{"product_id":"bloodlines-isbn-9781400096954","title":"Bloodlines","description":"From provocative peeks into the lives of jockeys, trainers, owners, and breeders, to the down and dirty doings of bookies and gamblers, here is a literary tribute to a favorite national pastime. Editors Maggie Estep (\u003ci\u003eDiary of an Emotional Idiot\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eFlamethrower\u003c\/i\u003e) and Jason Starr (\u003ci\u003eTwisted City;\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eLights Out\u003c\/i\u003e) have brought together original fiction and nonfiction from some of our most beloved writers. Lee Child heads off the collection with a thrilling story about a hit man hired to knock off a horse mid-race. Laura Lippman contributes a vivid tale about a young man who makes money selling parking places at the Preakness and the intriguing woman he meets. Here is Bill Barich on the misfortunes of an Irish gambler, Joe R. Lansdale on one man’s ambition to win a mule race in east Texas, Laura Hillenbrand on the Kentucky Derby, and James Surowiecki on the wisdom of horse-racing crowds. Jonathan Ames adds his unique theory of horse love, Meghan O’Rourke shares her touching recollections of going to Saratoga as a child, and Jane Smiley tells of her experiences raising thoroughbreds. This standout collection on horse-racing featuring twenty authors, from national bestsellers to Pulitzer Prize winners, is as page-turning as it is diverse.Also includes pieces by Ken Bruen, Steven Crist, Maggie Estep, William Nack, Scott Phillips, John Schaefer, Jerry Stahl, Jason Starr, Charlie Stella, Wallace Stroby, and Daniel Woodrell.Maggie Estep has worked as a horse groom, a go-go dancer, a dishwasher, a nurse's aide, and a box factory worker. She has published five books, Diary of an Emotional Idiot (1997), Soft Maniacs (1999), Love Dance of the Mechanical Animals (2003), Hex (2003, a New York Times notable book), and Gargantuan (2004). She has recorded two spoken word CD's, No More Mr. Nice Girl (1994) and Love is a Dog from Hell (1997), and has performed on \u003ci\u003eThe Charlie Rose Show\u003c\/i\u003e, MTV, PBS, and HBO's \u003ci\u003eDef Poetry Jam\u003c\/i\u003e. Her writing has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Village Voice\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Press\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHarpers Bazaar\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSpin\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBlack Book\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNerve.com\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eTime Out N.Y.\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as in dozens of anthologies including Brooklyn Noir, The Dictionary of Failed Relationships, The Best American Erotica 2002 and\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e2004. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. Jason Starr is the author of six crime novels which are published in nine languages. He received the Barry Award for his novel Tough Luck and the Anthony Award for Twisted City. He has two novels due in 2006: Lights Out (St. Martin's Press) and Bust (Hard Case Crime) co-written with Ken Bruen. Born and raised in Brooklyn, Starr now lives in Manhattan.THE .50 SOLUTION    Lee Child    Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward   do I set the price. It's about common sense and variables. If the   client is rich, I ask for more. If the target is tough, I ask for   more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I'm   working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote   hideout with a competent protection team on his side, I'm going to   ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick   looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner.   Variables, and common sense.    But this time the negotiation started differently.    The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was   pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who   had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was tall and gray   and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right   there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took   charge.    First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.    He said, \"I hear you've used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion.\"    I said, \"You hear right.\"    \"You like that piece?\"    \"It's a fine rifle.\"    \"So you'll use it for me.\"    \"I choose the weapon,\" I said.    \"Based on what?\"    \"Need.\"    \"You'll need it.\"    I asked, \"Why? Long range?\"    \"Maybe two hundred yards.\"    \"I don't need a Barrett Ninety for two hundred yards.\"    \"It's what I want.\"    \"Will the target be wearing body armor?\"    \"No.\"    \"Inside a vehicle?\"    \"Open air.\"    \"Then I'll use a three-oh-eight. Or something European.\"    \"I want that fifty-caliber shell.\"    \"A three-oh-eight or a NATO round will get him just as dead from two   hundred yards.\"    \"Maybe not.\"    Looking at him I was pretty sure this was a guy who had never fired a   .50 Barrett in his life. Or a .308 Remington. Or an M16, or an FN, or   an H\u0026amp;K. Or any kind of a rifle. He had probably never fired anything   at all, except maybe a BB gun as a kid and workers as a adult.    I said, \"The Barrett is an awkward weapon. It's four feet long and it   doesn't break down. It weighs twenty-two pounds. It's got bipod legs,   for Christ's sake. It's like an artillery piece. Hard to conceal. And   it's very loud. Maybe the loudest rifle in the history of the world.\"    He said, \"I like that fifty-caliber shell.\"    \"I'll give you one,\" I said. \"You can plate it with gold and put it   on a chain and wear it around your neck.\"    \"I want you to use it.\"    Then I started thinking maybe this guy was some kind of a sadist. A   caliber of .50 is a decimal fraction, just another way of saying half   an inch. A lead bullet a half inch across is a big thing. It weighs   about two ounces, and any kind of a decent load fires it close to two   thousand miles an hour. It could catch a supersonic jet fighter and   bring it down. Against a person two hundred yards away, it's going to   cut him in two. Like making the guy swallow a bomb, and then setting   it off.    I said, \"You want a spectacle, I could do it close with a knife. You   know, if you want to send a message.\"    He said, \"That's not the issue. This is not about a message. This is   about the result.\"    \"Can't be,\" I said. \"From two hundred yards I can get a result with   anything. Something short with a folding stock, I can walk away   afterward with it under my coat. Or I could throw a rock.\"    \"I want you to use the Barrett.\"    \"Expensive,\" I said. \"I'd have to leave it behind. Which means paying   through the nose to make it untraceable. It'll cost more than a   foreign car for the ordnance alone. Before we even talk about my fee.\"    \"Okay,\" he said, no hesitation.    I said, \"It's ridiculous.\"    He said nothing. I thought: Two hundred yards, no body armor, in the   open air. Makes no sense. So I asked.    I said, \"Who's the target?\"    He said, \"A horse.\"    I was quiet for a long moment. \"What kind of a horse?\"    \"A Thoroughbred racehorse.\"    I asked, \"You own racehorses?\"    He said, \"Dozens of them.\"    \"Good ones?\"    \"Some of the very best.\"    \"So the target is what, a rival?\"    \"A thorn in my side.\"    After that, it made a lot more sense. The guy said, \"I'm not an   idiot. I've thought about it very carefully. It's got to look   accidental. We can't just shoot the horse in the head. That's too   obvious. It's got to look like the real target was the owner, but   your aim was off and the horse is collateral damage. So the shot   can't look placed. It's got to look random. Neck, shoulder, whatever.   But I need death or permanent disability.\"    I said, \"Which explains your preference for the Barrett.\"    He nodded. I nodded back. A Thoroughbred racehorse weighs about half   a ton. A .308 or a NATO round fired randomly into its center mass   might not do the job. Not in terms of death or permanent disability.   But a big .50 shell almost certainly would. Even if you weigh half a   ton, it's pretty hard to struggle along with a hole the size of a   garbage can blown through any part of you.    I asked, \"Who's the owner? Is he a plausible target in himself?\"    The guy told me who the owner was, and we agreed he was a plausible   target. Rumors, shady connections.    Then I said, \"What about you? Are you two enemies, personally?\"    \"You mean, will I be suspected of ordering the hit that misses?\"    \"Exactly.\"    \"Not a chance,\" my guy said. \"We don't know each other.\"    \"Except as rival owners.\"    \"There are hundreds of rival owners.\"    \"Is a horse of yours going to win if this guy's doesn't?\"    \"I certainly hope so.\"    \"So they'll look at you.\"    \"Not if it looks like the man was the target, instead of the horse.\"    I asked, \"When?\"    He told me anytime within the next four days.    I asked, \"Where?\"    He told me the horse was in a facility some ways south. Horse   country, obviously, grand fields, lush grass, white fences, rolling   hills. He told me about long routes through the countryside, called   gallops, where the horses worked out just after dawn. He told me   about the silence and the early mists. He told me how in the week   before a big race the owner would be there every morning to assess   his horse's form, to revel in its power and speed and grace and   appetite. He told me about the stands of trees that were everywhere   and would provide excellent cover.    Then he stopped talking. I felt a little foolish, but I asked him   anyway: \"Do you have a photograph? Of the target?\"    He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. Gave it to me. In   it was a glossy color picture of a horse. It looked posed, like a   promotional item. Like an actor or an actress has headshots made, for   publicity. This particular horse was a magnificent animal. Tall,   shiny, muscular, almost jet-black, with a white blaze on its face.   Quite beautiful.    \"Okay,\" I said.    Then my guy asked me his own question.    He asked me, \"How much?\"    It was an interesting issue. Technically we were only conspiring to   shoot a horse. In most states that's a property crime. A long way   from homicide. And I already had an untraceable Barrett Ninety. As a   matter of fact, I had three. Their serial numbers stopped dead with   the Israeli army. One of them was well used. It was about ready for a   new barrel anyway. It would make a fine throw-down gun. Firing cold   through a worn barrel wasn't something I would risk against a human,   but against something the size of a horse from two hundred yards it   wouldn't be a problem. If I aimed at the fattest part of the animal I   could afford to miss by up to a foot.    I didn't tell the guy any of that, of course. Instead I banged on for   a while about the price of the rifle and the premium I would have to   pay for dead-ended paperwork. Then I talked about risk, and waited to   see if he stopped me. But he didn't. I could tell he was obsessed. He   had a goal. He wanted his own horse to win, and that fact was   blinding him to reality just the same way some people get all wound   up about betrayal and adultery and business partnerships.    I looked at the photograph again.    \"One hundred thousand dollars,\" I said.    He said nothing.    \"In cash,\" I said.    He said nothing.    \"Up front,\" I said.    He nodded.    \"One condition,\" he said. \"I want to be there. I want to see it happen.\"    I looked at him and I looked at the photograph and I thought about a   hundred grand in cash.    \"Okay,\" I said. \"You can be there.\"    He opened the briefcase he had down by his leg and took out a brick   of money. It looked okay, smelled okay, and felt okay. There was   probably more in the case, but I didn't care. A hundred grand was   enough, in the circumstances.    \"Day after tomorrow,\" I said.    We agreed on a place to meet, down south, down in horse country, and he left.    I hid the money where I always do, which is in a metal trunk in my   storage unit. Inside the trunk the first thing you see is a human   skull inside a Hefty One Zip bag. On the white panel where you're   supposed to write what you're freezing is lettered: This Man Tried to   Rip Me Off. It isn't true, of course. The skull came from an antique   shop. Probably an old medical school specimen from the Indian   subcontinent.    Next to the money trunk was the gun trunk. I took out the worn   Barrett and checked it over. Disassembled it, cleaned it, oiled it,   wiped it clean, and then put it back together wearing latex gloves. I   loaded a fresh magazine, still with the gloves on. Then I loaded the   magazine into the rifle and slid the rifle end-on into an old   shoulder-borne golf bag. Then I put the golf bag into the trunk of my   car and left it there.    In my house I propped the racehorse photograph on my mantel. I spent   a lot of time staring at it.    I met the guy at the time and place we had agreed. It was a lonely   crossroad, close to a cross-country track that led to a distant stand   of trees, an hour before dawn. The weather was cold. My guy had a   coat and gloves on, and binoculars around his neck. I had gloves on   too. Latex. But no binoculars. I had a Leupold \u0026amp; Stevens scope on the   Barrett, in the golf bag.    I was relaxed, feeling what I always feel when I'm about to kill   something, which is to say nothing very much at all. But my client   was unrelaxed. He was shivering with an anticipation that was almost   pornographic in its intensity. Like a pedophile on a plane to   Thailand. I didn't like it much.    We walked side by side through the dew. The ground was hard and   pocked by footprints. Lots of them, coming and going.    \"Who's been here?\" I asked.    \"Racetrack touts,\" my guy said. \"Sports journalists, gamblers looking   for inside dope.\"    \"Looks like Times Square,\" I said. \"I don't like it.\"    \"It'll be okay today. Nobody scouts here anymore. They all know this   horse. They all know it can win in its sleep.\"    We walked on in silence. Reached the stand of trees. It was   oval-shaped, thin at the northern end. We stepped back and forth   until we had a clear line of sight through the trunks. Dawn light was   in the sky. Two hundred yards away and slightly downhill was a broad   grass clearing with plenty of tire tracks showing. A thin gray mist   hung in the air.    \"This is it?\" I said.    My guy nodded. \"The horses come in from the south. The cars come in   from the west. They meet right there.\"    \"Why?\"    \"No real reason. Ritual, mostly. Backslapping and bullshitting. The   pride of ownership.\"    I took the Barrett out of the golf bag. I had already decided how I   was going to set up the shot. No bipod. I wanted the gun low and   free. I knelt on one knee and rested the muzzle in the crook of a   branch. Sighted through the scope. Racked the bolt and felt the first   mighty .50 shell smack home into the chamber.    \"Now we wait,\" my guy said. He stood at my shoulder, maybe a yard to   my right and a yard behind me.    the cars arrived first. They were SUVs, really. Working machines, old   and muddy and dented. A Jeep, and two Land Rovers. Five guys climbed   out. Four looked poor and one looked rich.    \"Trainer and stable lads and the owner,\" my guy said. \"The owner is   the one in the long coat.\"    The five of them stamped and shuffled and their breath pooled around   their heads.    \"Listen,\" my guy said.    I heard something way off to my left. To the south. A low drumming,   and a sound like giant bellows coughing and pumping. Hooves, and huge   equine lungs cycling gallons of sweet fresh morning air.    I rocked backward until I was sitting right down on the ground.    \"Get ready,\" my guy said, from above and behind me.    There were altogether ten horses. They came up in a ragged arrowhead   formation, slowing, drifting off-line, tossing their heads, their   hard breathing blowing violent yard-long trumpet-shaped plumes of   steam ahead of them.    \"What is this?\" I asked. \"The whole roster?\"    \"String,\" my guy said. \"That's what we call it. This is his whole   first string.\"    In the gray dawn light and under the steam all the horses looked   exactly the same to me.    But that didn't matter.    \"Ready?\" my guy said. \"They won't be here long.\"    \"Open your mouth,\" I said.    \"What?\"    \"Open your mouth, real wide. Like you're yawning.\"    \"Why?\"    \"To equalize the pressure. Like on a plane. I told you, this is a   loud gun. It's going to blow your eardrums otherwise. You'll be deaf   for a month.\"    I glanced around and checked. He had opened his mouth, but   halfheartedly, like a guy waiting for the dentist to get back from   looking at a chart.    \"No, like this,\" I said. I showed him. I opened my mouth as wide as   it would go and pulled my chin back into my neck until the tendons   hurt in the hinge of my jaw.    He did the same thing.    I whipped the Barrett's barrel way up and around, fast and smooth,   like a duck hunter tracking a flushed bird.An Anthology","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301389455589,"sku":"NP9781400096954","price":14.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400096954.jpg?v=1767722813","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/bloodlines-isbn-9781400096954","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}