Free Queenpin by Megan Abbott Page B

spring in my chest like a kick drum.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You seem relaxed,” she said, powdering her nose from a small tortoiseshell compact. “Figured you for more jumpy.”
    “Why should I be jumpy?” I said, trying not to suddenly sound jumpy.
    “Because, Little Miss Marker;” she said, snapping the compact shut, “when I’m heel-and-toeing it for a few days, you usually are.” She looked at me. “Don’t tell me, you’re all grown up now, kid?”
    There was a kind of warmth in her voice, not like anyone could notice it but me, but I could. I could hear it and it seeped into my ear like honey. I couldn’t see her eyes, not with those big sunglasses enclosing her face, narrowing her face into a kind of arrow’s head, her sharp chin the point. It was just a mask anyway. That face was just a mask. Listen to the voice, the voice is the thing. Not the usual slither, or jagged edges or grit clenched teeth. There was a warmth. I heard it, felt it.
    “Maybe I am grown up,” I said, trying not to smile too much, to make too much of it, to cause her to retreat. “Or getting closer.”
    “Off your knees at least,” she said, opening the car door and stepping out. “You’re off your knees at least, aren’t you?” she said as she slammed the door behind her and began walking away.
    I sat in the car for five minutes trying to figure that one out. Then I stopped trying.
    He didn’t pause a second before his fist came at me, a hard belt to the jaw that snapped my head against the wall with a nasty pop. I saw stars. I remember thinking, I figured this would be harder for him. It wasn’t hard at all. Then, before I knew it, his left came at me, swiveling my head the other way, cheekbone cracking against the metal door frame of the clubhouse. I thought I would be sick. I held my stomach with both hands. Everything was tingling and I was still standing and I felt everything everywhere.
    “Give me one more. Give me one more,” I whispered, chin raised, face hot, whole body shuddering. He paused, gave his brow a crinkle of worry, but for less than a second, then let me have it. That was the one that knocked me out.
    It had all happened so quickly. An hour before, I’d picked up the money from the accountant over on the east side. I didn’t see anyone watching me as I left, but I wasn’t taking chances. It had to look real enough. The usual routine was to go straight to the track, so that’s what I did.
    We’d talked about how Casa Mar would be crowded, jammed with spectators. Most places, we’d have to do too much playacting and there was the risk of someone playing hero, seeing it and saving the day. Then we hit it. More than once, I’d walked behind the paddocks, having a cigarette, listening for any useful back-fence chin-wagging. So we made it so I’d stroll just far enough from the mix, behind the jockeys’ quarters.
    Standing there, I lit a cigarette, and two puffs in, it was clear the time was now. He came at me. He came at me hard. No one was watching. We’d both made sure. But from far enough away, it would look real. It would look like an ugly holdup.
    When he came at me, there was this: he was the wolf again. The yellow flare in his eyes. His hands on me. And he was all-in. I remember thinking, He’s hitting me like he’d hit a man, and I wanted to take it that way, oh, did I. I also remember thinking how it was like being back at Saint Lucy’s, where your whole body is prone, your whole body is ready to take it. Because that’s why you’re there.
    He wasn’t supposed to knock me out, Vic. It would make it harder for me to avoid the cops, a ruckus. I didn’t want a ruckus. Even if I had been mugged, she wouldn’t like that, wouldn’t like all the questions.
    A wandering horse trainer found me as I was coming to, helped me to my car. He wanted to take me to the track docs, the track badges, but I told him if my husband found out where I was, he’d do me worse than the mugger ever