Nice Fillies Finish Last (3 page)

“We don’t know enough to say! As far as the cops are concerned, I know he’s already a statistic. They’d be surprised to hear that only yesterday he was a human being. But I happen to know that Joey never drank anything but sherry. It was his way of protecting himself. He would no more take a drink of wood alcohol than you would, Mike. I mean it. It would have to be at least half sherry, camouflaged in a sherry bottle. That means that whoever gave it to him knew his habits.”

Shayne said, “Maybe he stuck to sherry when you were around, but you know drunks as well as I do. You’ve got a rosy-tinted picture of the life this guy led—no office hours, no rent to pay, no butt-kissing, hundreds of friends. But be realistic, Tim. The happy-go-lucky bum is a myth.”

“I liked him, goddamn it.”

“Sure. Just don’t turn him into a hero or a saint. Even if you’re right about what happened, you know you’ll have a hell of a time proving anything, don’t you? I’ve got to go now, Tim. I have a date with a guy who’s going to put me in touch with somebody who knows what the boys are asking for the diamonds. If I don’t show up, he’s going to look for some other go-between. I don’t feel like throwing away fifteen thousand bucks because you’ve been kidding yourself about some picturesque rummy.”

Trying to keep his temper, Rourke commented that Shayne would have taken a different attitude when he was starting out in business. In those days he hadn’t looked for easy jobs, and the wealthier his clients were, the less time he had for them. Shayne answered sharply and the reporter blew up. Ever since he had heard about Dolan’s death, he had been spoiling for trouble.

“If that’s the way you want it, Mike,” he said. “From now on let’s assume we don’t know each other.”

He slammed down the phone and felt for cigarettes. He didn’t need any help from Mike Shayne. He could get along perfectly well by himself.

ONLY ONE OF THE HORSES Paul Thorne owned was in its stall, and Thorne himself, Rourke was told, was rarely around at this time of day. All the stablemen had different ideas of where to start looking for him. Maybe the racing secretary’s office.

Thorne wasn’t there. A driver who was waiting in the anteroom thought he might be at the smithy. The blacksmith reported to Rourke that Thorne had been there and gone. If he wasn’t at the vet’s or in the driver’s shed or out timing a horse on one of the training tracks, Rourke had better ask his wife. If he left the track on a day when he was scheduled to race, he usually told her where he could be reached.

Rourke was given directions to the Thornes’ trailer, in a large, disorderly trailer park beyond the double-decked bunkhouses. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again, and was about to give up when the door opened and a pretty young woman looked out. Her hair was in curlers, and Rourke’s first impression was that she was naked. With a spurt of relief, he saw that she was wearing a bikini. Without 20/20 vision he might not have been able to find it.

“Looking for somebody?” she said in a high voice.

Rourke pulled himself together. “You must be Mrs. Thorne. My name’s Tim Rourke, and I’m from the
Miami News.
We want to do a picture story on one of the two or three top drivers here, to give the public an idea of what goes on behind the scenes. Your husband’s the obvious choice, but I’ve got to clear up a few things before I can give it the go-ahead. I’m supposed to phone the paper and let them know right away.”

“Golly,” she said, impressed. “He had to go downtown and I don’t expect him back before like five. If there’s anything I could do?”

She let the door swing open a little more. She was holding a martini. All in all, she was one of the most pleasant sights Rourke had seen in weeks. Probably he wasn’t in as much of a hurry as he had supposed. He quieted his conscience by telling it that she would undoubtedly allow herself to be pumped about her husband. She might even tell him more than Thorne would himself.

“Maybe you could give me some background, at that.”

She gave a little giggle as he stepped into the darkened interior of the trailer. It seemed very crowded. Every flat surface had something on it—pots of African violets, copies of
Better Homes and Gardens,
china dogs. Rourke told himself to be careful not to make any sudden moves or he would be sure to break something.

“You’ll have to excuse the way the place looks,” she said. “On a hot day I just let the dirt collect. Why not start right off by calling me Win, Mr. O’Rourke?”

“Rourke, without the O,” he said. “My friends call me Tim, and I know we’re going to be friends. You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?”

“What’s there to interrupt? This is the quiet time of the day, not that the joint ever really swings, and I was sitting around doing my nails and relaxing with a weak martini. I think there’s one more in the pitcher if you’re interested. What the hell? Live dangerously. I get more compliments on my martinis.”

Rourke told her he never turned down an offer of a martini, and watched her pour. She was in her middle twenties, with slanting blue eyes and a mouth that had been made up recently, probably while she was deciding whether to let him in. She was a little plump, but Rourke, still dazzled by all the pink and brown flesh-tones, didn’t feel critical. She had a mole on one side of her navel, a surgical scar on the other; both, he thought, were equally attractive.

“Isn’t it
hot?”
she said.

She waved him to a couch. As he sat down it moved unsteadily beneath him. Probably it changed into a double bed at night. She had tilted the slats of the Venetian blinds to keep out the sun. A small refrigerator purred quietly in one corner. She gave him a martini and frowned down at herself.

“Gee, on second thoughts, I get so used to padding around with next to nothing on I forget how it looks. I’ve got a terrible reputation with the neighbors already, but what I tell Paul is, if a bikini’s OK on the beach with thousands and thousands of people, what’s wrong with it at home? But I mean, I don’t know you, do I? I think I better put something else on. You know, I stood there at the window for the longest time? I couldn’t decide to go to the door or not. Paul has these rules about letting in salesmen when I’m alone in the house, but I didn’t think you looked like a salesman. It’s all right to let reporters in. What the sports pages say about a driver is important, money-wise. You can’t stay in the business and not cooperate with the press. Right at this point Paul’s career could use a good write-up, believe me.”

She opened a narrow metal closet, still talking, took out a flowered dressing gown and shrugged it on, belting it in tightly at the waist. “And these things in my hair. Ghastly. That was the real reason I didn’t let you in right away, after I decided you weren’t peddling vacuum cleaners, probably.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rourke said. “I’ve seen women in curlers before.”

“I bet you have. You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“I can almost always tell.” She drained her martini, crunching a piece of ice between her strong white teeth. “People think eating ice cubes is a disgusting habit, but I like to. They have that nice potent flavor.”

Unfastening the scarf around her head, she began to strip out pins and rollers. “Finish your drink, it’s mainly ice water. I’ll make us another batch as soon as I get myself looking human.”

The ice-cold martini got to Rourke very fast. One of the things that made him a good reporter was an ability to listen while people talked, and with Win Thorne he could see that all he had to do was hope that the gin held out.

She was humming the title of a popular song while she brushed her shoulder-length black hair.

“Now I feel better,” she said, turning. “I’m going to take the bull by the horns. Paul’s just right for this story. He looks great in photographs. I don’t want to tell you your business or anything, this is only a suggestion, but what you could do is go to the film patrol—they take movies of every race—and look at some of the highlights of his best drives. Even when you know they turned out OK, they can still make the hair stand up on your head. He’s a lunatic sometimes! I think I know what’s bothering you, though. That last suspension.”

“It’s been bothering me a little,” Rourke said.

“I knew it! Paul doesn’t mind all the trouble he gets into for rough driving. The slobs who bet on the driver and not the horse, they like to think he’s going to break his neck, if he has to, to get home in the money. Horserace bettors as a class, Tim, you can have them. He gets suspended for bumping and fighting in the paddock or interference, and it’s all to the good. But this fifteen-day rap was for betting against himself. That harms him with the fans, and I hope you won’t have to mention it in the story. You understand that everybody does it, because why should you pass up a race when you’re driving a dog yourself that doesn’t have a chance, and there’s a stick-out horse going against you, maybe at a good price? But the stewards take this holier-than-thou attitude.”

Meanwhile, she was making more martinis, measuring by eye and going light on the vermouth. “Besides,” she added, “he never admitted it. They don’t have to prove anything. They just get a report from somebody who doesn’t like him, and there are lots of drivers who don’t like him because they’re scared of him. And snick”—she made a throat-cutting gesture—“out of competition for fifteen days.”

Rourke held out his glass and she filled it, smiling. She brushed back her hair with the hand that held her glass.

“One thing about these trailers, they’re the right size for two people if they like each other. If they don’t, it’s murder.” She touched the dial of a small radio. “Do we want some music? No,” she decided.

“Didn’t Paul start out driving for the Domaines?” Rourke said.

There was a slight check to her movements. She returned the pitcher to the top of the refrigerator. She sat down, crossed her bare legs, and arranged the wrapper carefully.

“Why, yes. Sure. But you know how they make you do when you drive for one stable. They have these plans for the horses and they tell the driver, certain ways to rate the horse, where they want him to make his move. And you know that didn’t sit so hot with Paul. He has to be in charge all the way. And like every big stable, they’ve got their share of dogmeat horses, and he had to take what they gave him. That hurt him in the standings. He thought he’d do better as a catch driver. And he did do better. For a while he did fine. He bought a few horses. There was one big roan gelding, Don J. Oh, what a lot of horse! Earned nearly twenty thousand for us, let alone what we made betting on him, and I began to think in terms of having a few dollars in the checking account for a cushion. We put a down payment on a house in town, a quarter acre with our own dock, and then Don J. went into the rail and we had to shoot him. And Paul had forgotten to send in the insurance! He’d bought a couple of weanlings from the Domaines’ farm, cost an arm and a leg, and all they’ve done since is eat and take medicine. I personally think Domaine stuck him. Then a couple of bets went sour, and that’s why we’re still living out of a trailer. This last fifteen days without a cent coming in—”

She shuddered and took a long swallow of her martini, to kill the taste of being out of money.

“I suppose he’ll have to be careful about what he bets on for a while,” Rourke suggested.

“He
better
be careful, or I’ll pick him apart with my fingernails.” She touched the radio dial again, pulling her hand back without turning it on. “I’m not going to tell you he’s stopped betting, because that wouldn’t be human nature.”

“Off the record,” Rourke said. “About all I know about harness horses is which end you feed them at. Granted that Paul’s an expert, and if he’s driving in a race himself, he has something to do with how it turns out, but how can he be sure?”

“He can’t be. But you aren’t betting against the odds, honey, you’re betting against the public. They don’t know
anything.
All you have to do is fifteen percent better than the public, to beat the tax bite, and you’ll make out OK. Honestly, when you came in I didn’t think I was going to end up giving a lecture.”

“What about the twin double?” Rourke said carelessly. “I suppose he steers clear of that?”

“I wish he did! He gets inspirations, like anybody, and so far he hasn’t even come close. Like the last time, when we were drinking tap water instead of Beefeater martinis, that was all because of a twin double. He thought it was in the bag. We hocked things to get in on it. They’re still in hock, I’m sorry to say. Oh, he has the gambling fever. Finish your drink and I’ll give you another before it gets too watery.”

Rourke looked at his watch. “I have to be going in a minute.”

“Oh, pooh. I’ve been trying to think what I could tell you about Paul that you could use, if you do the story, and I’ve just had a flash.”

She brought the pitcher over. She was beginning to wobble, Rourke noticed. He drank up, to be ready with an empty glass. She went off balance all at once, as though a heavy truck had crashed into the side of the trailer. She ended up partly on the couch and partly on Rourke. Somehow she had managed not to spill any martinis.

“Wow!” she said. “What happened? I don’t have to get off for a minute, do I? Give me time to adjust.”

“If you’re comfortable,” he said. “The only thing is, these trailers are about six inches apart, and I don’t know what Paul would think if he—”

“Don’t worry, he really won’t be back. He’s got a deal on the fire. I came over here to give you a drink. Where’s your glass?”

She put the pitcher on the floor after pouring. He had the martini glass in one hand and nowhere to put the other except on her hip. He could feel the outlines of her bikini beneath the smooth dressing gown. She wriggled a little to settle herself.

“What I was going to say,” she said comfortably. “About Paul and dames. He’s a good-looking guy. That lovely build. When he comes into the stretch going for a little gap between two sulkies, using his whip and yelling bloody murder, his cap usually off by that time—well, it makes me weak in the knees to think about it. All I have to say is, I’m not the only one. I’m reconciled to the fact. I mean he’d be a hit with the fair sex even if there wasn’t the money angle to it. But they not only want to get in the back seat with him, fast, they want him to whisper the name of some horse in their ear afterward. See what I mean? The public never thinks about that kind of problem. How does it strike you as an angle for the story?”

“I’ll think about it.”

She was moving more than necessary, he thought. If he was going to get anything significant out of this girl, he had better hurry up. He tried to think what questions Mike Shayne would ask.

“Uh—does Paul do any driving for the Domaines any more?”

“Sometimes. One of their horses won’t behave for anybody else. They aren’t enemies or anything.” She pulled back a little to get his face into focus. “Why are we harping on the Domaines all the time, honey?”

“I just thought when you were talking about the twin double—why wouldn’t it be a smart idea for a big stable to compare notes with some driver who was theoretically independent? Figure two of the races, and you’d have a headstart.”

“You can tangle yourself up in knots if you try to be too smart. All you want to do is beat that fifteen percent. You know what I like about you, Tim? Now don’t laugh. No muscles. Most of the guys around here think all they have to do is ripple their biceps a few times and they’re in.” She touched the side of his face. “I like people who can talk about current events and like that. I bet it takes plenty of brains to be a reporter.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Rourke said. “For example, I ought to be finding out about that suspension of Paul’s. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the way you look in a bikini. I can’t think of any more questions.”

“Didn’t I tell you about that suspension? It was made up out of thin air. He was betting on a Domaine horse, speaking of coincidences, and the judge caught him with the ticket on him in the paddock. He just happened to pick it up off the ground, but would they believe him? No, he’s made monkeys out of them too many other times. There’s more gin, but I feel so
lazy,
don’t you? Everybody at the track gets up at the crack of dawn, and that’s why I think it’s OK to start drinking around lunchtime—it’s like late afternoon for ordinary people. Honey, Paul’s your best bet for this story, so why waste your time looking for anybody else? Stick around. I want you to say yes, because, boy, do we need that favorable exposure right now. What I’d like you to do—you’ll be interviewing other people about him, then come back and get our side of it. Paul has a funny habit of getting under different people’s skin. Look at him the wrong way and the next thing you know he’s in orbit. He goes around at about two hundred and eleven degrees all the time, one degree more and he boils over. There’s a reason for that. It’s not so bad being poor when you don’t see anybody else but other poor people. But in racing half the people don’t have a cent and the other half are rolling. Honey, stay where you are. I want to get some music.”