Murder at the Racetrack (34 page)

“Her, too?” he asked hopefully, motioning at Lisa.

“Why not?” the guy replied, and Muscle ran his hands all over Lisa’s body, paying particular attention to her tits and her
crotch. When he was done, he nodded at the guy in the chair and then resumed his position in front of the door.

“So who’s your friend, Bruce?” the guy asked.

“She hot,” said another one of them, who was youngish and dressed in a white track suit, leaning against the bar.

“This is lisa,” Bruce replied. “Lisa and I are on our way to a bar where a bunch of people are expecting us. So why don’t
you give me the fucking money you owe me, Orlando,” he said, patting his briefcase like he expected the money placed into
it immediately, “and we’ll get out of your hair.”

Lisa felt dizzy with astonishment at the realization that Bruce had gotten over on her. Here she was, thinking
she
was playing
him,
but the whole time she was just his insurance policy. He’d brought her into what he knew would be a major confrontation in
the hopes of defusing the ugliness. More specifically, in the hopes that Orlando wouldn’t kill him in front of a witness.
What a shame, what a
damn
shame, because Lisa could tell with one glance around this room that Bruce’s little plan wouldn’t work. Orlando looked like
he killed when it suited him, and as for witnesses, he didn’t seem the type to leave any hanging around.

“I don’t even know this guy!” she exclaimed to Orlando. “Really. We just met. I’m a waitress. He picked me up in the diner
where I work.”

“I knew she too hot to be Bruce woman,” said White Track Suit, and several of them laughed.

“Seriously,” Lisa said, looking at Orlando, who hadn’t cracked a smile. “I don’t even know his name, and I don’t want to mess
in your business. So why don’t I go now?”

“You just got here. Don’t be disrespectful. Sit down.”

“No, look, I gotta be somewhere. I’m late to pick up my kid,” she pleaded.

“Sit
down,
bitch.” Orlando’s voice was so cold that it made her scalp crawl. And before Lisa could move of her own accord, Muscle shoved
her into a chair, which she was almost glad of, since her knees were starting to buckle anyway.

“Come on, leave her out of this,” Bruce said half-heartedly.

“What the fuck.
You
brought her here. You think this gonna go easier for you ’cause you bring some bitch along, you don’t know me,” Orlando said,
radiating danger.

“Hey, wait a minute. Where
do you
get off being mad at
me?
I got you the name you wanted. I’m risking fucking witness tampering charges, even a murder conspiracy charge, for Chris
sakes. You owe me fifty grand, and I expect to be paid.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately, that ain’t in the cards right now. I got a few problems with your performance.”

“So, fine, tell me. I’m all ears, Orlando. Word of mouth is my stock in trade. I never like to disappoint a client.” Bruce’s
voice dripped sarcasm. He seemed completely unafraid, which dumbfounded Lisa.

Orlando sprang to his feet and got right up in Bruce’s face.

“Don’t fucking tell me that! We show up to get him, and they all waitin’ on us. Explain that to me. The Gomez brothers and
their whole crew. I’m lucky to be standing up here breathing right now. You playing both sides, Bruce. You set me up!”

Lisa was shaking uncontrollably, but Bruce was unbowed, staring right back at Orlando.

“Don’t look at
me!
I told you before, you got another rat besides Gomez. My guy in Counter-Narcotics says they’re looking at doing a wire on
you, and they got a real confidential snitch. That can’t be Gomez, because everybody and his brother already
knows
Gomez is snitching. If you wanna blame the messenger because you refuse to take care of business, Orlando,
you’re
gonna be doing twenty-five to life, not me.”

The two men stood eye to eye as everybody else in the room held their collective breath.

“Well? Am I right?” Bruce demanded.

The moment stretched into an eternity. Finally, Orlando’s body relaxed, and he asked, “So? Who is it, then?”

Lisa breathed again.

“I don’t know,” Bruce said. “I told ya, they’re playing it real close to the vest. My guy can’t get shit on it. I have a couple
of other sources I can try to hit up…”

“Okay, so do that, then,” Orlando said.

“Why the fuck should I? Not only are you holding out on me with the money, but you go and pull a stunt like this. Calling
me here to intimidate me. What kind of bullshit is that, Orlando? What kind of trust is that between a lawyer and his client?”

“Come on, son, I was just playing with you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate it. Who else left on Queens Boulevard is gonna do what I do for you? Huh? Tell me that.”

“Nobody. Since Del Pietro got got, Bruce Goldman is the man.”

“Fucking right, I am.”

“No hard feelings, awright, son? Have a drink and let’s work this shit out. Alvin, get my man Bruce here a drink, and his
lady friend, too.”

After that, Lisa started doing tequila shots, lots of them, until her hands stopped shaking and she forgot how scared she’d
been. Pizzas were brought in, and eventually someone passed a joint around, a really powerful joint. Somebody else had some
Ecstasy. The afternoon ebbed into a delicious, drugged-out haze. Hours seemed to pass, but it might’ve been minutes, she couldn’t
be sure and didn’t really care. She went outside for a while. The heat of the sun pressed down on her so hard that she was
pinned to the chair. She let the unreal emerald green of the oval vibrate on her eyes like a tuning fork and giggled uncontrollably
when the blast of trumpets announced a race. At one point, White Track Suit came outside and they made out slowly until Bruce
emerged to pull him off her.

“Hey, come on, Alvin, I brought her. Christ, I didn’t even do her yet,” Bruce said.

They all laughed. Nobody was mad. Lisa’s bones were like mush, her face was numb and she felt very pleased with herself that
Bruce seemed jealous. He sent one of the guys to buy her a two-dollar ticket for Hell’s Bells in the fifth, and when it hit,
a forty-to-one long shot, she was so high that she tore the ticket up and threw it in the air just for a laugh.

After a while, Bruce said he had to get to some school thing in Great Neck for one of his kids. He told Lisa he’d drop her
back at the diner. As they were leaving, the guys all hugged her like brothers, telling her to come back real soon.

The valet brought the Porsche around. The tan leather seats were almost cool to the touch. Life seemed fat and joyous.

“I got about fifteen minutes,” Bruce said, looking at the Rolex.

“Okay. I know a spot. Back behind those horse trailers we passed when we came in.”

Later, lisa would ask herself what she’d been thinking. But part of her was just thinking she felt like blowing this guy.
Really.

“So, admit it,” she said as they drove. “You brought me there like an insurance policy. You thought Orlando was gonna kill
you.” And she started giggling again.

“No way.”

“Liar. You are such a liar, Bruce,” she said, and punched him on the arm.

“Whoa, watch the jacket.”

“You definitely thought that. Jesus, /thought that. Walking in, I thought we were dead meat.”

“No, seriously. You wanna know why I brought you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Because I looked at you and I said, this girl has an unbelievable body and an incredible mouth. And I bet she gives amazing
head.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, swear to God, that’s exactly what I thought when I first saw you.”

“Aww. You are so nice.”

“It had nothing to do with Orlando. He doesn’t scare me, anyway. I figured I’d pick up my money, then you and me would get
a room and we’d kill a few hours, have some fun.”

He pulled the Porsche around behind the horse trailers and turned off the engine.

“In fact,” Bruce continued, turning to face her as he reached for his zipper, “my only regret is, we hung out at the track
so long that we don’t have much time right now.”

“What? Fifteen minutes. That’s plenty.”

“Yeah?”

“You were right. I
am
good. You won’t last long.”

Lisa got to her knees, half on and half off the leather seat, and took him in her mouth. Bruce gripped her by her hair and
moved her head up and down, slowly at first, then faster, in time to the thrust of his hips. He braced himself against the
car door, breathing hard.

“Oh, yeah, that’s good. Just like that,” he said, moaning.

With the position she was in, Lisa couldn’t see anything, so when Bruce’s body jerked suddenly, for a second she thought he
was starting to come. But then she realized he was shoving her off him, reaching frantically for one of the guns he’d taken
back before they left the skybox.

“Shit!” Bruce yelled, looking at something over her shoulder.

“He’s got a gun!” Lisa shouted, diving for the floor, and she wasn’t exactly sure which guy she was trying to warn.

She saw a flash from behind her, heard a blast and covered her head, screaming.

“Fuck!” Manny said, and Lisa looked up to see Bruce slumped against the driver’s side door, dark blood rapidly soaking his
white shirt front.

“Manny, you killed him. Shit! Why’d you do that?”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? He had a gun! Quick, get his wallet before someone comes.”

“I don’t want to touch him. He’s all bloody.” And his eyes were staring weird, creeping her out.

“Just get his wallet before I fucking killjoy! Stupid bitch. I knew this was a bad idea.”

She reached for Bruce’s pants pocket, shrinking back in momentary horror as her hand touched hot, viscous blood. It was practically
pumping out of him now.

“Is his fly open? Were you really blowing him?” Manny demanded.

“You took too long. I got in an awkward situation.”

“You slut. You fucking slut.”

“Just calm down, okay? We got worse problems than that.”

Lisa’s mind was suddenly very clear. She steeled herself and reached back into Bruce’s pants pocket, pulling out a solid-gold
money clip shaped like a dollar sign and stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Then she swiftly stripped the Rolex from Bruce’s
wrist and handed both over to Manny.

“Wow, this is like the biggest payday we ever had,” Manny said, staring down at them, looking mollified.

Lisa put Bruce’s dick back inside his pants and zipped up his fly. He’d gone limp at some point, but she wondered if an autopsy
would show that he’d had a hard-on right before he died.

“Help me sit him up and get the seat belt on,” she commanded.

“Why?”

“Just do it. I’ll explain later.”

Manny came around to the driver’s side, and they quickly arranged Bruce to make it appear that he’d been driving. Then they
got the hell out of there.

For a few days afterward, Lisa bought the newspapers. Everything played out just like she hoped. The cops had it as drug related,
with the victim’s wallet and watch taken to make it look like a robbery. There was no mention of any girl, or sex, or anything
that would make her think the cops were looking for her. Bruce Goldman had been under investigation for acting as “house counsel”
to a couple of rival narcotics organizations. It was speculated that he’d gotten caught in the middle of a drug war. The police
were following up some leads, but they had no particular suspects at the moment. From the tone of the articles, in fact, it
sounded like they weren’t looking that hard. It sounded, even, like they figured Bruce Goldman had pretty much gotten what
he deserved.

After a while, Lisa thought that, too, and she stopped buying the papers—except to check if the ponies were running. Not that
she was necessarily looking for another mark. You couldn’t keep robbing and expect never to get caught. Or could you? After
all, long shots do come in sometimes. Lisa knew that for a fact.

Joyce Carol Oates

B
ring your driver’s license, sweetheart. You’re driving.”

Fritzi’s new car? He was letting her drive?

Smiling his easy smile. Reaching over to squeeze her arm in that way of his, which sent a sensation like a mild electric shock
through Katie’s body. Even as Katie warned herself,
Don’t fall for it. You’ll be hurt.

Fritzi Czechi was known for his upscale but tasteful cars. This new-model steely-silver BMW with the mulberry leather interior
and teakwood dash, he’d purchased only two weeks before, he was asking Katie Flanders to drive to the Meadow-lands racetrack,
handing over the keys to her as if they were husband and wife, not a man and a woman in an undefined if romantic relationship.
Katie stared at the keys quivering on the palm of her hand.
Don’t! Don’t fall for it.

“Look, Fritzi: Why exactly am I driving, and not you? I missed the reason.”

“Because I need to concentrate, sweetheart.”

This was so. On the way to Meadowlands, while Katie, always a careful driver, drove the elegant new car at exactly the Turnpike
speed limit, Fritzi studied what appeared to be racing forms, frowning, making notations with a stubby pencil. After a while
he shifted in his seat to stare out the passenger’s window, frowning as if painful-size thoughts were working their way through
his brain, and Katie glanced over at him wondering, what was Fritzi thinking? (Probably not of what had happened between them
the night before, as Katie was. A warm dreamy erotic memory intensified by the smell of the new-car interior.) Fritzi was
part-owner of one of the horses scheduled to race this Friday evening at Meadowlands, a three-year-old stallion named Morning
Star who was returning to serious racing after being sidelined for months with a hairline fracture of his right front knee.
Katie understood that Fritzi was worried about his horse, but also Fritzi was a gambler, which meant he dealt in odds, in
numerals, and probably he had a mathematical mind and could “see” figures in his head in a way Katie could only imagine, it
was so alien to her way of perceiving the world. Once, when she’d asked Fritzi how much one of his horses had cost, Fritzi
had told her, “A racehorse is beyond computation, sweetheart,” which had been a mysterious answer yet made sense.