I was guzzling Coca-Cola when it slithered into view. The black paint sparkled on the hood like crushed coal had floated out of the hills. I drove slowly through the valleys of Auburn, and the black Cadillac stayed just far enough behind that I couldn’t see the person driving. Except his pale hand. It dangled over the steering wheel and the morning sun caught his ring. Gold. Pinkie ring, I was betting. Mob jewelry.
When I whipped into the private entrance for Emerald Meadows, I jumped out of the car, hoping to get a look at the driver. But the Caddy was pulling a U-turn. He was so far away the rear license plate was a blur.
Crabby from salt bloat and layers of big fat lies, I grabbed my purse from the Ghost and stomped toward the track’s private entrance. Eleanor’s battleship was parked under the brass plaque, its front bumper almost kissing the building. I checked my watch. I wasn’t in the mood for dry toast or Tennessee Williams. But before I could get away, a voice came singing across the parking lot. I turned to see a red conversion van. The back doors had flown open, bouncing on their hinges while music floated into the air, ting-a-ling-a-linging.
Dean Martin.
And Claire Manchester.
She jumped from the parked van, her black hair loose and following her head like a swarm of angry bees. Dean Martin was describing a gay tarantella.
“Hurry up,” she said. “I don’t have all day. Lucy’s running in the first.”
Tony Not Tony emerged slowly, elegantly, one gnarled hand hoisting a hanger draped with clear plastic. His diminutive size made him look like a lawn jockey delivering dry cleaning. Offering Claire the hanger, he took a bow.
She ripped the plastic off. The short-sleeved shirt underneath was a deep blue color, like sodalite minerals. Yanking it from the hanger, she scrunched the shirt into a ball and headed for the door, where I stood. Dean Martin kept insisting a cloud was beneath her feet.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
Her sharp eyes flicked from side to side. “It’s—it’s for my son.”
She pushed past me, barked at the guard behind the desk, and didn’t bother signing in. She left a trailing scent, a mixture of expensive perfume and horse manure.
“Raleigh!”
Tony Not Tony waved. Right now all I wanted was a giant glass of water and the chance to tell Eleanor about the poisonous mud. But two days had passed since I promised Tony I would meet him at the van. That was Thursday, right before SunTzu took the fatal fall. When I walked toward him, his narrow shoulders pulled forward.
“I thought you were avoiding me, but maybe not. Ready for your shoes?” He pointed into the van. Dean Martin, that great astrophysicist, was insisting stars could drool.
I stepped inside.
Two steel poles ran from the back doors to the front cab. The poles were crammed with hangers, each draped with thin protective plastic or zipped into designer suit bags.
“Women’s wear,” he said, “is forward to the right.”
I stooped and walked forward. Red shag covered the floor. It matched the van’s exterior. As I passed the plastic bags they whispered, a susurrus that recalled deep memories of my father’s closet. Hide-and-seek with my sister. I would sneak far in back, crouching under the comfort of his pressed shirts and dark suits. But there was one crucial difference: my dad’s clothes didn’t fall off a truck.
I sat on the bench built over the wheel well. Tony kneeled at a column of white shoe boxes. “Nine, not ten,” he said. “Ah, yes, here they are. These have Raleigh David written all over them.”
The two-inch pumps were olivine suede, an elegant green incapable of offense. A small silver buckle was embossed with the initials D&G.
“Very nice,” I said. “How much?”
“For you, thirty dollars.”
They were either knockoffs or hot as automatic rifles. “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll take them.”
“Excellent choice. Anything else you’d like?”
I nodded.
He nodded back. “I heard something about Loosey Goosey. Or maybe not. But in the first race, it could be nineteen-to-one.”
“A thousand dollars,” I said. “To win.”
Loosey Goosey belonged to Claire Manchester—that was the horse she called “Lucy.” The horse that went through the disastrous start with SunTzu and was now considered an underdog. It made me wonder about Claire Manchester’s visit to Tony. Was that why she seemed nervous when I mentioned the shirt? Because if the pattern held, the long shot Loosey Goosey would come out ahead in that first race. The win would pay sixteen-to-one for the great unwashed in the stands. But Sal Gag’s insiders would get three more points.
Tony’s gnarled jockey hands were warming each other, expecting another good bet. “Was there something else?” he asked.
I stared down at Raleigh David’s shoes. The suede matched the peridot in my engagement ring. A sign, I decided. Because DeMott was arriving—I glanced at my watch—in three hours. I pressed back a bolt of panic and tried to smile.
“My fiancé is coming to town,” I said.
The shoulders came forward. “Your fiancé.”
“Yes. He’s flying in from Virginia.”
I decided the best strategy was to release the seeds of gossip, letting the news sprout so that Raleigh David’s story would seem to match reality. Cover on top of cover. With the Cadillac following me, it was necessary. They were watching my every move.
“Marvelous news,” Tony said. “When does he arrive?”
“This afternoon. But I haven’t had a chance to buy him a present. Maybe you have a suggestion?”
“Certainly, certainly. The fall sport coats just came in. What’s his size?”
DeMott’s size. I should know that. What a rotten fiancée.
“Forty-two,” I guessed.
“Menswear, right this way.”
Ducking my head under the van’s ceiling, I followed Tony to the other side of the van. Dean Martin was still singing, saying love had found me, just in time, it found me.
“He must be worried,” Tony said.
“Pardon?”
“Your fiancé. About what happened. The fire?”
“Right. Yes. Very worried.”
“Terrible, just terrible.” He slid his hands between zippered suit bags and removed two sport coats. Compared to Tony, size 42 looked extremely large.
“I don’t have many regular customers at the track who can wear this size,” he said. “So my stock is a little thin.” He lifted the dark brown jacket in his right hand. “Ralph Lauren. Tweed. Ideal for fall and the early winter months.” He lifted the other jacket. “Hugo Boss. Cotton-linen blend. Adequate for autumn. But the color isn’t for everyone. Retail, these run about four-fifty each. But for you? One-twenty. Two hundred for the pair.”
I made a note to contact the Bureau and find out where these clothes were coming from. “That’s very generous.”
“Well,” he said, smiling, revealing all his bridgework. “You could return the favor. Put in a good word with Cooper. Ask him to use my jockeys.”
If Tony Not Tony thought I had any influence over Bill Cooper, he was wrong. But I wasn’t about to tell him.
“Done,” I lied. “And I’ll take the linen.”
He folded the money into a clip shaped like a golden horseshoe. When I climbed out, he handed me the jacket and bowed, just like he had with Claire.
“Perhaps he can wear it here,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Your fiancé. You are bringing him to the track, aren’t you?”
Now I’d stepped in it.
“Of course.”
“Excellent. But you must have a million things to do before he gets here. Don’t let me keep you.”
Walking toward the Ghost, I wanted to kick myself with my new shoes. I hung the jacket in the car, then looked back at Tony Not Tony.
On his tiptoes, he hurried for the track entrance, his tasseled loafers flapping on the ground with the seeds of fresh gossip.