The Last Private Eye (21 page)

“You got bourbon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's what I'll have.”

“Straight up? On the rocks?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That's right.”

“Which one, sir?”

“Bring me the fucking bottle,” Rhineheart said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And a glass.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rhineheart wasn't sure how long he stayed there in the pavilion bar. He didn't remember the drive back to Louisville. He forgot how many bars he hit or how many drinks he had. All he knew was that one time when he looked up from a drink, McGraw was sitting next to him. They were in a honky-tonk bar on Market Street.

“What's a person like you doing in a place like this?” Rhineheart asked.

“Hunting for you, Rhineheart.”

“Did you find me?”

“I guess so.”

“How am I?”

“That's what I want to know.”

“I'm fine,” Rhineheart said. “I'm dying, but otherwise I'm fine.”

“You're dying?”

“Maybe it just feels like it.”

“How many drinks did you have?”

Rhineheart thought that over. “Seventy-three.”

“You're drunk.”

“I am?”

“Uh-huh. You're drunker than shit. And your knuckles are bleeding. And you got a big cut over your eye.”

“How come?”

“Waitress says you been in three fights since you been here. Says you threw one guy through a plate glass window. Says you keep talking about some woman who messed you up.”

“Yeah? Well, that sounds like a crock of shit. That doesn't sound like the Rhineheart I know. That sounds like some dumb-ass country song to me.”

“What happened anyway?”

“Walsh's wife sent me a tape. It had Kingston's voice on it. Talking to Walsh. It was evidence. I traded it to Kingston for his wife, only it was all bullshit. She was in on the thing the whole time.”

“Oh shit,” McGraw said. “God damn!”

“That's what I say.”

“You poor son of a bitch. You must be hurting.”

“I'm dying.”

“You're not dying. You're hurting and you're drunk, but you're not dying.”

“It feels like I am.” Rhineheart squinted past McGraw's shoulder. “Who's that ugly son of a bitch sitting next to you?”

“It's Farns,” McGraw said.

Farnsworth nodded and said, “You don't look too good, kid.”

“I'm sorry, old man.”

“It's okay, kid.”

“Naw, it's not okay. Don't fucking tell me it's okay. I know better. I blew it. I blew it bad. I broke the rules, old man. I fucked it up, and there ain't no getting around that.”

“Everyone fucks up once in a while, kid.”

“Yeah, but not like this, old man. I had the evidence in my hand, and I give it to him.”

“You didn't make any copies?”

Rhineheart shook his head.

“That wasn't too good a move,” Farnsworth said.

“That's what I'm telling you,” Rhineheart said. “It was a bad move. I didn't make any good moves on this one.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Farnsworth said. “Sit around here and piss and moan and cry about it all night?”

Rhineheart nodded. “Yeah, that's what I'm thinking about doing.”

“Well, forget it,” McGraw said. “You're going home to bed, Rhineheart.”

“Who says?”

“We do.” McGraw got off the stool and came around and put her hand under Rhineheart's elbow. “Get his other arm,” she told Farnsworth.

“You betcha, girlie.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When Rhineheart woke up the next morning he was lying fully clothed on his bed. His mouth tasted like a sewer and his head felt as if it were swollen twice its normal size. He felt more dead than alive. Otherwise, he seemed to be all right.

He got up slowly and carefully, undressed, and put on his sweat clothes and running shoes. He went outside. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in May. Derby Day. He got into the Maverick and started it up and drove over to the cinder track at Bellarmine.

He ran for two hours. He didn't count the laps or the miles. He just kept running until he felt he had sweated all the booze and all the poison out of his body. When he was through he drove back home and took a long shower, shaved, and got dressed. A tweed sport coat. Gray slacks. Black, soft leather loafers. He put on his watch: it was 12:05.

Out at the Downs they had opened the gates four hours ago. By now the infield was half full. The first race had already been run. On Derby Day they moved post time for the first race to 11:30 and set the races an hour apart. The Derby, the eighth race on the card, was scheduled to go off at 5:30.

He went out to the Maverick and drove over to a Convenient store on Bardstown Road. He bought the Derby edition of the
Daily Racing Form
and a Derby program and a plant, a leafy green treelike plant that was set in a pot.

On the way downtown he switched on the radio to the station that featured all-day coverage of the Derby. The reporter was interviewing a celebrity who was attending his first Derby. The celebrity was telling the reporter how nice it was to be able to get out and meet his many fans.

Downtown, there were roadblocks at some of the main intersections. Most of the stores were closed and the downtown streets were empty of people. Everyone in town was either out at the track or at home having a Derby party.

He parked in a no-parking zone in front of police headquarters and took an elevator to the third floor Katz was sitting behind his desk, typing up another report. He didn't seem particularly glad to see Rhineheart.

Rhineheart sat down in a chair next to the desk and told Katz the whole story from beginning to end.

Katz sat there patiently and listened to everything Rhineheart had to say. When Rhineheart was finished Katz stood up and began pacing back and forth. He said, “Jesus, that's some tale you got there, peeper. Three murders. One of the most prominent families in Kentucky. A plot to fix the biggest horse race in the world, no less. Big-time gamblers. Wonder drugs that can't be traced. There's just one problem.”

“What's that, Katz?”

“Evidence,” Katz said. “You got no evidence. You saw this. You overheard that. I got your word this other thing happened. Somebody shot at you. You didn't report it to the police. Someone else offered you a bribe. Only, it was in the form of a job offer, which as far as I know, Rhineheart, hasn't been ruled illegal by any court I know anything about. You show me a syringe you could have found somewhere. You got an airport locker key you say you found in a motel room of a dead guy whose body you didn't report—which is a fucking felony, by the way, not to mention you B and E'd the room.” Katz stopped pacing. “You tell me a story about some tape you say you don't have no more. I take your story to my superior officer, you know what happens? They give me an early release from the department. Mental disability.”

Rhineheart got to his feet.

“I'm sorry, peeper,” Katz said. “I'd like to help you out. You're a stand-up dude. You got balls. But I'm not crazy. I don't go out of my way to fuck with people who got as much power as Duke Kingston and Calvin Clark. You better not, either.”

On his way out the door, Rhineheart said, “I'll see you around, Katz.”

Farnsworth was asleep. His eyes were shut tight and he was snoring away, but when Rhineheart sat down in the hard chair across from his desk, the old man's eyelids snapped open and he blinked a couple of times and said, “Kid, how's it going?”

“I bought a plant today,” Rhineheart said.

Farnsworth gave him a funny look.

“McGraw thought the office needed some color.”

Farnsworth shrugged. “Well, maybe it does. Maybe it does. Hell, maybe
this
place could use some plants.” He looked around. “Nahh. This place is beyond help.”

Rhineheart told Farnsworth about his visit to Katz. The old man shook his head and said, “I didn't expect no different. Katz ain't a bad guy, but he can't stand up to people like Kingston.”

Rhineheart took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Farnsworth. “There's a check in there. I think it covers everything. You let me know if it doesn't.”

“Sure.” Farnsworth stuck the envelope in his pocket without looking at it. “You want to talk about the case, kid?”

“I don't think so,” Rhineheart said.

“There ain't much to say, is there?”

“Except that it's over. And we lost.”

The old man nodded. “I been losing all my life, it seems like. Betting the slow horse, getting the bad card, taking the wrong case. In some ways
all
the cases are wrong cases. Being a private eye, kid, is a way of losing. So is life. The longer you stick around the more things you lose. And it doesn't get any easier. This one was a loser right from the beginning. The fix was in. Only we never seen it.” The old man sighed. “I talk too goddamn much.” He looked at Rhineheart. “So what are you going to do this afternoon?”

“I thought I might stop by the office,” Rhineheart said. “Check the mail. See who called.”

“You want some company?”

“Not today,” Rhineheart said. He stood up and walked to the door. “Old man, I'll see you around.”

“Kid,” Farnsworth said, “it was a pleasure working with you again. Gimme a call sometime.”

At the office McGraw was sitting behind her typewriter waiting for him.

“Isn't this your off day?”

“I just stopped by for a few minutes,” she said. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” he said. He squinted at her. “You and Farnsworth take me home last night?”

McGraw nodded. “And poured you into bed.”

“I appreciate it, babe.” Rhineheart set the plant down on his desk.

“What's with the plant?”

“You were right the other day,” he said. “Place needs a little brightening up.”

“That's a Weeping Fig,” McGraw said.
“Ficus benjamina.”
She came over and picked up the plant and took it back over to her desk. “They like sunlight,” she said. “And a little water.”

“I went to see Katz,” Rhineheart said.

“How'd that go?”

“Not too well.” He walked over and looked out the window. Outside were the same old streets.

“Is it over, Rhineheart?”

Rhineheart nodded. “It looks like it, yeah.”

“They're going to get away with it, aren't they?”

“Probably.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Want me to hang around for a while?”

Rhineheart shook his head. “I'll be all right, babe.”

McGraw picked up her purse and walked to the door. She stopped. “Guess what?”

“Huh?”

“Vogue has a good movie this evening.”

“What's playing?”

“Grapes of Wrath.”

Grapes of Wrath.
Henry Fonda. Jane Darwell. John Carradine. The little Swedish guy. What was his name? Directed by John Ford. Written by John Steinbeck. Photographed by Gregg Toland, the same guy who shot
Kane.
“What time?” Rhineheart asked.

“Seven-thirty. Plus, popcorn's twenty cents to the first fifty customers.”

“Sounds too good to pass up.”

“Meet you out front.”

“I'll try to make it, babe.”

She walked out the door. Rhineheart went over and sat down at his desk. The mail had been delivered. There were some letters and a large envelope from Reardon at Midtown Investigations. It was information on Lewis and Thoroughbred Security. Rhineheart didn't bother opening it. He put his feet up and lit a cigarette.

After a while he turned on the radio, an FM station that featured jazz and blues. For a couple of hours, Rhineheart sat and smoked and listened to the music.

Late in the afternoon the phone started to ring. Rhineheart reached for it, then stopped. He didn't know who was calling, and the thing was, he really didn't want to know. He didn't want to get involved in anyone else's life. He was burned out. It was time to pull back, retrench. Hide. When the phone wouldn't stop ringing, he got up and walked out of the office. He got in the Maverick, started the car, and took off. He was halfway out to the Downs before he realized where he was going.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Rhineheart took Third Street south as far as he could—until he came up against roadblocks. A young kid in a blue Adidas T-shirt charged him ten bucks to park on someone's front lawn. He walked the rest of the way, a couple of blocks down Third to Central and along Central past the souvenir peddlers and the T-shirt booths and balloon hawkers to the Downs. There were people wandering around in front of the clubhouse and grandstand entrances, and cops everywhere.

Near the cabstand he bought a clubhouse ticket from a scalper for a hundred dollars. The scalper, a fat, bald-headed guy, had a pair of binoculars hanging from a string around his thick neck. Rhineheart offered him twenty dollars for the binoculars. He whipped them off and held out his hand for the twenty.

Rhineheart walked through the parking lot to the Longfield Avenue entrance. He looked at his watch as he went through the gate: 4:50. The Derby would go to post in forty minutes.

He made his way through the crowded clubhouse grounds, skirting throngs of stylishly dressed people. Every other woman seemed to be wearing a fashionable hat, and everyone's clothes were bright and summery. Large groups of people surrounded the garden areas where TV cameras had been set up and celebrities were being interviewed. All the benches in the clubhouse garden were occupied.

The paddock was encircled by a mass of people straining to get a look at the Derby horses being led around the enclosure by their handlers. On a scaffold above the paddock, a TV camera crew recorded the scene. The huge tote board blinked and flashed the odds and amounts of money bet in
WIN, PLACE
, and
SHOW
columns.