Kentucky Showdown (8 page)

Clint's options were to ride back to town, or back to Canby's house. If he rode to town, he'd miss out on Elena's cooking that night, but Louisville was actually closer, and on the way, so he decided to stop there.

Clint wanted to hear the word around town on the Derby. As he rode in, he noticed that the town had become more crowded, with only two days left before the big race. He tried a couple of saloons, but they were packed to the rafters. If he'd needed a hotel, he doubted that he'd be able to find a room. Lucky he was staying out at Canby's place. The restaurants—both the large ones and the small cafés—were also full. He hoped Elena would leave some food out for him to eat when he got back.

The talk around Louisville was mostly about the two horses coming in from out of town, Easy Going and Sunday Song. He heard about Whirlwind only among talk of other local horses, as well. Canby would be happy that his horse was being lumped in with the others, and was not anyone's standout.

Clint came out of a saloon where he'd been unable to find a space at the bar, when surprisingly he ran into Sheriff Hackett.

“Well,” Clint said, “you do leave your office.”

“On occasion,” Hackett said. “This town is busting with people now, so I've got to keep an eye out. I can't really trust my young deputies when things are this volatile.”

“I don't blame you,” Clint said. “I've seen a few fistfights already, having to do with the Derby.”

“Everybody's got an opinion and is willing to fight for it.”

“Does that include you?”

“I may have an opinion,” the sheriff said, “but I'll keep it to myself, thanks. What are you up to?”

“I just came back from seeing those two out-of-town trainers,” Clint said. “They're both pretty confident about their horses.”

“Well, the early odds have them very close, almost co-favorites, in fact.”

“Where are the odds posted?”

“Just outside the track. Have you been over there yet?”

“No, I haven't seen it.”

“I think you'll be impressed with Churchill Downs.”

“Who runs the track? And the Derby?”

“The Louisville Jockey Club.”

“Do they have an office somewhere?”

“Yes, in an office near the track. You thinking of talkin' to them?”

“I am,” Clint said, “but who do I talk to?”

“I would think the stewards.”

“What are the stewards?”

“They're the ones who make the rules,” Hackett said. “Decide who wins if the finish is close. What to do if somebody's cheating.”

“Maybe they'd know something about Fontaine.”

“I don't see why they would, unless he owns a horse.”

That was something Clint had never considered, but now . . .

“What if he does?”

“What if who does what?” Hackett said. He was distracted by an altercation that was taking place across the street. Three cowboys seemed about to come to blows.

“Fontaine. What if he owns a horse and nobody knows it? Wouldn't this Jockey Club know?”

“You'd think,” Hackett said. “I gotta go to work, Adams.”

“Sure.”

Hackett crossed the street to intervene before the three cowboys started fighting in the street.

Clint went in search of the Louisville Jockey Club.

Clint found the Louisville Jockey Club housed in a new two-story brick building, on the second floor. He had to talk to a hatchet-faced, middle-aged secretary before he got in to see a man named Justin Stein, who was the head steward.

The man greeted Clint at his door with his hand out. He was tall, gray-haired, in his fifties.

“A pleasure, Mr. Adams,” he said. “I know your reputation. Are you here for the Derby?”

“The Derby is what brought me to Louisville, yes,” Clint said. “My friend Ben Canby has a horse entered.”

“Oh, yes,” Stein said, “Mr. Canby has one of our local hopes. Whirlwind, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“Please, have a seat.” The man circled his desk and sat. “Can I offer you something?”

“No, thank you,” Clint said. “I'm really here to try and get some information.”

“Really, Mr. Adams?” Stein asked. “Are you looking for a tip?”

“Not at all,” Clint said. “I've had enough of those since I arrived.”

“I'll bet,” Stein said, then laughed at his own little joke.

“I'm interested in a man named Peter Fontaine.”

“One of Louisville's leading citizens,” Stein said. “What can I tell you about him?”

“How about, does he own any horses entered in the Derby?”

Stein frowned a moment.

“I'm not aware of Mr. Fontaine owning any race horses, let alone one entered in the Derby.”

“Could he own a horse under a different name?”

“All owners must declare themselves to the Jockey Club,” Stein said. “If anyone is found operating under an assumed name, they would be disqualified from the race, and stripped of their ownership.”

“But it is possible, right?”

“I suppose anything is possible,” Stein said. “But why all the questions?”

“Fontaine is up to something,” Clint said. “I'm trying to figure out what.”

“I don't see where I can help you, sir,” Stein said. “This sounds like a matter for the law.”

“He hasn't broken any laws,” Clint said, “yet.”

“Well,” Stein said, “I suppose I could dig deeply into some of the horse ownerships.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

“But I don't know if I can do that until after the Derby.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe you could try.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Clint extended his hand and said, “Thank you, sir.” They shook hands and Clint left.

* * *

Outside, he wondered if he'd accomplished anything. Stein, as the head steward, probably had his hands full with preparations for the race. There was no way he'd have time to go deep into the ownership of the horses. Clint was just going to have to keep looking, or give up and go back to Canby's. Just stand by his friend while he ran his horse in the Kentucky Derby.

He was getting hungry, so he mounted up and rode out of Louisville.

* * *

“I've made a decision,” Fontaine said.

“About time,” Blacker said.

“Quiet,” Gage said. “The boss is talking.”

They were in Fontaine's office, with the door closed, even though the rest of the house was empty.

“Well,” Blacker said, “what did you decide?”

“We can't move forward as long as Clint Adams is nosing around.”

“No, sir,” Gage said.

“Blacker,” Fontaine said, “he has to be gotten rid of.”

“Killed, you mean,” Blacker said. “Say what you mean, Fontaine.”

“Killed,” Fontaine said, “Adams has to be killed.”

“Okay, then,” Blacker said. “I want double.”

“What?”

“Double my usual fee,” Blacker said.

“You're crazy.”

“No,” Blacker said, “I'm not crazy, that's the point. Do you know how many men have tried to kill the Gunsmith? And failed? This is not something new to him. It happens all the time.”

“All right, all right,” Fontaine said. “Double.”

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes, Gage?”

“I want double, as well.”

“Yes, all right,” Fontaine said. “Double for you, too. But no one else, right? Don't tell anyone else.”

“Don't worry,” Blacker said. “Everyone else will work for wages.”

“That's good,” Fontaine said, “because there's a lot of money to be had here. I'm not looking to split it a dozen ways.”

Blacker stood up, hitched up his holster.

“When do you want this done?”

“As soon as possible,” Fontaine said. “We've got to move in two days.”

“Do you have all the information you need?” Blacker asked.

“I thought the out-of-towners might have some security around them,” the man said. “They don't. The only danger is Adams. At least, that's what you told me, right, Blacker?”

“You didn't send me to look at the other two,” Blacker said. “I'm going by the information you gave me. As long as that information is good, then Adams is the only problem we have.”

“It was your men who brought me that information,” Fontaine said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Blacker said. “Okay. I'll get the job done. You care how?”

“I don't want a Western shoot-out in the street,” Fontaine said. “It would be better if Adams just disappeared.”

“I can arrange that,” Blacker said. “Since he seems to have got my name from somebody, I don't want him around here any more than you do.”

“What about me?” Gage asked. “What am I to do?”

“Just sit tight,” Blacker said. “I'll let you know.”

He left.

“Boss?” Gage asked.

“Do what he says,” Fontaine snapped. “Just sit tight.”

Clint got back to Canby's, took Eclipse into the barn, and saw to his comfort before returning to the house. He peeked in on Whirlwind. The three-year-old stood still and stared back at him.

“What do you say, boy?” Clint asked him. “Should I put my money on you?”

The horse kept staring.

“That's what I thought,” Clint said. “No tips when you're looking for one.”

He left the barn and walked to the house. As he entered, he smelled the remnants of supper in the air. He went directly to the kitchen, found Elena there, cleaning the stove.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“I am,” he said.

“I thought you might have eaten in Louisville.”

“Too crowded.”

“Not by half,” she said. “Folks usually start pouring in the day before. Have a seat at the table. I'll bring something out.”

“Thank you,” Clint said. “Where's Ben?”

“In his room, I think.”

“Asleep?”

“No,” she said, “it's too early. He's probably reading.”

“I'll wait at the table,” Clint said, “rather than bothering him.”

He went out to the dining room and sat down. Elena appeared after only a few minutes.

“I hope you don't mind cold chicken,” she said. “I've cleaned the stove and oven already.”

“Cold chicken is fine,” he said.

“Actually, it's not so cold,” she told him, setting the platter down.

He picked up a leg and felt what she meant. It hadn't gone fully cold yet.

“I'll bring some vegetables,” she said. “They should be the same temperature.”

“That'll be fine,” Clint said.

He was on his second piece when she returned. She brought with her a pitcher of water.

“This okay?” she asked. “I can bring whiskey if you like.”

“Water's fine.”

“Do you mind if I sit with you while you eat?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I don't mind.”

She sat across from him. He bit into the chicken. It was excellent, but by now he expected no less from the cook.

“What have you found out?” she asked.

“About what?”

“About whoever was watching.”

Clint looked at her.

“How much has Ben told you?”

“Everything,” she said. “He pretty much tells me everything.”

He stopped chewing and stared.

“Don't be so shocked,” she said.

“So you're more than just the cook?”

“Much more.”

“Why does he—”

“He thinks he's protecting my reputation,” she told him. “I've told him I don't care, but he won't hear of it. So . . . what have you found?”

While he ate, he told her everything he had learned, which really wasn't much.

“So you still don't know what Fontaine has planned,” she said when he was done.

“No.”

“All right then,” she said. “I have something to tell you that might help.”

He chewed a potato and asked, “What's that?”

“I think Peter Fontaine is a thief.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I'm sure a lot of his business associates probably agree.”

“No,” she said, “I mean he's really a thief. A bank robber. A train robber. A thief.”

He stopped chewing, sat back, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“You're serious.”

“Yes.”

“Ben told me you used to work for Fontaine.”

“For a short time,” she said. “I left because I found out he's a thief.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “you keep saying that, but you still haven't told me how you know.”

“Well, keep eating,” she said. “Do you have enough there?”

“I have plenty of food, Elena,” he said. “What I don't have is enough information.”

“Well,” she repeated, “keep eating and I'll tell you.”

“I cooked for Mr. Fontaine for five months,” she said. “During that time he had all kinds of men in and out of his house. Some of them were businessmen. But some of them were . . . not businessmen.”

“What were they?”

“I believe they were gunmen.”

“Do you know any names?”

“Well . . . Mr. Gage—”

“His butler? Or houseman? Whatever he is?”

“Mr. Gage is no one's butler,” she said. “He's very good with a gun.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Well, he was when he was younger,” she said.

“How do you know this?”

“People often talk around a cook like she isn't there,” she explained.

Clint couldn't argue with that. He'd done it a time or two himself.

“There was also a Mr. Blacker.”

“Now that name I've heard.”

“He's in charge of the men Mr. Fontaine employs who are not businessmen. Gunmen.”

“And what does Mr. Fontaine have these gunmen do?”

“I told you,” she said. “Rob banks and trains, payrolls, things like that.”

“Does Mr. Fontaine himself ever go out and do these things?”

“No,” she said, “he plans them.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I brought him something to eat one day in his office,” she said. “When I returned to pick up the tray, he wasn't there, but he had left some . . . paperwork on the desk.”

“Paperwork?”

“Plans,” she said, “which seemed to be for a bank in Saint Louis.”

“Why didn't you tell the sheriff?”

She bit her lip.

“I wasn't sure,” she said. “I mean, maybe I misinterpreted what I saw. But I did stop working for Mr. Fontaine. I just wasn't comfortable staying there.”

Clint chewed as he thought.

“So Fontaine is a planner.”

“Is that what they call it?” she asked.

“I've run across men over the years who are very smart. They plan jobs, and then send other men out to put their plan into action.”

“So I was right?”

“Probably. You seem like a smart lady. I don't see you as someone who jumps to conclusions, or misinterprets what she sees.”

“Thank you.”

“No,” Clint said, “thank you. Now we know Fontaine is planning something.”

“Like what?”

“Something that made it necessary for him to keep tabs on Easy Going, Sunday Song . . . and me.”

“But why?”

“Maybe because we're all from out of town.”

“And why would that be important?”

“Because he knew what he was dealing with when it came to people who lived here,” Clint said, “but we were unknowns to him.”

“And now?”

“He's found out who I am,” Clint said. “That may pose a problem for him if he's planning a job.”

“But why?” she asked again. “If the jobs he plans are out of town, why would it bother him that you're in Louisville?”

Clint stopped eating.

“What is it?” she asked.

“What if,” Clint said, “the job he's planning is not out of town, but right here in Louisville?”

“What kind of job would that be?”

“I don't know,” Clint said, “a local bank maybe?”

“Why would he suddenly decide to pull a job where he lives?” she asked.

“Maybe he's moving,” Clint said. “Maybe it's such a big job that it's worth the risk. Maybe—”

“Maybe,” Ben Canby said from the door, “it's the Derby.”

Clint and Elena both turned their heads to look at Canby.

“What?” Clint asked.

“There are going to be a ton of people at the track,” Canby said. “They will have paid admission, and wagered a fortune on the race.”

Clint thought a moment, then said, “Jesus. He's going to rob the Kentucky Derby.”