She wanted to get back to the snow. Such are the meandering thoughts of a man in rehab.

I was in the process of breaking down my piece again, when the William Tell overture trumpeted. I glared at the cell phone with as much Luddite contempt as I could muster, but I knew the only way to stop it was to answer it.

Yeah.

The caller paused long enough for me to consider my rudeness.

You still up for going?

I responded more civilly.

Yeah.

Be there in ten, he said and disconnected.

Eugene Ranger O’Leary is my business partner. It’s a euphemism at best, but it’s one he insists upon. His business is poking around in other’s people lives and mine is picking winners. What takes precedence is a day-to-day proposition. He was the one gave me the cell phone. We need to keep in touch he said, knowing all too well my intense dislike for all things techie. I tossed the phone in the vicinity of the couch and dressed.

I’ve started growing a beard again. It itches. I wore one for twenty-years. It was de rigueur in the fertile halls of academia, but after Winnie died, I shaved it as my first act of contrition before selling the remnants of our together and came back to the snow. In retrospect, it would have been better to shave my head.

Ranger balked when I broached the hitherto unthinkable subject of a handgun. He’s an ex-cop. A negation he refuses to accept along with a multitude of demons; one of them being the taking on of another’s vexations. He knows of my PTST and, since he feels partly responsible for Ms. Starks nearly killing me last year, he acquiesced by taking me to his favorite firing range. He won’t say it, but I know he doesn’t want me jumping into the same foxhole he has spent his life in. I assured him I was just testing the psychological waters. It’s a lie. I’m not sure of anything. My entire adult life has been a ceaseless, internal debate between what I think is right and what my heart tells me. It’s an ongoing battle between the hypothetical and categorical imperatives of defending what I love and thou shall not kill. The consequences of both are equally life altering.

Life always has a way of choosing for you.

I ought to be at the racetrack. It’s what I do, but between the Breeder’s Cup and the first thaw, horseracing goes into a malaise and never gets real for me until Arlington Park opens. The plants in Cicero try, but all the lipstick and silk purses in the world can’t get me to watch those pigs. So, I’m resigned to watching stakes racing in Florida and So Cal on cable while I work on rehabilitating my life.

My only other contact with the human race these past months has been my daughter Annie’s family and my neighbor Theodora Jackson. T is the one who saved me from a reclusive existence when I returned to Chicagoland. We both fought the attraction, but eventually the need to know proved too much. We should have known better. Sex always bumps the pot. So, now our once free and easy friendship has become more guarded, more polite, more everything. Our weekly Bear games have gone from raucous high fiving to solicitous mooning and hand holding. Tina Starks is responsible, but we don’t talk about it. Instead, we treat each other like crystal figurines and act as if nothing had happened. It keeps me up at night.

I set the .45 on the kitchen table, snatch, point and fire. I do this every day, twenty five times with both hands. I want it to become a deeply grooved reflex. I want my hands to know if I ever point the weapon it will fire. No thinking required. In the movies, guys shout threats and wave guns with crazed menace, but in real life, if you point and don’t shoot, you die. I’m making sure that never happens to me. I break the weapon down again and notice I need a new firing pin.

My feline friend, Roxy, sits in her Sphinx pose at the side of my chair appraising me. I reach down to assure her, but she rejects it. It’s a disapproving reminder of my wife. The thought I might be dishonoring her memory bothers me. She was my spiritual guide who led me to the cypress groves, the barking seals at midnight, the calamari dinners, the zinfandel wine, the yoga, the Buddhism - my entire Californication. There was a time just coming home to her was all I ever wanted or needed. I wish she were here now to lead me away from the kind of madness that feeds on itself once you put a gun in your hand.

Chapter 2

On my last visit to Arlington Park I allowed Ranger to cajole me into entering the annual end of the meet handicapping contest. The obese Sweat Morrison and the evangelized recidivists Delbert ‘Head’ Case, Ernie Collazo and Steve Stamos we jokingly call the holy trinity were there. Even Spider Sovinivich deigned to leave his cave for the event. He has almost completely recovered from the head trauma inflicted by the aforementioned Tina Starks. Every time he slurs it reminds me of her. His considerable intellect remains intact.

It felt good to be among fellow horseplayers without the gangs of kids and lines of working stiffs who win and lose with all the intensity of youth. It made for a cozier Arlington, but it was a mistake sitting between Ranger and Spider. Got advice from both sides. Speed figures in one ear and unrelenting reminders to bet the mandatory races in the other. I did okay. Eked out a fifteenth place finish and got my entry fee back. The free lunch wasn’t bad either. I doubt I’ll do it again. Even with the lure of the ever-rising pot at the Vegas nationals, it just feels wrong handicapping cheap horses at bush tracks you would never even watch let alone bet with real money. I’m getting too old to fill my head with the names of 5000nw2L claimers from Ellis Park. I have enough static in my life. It’s better to watch the best race against the best. It’s what the sport of horseracing is all about.

I slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony to take in the morning and drink the rest of my coffee. The air was still and the small Wind Horse prayer flag that usually flutters like a windsock hung limp. I closed my eyes and chanted.

Avera hontu

Abyapajjha hontu

Anigha hontu.

I reflexively rubbed my knee and considered smoking a cigar when the phone rang - the other phone - the one that hangs on the kitchen wall and collects dust. It was too early for solicitors and family wouldn’t call me this early unless…I ran inside and snatched it off the wall before the machine answered.

Hi ya Gramps.

My precocious granddaughter’s voice erupted in my ear like pressurized steam. It usually makes me smile, but the timing of the call kept it off my face.

Sorry I called so early, but I just had to tell somebody.

I spoke calmly. Had to tell what sweetie?

I got a job grooming horses! Well, just one actually. His name is Marvelous. They wanted to call him Marvelous Marvin, but I told them what you said about how people should be careful what they name their horses. I told them just Marvelous would be better and they agreed. They gave him to me to care for… you know hot walk, feed, everything. They said I could work him in the mornings if it was okay with my parents. You should see him Gramps. He’s a chestnut with a crooked star and two white stockings. He’s really fast, but a bit of an actor. He only behaves around me. I think that’s why they gave him to me. Is that cool or what?

I took in a breath for her. That’s very cool Trish. Where is the farm?

Just outside of town. You remember the boy you met when we went to the carnival a coupla summers ago?

Uh huh.

Well, the farm - it’s really a ranch, no chickens and stuff - belongs to his parents.

So, Marvelous is an Illinois bred?

She groaned. You’re such a snob. Yes, he’s an Illinois bred. His daddy won several stakes, so he’s got good genes. Just like me.

That made me smile. Is this the boy you’re going steady with?

Gag-a-roony! Mom is such a gossip. Johnny and I dated awhile, but we decided we like being buds. He wants to be trainer and I’m gonna be a jockey.

How easy life is when you’re fourteen going on thirty.

Does mom know about this job?

That’s the other reason I’m calling.

Right. You want to know how to bring the subject up so she won’t hit the ceiling.

Duh!

I paused. That duh stuff isn’t cute anymore.

Sorry.

I waited a couple of beats to let the rebuke sink in.

Okay, the first thing is she’ll want to know you’re serious.

I am serious! She griped.

I’m sure you are, but you can’t get defensive. Remain cool and business like.

I took another pause for effect.

When do you think would be the best time for this mother daughter talk?

Silence. I could hear her thinking.

Just before bed? She posed.

Perfect. Do it tonight. Remember Trish, be straight with her. She’ll need to know that you’re gonna follow through and what you’re doing is safe. It is safe isn’t it?

Of course. I wear a helmet and everything. She swallowed. There is one more thing…"

I grunted.

…I have to be there at five in the morning.

I inhaled through my teeth. Well, that puts a different light on it. What about school?

My first class is at nine. I can ride in with Johnny.

Johnny drives?

No silly. His parents can take us or we could bus it.

She kept quiet while I reviewed all the possible objections my daughter might have. She eliminated another.

There’s a bunk house I can use to shower and change.

She had thought this out, but we both knew this was still going to be a hard sell.

So, what do you think?

"I think you should explain the timetable after you get permission. Let her digest the job first before springing the other stuff. And don’t get all huffy if she says no right away. Think of it as a job interview."

Right. Thanks Gramps. I knew you’d know what to do.

Glad I could be of help sweetie. Tell me how it goes?

I will. When are you coming down?

Not right away, but soon.

Okay, bye.

The phone went dead as quickly as it had come alive and I set it back on its cradle. Even money says her negotiation will not go well. Annie has a deep-seated resentment toward horses and racing in particular. She blames them for my frequent absences during her childhood. It’s not without merit. I should pay them a visit. Thanksgiving…maybe. I padded my way into the kitchen, put a cup of water in the microwave and fed Roxy. I sat down and looked at the feature in New York before stepping on the new treadmill I purchased for my rehab. The kitchen phone rang again. I thought it was Trish.

What you forget?

I never forget.

The founder of Thoroughbred Investigations voice was cheerful. Too cheerful.

"Why are you calling on the landline?

"So you would pick up. You know how you get when I call on the cell. Seems everybody does.

What’s up?

We gotta gig man.

The very mention of the word gig made me nervous. Ever since he posed the idea I join him in the private investigation business, I’ve had innumerable second thoughts. It wasn’t like our first gig, No. That’s not right. You have to be hired to have a gig.

It all started when I made the mistake of telling him about the B & E at my condominium. What followed was a sequence of events that nearly put us permanently out to pasture. Ranger got a cracked skull and a bullet in the shoulder. I ended up with a broken finger, a busted knee, a knife in the thigh and several stitches in my head. There was an upside though. I discovered I had a guardian angel. Nix that… angel would be a stretch. Jerome Flowers is the kinda guy you wish you didn’t know, but are glad you do. He works for Tito Spado, the younger brother of the man I knew as Spades. If it weren’t for Jerome, I’d be dead.

Ranger thinks the whole episode was an omen like the first time we bet a pick six together and won. It’s how I got my nickname. The violence and incredibly bad karma that go with what he describes as a calling never occurs to him. It does me. I just can’t convince him were just two old broken down horseplayers in search of a winner.

Six. You there?

Yeah.

Pick you up in an hour.

Ranger has been touting his…our… business as a police consultant service, but the truth is we mostly work for bail bondsman and lawyers. He put in over thirty years on the force until his addictions to violence and booze sent him into retirement. He’s eligible for a pension, but he won’t take it. He says it would be like surrendering. Instead, he obtained a PI license and Thoroughbred Investigations was born.

Clients haven’t come easy and it has been a test to his four years of sobriety. Ranger has been bugging me to go along on a bail skip to gain some experience, but I declined. My prisoner chasing days are over. Last summer, business picked up when a defense attorney put us on retainer to do background checks on witnesses and jurors. That I can do.

I picked up my .45, slid in a fresh clip and inserted an eight ball in the chamber. It’s an old trick a drill instructor we called Boats showed me. I put the gun cocked and locked in the drawer of my bedside table and glanced at the clock radio. There was still time. I got into my Gi and settled into a half lotus in the middle of the living room. Roxy immediately jumped down from her window perch and pranced over to me, tags jangling like a wind chime. She watched me grimace as I bent and pulled the injured knee into position. I took in a breath and let it out slowly. I’m not quite ready for complete Asanas, but I’m working on it.

I heard Roxy’s tags bang against her bowl, let the distraction pass and refocused on Pranayama. I finished my first set when the landline rang again. This time I let the machine answer and fell back into a corpse pose. I thought about who had called. Monkey mind. I let it pass and rose into a half lotus, taking in a deep, cleansing breath and opening my eyes. Roxy was sitting directly in front of me in a feline pose of her own; her royal blue eyes locked onto mine.

I’m better now Rox.

She cocked her head, slid into my lap and reached up to touch her nose to mine. I scratched her chin and she leaned into it. Roxy is living proof of reincarnation.

I sat down to some oatmeal and bananas, feeling refreshed and centered, when the doorbell rang. I opened it without peeping. Ranger barked.

What are ya doin’ in your pajamas?

It’s a Gi… remember?

He doesn’t give a damn.

Yeah, well, we got about 40 minutes, so you might want to speed it up, he said before opening my refrigerator. I shouted from my bedroom.

You seem a little anxious. You got a double?

What’s with the food supply? Yogurt, tofu, rice and… what’s this? Fuckin’ seaweed?

You don’t have to fuckin’ eat it.

I winced. Every time I get around him, I slip back into the foul-mouthed teenager who hustled games at the neighborhood pool hall. It makes me wonder if all my education was for naught. I gotta work on it.

The first time I met Ranger he was sitting at a happy hour bar near Arlington Park nursing a tonic and lime. It wasn’t long before he told me of his alcoholism and ongoing recovery. Even though he doesn’t drink anymore, he sure knows how to have a hangover. He was still mugging in front of the open refrigerator when I exited my bedroom dressed.

You on one of those diets, like that uh…Atkins thing? He asked.

The fridge would be full of protein if I were.

That would be a helluva lot better. At least I could make a sandwich.

Sorry, no bread allowed.

Fuck. Whatever happened to three squares a day? Good old meat and potatoes.

Americans want to live as long as the Chinese. No more big Macs.

Aaaargh…Big Macs. His impersonation of Homer Simpson was spot on.

I followed him and his forties style Stetson cocked on his size nine balding head out the door and in to his cherry Seville.

There’s a Mickey D’s on the way. We got time, he said and smiled his smile.

I read the form while he picked up two big Macs with super-sized fries at the drive through. Even before he put the car in gear, he stuffed a handful of fries into his mouth. He looked like a very large chipmunk with two super-sized walnuts in his cheeks. I asked.

So what’s the gig?

He accelerated into the left lane of the Northwest Highway. You’re gonna love it, he said as bits of potato flew out of his mouth. He grabbed one of the burgers out of the Styrofoam container and looked at me looking at him in disbelief.

You ain’t gonna pussy out of me are you?

I had no rejoinder.

He ate and weaved in and out of traffic. Ranger lives life like he bets...with both hands and all in. I’ve given up trying to convince him it was sometimes better to pass. He finished his breakfast about the time we pulled up in front of the Arlington Park clubhouse and he handed the keys to a valet. After we silently rode the escalator and settled into our usual spot, he slapped his form down and headed off to the sellers. When he plopped down in his seat and turned to the fourth race, I stared at him for about a minute awaiting a confession. None was forthcoming, so I finally asked.

Did you bet a double?

What do ya care?

I guffawed. Are you pouting?

His sullenness could have put a Jewish mother to shame. I shrugged it off and watched a New York bred speeder wire the first race at Belmont at 5-2. Ranger pumps his fist, yells and slaps a ticket down in front of me.

There! Not bad for a dumb fuck cop.

I looked at the ticket. He had wheeled the winner with every horse in the second. I was happy for him and a bit slighted.

So, you didn’t think it would be a good idea to give your partner a heads up?

Partner? Oh, Nowww we’re partners.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

I stopped myself before I said something even more regrettable and took a walk. It’s what I do whenever I allow myself to get off kilter. It’s my peripatetic nature. I ended up at the place where my grandfather took me to the racetrack in 1955: Section C, row P, seats one and two. The seats no longer exist since the Arlington Park fire in 1985.