Tina Sugarman, author of one of the top equine novels of 2016-2017, Horse Flesh, has agreed to share excerpts of her book with Harnesslink. Horse Flesh is a thriller mystery fiction novel based around a Standardbred racetrack in Ontario, Canada. It is the first novel ever penned by horsewoman, Tina Sugarman.

Each week, Harnesslink will feature an excerpt from Horse Flesh. If you wish to purchase the book either in paperback or ereader formats, click here.

Here is this week’s 5th excerpt from Horse Flesh!

Horse Flesh by Tina Sugarman

TCO2

The next day Director Al McTavish was driving into Iroquois Downs listening to the local radio, when he heard some worrying news.

“This is your local station with today’s news and weather at the top of the hour. A single car accident occurred on the Indian Trail last night. From the skid marks on the tarmac, police believe the driver lost control of his car and left the road. The car ended up in a cornfield. The vehicle is registered in the name of Theo Vettore, leading driver at Iroquois Downs Raceway. We understand Mr. Vettore was unhurt, though suffering from a few scrapes and bruises…”

 Al McTavish switched off the radio. He’d heard enough. Another piece of bad publicity for the racetrack.

That’s all I need, he thought, as he pulled into Iroquois Downs’ empty parking lot. The sky had cleared overnight and the only evidence of the storm was the pools of water lying on the asphalt, steaming in the morning sun. It was going to be another hot day. After shuffling papers for a couple of hours, Al rode the elevator to the judge’s office on the seventh floor.

“Got any news for me yet, John?” he asked, peering through the doorway. From the look on Judge Jewells’ face, Al surmised the news wasn’t good. He went and perched himself awkwardly on the only other chair in the room, the so-called prisoner’s chair. That was where horsemen accused of wrong doing sat, facing Judge Jewells on his leather throne.

“No evidence, had to let ’im go,” Jewells revealed, his mouth set in a virtual straight line. So, Dave Bodinski had got away with daylight robbery, Al thought. It was disappointing to say the least. His gaze strayed to the racetrack far below where a few lone horsemen were still exercising their horses. There was so much that needed changing, Al reflected, on so many fronts: the low handle, resulting in slashed purses, the lack of funds to fix the decaying buildings. There wasn’t a shred of commercialism in the entire enterprise.

“What do we do now?” Al asked. “If you’re serious,” Jewells replied looking him in the eye, as if to gauge his fortitude, “then you gotta get rid of the baking soda boys!” “Baking soda!” Al laughed. “Is that all they’re using? It doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Take it from me,” Jewells replied emphatically, “If you want to clean up racing around here, you have to put a stop to soda. It’s far too easy for the horsemen to cheat.”

“So, you think those two mares last night…” Al said, catching on. “Must’ve had a huge dose of it, yes,” the judge nodded. “Take a look at their previous efforts,” he added with a grim smile, tossing over the previous night’s race program. “I never would have picked either of them to win if I was a betting man,” Al acknowledged, feeling a little bewildered.

“Take a look at Jolie Dame,” the judge directed. “Proof positive.” Al frowned. “She’s from Quebec,” Jewells said, fixing Al with a penetrating stare. Wilting under Jewells’ stern gaze, Al wracked his brains. But he still had no idea what the judge meant.

“They’ve got black box testing in Quebec,” Jewells said in an irritated tone, as if explaining that two and two equaled four. “Had it for a while, TCO2 scores are closely monitored. Stops the baking soda boys in their tracks.” “Ah,” Al said finally getting it.

“So, you think Price gave Jolie Dame baking soda? You think that’s why she improved so much down here?” “Don’t think it, know it! Can’t do anything about it of course,” Jewells said with genuine regret. “Well, it seems to me, we’ll have to find a way to test for baking soda at Iroquois Downs,” Al replied, relieved that there was such a simple solution.

“Not so fast! It’s not cheap. Where are you going to get the money? Besides there’ll be a lot of resistance from the horsemen.” “And?” Al prompted. “Good chance they’ll go on strike.” Al frowned. “Refuse to race,” Jewells clarified, assuming Al wasn’t keeping up.

“A strike. That’s all I need,” Al groaned. What have I got myself into here? he wondered. But he didn’t intend to give up at the first hurdle. His good friend and longtime business associate Phil Harman had convinced him to take on this job knowing it would appeal to Al’s sense of justice and fair play. Phil was counting on him to clean up racing at Iroquois Downs and Al was determined not to let him down.

“Leaving the money aside for now,” he began, ignoring Judge Jewells’ pursed lips, “I need your input on getting the trainers on board.”

 “Trainers!” the judge said contemptuously. “The winners are crooks and the losers haven’t figured out how to beat the system yet.” “Nevertheless,” Al argued, “we need to neutralize them if we’re going to be able to accomplish anything here. We can’t afford a strike. There’s little enough money as it is.” “Got any ideas?” the judge asked. “Not yet,” Al admitted. “How about you?” “None!” the judge replied sourly.

And on that note Al departed. As he rode the elevator down to his office, he couldn’t help feeling a sneaking admiration for this Dave Bodinski character. Just sitting on that stool was enough to make a guy feel guilty and want to confess all. But Bodinski had faced Judge Jewells and come out of it smelling like a rose.

In Al’s limited experience, horsemen were a pretty clever bunch. Anyone who didn’t take that into account would get nowhere with reforming a lost cause like Iroquois Downs. When he got back to his office, Al grabbed a cup of coffee and dialed McTavish Construction. Since his appointment as Director of Racing at Iroquois Downs, he had handed over the day to day running of his building company to his daughter, Billie.

 It still felt odd not to be there himself every morning. “Good morning, sir. I’ll put you through to Miss McTavish right away,” the operator said. “Dad!” Billie McTavish exclaimed. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to get your take on that housing development, the one on Appleby Line.”

“There’s something I want you to do first,” Al said. “Okay,” she replied, a little unwillingly, he thought. “I need you to find out everything you can about baking soda.” “Baking soda?” Billie asked. “You baking a cake or something? You don’t ever cook!”

When Al didn’t reply, her tone changed to one of concern, “Is your stomach bothering you, Dad?” “No! Nothing like that!” Al replied hastily. “Believe it or not they use it on horses. It stops them tying up.” “I’m not even going to try to go there,” Billie laughed. “Just tell me what you want to know, okay?”

Al pictured her: the look of exasperation mingled with amusement on her face, the mane of brown wavy hair. “I want you to find out if there have been any studies about the effects of high levels of baking soda, adverse or otherwise, on racehorses,” he said. “Okay!” Billie replied immediately. She sounded like she couldn’t wait to get started now.

 “Plus,” he put in quickly before she could get off the line, “I need to know how you test for it and how much testing will cost.” “Fill me in here, Dad.” “They’re testing for soda in Quebec,” he explained. “Start from there. How soon can you get back to me on all this?” “If I google it,” Billie replied, “about an hour.”

Al didn’t have any real understanding of how googling worked. Like the majority of his generation, he’d been reluctant to use the internet. However, he’d learned that in Billie’s hands at least, it produced excellent results. While he was waiting for his daughter to get back to him, he put in a call to Jim Mercer, one of the horsemen’s representatives, intending to feel him out on the baking soda issue. But all Mercer wanted to talk about was Theo Vettore’s accident the night before.

“They made it sound like Vettore was out on a drunk,” Mercer retorted angrily, when Al introduced himself. “That’s a damn lie! Everyone knows what’s going on at the track! And what are you guys doing about it? Nothing!”

When Al asked him to elaborate, Mercer got even hotter under the collar. “Don’t give me that!” he shouted. “Give you what?” Al replied feeling a little outraged himself. The guy wasn’t giving him a chance. “I haven’t got time for this!” Mercer muttered.

He must have put the phone down, because all Al heard after that was a loud dial tone. ’Well, that went well,’ Al thought, gazing out of the window. It was so hot; the air was shimmering. The other rep, Bob Summers, was supposed to be the nice guy. But he wasn’t answering his phone. It looked like this job wasn’t going to be so easy.

Then Billie called. “You’re not going to believe this!” she said exuberantly. “There’s a veterinarian doing a study, wait…here it is…a Doctor Jay Winterflood – that’s such a great name! – anyhow, he’s written a paper on the effects of sodium bicarbonate on the equine athlete…” “That’s…,” Al interrupted. “Baking soda, yes,” Billy confirmed. “Also, known as cooking soda, bicarbonate of soda, sodium hydrogen carbonate…or, if you want to get really technical, the chemical compound is NaH…” “Stop!” Al begged, his head spinning. “CO3,” Billie continued. “And listen to this. Doctor Winterflood is based right here in Erinsville…at the equine clinic!”

That’s my girl, Al thought happily. “Perfect,” he said. “What’s wrong? You don’t sound very pleased,” she replied, her disappointment obvious. “Oh, I just got my head chewed off by someone,” he explained hastily. “Nothing to do with you, Billie. You did a great job. How about the cost?” “Of testing, you mean? I already asked Jeff. He’s got a lot of contacts in the States. He’ll be able to get us a good price,” she said, recovering somewhat.

“Your friend Jeff Lamare,” Al smiled into the phone. “He’s got his fingers in so many pies!” “He’s a dotcom millionaire!” Billie corrected a little huffily. “And he’d be doing this as a favour to me, actually. It’s got nothing to do with his internet business.” Billie acted a bit like a porcupine at times – all prickles and humped back, Al reflected. But she was fiercely loyal to those she cared about and she’d never let him down yet.

Did all fathers appreciate their daughters as much as he did? he wondered. His only disappointment was that neither of his sons had expressed any interest in taking over the family firm. However, Billie made up for both of them. “Thank him,” Al said humbly. “And Billie…” “Yes?” “The next meeting is in two weeks’ time.” “Okay,” she said doubtfully.

She had the capacity to put a score of different meanings into that word. “I’d like to have everything ready to go by then.” “Okay!” she replied, suddenly business like. “Leave it with me, Dad. I’ll see what I can do.” The magic phrase, which nearly always brought results, had been uttered.

Al leaned back in his chair and relaxed for the first time since Heart of Darkness’ humiliating defeat by two long shots the night before.

After the weekend Al put in a call to Phil Harman to get a read on the political side of things. He had to leave a message on Phil’s answering machine.

The next day, Phil called him back. “What’s up?” Phil asked. “How about I tell you over lunch at your favourite restaurant tomorrow?” Al suggested brightly. “No good. I got a lot on this week,” Phil replied. “How about next week then?” Al asked.

 “Sounds like a plan. Long as you’re paying, pal!” Phil laughed.

The Australian girl was lying on the terrace of André Fontainbleu’s hilltop fortress, soaking up the sunshine. Other than a large pair of sunglasses, she was wearing only the briefest of bikinis.

André Fontainbleu, whose dark brown eyes had never needed protection, even from the harsh Caribbean sun, was resting his hand on her bare belly, palm down, fingers outstretched, in a habitual gesture of possession, pleased to observe the bruising on her breasts, testimony to the violence of their love making, just hours before.

The clinking of silverware and glass and the discreet scraping of chairs informed him that lunch was ready to be served. “Get dressed,” he said roughly, tossing a towel at the girl. “After we eat, we shall go to Bailey’s Boatyard!”

She opened her eyes and stared up at him. The flicker of resentment was still there. It meant nothing. He was holding all the cards. That afternoon he showed her the boat he was offering her: a wreck that had cost him nothing, washed up on the shore like the girl herself, another consequence of the storm.

Afterwards, he drove slowly back up the mountain to the Hermitage, which was his personal, private sanctuary, bought dearly with blood and tears (not his own, of course). “You can leave now if you wish,” he told her, the sun in his eyes reducing her to a dark silhouette.

“Leave?” she asked, with no attempt to hide her surprise. “Why, yes,” he replied, sure of himself now, reading her easily. The combination of arousal and confusion, with just a soupçon of surrender, interested him. “What if…,” she asked, her voice breaking.

“What if I was to stay?” She was so young, he thought without a trace of empathy. The weekend was already a week. But it was not convenient for him to take on any surplus baggage at present.

Stay tuned in to Harnesslink every week for another excerpt from Horse Flesh!