Game & Steamroller: Nikki Latrelle Racing Mysteries

By Sasscer Hill

"If you miss the late Dick Francis's racetrack thrillers, you'll be intrigued by Sasscer Hill's Racing From Death." —The Washington Post, August 29, 2012"
Don't miss these two short horse racing mysteries filled with intrigue and suspense!

• Language: English
• Publisher: misterio press LLC
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201630669

Sasscer Hill

Sasscer Hill, who was involved in horse racing as an amateur jockey and racehorse breeder for most of her life, sets her suspense and mystery novels against a background of horse racing, and the people and horses in the industry who dig deep into their hearts to find the courage and will to win against all odds. Her novels have won a Carrie McCray award and nominations for Agatha, Macavity, Claymore, and The Dr. Tony Ryan Best in Racing Literature awards.  

Book preview

GAME

A Nikki Latrelle Short Story

By Sasscer Hill

DAMN, WE’D BE LATE. From the passenger seat, I willed the road to spin faster beneath us. My peripheral vision caught the tension in Joan’s jaw, her hard grip on the steering wheel as she pushed the aging Chevy. August heat seared my face through the open windows, and undulated off the hot asphalt unwinding before us.

The dash clock said fifteen minutes to check into the jockey’s room. I’d lose a ride on a horse that had a shot to win and someone else would snag the $40 jock’s fee.    I’m trying, Nikki, said Joan, the fingers of one hand tap dancing on the wheel. This car–– . She rammed the accelerator, the car shuddered and she eased up. Piece of crap. 

At least you have a car, I said. And plenty of time for her two rides late in the program. But she risked a speeding violation to make my deadline, and Joan, not anybody else, had taken a homeless seventeen-year-old under her wing. She’d found out I was a runaway and helped me get work at Maryland’s Laurel Race Track. Two years later, she got her jock’s license, and coaxed our boss, trainer Jim Ravinsky, into putting me on a horse in the mornings, letting me gallop a few, until he saw my gift, my connection with horses.

The Toyota sped over the Potomac River bridge, and far below, white water surged over gray, protruding rocks. Someone down there in a kayak struggled against the surface torrent and deep, hidden undertows. We crossed a second bridge and climbed the steep hill past Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia.

I needed this race, didn’t care if it came by default, the regular Maryland jockey being too self-impressed to follow the horse, Laser Beam, to a second-rate track like Shepherds Town. No such illusions here. Not so long ago, my best job had been walking the pumped-up thoroughbreds around the shed row until they cooled out. I still pushed away memories of stealing packaged snacks from Seven-Eleven and