When I got to the track the ninth race was about to go off. I broke my non-betting policy for two reasons: there was a horse named Private Eye running. The odds were eight to one, so I decided to risk twenty bucks. I felt like I couldn’t lose.
Besides, the jockey’s name was B. Sommers.
Needless to say, the horse went wire-to-wire and won by three lengths —
— and was disqualified by the stewards.
I could’ve gotten back $180, instead I lost $20.
The horse players biggest word: Could’ve.
Should’ve.
If.
Take your pick.
That would teach me to go against my policies.
I went down to the jockeys’ room to see Brandy. A few of the guys said hello, some stopped to make a “too bad” remark about Penny.
When Brandy came down I could tell she was pissed off about the disqualification — I mean, royally pissed!
“Damnit to hell, those goddamned New York Stewards!” she yelled.
That’s how I was able to tell she was pissed.
After all, I am a detective.
“What do they know about riding to win?” she demanded from no one in particular.
When she spotted me she decided to use me as a buffer for her anger. Waving her finger in front of my nose she said, “They’ll probably hand me a seven-day suspension, as well. Now, in California — ”
I silenced her with a kiss, a quick one, and told her, “That would mean that we could take a seven-day vacation, wouldn’t it?”
She stared at me for a moment, trying to hang onto her anger.
She lost, and laughed.
“Hi. I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she apologized, giving me a hug. She smelled of dirt and girl sweat, with a little equine sweat thrown in.
“You smell like a horse,” I told her.
She pulled back, frowned at me and swatted me on the shoulder.
“You have such a way with words. Wait here while I shower.”
“I’ll wait up in the lounge. We’ll have a drink — a soft drink, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll only be a few minutes,” she promised, and hurried off down the hall.
I went up to the lounge and saw my bartender friend, Ray.
“Hey, any progress?” he asked, hopefully.
“No, none,” I told him. “I’m waiting for a lady, Ray. We’ll order when she gets here.”
“Sure. You, uh, didn’t get any calls, huh?”
“Not a peep, but I’m hopeful.”
His eyes lit up. “Great!”
Brandy showed up fifteen minutes later, smelling fresh and clean as she kissed my cheek and sat across from me. She was wearing jeans, an orange blouse and a brown corduroy vest.
“What would you like to drink?” I asked her.
“Nothing, really. Why don’t we go somewhere and eat,” she suggested.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Take me to your favorite place.”
My favorite place?
My favorite place was now Debby’s, but did I want to take Brandy there?
Why not?
“Okay, let’s go.”
I waved to Ray on the way out and he seemed puzzled, but he called out, “Good luck,” speaking more to himself than to me.
“Have you had any progress?” she asked in the car.
“Aiello got sprung by a lawyer,” I told her. “We’re trying to figure out who tipped the lawyer off.”
“Well, who knew the cops had him?” she asked.
“Only two people,” I told her. “You and Lassiter.”
“Have you checked Lassiter out?”
“I’m having Shukey do it for me.”
She laughed. “Poor Shukey. She’ll be a mass of bruises.”
We were quiet for a few moments, then she asked, “How about me?” kiddingly “Have you checked me out?”
I looked at her, but she was staring straight ahead, an amused smile on her face.
“That’s what I’m doing now, Brandy” I told her, truthfully.
That was the sum total of our conversation until we reached Debby’s. Brandy maintained a subdued silence while we took a table. I could see that there were some other track people there, but no one who was connected with the incidents of the past week.
Debby came over to the table and said, “Hi, Hank.” She looked at Brandy with frank curiosity.
“Hello, Debby. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Brandy Sommers. Brandy, this is Debby Gannero. Debby owns this place.”
They exchanged hellos and appraised each other silently. Brandy agreed to let me order and I told Debby to bring us two bowls of her stew.
“Rosellen is in the kitchen tonight, but it will be just as good,” she promised.
“Fine.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Brandy remarked.
“So’s the one in the kitchen,” I told her.
“Oh, there’s two of them?”
“They’re cousins. Debby owns the place, and Rosellen does most of the cooking.”
“Well, no wonder this is your favorite place,” she commented coolly.
Was this what I wanted? To start an argument with Brandy? Did I bring her here to see Debby because I was afraid we were getting too close?
I checked my watch and told her, “I have to call Shukey.”
“Shukey, too?” she asked. “Nice.”
Her fuse had been lit and was working its way to the powder.
Now we’d see how long it was.
“Excuse me.” I left the table, went to the kitchen and stuck my head in.
“I need a phone, ladies,” I announced.
“Hi, Henry,” Rosellen said. She pointed to a table in the back of the kitchen and added, “In case you’re interested, my number’s in the book next to it.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” I promised.
“She’s lovely, Hank,” Debby remarked as she went past me to go back to the bar.
“Thanks, she’s nice.”
“Is she connected with the thing you’re working on?” she asked.
“Yeah. She’s a jockey at the track.”
“How interesting. Go ahead and use the phone, I won’t keep you.”
“Thanks, Deb.”
I dialed Shukey’s number, expecting her service to answer.
It didn’t.
“Hi, Shuke.”
“I quit,” she said. “No more seductress act. My bruises have bruises,” she complained.
“Is your honor intact?”
“Just barely.”
“Then stop complaining. What have you got?”
“I don’t think Lassiter had anything to do with springing Aiello, Hank. I don’t think he had anything to do with Penny’s murder, either. He strikes me as being a very frightened man, playing a part.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he pinched and grabbed, but I guess you were right in what you said, because I think if I had shown any interest, he would have backed off.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” I told her.
“Well, what you said did cross my mind while I was with him. It was almost like some sort of a challenge, you know?”
“Why?”
“Well, imagine if I had been the woman to bring him out of his — ”
“Shukey, in the words of your countrymen, you are daft.”
“Thank you, luv,” she remarked, then turned serious. “Hank, was Penny beaten?”
“Not according to Jackson’s report.”
“Well, then that reinforces my opinion of Lassiter. If he had killed her he probably would have beaten her to death.”
“I guess that’s reasonable. He took a swing at me yesterday. I guess Melendez still seems a good bet for it, especially after what I found out this morning.”
“What was that?”
I told her about Louie’s missing gun, and how it matched the caliber of the gun that killed Penny.
“What about Mapes?” I asked. “Did Lassiter indicate any possibility that he might know something about Eddie’s murder?”
“Well, he seems to feel that it was a mob hit, Hank. You said yourself that Eddie was supposed to lose that race. Lassiter said he’d heard a rumor to that effect.”
“I wonder if anyone else heard it?” I also wondered where he’d heard the rumor, around the track or through his own mob connections.
“Did he mention Willy Donero?” I asked.
“No, he didn’t mention anyone in particular. Why, do you feel Donero is behind it?”
“He’s the biggest fixer I know of. He could still be pulling strings from inside. He’s the only fixer with enough pull to have a jock blown away — by out-of-town talent — rather than just by having his legs broken.”
“Maybe it’s more than that, Hank. Maybe he was killed for more than just winning a race he was supposed to lose.”
“Maybe, and maybe we’ll find out.”
And then again, maybe not.
“Okay, Shukey, thanks. I won’t call you again, I promise.”
“Don’t be an ass, you ass. You call me anytime you need me, understand?”
“I understand,” I told her, although I wasn’t sure I did. There was a tone in her voice I couldn’t decipher.
Or maybe I just had enough problems with Brandy that I was reading something into her words that wasn’t there.
Even Debby was giving me fits.
Women can be a real pain, especially when they come in bunches. Add Lisa, and you had a bunch.
“Bye, Shuke.”
“One more thing you might be interested in,” she said quickly, timing it just right. I put the phone back to my ear and said, “What’s that?”
“I found Gordie.”
“You what?”
She laughed. “I found — ”
“Why didn’t you tell me that right away, you limey fink?”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Cute. All right, c’mon, give.”
“His real name is Gordon Brinks. Sound familiar?”
I thought a moment. “No, I can’t say that it does. Why, who is he?”
“You don’t read the racing papers?” she chided.
“Shukey, who the hell is he?”
“He’s an assistant trainer at the track, Hank.”
“Lassiter’s?” I asked. “That would tie him to — ”
“No, not Lassiter’s.”
“Who’s, then?”
“Woody Spencer.”
“What?”