Bumping At Speed (Book 1 The Lucas Bowman Trilogy

Prologue

The night was cloud free, muggy, windless, but not silent. Moonlight gave the leaves of the entangled underbrush surrounding the plantacion a sheen it didn’t deserve. What was often perceived on the plantacion, especially at night, was not always what was to be.

The acres of cane stalks that bounded the plantacion’s main house stood uniformly straight as if expecting a formal inspection at sunrise by visiting dignitaries. And for the plantacion’s native field workers lounging about a fire outside their quarters, roasting a goat a stone’s throw from the main house, the ever-present Palm Chat’s transformation from melodious songbird to a shrieking alarm system was not being taken lightly. The Palm Chat’s calls meant danger was out and about.

The unusual presence of three black sedans parked outside the plantacion’s sprawling main-house, and their drivers who stood smoking and talking next to their vehicles, had stirred the normally serene Palm Chats into a cacophony of calls and screeches conveying their distress at the interruption of the evening’s tranquil status quo.

The sensuous aroma of the abundant Caoba flower wafted in through the open windows of the main-house’s dining room; the fragrance’s sensibilities diametric to the warning cries of the Palm Chats.

The candle flames on a twelve piece candelabra centered on the dining table, responded to the draft of a slowly rotating ceiling fan five feet above by swaying to and fro in perfect unison. The flames cast an eerie flickering shadow on the room’s tin ceiling thirteen feet above the table as if they understood the cause of the commotion outside: conspiracio’ had come to dinner.

Three men, with nascent desires for the finer things in life, were seated at the table ignoring the warning sounds of the night as they partook.

What is this? It’s fantastic. Ronald Burt asked, his mouth full of dessert.

"Pudin de pan, Gaston Alverez said, emphasizing the Dominican pronunciation, It’s bread pudding with raisins and rum, and of course, sugar—-grown right out there, he said, pointing toward a window and the cane fields beyond. It’s Maria’s specialty," he added, nodding toward the small dark skinned heavy-set woman serving them.

Burt looked toward Maria and smiled. "Muy bueno, gracias," he said in his terrible New York Spanish accent. Maria smiled in response, averting her eyes in modesty.

The third man, Jesus De la Guardo, was big, like Burt, with dark skin and long black hair pushed back behind his ears. De la Guardo was the number two man in El Ministre de Comercio por Bolivia. He had come a long way this day for the good meal.

De la Guardo nodded in agreement with Burt’s assessment of the dessert and felt compelled to add his own compliment. Patting his expansive girth, he leaned back and raised his glass. "Senor Alvarez, the Sancocho was as good as I’ve ever had…may I toast a perfect meal?"

The three men raised their wine glasses and drank.

Alvarez passed a small silver box of cigars to each man. Cuban, he said, my tobacco.

Maria served coffee and the men waited until she’d finished clearing and returned to the kitchen before addressing the purpose of the meeting.

Before starting their after-desert experience Alvarez offered the men an unusual lighter fashioned from a miniature statue of a conquistador on horseback. The men stayed silent as they prepared to light their cigars; each one carefully smelling the freshly rolled tobacco.

"I’m sorry you can’t stay the night, Senor De la Guardo. There is much to see here on the plantacion. I would love to show you the fields and the refinery. We are very proud of our operation. We have the best process in the Dominican Republic. Our sugar is as good as anywhere in the world," Alvarez said.

De la Guardo nodded. I would have very much liked to join you, Senor, but I must be back in La Paz by midday tomorrow for a meeting. I don’t want my absence questioned. It was most kind and efficient of Senor Burt to send his plane for my trip. Very convenient for me.

Burt finished lighting his cigar and rotated it to look at the burning tip then exhaled.

The bed is very comfortable, Jesus. You’ll sleep well going home.

De la Guardo nodded and puffed his cigar. So your message said you have finalized your plans.

Ronald Burt responded. We have, Jesus. Gaston, why don’t you start?

"Let me give you the basic overview and then I will go into any specifics you might want further explained. The sugar is grown here on this plantacion and on a few others near by. The sugar is initially refined here, but not to the point of refined sugar ready to sell. It will be prepared for shipping here and then transferred to the harbor in Boca Chica, just twenty minutes away. It will be loaded on one of my ships and brought to Asuncion in Paraguay. There it will be transferred to trucks supplied by you and taken to the refinery in Santa Cruz where you will take possession of the sugar cane mash. Then, the cane mash gets refined and you have table-ready sugar. Ready for sale to the public…at whatever price you set. The first shipment leaves here in six weeks. As you know we have agreed to five shipments a year to start. As you expand your sales network we will keep up with your supply needs."

Alvarez sat back and waited for a response.

De la Guardo puffed his cigar and gazed at the ceiling. And you are covering all costs and arranging the shipping papers for the sugar until it is transferred to our trucks in Asuncion?

Yes, Alvarez said, glancing toward Burt.

And our payments to you start six months after the first shipment arrives? the Bolivian vice-minister asked.

Yes, Alvarez said.

And that’s when my contract with the Ministry takes effect. We start installing the fiber-optics in La Paz on that date, Burt said.

The profit from the sugar will pay your contract Mr. Burt, De la Guardo said, ‘we hope."

I understand that, Senor.

Again, De la Guardo puffed and thought. "What about Espendosa? He is very against this plan? Mr. Burt’s contract can not be signed until Espendosa either changes his mind or is no longer el ministre."

"We will take care of that, Senor. By the time the sugar reaches Santa Cruz you will be the El Ministre de Comercio por Bolivia. As long as El Ministre de Agricultura is on board with this plan there should be no problem."

De la Guardo nodded and looked at Burt. "It is especially convenient that El Ministre de Agricultura is Senor Burt’s wife’s cousin."

The three men smiled and smoked in silence as Maria reappeared to serve brandy.

De la Guardo raised his glass in toast. Once and for, all our people will have sugar at reasonable prices and abundant supply. It will be a great day for Bolivia, he declared.

***

Burt and Alvarez bid farewell to De la Guardo and stood outside talking before Burt departed for his hotel in Santa Domingo. It had been a successful evening.

Your plane will pick you up in the morning? Alvarez asked.

Yes, around nine o’clock. Burt said taking a deep smell of the flowers’ fragrance.

My end, as you would say, is buttoned up, Alvarez said. You mentioned that you were having some trouble finding the right person to help you with the matter of Evelyn."

I think I’ve found him. I’ll know soon, Burt said. He just doesn’t know it yet.

THREE WEEKS LATER

La Paz, Bolivia

The planning and preparation had gone perfectly. The cost was minimal, under ten thousand US dollars— payoffs to a couple local small-time hoods: the guy who did the research and set things up, and the guy who, after two simple snatch and releases for intimidation (the housekeeper and her mother), passed on the drugs (that would slow and eventually stop the heart) and the key to the apartment to the Miami guys.

The Miami guys entered the apartment building through the delivery door in the back and took the service elevator to the third floor. The key they’d been given (with the drugs) fit the apartment’s front door lock like a hand-in-glove.

The drapes had not yet been drawn and the brilliant glare of the city’s electric signs and neon advertising blasted through the floor to ceiling arched windows, casting eerie shadows across the plush carpet and overstuffed armchairs. The two men were able to move easily without the aid of any of the expensive lamps that stood about the apartment. A painting on the wall, a uniformed man astride a white horse, gave off a red flickering hue courtesy of the giant soft drink sign across the street. They needed, at best, fifteen minutes to complete their job. A flash of lightning cast a white hot light across the room for the briefest of instants freezing the two men as they stood side by side near the apartment’s entrance; the bolt was quickly followed by a thunderous clap and huge raindrops immediately started pelting the windows. The men, one slight and wiry, the other six foot plus and powerfully built wore black ski masks. They stood in front of the security key pad on the wall typing in the alarm reset code. They listened intently for any sounds of unexpected security systems or human presence.

"Donde esta?" the big man asked.

"Yo no se," he was told.

We gotta look around, he snapped back in Spanish.

A mobile phone vibrated in the bigger man’s pocket. Look in there, he said to his partner in a low guttural tone as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

"Hola, he said, then listened. Bueno, gracias," he mumbled.

Flipping the phone shut he raised his voice just enough to be heard in the hallway leading to the back of the apartment. He’s still at the theater, fifth row aisle….asleep.

The big man laughed softly as he opened doors and looked into the rooms. The smaller man waited in the archway between the main room and the hall.

"Este aqui," the big man stage whispered as he entered the last room at the end of the hall.

It was the master bedroom. The eleven foot high ceiling was patterned with shadows of the pounding rain on the two large French style window that covered most of the street-side wall. The king size bed’s fluffy covering seemed to be floating from the filtered bright yellow glare that fell across it; a reflection of the Japanese computer firm’s massive advertisement high on the building across the street. Another lighting flash and immediate thunderclap caused the entire city’s lights to flicker. The smaller man was standing at the foot of the bed, a powerful flashlight sticking out from his mouth. The flashlight beam darted around the room as the man glanced nervously about.

We better get going. Wait outside by the front door. I’ll be two minutes, Mr. Big told his associate.

Mr. Big stepped into the bathroom. Shining his light around the door he found the light switch and flicked it on. He pulled off his ski mask and surveyed the bathroom. It was huge with expensively tiled walls, two sinks with gold faucets, a massive oval tub, and a glass enclosed shower. The wall opposite the sinks was mirrored. He stopped for a moment and looked himself over. Running his gloved hand through his jet black hair, then, applying thumb and forefinger to his carefully groomed mustache. Forcing a smile, he checked out his perfect upper row of gleaming white teeth. All except one, that is, and for that he leaned closer and admired his right side incisor; capped with 24 Karat gold.

Turning to the sinks he searched for a cabinet that might hold medicines. On the second cabinet door he opened he found what he wanted and started removing the medicine vials, reading the labels as he placed them on the counter. The fourth small orange vial was the one he was after……….

Martin Espendosa

Sleeping aid

Take 1 before bed

Quickly he compared the prescription number with those printed on the piece of paper he carried in his pocket. It matched and he emptied the contents of the vial…..ten small capsules into the palm of his hand. He shoved them in his left front pant’s pocket. He then grabbed at the small plastic bag he carried in his right front pant’s pocket. Pulling apart the sides, he opened the small bag and carefully counted out ten of the twenty small identical looking capsules it contained. He carefully dumped them into the plastic vial, replaced the cover and put all the vials back in the medicine closet, positioning them exactly as he had found them. He took a moment to ponder what Senor Espendosa had done to his young housekeeper that had been so bad that she had agreed to help with his assassination. Shaking his head and grinning to himself he thought he probably knew the answer.

He shut the lights off and declared, vamanos!

It was now left to random pill selection, but Senor Martin Espendosa, Ministre de Comercio por Bolivia, took a sleeping pill every night of his life and would, most probably, be dead, in his sleep, within ten days or less. The men from Miami didn’t care if the death looked like murder, or not; Espendosa would be gone, replaced by someone at the Ministry that would be a little more receptive to progress.

The two men, minus their masks, left the apartment, took the elevator to the basement and exited the building as they came. They walked five blocks, checking out the working girls on the streets of LaPaz before hailing a cab. They were back at their airport hotel in twenty minutes.

For them, it had been a long day and a half. But, their alibis had been cleanly established by accompanying the official who would eventually succeed Espendosa, as well as, an engineer from the Bolivian contractor on a day long reconnaissance of various planned sites in La Paz where optical fiber junction boxes would be installed to connect the fiber optic lines and create the city’s network.

The assassins left Bolivia on the 9:45 AM AA flight back to Miami. They had been out of the U.S. for 36 hours.

Chapter One

February 5, 1996

I lay motionless on my side for several seconds, my left arm tucked under my body, waiting to feel from where the pain would come. When there were no immediate stabbing shock waves from a broken bone or torn muscle I rolled over on my back and opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw were massive cumuli nimbus clouds floating across a background of deep blue. One, just above me, drifted by enough to expose brilliant sun that glared into my eyes. Covering my face with my left hand, I took a couple of deep breaths, with my right hand, I yanked the chin strap free of my throat. Then I pulled my helmet off and tossed it away in an uncaring direction.

Rolling to my right, I tried to sit up. Ten feet away, Chrissie, the eight year old bay mare I had been riding, reposed with her head down, catching her breath. The reins lay slack across her neck and the saddle was slightly askew from my unexpected exit. Turning her head to watch me struggle, she blew sweat and phlegm from flaring nostrils in a most unfeminine way.

I know, baby, you get embarrassed when I come off, I mumbled in her direction as I slumped to the grass, once again on my back.

As I moved my legs to double-check I was free of major injury my right boot brushed over my mallet. I tried once more to get to my feet, starting with getting my knees under me.

Over the speaker system I could hear the announcer telling the crowd player number two, Lucas Bowman, was down and the umpire had stopped the match. As my name echoed across the vast expanse of the Royal Palm Polo Club I started having the feelings of embarrassment that always accompany any polo player who has suffered the indignation of unexpectedly separating from his horse.

Both umpires had galloped over to me and were dismounting to offer assistance as the small ambulance raced across the field in my direction. I was standing by the time they arrived.

What’s your name? one of the umpires dutifully asked; the automatic first procedure to determine any head injury.

Lucas Bowman, I answered with chagrin as I looked around for my mallet.

What day is it? the other one asked.

Sunday.

Where are you?

Field one, Royal Palm Polo Club.

What hurts?

My fucking ego. I said as I looked at the rest of the players cantering back in my direction.

Adolpho and Jose, the umpires, were professional high goal players and knew exactly what I meant. They both were laughing as they handed me my mallet and helmet.

Adolpho asked in his best-broken English. "You okay to play, hombre?"

I said, Yeah…I hope you at least called a foul on that fucking idiot.

"Si, penalty three, for crossing, he said, but he’s a patron so we can’t go too heavy on him, you know, Lucas."

I shook my head. What did it matter that a lowly two-goal player like me almost got killed? We didn’t want to piss off the fucking idiot who had almost killed me with an illegal bump and dangerous riding. He was paying all three of the players on the other team and everyone wanted to keep him in the sport.

I know, I know, I said in a disgusted tone.

I was brushing myself off and preparing to remount as the overweight and under experienced patron of the opposing team rode up. Breathing heavily atop a gorgeous

jet-black mare, he offered his apologies.

I’m very sorry, are you alright? he asked.

I looked up at him as I adjusted my helmet.

Yeah, I said, I’m okay, maybe look where the fuck you’re going, huh?

Yes, yes, most definitely, my fault, he said with genuine conviction, I’m very sorry, sir,

An apology really didn’t mean shit to me. I didn’t know him but I figured he was just like almost every other patron I ever dealt with. After making or inheriting a fortune he started playing polo late in life and thought he could apply the same attitude and arrogance to polo he had used to be a corporate success. Like a lot of patrons, he couldn’t ride worth a shit, paid way too much for his horses, never learned the rules, and didn’t respect the players and grooms that waited on him hand and foot. He just thought he was real macho or cool, living out a mid life crises, or some shit like that. But, the sport needed them…so be it.

I swung up on Chrissie and trotted her around in circles to make sure she was not limping. The ambulance pulled away and everyone else headed off in the direction of our goal for the penalty shot.

We played the rest of the game without further problems and won, eleven to ten. My team, Palmetto Cadillac, was having a very good season in the fourteen-goal league. My consistent play contributing a good bit to our success.

I loved the Sunday games on Field One, often in front of a crowd of a couple thousand people. For another reason those games gave me material for my newspaper column. Sunday games always bring out the wealthy or pretentious set, or both; the men in blazers, madras shorts, and sockless loafers; the women, mostly beautiful (or once were), in long flowing print skirts, wide brimmed straw hats and facial expressions that made them look like they were clinching their teeth unusually hard. But the players always try to perform their best on Sundays. Polo, either participating or watching, seemed to bring out the show off in everyone.

My Monday column, I write a weekly gossipy type thing for the Pompano Beach News, always has an accounting of who was at the Sunday match and any other observations I can come up with. I pay a couple of photography students fifty bucks apiece to shoot some candid shots during the match and then we look at them Sunday night to see who’s who. Sometimes we’ll use a picture or two with the column. I try to write about the action on and off the field as wittily and acerbic as possible, like the New York Post might on its’ Page Six. Occasionally I get a bit too vitriolic, I’ve been accused of being resentful of the people I comment on. Resentful is not the right word, I’m unimpressed with most of them and attracted like a horny teenager to an obvious few. Lean, sleek, and well bred with a good head and chest is my choice in horses and women. Both tend to show up on Sunday. The column is pretty popular around South Florida.

I was sitting in a folding chair next to my horse trailer pulling off my boots when a shadow fell across me. I looked up to see the bulbous, sweating red face of the patron who had knocked me off my horse. He was standing with his right arm and hand extended downward in my direction.

Mr. Bowman, may I have a word with you? he asked, continuing to hold his hand out, apparently until I was ready to shake it.

Yeah, sure, I said as I slowly reached up and gave him a quick grip and squeeze. His grip was firm, with too much shake.

Returning to the always frustrating job of pulling off my left boot, he picked up one of the closed folding chairs that lay against the back tire of the pickup truck attached to my trailer. He planted it within a foot of mine and plopped himself down. It was the second time in an hour he had been closer to me than I thought necessary. Just as he began to speak my groom Marteen started yelling in Spanish at one of my horses tied to the trailer behind me. We both turned to watch as Marteen struggled to get the horse to lift it’s left front foot off the loose and dangling support wrap he had just unrolled off it’s leg. It was partially looped around the horse’s ankle and Marteen was running out of patience.

You’re riding very nice horses, the patron observed, as we both turned back face to face.

Yes, three of the six are a bit green but they’ll be good in a few months, I said.

We haven’t met officially, Mr. Bowman, I’m Ronald Burt.

Again he extended his hand. Pulling my boot off, tossing it on the ground, again, I accepted his offer to shake hands.

He leaned toward me with a look of a salesman confiding insider information. I’m very sorry for causing such a reckless and dangerous collision. It was completely my fault and I certainly hope you have not sustained any serious injury.

He looked to be about fifty-five, the slightest bit like James Bond’s famous nemesis, Goldfinger, and spoke in a very confident educated manner, his voice deep and strong. His teeth were beautifully capped, his eyes, steady and blue. Sweat beaded on his balding head and trickled off down over his forehead. The lower portion of the bright red number one on the front of his white jersey extended out considerably over his protruding stomach.

No sweat, Mr. Burt. I hope you won’t make the same mistake again.

He nodded and looked back at Marteen. When he turned back toward me he leaned in again and lowered his voice.

I will certainly try not to, sir. He paused and looked down for a moment and then met my eyes with his. Our collision is a bit opportunistic, I must say, as I have been wanting to make your acquaintance for some time.

He glanced around without really looking at anything and lowered his voice even more. At this point I was expecting state secrets.

He almost was whispering, I’m looking for someone with unusual talents for a delicate matter. May I speak freely?

I leaned back in my chair to put a little space between us. He wasn’t waiting for an answer.

I often read your column when I fly back to New York on Monday mornings. I enjoy it. I’m a little envious that I’ve not gotten a mention yet, but perhaps our unfortunate entanglement will stimulate a thought or two that might warrant a mention of myself and my team.

That’s what you want to talk about? I asked with a slight hint of sarcasm.

He smiled and leaned back, wiping his face with an open palm. No, no, just something I wanted to mention. Maybe get my guys a little publicity.

I didn’t say anything just looked over at Marteen as he continued to strip the wraps off the last horse.

He wasn’t done selling. I’m a very wealthy man, Mr. Bowman, and wealth always creates it’s own unique problems.

I’ve observed that, I said.

I’ve been asking around, discreetly, of course, for someone to take on an assignment that needs a delicate touch and a certain amount of experience.

I nodded, as if to say, okay!

There was no one except Marteen within fifty feet of me but he continued with the stealthily manner. You have been referred to me from a couple of different sources. Do you mind if I confirm a few things…..just for my own curiosity?

Again I nodded. I had to get the horses put up and get back to the office to start my column. I was getting impatient.

You have investigative skills in your background, sir, newspapers, certain, he paused, searching for the right expression, less than mainstream periodicals, and I believe you provide assistance to defense attorneys on delicate matters. I’ve been told your interest can be piqued in a case if you think the accused is innocent, perhaps, wrongfully accused…or setup. Is there some truth to what I’m saying?

Some of what you are stating is true, yes, I said.

You have no official license or title to pursue these matters, am I right?

Do you mean am I a PI or something like that…no. I don’t have a license? Get to the point would you, Mr. Burt, I said. This was getting a little strange.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope that was folded in half. He tapped it on his knee.

Would you meet me for breakfast in the morning before I leave Florida? I want to talk to you about a problem I’m having.

He handed me the envelope which I accepted without looking at its’ contents. What’s this? I asked.

He pointed to the envelope. A thousand dollars. Have breakfast with me, keep the money, no matter what.

I looked out toward the playing field and empty grandstand, then, back down the line of truck and trailers that most still had horses standing along side. Stalling for a moment to think. When and where?

"I’ll pick you up. You’re in the double wide over there in back of field nine, right? It’s surrounded on three sides by an orange grove, right?

Yeah, I said.

Driveway’s right off Saint Andrews, isn’t it?

I nodded and said, First one after you make the turn.

He got up and extended his hand again, I stood up and shook it.

Thank you, sir, sorry about the fall, see you in the morning around nine, okay? He backed up a step nodded his head and walked off. I didn’t bother to look after him.

Marteen was starting to swear at one of my mares refusing to load into the trailer. As I walked toward her I slapped my thigh with the envelope I held in my right hand, the mare flinched a little, laid her ears back, and hopped in the trailer. I pay Marteen four hundred dollars a week to care for them and exercise them days I’m not available to ride. After we put the horses up, (I stall them at the Polo Club in one of the rental barns.) I headed to Pompano Beach and the newspaper offices.

Chapter Two

Headquarters of the Pompano Beach News is off East Atlantic Ave, out near the ocean. The whole operation is contained in a one-story building that takes up most of a city block. It’s a small local paper that publishes six days a week, no Sunday paper, and has been serving the community, as the editors always liked to say, for over fifty years. Real estate, single-family rentals, cars, and furniture ads keep the paper afloat. The News has three reporters, two local columnists, and an op-ed page. Everything else comes off the wire services like Associated Press, Reuters, and syndicated writers. The money I get for my column doesn’t pay for the grain I feed my horses. But I love the gig; the press pass comes in handy sometimes.

The other columnist, a spry sixty-year old woman, covers gardening and food. I like what I do for News and have a loyal following. Once in awhile, something we do gets picked up by the Miami or Ft Lauderdale papers but we don’t care one way or the other. The staff of the News just does their own thing.

I was late because I’d helped Marteen put some heat packs on the horses’ legs. I was playing them hard and they needed good maintenance after matches. It was almost five o’clock, getting toward dusk, when I wheeled my Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot. The Jeep is five years old, yellow with a soft top that I can just pull off when I’m in the mood. The lot was full. Monday’s paper was not far from being put to bed.

We worked in an undivided space just off the main newsroom. The coffee machine and drinking water station are along the wall behind us. We just need a computer terminal to look at the pictures the kids shoot. Then I find an empty desk and hit my laptop, knocking out a rough draft of the column. When I’m done my assistant takes over and does her editing thing.

The kids, Phil and Don (I refer to them as The Everly Brothers), usually get to the paper ahead of me to download their pictures. I recognized their old van and my editorial assistant, Gretchen Wilson’s blue Toyota. Gretch has been with me from day one at the News. She got hired as a Girl Friday the same week I started. She assists both of us columnists. Do I need to add I’d be dead without her? As I came in, the Everly Brothers were slouching around sucking on Big Gulps like they’d already entered their shots. They’re both twenty-one, short dark hair, wear their ball caps backward with baggy jeans and long oversized tee shirts. I can tell them apart because Phil wears glasses. They’re part time college students (or sometime college students, I’m not sure which) and they share an apartment a few blocks from the paper. I’m very fond of them.

Hey, guys, sorry I’m late.

They simultaneously jerked themselves up into acceptable posture positions and flashed big smiles.

Man, you got your fuckin bell wrung, dude, are you cool?

That was Phil.

What was up with Mister, wild ride, Ronald Burt, Lukie, Lukie?

That was Don.

Wait til you see the shots, man, Don-o got it from the start of the fall. Six great shots of you takin flight, man.

That was Phil.

I’m fine, I’ll be stiff for a day or so. Let’s see the fall. Should we run it?

Come on, dude, it’s awesome stuff… you gotta use it. Phil insisted.

Don clicked away with the mouse. We stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the screen. Behind us, from across the newsroom, I heard Gretch’s voice.

Lucas, are you alright? I can’t believe what I have been looking at. Are you alright?

I turned and watched her rushing toward me. Her long straight gray hair was flying off her shoulders. Her reading glasses, dangling from a piece of string, bounced off her right shoulder. She was trying to control her glasses and not bump into any of the computer terminals on desktops that blocked her path across the newsroom. Stopping two feet from me, she put her glasses on the bridge of her nose. Tilting her head back, she examined my face. I looked at her eyes, the glasses magnified her striking green irises. For an admitted fifty-six years old, she was an amazing whirling mass of non-stop energy.

Are you alright? she repeated.

I laughed, Yeah, I’m fine, just a little stiff.

Have you seen the pictures? she asked

No. Don’s pulling them up now.

She looked me over quickly and relaxed. Pulling her glasses off and letting them dangle, she stepped past me toward the terminal.

The screen changed images quickly as Don clicked away.

What about the rest of your stuff, guys? Anybody of interest?

Like a well-rehearsed chorus, Oh, yeah, the three sang out together.

The pictures of my fall flicked on screen before I could ask another question; six shots, side by side, in a line across the middle of the screen. Each was about an inch and a half square. Don’s camera angle was looking almost head-on. The first shot, on the left, showed Ronald Burt’s horse and mine side by side, his in a normal galloping stride with only one foot touching the ground and mine, with her head down and front legs extended, in the first stage of a bad stumble. The horses were touching at the shoulders. In the picture, Burt and his horse were to my right. The picture was the first phase of me falling to my left, my left foot free of the stirrup, my whole body grotesquely off balance. Burt was sitting very upright on his horse, holding the reins with his left hand about chest high, his arm bent at the elbow. He looked like he was bracing for a collision with me. His right hand and arm were high above his head clinching his mallet as if he was going to try and make some kind of off balance swing at the polo ball.

The five other pictures showed the progressive action of me sliding, or maybe a better word is flopping off Chrissie while Burt returned to a balanced riding position, his feet forward, left hand holding the reins just above the horse’s neck, his right arm and mallet down by his side. In the final picture I lay in a pile on the ground, alone in the frame.

Jesus, Don, great sequence, I said, staring the computer screen.

Don gave Phil a high five. Thanks Lucas…sure glad you’re alright. What did you say to the fat fuck anyway?

I didn’t answer right away. Can you show me them, one at a time, and make them bigger?

Can do, can do, sir, Don gleefully replied and immediately starting clicking the mouse. I spent several minutes studying each frame.

Let’s use number three, I said, I’m completely airborne in a swan dive and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fall shot like that.

Come on, dude, Phil whined, use them all. The sequence is way cool.

What do you think, Gretch? I asked.

She pulled her glasses off and looked off at the newsroom. Let’s look at the rest of their stuff before we decide.

Yeah, sure, okay, I said. But we gotta get moving, what’s my drop dead time to finish?

Gretch looked over at the wall clock. Pictures in thirty, copy in an hour and a half.

Let’s start going through your pictures, guys, I said, turning back to the computer screen.

Don started clicking away. The screen filled with images of people walking around, sitting in the stands, and staring at the horses tied to players’ trailers.

He clicked on several pictures near the bottom of the screen. The screen went black then a series of five shots appeared side by side, each about two inches square. Four shots were women walking on the playing field during the half time break when the spectators are invited out onto the field to stomp down the divots of sod made when the horse’s stop and turn. The fifth shot was blurred and hard to make out reduced down so small.

Don put the cursor over the first shot and clicked. It came almost full screen. A young lithe woman was walking left to right, in mid stride, wearing a calf-length yellow and blue floral print sundress, tied at the waist with a strand of white cord. A wide brimmed red straw hat was pulled low on her forehead, a few inches of blonde hair hung out in the back, covering her neck. Her face was partially hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses, but the low afternoon sun behind her silhouetted a curvaceous body. The flowing material clung to her legs and bosom as she strode across the playing field. She had removed her sandals and carried them in her left hand; in her right hand she clinched a small elegant day purse. Her lips were together, pushed outward as if she was about to greet and kiss someone.

Christ, who’s that? I said.

Just hold on, there’s more, Phil said. Come on, Don, let’s see the sister.

Another click brought up a head on shot of another gorgeous young woman walking directly toward Don’s telephoto lense, oblivious to Don’s spying eye, and

frozen in mid-stride.