Shadow Roll (13 page)

This idea was mine.  I’d get to it as soon as I’d played the scene Paul and I arranged.

Soon as I pretended to see him, I acted like I’d been waiting for him.  He acted like he was surprised I was waiting for him.  We talked.  Not too close to our audience and not too far away.  At the right moment, I said as loudly as I could without coming off like a bad actor in a bad play: “They weren’t accidents, Paul, and they weren’t suicides.”

Paul’s surprise was priceless.  A kind of a W. C. Fields double take.  “Not accidents?  But I thought— ”

“You thought wrong.”

“So if they weren’t acci… ?”

“They were murders.  All three of ‘em.”

You couldn’t hear a pin drop.  But then, who could hear a pin drop?  But you definitely couldn’t hear the racket I’d been listening to for over an hour because the racket had stopped like a car hitting a tree.  I looked at the room, quickly, before every single one of ‘em could get his game face back on.  The only face in the room that looked anything but shocked and surprised was the angelic Tyrone Power-ish face of Toby Tyrrell.  Tyrrell, who’d been wiping his newly bandaged eye with a hand towel, looked exactly like this young fellow Lino once collared for embezzlement.  Scared, humiliated, slightly witless, and cornered.

Dammit.

Paul saw what I saw.  I couldn’t put my finger on what was written all over Paul Jarrett’s face—but it didn’t spell pleased.

It also messed a little with my great idea, so I wasn’t pleased either.  But hey, I’d figure it out.  Still lengths behind at the clubhouse turn, I was one hell of a closer.  At least I was around Lino.  Lino Morelli was so dumb he was smart and when he got smart, I noticed even if he didn’t.

Not being around Lino and the smart things he’d trip over, I hoped I still had it.

Chapter 25

I stole something before Paul and I left the dressing room after the fourth race.  Tucked it under the light cotton jacket I wore.  A Private Eye does a lot of things.  He lies.  He steals.  He pretends to be someone he’s not.  He does what he has to do, except murder.  Killing in self defense doesn’t count.  We all do that.  I needed my little theft.  Without it, the good idea I’d had sitting around the jockey’s dressing room waiting to go through my charade with Paul, wouldn’t work.  With it, my good idea got my blood up.

As a born snoop, good ideas made my heart race as well as my mind.  Images were flashing through so fast I could barely keep up.  I didn’t know where Paul was going, and I didn’t care.  I knew where I was going.

I got waylaid in an empty corridor by the grim face of Marshall Hutsell.  The rest of him was there too.  Plus hat.  Just for the record, he was a big man.

“You,” he said, “a word.”

“Well, maybe just one—I’m in a hurry here.”

“Enough with the wise stuff.  I got a message for you.”

“A message?  For me?”  I thought of batting my eyelashes but why waste time?

“Management says you’re on the wrong track.”

“Nice message.  On the wrong track.  That’s a good one.”

“Nobody’s paying for lip, Russo.  They’re paying for results.”

“They also paying for extras on the set?”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know, guys with special talents.  Like low blows in parking lots.”

“What the hell are you yacking about?  Guys like you make me sick.  Just keep your nose pointed in the right direction.”

I gave him my best wartime salute which only made him grimmer.  I got to leave first.  That felt good.

My way off the track took me back of a set of bleachers built there for the overflow Saratoga race track expected for their biggest draws: the Whitney Handicap and the Travers Stakes.

Turning a corner, head down, while under it my mind danced a mad excited jig, I came to a sudden and complete halt.

My day was full of Paul Jarrett.  He was half the length of the bleachers away and he wasn’t alone.  There were three toughs surrounding him and not one of ‘em looked friendly or like my toughs from the day before.  Two had hold of Paul’s arms, the third stood in front, jabbing him in the gut.  Paul could take a punch—he’d taken plenty back in our old school days, some of ‘em meant for me.  He could take the jabbing, I wasn’t worried about that.  I wasn’t too worried about things getting out of hand either.  This time my gun wasn’t back at the hotel.  It was snug and safe, right in my pocket.  My real worry was why was Paul getting the treatment?

Being in the war taught me some stuff.  In the heat of the moment I forgot one of ‘em—the advantage of surprise.  I yelled: “Hey!”

All four heads turned my way.  All four and their cheap suits were startled.

Paul looked relieved.  And something else—but things were going way too fast to figure exactly what.

I was walking towards them, more like trotting, and I had my hand in my pocket making sure they got the point I wasn’t some schmuck butting in where he wasn’t wanted.

“Knock it off,” I yelled, “and do it now!”

I’d showed up so fast and so unexpected no one even thought to move; they just stood there, like ancient statues of gone-to-seed gladiators, watching me come.

What a trio.  Slow wasn’t the word.  If I’d hired ‘em, I’d of already fired ‘em.  They let me get close enough to pull my gun.  They let me aim it at the forehead of the guy who’d been doing the jabbing.

Holding the gun, I sounded calmer than I felt, a lot calmer.  “We all know I haven’t got time to shoot every one of you, but I do have time to shoot one.  So I choose… you.”

The thug with the .38 caliber gun muzzle up against his forehead would of liked to grin.  He’d of liked to impress the other two thugs.  Trouble was, he did.

He said, “What’s your name, meatball?”

“Sam Spade.”

“I won’t forget that.”

“It’s a name to remember.  I always do.”

“What’s this to do with you?  You know this jerk?”

“This jerk is practically my brother.”

“Like I’m so scared.  I ain’t scared of you.”

“I can tell.  We can all tell, can’t we, boys?”

For that, I got a hint of a smile from one of the jerks holding Paul.

“Let ‘em go, boys,” said the jerk with the muzzle of a gun held against his forehead.  To me he snarled, “But don’t think this is over.  This ain’t over until I says it’s over.”

I wasn’t the only one watching the movies.  I liked to think I watched better stuff.

The two mopes let Paul go, each releasing their grip at the same time.  And then all three walked away, the one who’d done the jabbing and the talking, way in front.  All three remembered to swagger.

When they’d got far enough, I turned to Paul.  I was hanging on to what was left of my own swagger with my teeth.  Truth was, I’d been scared.  I bet even Bogie would of had a nasty moment.  Would I have shot the dumb gunsel?  I’d shot a lot of guys, all in the name of freedom, but shoot a guy point blank?

I don’t think I’d of shot him.

“OK.  What was that all about?”

Paul shrugged his shoulders.  His ears were the deep pink of the petunias in my pastel pink boxes at my pink-all-over hotel.

“Same old, same old, right, Paul?  Gambling debts?”

“Same old is right.  As for same old, you sure are the same old Sam.  That was the nicest play I ever saw.”

“Sure.  And you’re doing my laundry.  How much do you owe the bookie they work for?”

Paul didn’t pretend not to understand.  “A grand, more or less.”

“A thousand bucks!  My great Aunt Hilda, Jarrett!  Where the hell are you going to get a thousand bucks?”

“Now there’s the big question.  The one I’ve been chewing on for some time.”

“Guys like that kill guys like you for dough like that.”

“How true.”

“So they’re going to kill you?”

“That about says it all.”

“In that case, do I buy flowers now or do you have a plan?”

Paul smiled his charming Paul smile.  “Well, Fleeting Fancy could win the Travers.”

“That’s your plan?  Dumping what’s left of your dough on a horse race?”

“Not exactly.  But sort of, yep, that’s most of my plan.”

“Anything can happen in a horse race.  The best horse doesn’t always win.  The worst horse can somehow come home.”

“Another true thing.  Which means I have to have a Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“Running away.”

“Better plan, Paul.  But there goes your career in the horse racing business.”

“Sadly, also true.”

I looked at him.  What could I say?  Paul Jarrett was in another fine mess.  He was also taking it like he took stuff when we were kids.  As if it was all a big joke.

“It seems to me,” he said, “this calls for a drink.”

“Sorry, Paul.  I have a date with a dog.”

That wiped the stupid smile off his face.  Jarrett’s goofy grin was replaced by a mix of surprise and confusion—which did me a world of good.

It slowed my heart which was racing faster than Phar Lap ever since I turned that corner behind the bleachers.

Chapter 26

I had something else to borrow—well, OK, steal—before I followed through with my big idea.  This item wouldn’t be so easy to clip as the first one was, but it wouldn’t be that hard.

I hoped.

I was back from the track and in the Grand Union Bar on Broadway.  This time, I was in luck.  Mrs. Willingford wasn’t posing anywhere—I really didn’t want Mrs. Willingford watching me work—but Hollie Hayes was.

Hollie was propped on the same bar stool at the same bar doing exactly what he’d been doing the last time I saw him: drinking out of a coffee cup like it was still Prohibition.  He was drinking heavily.  A winning ticket.  All I had to do was get close enough to get my hands on anything he’d touched.  Bookended by fellow drunks, neither of which looked like a pal, I waited in a huge green chair half hidden by one of those potted palms that only lived in hotel lobbies.  If I’d been a botanist instead of a PI, I’d study those things.  Make a career out of ‘em.  Plants that only lived in lobbies and bathrooms.  I was sure to fascinate dozens in the field of indoor plant life.

It took half an hour of plant watching until one of the drunks paid his bill, tipped his hat to the bartender but gave the guy no actual tip—that earned him a well deserved sneer—and wove his way to the men’s room.  I was on his empty stool faster than Eddie Arcaro on a stakes winning horse.

Hollie Hayes hadn’t lost his dress sense just because he’d lost his two best jockeys.  He remained as colorful as a kid’s birthday party.  His nose hadn’t grown any longer but it was some nose.  Jimmy Durante should of sued.

I’d decided to try for a conversation.  What could he do?  Shoot me?  I’d had enough of that to last this entire case.

I ordered the usual, and while waiting, pretended I suddenly recognized him.  I was trying for that whole wow, gee whizz, well I’ll be darned, bobby sox fan thing, without being obnoxious about it—which was harder than I thought it would be.  Turns out, it was impossible.  Fans are obnoxious.  That’s who they are.  I should of tried being just another drunk, but it was too late because I’d already practically sung out as I sat: “Hollie Hayes!”

Hollie swung that face with its award winning nose round, focused on my nose (pathetic by comparison), and said, “Who wants to know?”

“Name’s Sam Russo.  Big fan.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

“What the hell for?  All I do is handle jockeys.  Dead jockeys.”

“Uh.  Right.”

My prize for this embarrassing exchange lay on the bar in front of both of us.  A pair of Hollie’s gloves, which only Hollie would wear on a hot summer’s day in Saratoga Springs.  They were a light weight cotton, colored robin’s egg blue, which clashed well with the lime green of his shirt and the orange and yellow checks of his jacket.

I wanted one of those blue gloves.  At the same time I didn’t want anyone to see me take it.  Especially Hollie Hayes.  I ordered a double, threw it back, and ordered another.  I may have begun as a fan but I could finish as a drunk.

Just sitting there drinking while he drank wasn’t going to get me a glove.  Hollie was bound to ask what the hell I thought I was doing sliding his personal property off the bar.  If I “accidently” knocked one off, he’d expect it back.  There was also the bartender.  The place wasn’t crowded.  Other than shining glasses and topping up the three drunks in front of him: Hollie, the other guy, and me, he didn’t have a lot to do.  He was sure to spot me clipping the glove.

Only a fan trying for a souvenir, I’d still get nailed.

I suddenly noticed it.  A handkerchief in Hollie’s pants pocket.  Rose colored.  Gorgeous.  Just perfect.  What could go better with orange and yellow?

Someone once told me most men were color blind.  I didn’t doubt it for a minute.  It explained Hollie’s dress sense.  Hollie was some kind of male.  He was color blind.  Who’d dress the way Hollie dressed on purpose?

Anyways, he was a drunk.  Sam Russo was a drunk.  The other guy was a drunk.  What do drunks do besides drink?  They fall over.  I fell over.  Hollie Hayes, on the stool next to mine, kept me from landing on my ass by not falling over with me.  He got a fast hold on the brass rim of the bar top and held on.  Me, I grasped his sleeve, his waist, his entire body, and apologizing like the mad drunken fan I was, I slipped that rosy red cloth out of his pants pocket deep into mine, and
then
I let myself slide sideways off the stool.  Landed on my knees in the bar of the Grand Union Hotel, which hurt like hell, picked myself up, and tottered off as fast as my drunken fan’s legs and my cracked knees and my reawakened kidney could carry me.

No cry of outrage from Hollie was such a lovely lack of sound I hummed myself out the front door, knees or no knees.

I stood on the steps of the biggest hotel in New York State, breathing deep to clear my head, thinking: a PI’s life wasn’t girls, guns and guts.  It was humiliating.  What was I thinking?  There was now a bartender who thought I was a bigger drunk than Hollie Hayes.  There were two drunks going home glad they weren’t as sloppy as me.