his mount in the belly after dismounting. In his third year as a jockey, Mortvedt drew a six-month suspension for blatantly attempting to put a rival rider over the rail during a race at New Orleans’ Fair Grounds.
Alphonse LeBeau, a trainer who for some time employed Mortvedt as his regular rider, later told the track stewards that he had “never known a rider to hate horses like this little bastard.”
When Mortvedt was twenty-four, he was discovered to have ridden a series of favorites in such a way as to prevent them from finishing in the money in trifecta and exacta races. He was working at the time in conjunction with a small ring of New Orleans-based professional gamblers who used to their benefit the knowledge that certain horses would finish “nowhere” in specified races when Mortvedt was riding them.
Trainer LeBeau, who had parted company with Mortvedt three years earlier, was one of several honest horsemen who reported their suspicions to investigators. Eventually Mortvedt was arrested, tried, and convicted of race-fixing and sent to Oakdale Prison. He served seven years of a fifteen-year sentence before being paroled. Because of his conviction, Mortvedt was banned for life from ever again working as a professional jockey.
“Mortvedt appealed that ban twice to the state racing commission,” Karen said, “but was turned down. His last unsuccessful appeal was three years ago.”
“Not long before the horse killings began in Kentucky,” Damon said.
“That’s right,” Karen said.
What was not a part of the Ronald Mortvedt file was anything explaining how he, a convicted felon from deep in America’s south, had ever gone into business with Harvey Rexroth, press lord and prominent Kentucky horse owner and breeder. Their unlikely alliance arose from two shared traits: both men understood the value of horses, while not respecting them any more than they would any other commodity; and through each of these otherwise disparate individuals ran a broad streak of larceny parallel to a sizable streak of cruelty.
Mortvedt, like dozens of jockeys before him, hailed from the rural area near Lafayette, where young boys begin to ride horses in match races when they are so small they have to be tied on to their mounts.
But unlike the vast majority of his Cajun colleagues, Ronald Mortvedt harbored no love of horses: he saw them only as a way out of a life he despised. He had enough physical talent to have realistic hopes for escape, too.
Besides his ability as a hustling, hard-hitting little rider, Ronald Mortvedt brought with him into the world outside his native Acadiana a truly venomous attitude toward his fellow human beings in general. This undoubtedly had its source in the years of physical and mental abuse Ronald had suffered at the hands of his alcoholic father, Maurice. Or perhaps he had, in the words of his beleaguered mother, Audrey, just been “born mean, like his daddy.” Ronald had coal black hair, the same color as his father’s, and the same icy black eyes that seemed to state to the world, “I don’t trust you. And if you’re any way smart at all, you’d better not trust me.”
Ronald was an only child. One was more than enough for Audrey, who fled the company of her sociopath husband and son when Ronald was fourteen, running off with an East Texas truck driver she had met at the Abbeville match races one Sunday.
Young Ronald himself moved away barely a year later, some two months before Maurice Mortvedt killed himself by driving into a concrete abutment while en route home from Guidry’s Tavern early one Tuesday morning. At that time, Ronald was working at Evangeline Downs Racetrack for trainer LeBeau. Informed by phone of his father’s death, Ronald accepted the news without comment, hung up the receiver in LeBeau’s office and went back to work, a wicked little smile on his narrow face. “He’s a cold-hearted little coon ass, ain’t he?” LeBeau said to his assistant trainer when the screen door of the office had slammed behind Mortvedt.
Nineteen months later, Ronald Mortvedt rode for the first time in a race at a recognized racetrack. LeBeau had put him up on an old, sore-legged gelding named Friar Tuck, who went off at nearly fifty to one in a cheap claiming race at Evangeline Downs. Under Mortvedt’s furious whipping, the old horse got up to be second. LeBeau was livid. “Goddam you, boy, I told you not to abuse that old horse. He always tries his best. Don’t have to whip that horse.” Mortvedt barely acknowledged his boss’ words before swaggering back to the jockeys’ room, eminently pleased with himself.
Thus began a riding career that could best be described as checkered. It produced a decent number of victories, for Ronald Mortvedt had “some talent,” as Alphonse LeBeau had noticed early on. Mortvedt was also fearless, ruthless, and ambitious. And, like most professional jockeys, he was blessed with amazingly quick reflexes and a level of strength inordinate for his size-five feet four inches, one hundred ten pounds.
But Ronald Mortvedt’s level of riding skill proved to be far below that of such famous fellow Cajuns as Eddie Delahoussaye, or Kent Desormeaux, who went on to fabulously successful careers at the major California tracks. Young Mortvedt realized that much early on. He adapted by looking to find ways to make money illegally. It was not just an attempt to enhance a modest income, but a form of revenge against the sport that he had hoped to use as his meal ticket.
Ronald’s conviction was welcomed by his co-workers. “I’m glad they nailed that bastard,” said Evangeline Downs’ leading rider, Ray Moreau. Privately, Moreau admitted to friends his amazement at Mortvedt’s skill in “stiffing” horses. “You gotta watch him close,” Moreau said. “I tell you, he’s awful good at it.
“If he worked at hard as trying to win as he does trying to lose, he’d make a decent living for himself. That boy’s so strong he could hold an elephant away from a barrel of peanuts.”
Chapter 10
As the Taurus neared the outskirts of Lafayette that afternoon, Karen said, “It’s after two o’clock. I’d like something to eat.”
“Sure,” Damon said. A few blocks later, he pulled into the small, dusty parking lot of Guerin’s Cafe. Seated at one of the six tables inside, they discussed strategy over bowls of gumbo and a shared platter of fried catfish- barbue frittes, as the worn menu described it. As usual, Karen ate with rapid relish, while Damon worked his way methodically through his meal.
Besides the friendly, heavy-set waitress, the only other people in the place were two elderly men in work clothes. They were sitting at the small counter, talking quietly and drinking bottles of Dixie beer. An ancient black radio, positioned on the shelf dividing the kitchen from the counter, played Cajun music from station 1050-AM. “The races?” replied the waitress to Karen’s question. “Sure, they goin’ on now.”
Following the waitress’ directions, the agents drove a couple of miles to LaCombe Downs, one of Louisiana’s last remaining bush tracks, meaning horse racing at its most rudimentary: amateur jockeys wear T-shirts, jeans, and gym shoes; a handwritten, mimeographed track program lists the day’s races and entries; and the horses have been trained on their owners’ farms, then trailered over to the track for the day. No pari-mutuel betting adds to the excitement, as at the larger, recognized tracks; instead, all the wagering done here is up front and personal between interested patrons.
As they slowly walked on a sand path that led from the little paddock to the railing that rimmed the racetrack, Engel and Tirabassi observed racing fans of all ages, from very small children to extremely senior citizens, all rooting on their favorites, then talking about the next race to come. Women sat in lawn chairs, fanning themselves against the heat as they watched lively, laughing children. Groups of men wearing straw cowboy hats talked softly, so softly that Karen could barely discern that the language they were employing was French. As Clayton Fugette had said, Karen thought, this
Damon made inquiries as they advanced through the crowd; the third one produced directions to the tented area in which food and drink were served. “You can’t miss her,” Damon was told by a helpful young girl. “Old Alice Cormier’s big enough to take up two chairs. She’s that Mortvedt boy’s aunt.”
The agents approached a corner table at which sat a middle-aged white woman who appeared to weigh at least two hundred fifty pounds. She was wearing a flower-patterned yellow dress. Her bright, brown eyes were almost lost in the folds of fat that served as her cheeks. A small, red mouth above a triple layer of chins widened into a guarded smile when Tirabassi introduced himself and Karen, being careful to display his badge discreetly so that onlookers could not see it.
“Don’t have to show me no badge,” Alice Cormier said. “If you weren’t FBI or some such, don’t think you’d be out here in your business clothes on a afternoon hot as this.”
