The Bookwoman's Last Fling (13 page)

It wasn't long. A few minutes later the boy turned the horse through the gap and they came up the road together, Junior and Damon on opposite sides of the horse, saying nothing for the moment. I knew this was not going to be pleasant; it was one of those things that had to be done and one of those times when I missed the authority of my badge. Damon saw me first: He raised his head and there seemed to be some kind of amusement on his face. He was probably younger than Junior but not by much. He had a gray beard and today he wore a cap and jeans and a flannel shirt. He said something; Junior looked up and stopped dead in his tracks.

They talked for what seemed like a long time. At some point Junior turned away and Damon came on alone.

“Mr. Janeway.”

I nodded.

“What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping we could have us a talk. I guess Junior and I got off on the wrong foot.”

“If Junior had eight legs like a spider you'd get off on eight wrong feet eight times running.”

I laughed politely.

“I think you understand old Willis,” he said. “Junior wants to rule the roost, and he never knows what side his bread's buttered on.”

“Maybe he should take lessons in deep breathing.”

“Oh, Junior's not all bad, he's trying to do better even as we speak.”

“Didn't look like it from here.”

“I'm telling you he's having a change of heart. He wants you to come back on board and see what you can find out. No strings attached this time.”

“Can't do it, though. I've already taken a job with Sharon.”

“Doing what?”

I didn't want to tell him what my job with Sharon was, but I gave him this to keep him talking. “She's mainly interested in finding out what happened to her mother.”

“I can't help you with that. I don't think anybody can. That was a long time ago.”

“Junior mentioned the possibility that she'd been murdered.”

“Junior's got diarrhea of the brain cells. That's an old theory; I thought it had been put to rest years ago. He was just trying to rankle you because you were a big-time city po-lice-man.”

“So what do you think happened to her?”

“I barely knew the woman. But if you want my guess, she ate them peanuts on purpose.”

He waited for my reaction but when I had none, he said, “My old man wasn't easy to live with in the best of times. When he got older he was impossible. What else can I tell you?”

“I was wondering…”

“What I meant was, there's nothing else I can tell you. If you're looking for Candice, I don't think she's here. I don't know anything about her and I barely talked to her when she was alive.”

“And you had no opinions about her?”

“She was a whore. Other than that, what's to know?”

I blinked. “A whore? First time I've heard that one.”

“Everybody thought she was such a goody two-shoes, but we-all knew better. She wasn't the plaster saint people thought she was, that's all I'm saying. She had her flings the whole time she was with the old man.”

“Who'd she have these flings with?”

“That I guess was her ugly little secret.”

“Then how do you know about them?”

“Ask around, you might get an earful.”

“Ask around where?”

“Wherever your nose leads you. Look, this is all very old news, it probably does no good to rake it all up now. You asked me my opinion and I told you, but what's it prove all these years later?” He looked at his watch. “I've got to go in now. I've got things to line up.”

“What can you tell me about your brothers?”

“Nothing you haven't already heard. Baxter's a refugee from a loony bin; Cameron's a born loser. I guess that leaves me as the only normal one.”

He shrugged. “I'm a simple horse trainer, that's what I know. Other than that I got nothing to say.”

 

That afternoon I left a message for Erin, that I was heading for California and I'd call her from Golden Gate. At dusk Sharon and I went out to eat. She took me to a place called the Sandpiper on the Snake River and we sat and talked about everything. The waiting game was finished. She watched me watching everyone else, and once when our eyes crossed paths I winked at her and she smiled. “Mr. Suspicious,” she said, and we laughed lightly. But I had spent a good piece of my life being suspicious and it was late to start changing now.

After supper she came out to the barn. I was all packed up, ready to go.

“Looks like you're leaving us.”

“I don't know if there are any answers out there, but that feels like the way to bet.”

I told her I would check the records on her mother's death and send her a report.

“Well,” she said, suddenly uneasy again. “Keep in touch.” She handed me a thick roll of money, five thousand in hundreds I later found out. I put it in my pocket without counting it.

“Sorry about Junior,” she said. “I'll see what I can do with him after you're gone. I think at some point you'll see both him and Damon out there, and maybe you'll get another shot at them.”

She stared at me for another moment. “Ask for Sandy Standish at the stable gate,” she said. “He'll be expecting you and he'll get you in and put you on his list so you can get a license. Once you're inside, you can go just about anywhere.”

I left before dawn the next morning. We said our good-byes in the yard at the side of her house. She hugged me impulsively and in that same spirit of adventure I patted her on the back. I drove off into the blackened west, and after a while the last phantoms of the night came calling.

When I was younger I had answers to everything. Right always won out over wrong, good stood up to evil, and I was the double-edged weapon that dispensed justice. I had unlimited faith in my own power, I knew what I could do and I feared no one. Such is the foolishness of the young, so goes the ego of the strong.

The land ahead began to brighten and soon the sun at my back lit up the highway like an incandescent ribbon. By daybreak I was well out on Interstate 86, heading west.

I picked up Highway 93 south, crossed into Nevada, and got on I-80 westbound. From there into Reno, I encountered no effective speed limit: I had seldom seen cops on this desert run, I had always made good time, and I rolled into the biggest little city in the world well before six o'clock. I had gained an hour crossing from Mountain to Pacific Time, and now I stopped to eat and gas up before making that last link over the Sierra Nevada, and down into Oakland.

I browsed a few junkshops and prowled through their bookshelves. Bought two mysteries from the mid-forties, nothing wonderful but I liked the jackets, and the short breaks helped keep me awake for the final push to the west.

Snow was falling as I headed up the hill toward Donner Pass. The sky was dark in the east and I was beginning to think of Sacramento as a stopping point. I knew I could make it to Golden Gate tonight, but Sharon's friend Sandy might not be there again until tomorrow anyway. That might be the time to catch him—after the work, before he took off at noon. So I put up in a motel, read a few chapters of a truly atrocious novel, and I turned in around eleven.

In the morning I made the trip down to the Bay Area after daybreak. The snow of the high country had become a miserable rain on the Coast: steady, relentless; maddening, I imagined, if you had to race in it unless you had a great mud horse. Then it lit up your life and became something special. Golden Gate Fields sits on the east side of the bay, right on the water in Albany, just north of Oakland. Its blessing is a wonderful environment for a racetrack; its curse is the same environment, which will seal its doom. I don't know this for a fact, but I imagine a day, sooner rather than later, when money will change hands and a group of condos will occupy the ground where, once upon a time, crowds had thrilled to the sounds of the race, the announcer's call, and the illusion of easy money. It is a colorful way of life that will disappear without a trace.

I got off the freeway in Richmond and drifted south. I was early and I still had time to kill, so I killed some of it riding down San Pablo Avenue. Occasionally the rain slacked off and I got out and walked a few blocks. I found an open newsstand and I bought a copy of the
Daily Racing Form,
where I learned that Sharon's friend Standish had a horse in the second today: a $10,000 claiming race for three-year-olds and up. I got in my car, turned west on Gilman Street and drove the few blocks out to the bay. The stable area was directly on my right and there was a parking lot on my left. I found a small café under Interstate 80 where it passes over Gilman and a parking space almost adjacent to the front door. I stopped and went in for coffee.

The place was crowded with grizzled old men in jeans and boots and flannel shirts; more than a few of them I figured were horsemen, and the rest were horse players waiting for the gates to open sometime before noon. Some might know Sandy Standish; one of them might even be the man but I doubted it. The fellow Sharon had described had better things to do than gossiping with old farts during working hours. I sat quietly drinking my coffee, looking at my newspaper, and soon I heard racing talk behind me. Again I turned to my
Racing Form
and found the race they were discussing. A four-year-old named Green Money Machine was said to be a sure thing in the fourth. It was six furlongs and he was a killer at this distance against this kind of company. He would go off at about 3–1, the
Racing Form
predicted, and one old man said, “If he gets clear and comes into the turn on top, they can kiss his hiney good-bye. He's the best thing going today.” There was ominous talk of his long layoff—he hadn't run in four months—and that's why the odds were good. But he was in easy, dropping in price from his last start in early summer, which he had won in a walk from better horses than these. He loved an off track. “He'll eat this field alive,” the talkative one said: “These horses can't run fast enough to scatter their own shit.”

I coughed to cover a laugh and looked at the form on Sandy's horse, a big red gelding named Pompeii Ruler. He was a 9–1 shot in the early line; his bloodline went back a few generations to Bold Ruler, one of the great studs of our time.

I finished my coffee and went outside: parked in the lot across the street and backtracked through the rain to the stable gate. A suspicious-looking man leaned out of his window and I asked for Sandy Standish. The rain was coming down heavier now and I huddled against his outer wall as he turned away and spoke into a microphone.
“Sandy Standish to the stable gate…Sandy Standish, you have a visitor at the stable gate.”
I waited for several minutes, until the wind shifted and there was nowhere to hide; then I got up against the glass and gave him my hangdog look. At last he opened the window and said, “You want to wait in here?”

I thanked him and went into the little guard shack. He motioned me to a stool and I perched there out of his way while cars came through in a steady parade. Mostly he just checked for licenses and they went on in without a hitch. Occasionally there was a question—“Who're you with, sir? Who did you want to see, ma'am?” And this or that car was made to pull off to the side until the owner or trainer could be summoned. I sat on the stool patiently through all of this. Ten minutes passed. The guard said, “I'll give him another call,” but I said no, “He's probably busy, give him another fifteen minutes.” He nodded and I sat watching the cars go in and out. And suddenly I looked up and there in the guard's face was Cameron Geiger.

I had never seen him before that moment, but I had no doubt who he was. First I heard the sound of his car—he was sitting behind the wheel of an old Buick that had a wicked ping. At least two of his eight cylinders were sticking. At the same time I saw the younger man with him in the front seat. As I scanned the car I saw the crushed fender. He said, “Call Bax again. Come on, Alvin, get the lead out of your ass.” The guard looked at me and rolled his eyes. Wearily he picked up the microphone and said,
“Baxter Geiger to the stable gate, please; Baxter Geiger, you have a visitor at the stable gate.”
Then the guard asked Cameron to pull his car over to the side and please wait. The word
wait
was not in Cameron's vocabulary, but he pulled off the road in a snit and sat in the car with his companion until its windows fogged over. This took maybe ten minutes; then Cameron got out and angrily approached the stable gate on foot. So far he was living up to his advance billing. His huge belly was the most conspicuous thing about him; his hips looked almost brittle in support, and he shuffled along in obvious pain. The other fellow stayed in the car. The stable gate man was busy checking cars coming and going and he never looked back, but I tracked Cameron all the way in as he limped toward us through the rain. Suddenly he jerked the door open and came inside, bellowing. “So what're you gonna do, Alvin, make me sit out in this rain all goddam day? Where the hell is Bax?”

“How am I supposed to know where he is? I don't keep his appointment book.”

“Then how about I go in and get him? I can find him in five minutes.”

“You know the rules,” the guard said.

“Rules are for gooks. How many years have I been coming to this racetrack?”

“That's all well and good. But if you want to get in today, you've gotta have a valid license or get somebody who's got one to come get you. Come on, man, you know this as well as I do, so maybe you should just go in through the other side and get your license now.”

“Maybe you should eat
this.
”

I didn't look: It wasn't any of my business what Cameron wanted Alvin to eat. A moment passed. Cameron said, “What the hell harm can I do in five lousy minutes?” The guard said, “You can get me fired in five minutes. Is that what you want, sir?” Cameron glared at him and his look said he didn't care what Alvin did. He turned his head and saw me watching him. “So who're you and what're you waiting for?”

“Don't bother him,” Alvin said. “He's here to see someone.”

“Well,
pardon
the hell out of me. Am I bothering you, mister?”

I shook my head. The last thing I wanted was to get in the middle of a running shitfight with these two.

“Who are you here to see?” Cameron said.

“Sir…” Alvin said.

“Don't give me that sir bullshit. I was racing horses here when you were still pissing your diapers.” To me he said with exaggerated manners, “I only ask because I know everybody who's raced here in the last twenty-five years. If there's a problem I might be able to help.”

“I'll be fine,” I said.

He bristled. “If that's how you want it, pal, you just sit there and suit yourself.”

He settled in the corner and the glass began to frost over. Alvin now spoke to him by his first name. “You're gonna have to leave, Cam. I'm sorry but you're interfering with my duties.”

Cameron didn't move.

“I don't think you want me to call security,” Alvin said.

“Tell you what, Alvin, I've got bigger things to do than sit here worrying about you. I don't care who you call.”

“You know if you get kicked out of here again you might have a helluva time ever gettin' back in.” Alvin looked at me. “Maybe you should leave as well.”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll wait in my car.”

I got up and started for the door. Cameron slid his chair over and blocked my way.

“That's it, Cameron,” Alvin said. “Get out of the way or I'm calling security.”

“Listen, you,” Cameron said to me. “I tried to do you a favor here and I don't appreciate it when a deed like that gets thrown back in my face.”

“Don't start anything with this man, Cameron,” Alvin said.

“What's he gonna do about it?”

“Look at him and compare him to you. He just might kick you a new asshole.”

“Hey, buddy,” Cameron said: “you really gonna kick me a new asshole?”

“I wouldn't know where to start.”

I regretted this as soon as I said it. Alvin laughed, making it worse, and Cameron sized me up, seriously now. Then he got up from his chair and stomped out.

“Sorry about that,” Alvin said.

“Hey, stuff happens. For the record, you done good.”

“There won't be any record. I'm not worried about him filing any complaints.” Alvin passed two fellows into the stable area. “Nice line back there,” he said. “That man is all asshole, all the time. He thinks racing owes him a living.”

“Comeuppance comes hard sometimes.”

He looked at me a little more closely now. “What'd you say your name is?”

I hadn't said but I did now and we shook hands.

“I don't know what's taking Sandy so long,” Alvin said. “I know he's here. He came through about four-thirty and he hasn't come out again.”

“Then he'll come when he can. He's got a horse running early today, maybe that tied him up. Don't hassle him, I'll go wait in my car. I'm the silver Chevy at the edge of the lot.”

I got out of his hair and sat in the car playing the radio with my eyes closed. The next thing I knew, the sound of tapping on my window brought me out of a dream. I opened my eyes and there was a face in my window. Not Sandy's: This fellow was young. I motioned him around and he took off his raincoat before flopping on the seat beside me.

“I'm Obie Mays. I work for Sandy. Sorry about the delay.”

We shook hands and he said, “Might as well drive down. We're way over on the backstretch rail near the turn. No sense getting wet.”

He directed me across the street, where Alvin stopped us and came out of his shack for a look. He had me sign in, motioned us through, Obie told me to hang a left, then right, and I pulled up at the barn and parked at the end. I saw Sandy at once as I came under his shedrow. He would be the tall gray-haired fellow standing at a stall door near the middle of the barn. “They had to do an emergency tracheotomy on this old mare,” Obie said softly: “That's why Sandy couldn't come for you right away. This horse isn't worth much but Sandy's always been partial to her.”

“What happens to her now?”

“We'll ask around, see who might want her for a lead pony. She's really a sweet-tempered old gal. If we can't find anybody for her, I imagine Sandy's friend Sharon will take her.”

We walked up the barn together and Obie told me the troubled history of this old horse. She had always been a cribber, prone to sucking air. “Usually that's not a big problem, but she's been getting worse this year. This morning she went into a sudden choking attack. Sandy had gone on up to the kitchen for coffee and none of us ginneys knew what to do. So here we were, trying like crazy to help this poor horse, and I thought we'd lose her sure. Then we got lucky: Dr. Tate came by in the barn across the way. I saw him and called him over. She'd have died in another few minutes.”

We had reached the stall. A powerful light had been hung there from the top of the door.

A man wearing bloody surgical gloves crossed in front of it: He was a fellow in his sixties with short-cropped gray hair. I glanced over Sandy's shoulder and saw a sad-looking horse that stood trembling in the back of the stall. Her front legs were coated with drying blood and there were pools of blood in the straw around her head. Implanted high on her neck was a small, round device with a breathing hole in it. I heard Sandy say, “Well, Doc, that's another one I owe you.”