Two in the Field (40 page)

I rolled up the floor plans of the Club House that Slack had rendered from my rough sketches. We’d been studying them intently.

“There’s tramps of every stripe you could want,” he assured me. “For the kind of payoff we’re offering, we’ll get what we need.”

“We’ll need to train them in a hurry.”

“Better that way,” he said. “Less time for ’em to queer the operation.”

“Okay,” I told him. “Put together your team.”

Old Smoke’s gambling house was in for some radically new excitement.

 TWENTY-TWO 

In her prime she had been considered the most beautiful woman in New York. Born Susie Smith, daughter of a Hudson river-boat captain, she’d captured Morrissey’s heart when he worked as a teenaged roustabout on her father’s boat. After their marriage she set out trying to polish him—Morrissey hadn’t learned to read till he was 19—and in return he’d indulged her with everything he could provide. More than two decades later, he still did so. One tale floating around town had him buying her five-thousand-dollar gold opera glasses set with diamonds and matched pearls.

When Susie arrived for the climax of the season, Old Smoke threw a welcoming banquet at the Club House. Mrs. Morrissey passed close by me as she entered, trailing wisps of expensive perfume. I got a glimpse of her delicate features, and then her black eyes, the twins of her husband’s, met mine for an electric instant.

Morrissey began spending more time away from the Club House. People craned their necks to see Susie dripping with jewels, as the couple promenaded through the verandas and tea rooms and restaurants of the grand hotels. He’d boosted his attire with a beaver hat, swallow-tailed coat, striped trousers, patent-leather boots, and white kid gloves. Diamonds flashed on his scarf, cuffs, rings, and watch chain.

“Smoke could make a strong play for any of the ladies here if he was inclined to,” Baker commented, “but he never does.”

While Morrissey’s fidelity was laudable, I was far more concerned with how his wife’s drawing him away from the premises would affect our plan.

Pari-mutuel betting didn’t yet exist. Owners and backers of horses wagered against each other, of course, but it was harder for outsiders to get involved. To remedy this, Morrissey came up with auction pools. The high bidder for a horse in a given field won the pooled money if his choice finished first. Morrissey naturally took a cut for managerial services. Since he risked nothing himself, unlike later bookmakers, it was gravy. For the same percentage, he served as stakes-holder for individual wagers.

As a result, the Club House safe was crammed with money. Moreover, heavy hitters returning from the track each evening craved more action. All tables were jammed. Private games often lasted till dawn. Morrissey wanted everybody on hand for closing, so I began reporting between ten and midnight.

All the better for what Slack and I envisioned.

Downtown was so crowded now that we probably could have met anywhere without drawing attention, but to be safe we held our planning sessions in one or another of the town’s churches, generally vacant during the day. Unlikely that we’d encounter Red Jim
there
.

Apart from his size, Slack little resembled the gent who’d won at poker. He’d shaved off his Van Dyke goatee, cut his hair short and dyed it darker. Wearing dungarees and carrying a toolbox, he looked like a worker on his way to a construction site, of which there were plenty in town.

“Nothing better than stealing from the rich,” he liked to say, “unless it’s stealing from the
sporting
rich!” He intended to build a grand new house for his mother with the bonanza we would strike. Things were coming together fast. Already four men had arrived at a tramp camp a few miles outside of town. Two others were expected, one of them critical: the safe-blower.

“Braxton’s an ol’ unreconstructed reb,” Slack said admiringly. “Blew up railroad trestles for Mosby in the Shenandoah faster’n
the Yank engineers could fix ’em. This job’ll tickle him. ’Course he might not settle for the safe alone. Might blow the whole roof!”

“Just the safe’s
door,”
I cautioned. “At least the hinges. Your men can do the rest with crowbars.”

“You’ll get the bars up there?”

I nodded. Each night I’d sneaked one inside a janitor’s closet on the third floor. “How are the masks?”

“Seamstress is slower’n glue, but nearly finished now,” he said. “Says she’s never seen the like.”

“That’s why they’ll work. Nobody’ll remember anything else once they see the masks. How about the guns?”

“I’m picking up one a day, like you said, from different shops. I tell ’em I got nasty li’l critters on my property.”

“Property?” I said. “You?”

“It’s a stretch,” he admitted. “But the gun dealers, they don’t care.”

“Can you tell me about your plans?” Ophelia looked at me demurely over her brandy.

Startled, I stared at her. Our operation was scheduled for the next night.

“Red Jim is pressing me hard,” she said. “I must tell him something.”

Relieved, I said, “Okay, tell him I love working at the Club House and want to stay here forever. Tell him you’ve got a hunch I’m going to ask to marry you and settle down right here in your cottage—at his and Old Smoke’s expense.”

She gave me a look. “Don’t be hurtful.”

“Sorry, not my intent,” I said. “Just say I’m thinking about settling here. That’ll give Red Jim something to chew on.”

Since her last amorous foray, she’d kept things conversational. By now I looked forward to our nightly chats, and I think she
did too. She liked to slip out of the little flowered pumps that killed her feet, remove the corset that made her dizzy from oxygen deprivation, settle down in comfort with her brandy, and share the latest resort gossip.

I learned that she’d run away from home at a tender age and worked for years in dance halls. As part of her job she’d painted her face—literally—with expensive coats of layered enamel that had to be thin enough to be flexible, thick enough to stay on. The lead base contained arsenic.

“Besides poisoning me and being dear in price, it was ruining my complexion,” she said. “Part of why I switched to straight-out whoring.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Money.” She smiled. “And my feet don’t pain me so much.”

“How’d you get tied up with McDermott?”

“Stabbed somebody.” She didn’t elaborate. “I was in a bad fix. Red Jim happened to be around, and got me out of it.”

“And ever since, you couldn’t get away from him?”

She shook her head, the violet-gray eyes cloudy.

I wondered if she’d really wanted to. If you could stomach McDermott, gigs like this wouldn’t be too tough to take. I thought about letting her know this was our last night. Saying goodbye. But I didn’t. After tomorrow night, the less Ophelia knew, the better for her.

Closing night of the racing season would see gala banquets, frenetic gambling and drunken celebrating. To cap everything, a fireworks balloon would lift off from the Club House grounds. Plenty of distractions to work for us.

I met Slack around noon. My stomach, already tight, was not helped by his troubled expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Braxton ain’t showed,” he said. “Something must’ve happened.”

Our explosives man. Great. Just fucking great.

“Is the safe key or combination?” Slack asked.

“Combination.”

“Who can open it?”

“Morrissey.”

“We’ll need to get him alone, stick a gun to his head and—”

“Won’t work,” I said. “He’d tell us we don’t have the balls to shoot—and he’d be right.”

“What’re we gonna do?” he said miserably. “Just give it up?”

“Meet me here at four.”

“You got an idea?”

“Not yet.”

Passing the Club House, I glanced at the announcements case which listed daily attractions. An end-of-racing banquet, hosted by Senator and Mrs. Morrissey, was scheduled for eight. The fireworks balloon would lift off after its conclusion, around ten-thirty. No doubt it would draw a lot of the patrons outside.

Hmmmm … A scenario began to take form.

It was probably crazy.