Win, Place, and Die!

Win, Place, and Die!

Lawrence Lariar

CHAPTER 1

A hot Long Island wind fanned my neck. I parked the car in one of the cooler shadows and sat there staring out at a lazy trotter kicking up a hazy cloud of dust on the warm-up track. From some distant stall a radio played. The muted strains of a popular dance tune hung in the flat quiet. Beyond the rim of hedges, the road narrowed and the heat burned with oven strength. There was a long row of stalls. The numbers started with 1C and ran down the line to 1R. Here and there a couple of drowsy grooms squatted against the dirty shed walls like Mexican hired hands ma siesta. Oddly enough, none of them was reading a racing journal. Nobody said a word to me. Nobody looked up at me. But I felt a dozen eyes on my back when I moved toward the stall marked 1Q.

The dust blew in a lazy swirl ahead of me. I kicked out at the earth, hating the tableau to come. I moved off the dirt path into the shadowed area under the narrow shed roof. The big black horse in 1Q saw me coming. He poked his head out at me. He whinnied.

Hello, horse, I mumbled.

The big horse whinnied again, his eyes bright and bulging in the frightened stare of the thoroughbred. There were little veins of red around the corners of his eyes. He drooled a bit. I reached for the pail of water and the horse buried his nose in it.

I patted his sweating head.

If you could only talk, brother, I said.

The horse said nothing. But somebody else did.

Put down that pail.

It was a sharp command. The voice was flat and impersonal, high enough to belong to a woman, an authoritative voice, hot with the habit of autocracy and carrying the overtones of a practiced petulance.

I turned slowly. It was a girl, a young filly, as pretty as the color of money. She showed me the baser side of her nature. She telegraphed her disgust with me through her nasty scowl. She would expect an immediate reaction to her fine display of spleen.

I said put down the pail, she said again.

I stood my ground. She was very beautiful. She had on a summery type of outfit, something very casual but bought out of the upper-class windows on Fifty-Seventh Street, where the carefree mood is sold off at fancy prices. She was short. From where I stood, I could examine the part in her black hair, a clean white line, free of cosmetic tarnish. She was manufactured for masculine sighs of pleasure. She would be whistled at on any corner from here to Bombay. The yellow blouse was tucked in tight at her belt. Too tight for her torso, it seemed to me. But it was a delight to see; the whole ensemble, her raven hair and her electric blue eyes and the way she stood there, arms akimbo, and gave me the heat of her anger

I let the horse finish the water.

She grabbed the pail and pulled it out of my hands. Some of the water sprayed my pants. On me it didn’t look good.

I said: Temper, temper.

I ought to have you thrown out of here, she snapped.

What’s holding you back?

She patted the horse’s nose. The horse liked it. He knew her. She turned her shapely posterior to me and said nothing. From the back, I liked her more than ever. She had classic hips. The peasant skirt made them seem rounder and fuller. I figured her about twenty years old.

I’ll do it, unless you leave now, she said to the horse.

Do it, I said. I’m not leaving.

She swirled around at me. Now she was really mad. "What are you? Another one of those stupid reporters?"

Let’s say that I am.

Then you must get out, she said with a toss of her head. I’ve given my last interview.

What a shame. I always miss out on the good stuff.

Over her shoulder, two men were leading a horse out into the sun. They jerked off his blanket and went to work on a sulky. The horse balked a bit. One of the men swore. I stepped past the girl to get a look at him. He wasn’t the man I wanted. The other man was just as old, probably in his fifties. He climbed on the sulky and clucked at the horse. The big brown beast fell into a slow and dignified trot. They disappeared around the edge of the last stall.

The girl was staring at me curiously. When I returned to her, she gave up petting the horse.

Just what paper are you from? she asked.

"The Alaskan Fortnightly," I said.

I don’t believe you.

I don’t blame you.

Then you’re not a reporter?

I’m just a man, I said. Looking for a man.

You’re mighty mysterious about it, she said. You expected to find a man in this stall? What’s his name?

Nickles Shuba, I said.

She bit her lip and made a queer little face. But what do you want with Nickles?

Small talk.

You didn’t expect to find him here at the stall?

I’ve been everywhere else. I’ve tried his rooming house, his favorite restaurant and his bar. Any other suggestions?

"Why not put an ad in the Times?"

Very funny. You’re a very funny girl.

And I’m not even half trying.

I’d hate to be around when you do, I said. You’re pure corn, sister. From what I hear about Nickles, you and he should make wonderful music together.

I was reaching her and she didn’t like it. She gave me her shoulder. She made a big and beautiful production of petting the horse. The horse didn’t seem to mind. She stroked his neck, but she was adding me up as she dallied with the nag.

You’re pretty fresh, she said.

Flattery will get you nowhere. I’m here to get information, not cute double talk. I know all about Nickles Shuba. He’s Blackburn’s representative here at the track. Some people call him young and ambitious. Other people think he’s a Grade A stinker. Nickles is obviously a lad with a strange and elastic temperament. He can be quite a boy when he wants to be. How does he treat you?

Maybe I don’t know him that well.

And maybe you do.

You think Nickles would favor my type? she asked archly.

You’re a woman.

She blinked her pretty eyes at me. She adjusted herself for a different sort of appraisal. She would be trying now to work me into her personal card index system. She couldn’t quite find the right file for me.

You know something? she asked herself. You don’t really sound much like a reporter.

I’m not. I’m a relative. I’m Jake West’s nephew.

Now you’re joking again.

I’m very serious. I returned her flat stare. She dropped her eyes for a moment. I’ll give you the family. Jake West was my father’s younger brother, out of Lila West and sired by Isaac West of Ithaca, in the state of New York.

That did it. She almost dropped the pail. She let it slide to the ground with a dull clank. It hit her decorative sandals and must have hurt her. She was much too surprised to register pain. Her face softened and saddened. She shifted into delicate emotion with skill and talent, like a young actress taking her first screen test, swift and sudden and just as hokey. Was she acting it up for me? Her nervous tongue snaked across her delicious lip. Something resembling blushing humility clouded her face.

I’m sorry, she said. She sounded sorry. I couldn’t imagine you were Jake West’s nephew.

I just came from the morgue.

Poor Jake. It was a horrible thing.

Murder is always horrible.

I guess it is. She looked away from me. Something was interesting her on the gear hanging near the door. She fingered it tentatively. Her nails were short. She wore them like a farm girl, uncolored. They were strong, sure hands. But this thing that happened to Jake. It’s incredible.

Jake West was a good man.

One of the best.

And, I added, an honorable man.

Her hand went up and stroked the horse. The horse kept his big head down close to her. She didn’t move aside when he slobbered on her pretty peasant skirt. She really loved horses. People who love horses go the whole hog, loving everything about the beasts, including the dirt and the flies.

A wonderful, wonderful character, Jake West, she said regretfully. Harness racing will miss him.

You knew him well?

He drove for my dad.

Then you must be Nancy Blackburn. Now she came through to me, out of the society columns. Hers was a popular and photogenic face. Nancy Blackburn, post-deb flibbertigibbet, girl horse lover, the kid called something out of F. Scott Fitzgerald by all the society reporters. She looked the part, all the way from her shaggy, raffish black hair to her sleek browned legs. I stopped looking at her legs. It was an effort. I said: This must have hit your father pretty hard.

Of course it did, she told the hanging gear. Jake was an investment for my dad. Jake was money in the bank.

One hundred thousand dollars, I said. That was in 1950, wasn’t it?

You know Jake West’s driving record?

And lots more.

Then you remember what he did with Gwen Fiske?

I remember every big race my Uncle Jake ever rode, I said. Because I was in the stands. And also because I had several quid down on every important horse he drove. He set a new world’s record with Gwen Fiske.

My dad was there, Nancy said with some pride.

And where is your dad now?

In the city, I suppose.

You suppose? I asked. Can’t we locate him?

If we must.

We must.

She considered me carefully. My father will be out here at the track tonight.

Where will that get me?

You’re not making yourself clear.

I want to see your father, I said. I tried to get him in town today. His club, his home and his office. I got nowhere.

Maybe you’re on your way now. She tossed her hair back. She had a supple body, as willowy as a professional ballet dancer. Her gestures seemed studied, but every movement added to her girlish appeal. She wasn’t smiling any more, however. She was looking serious and complicated. Dad’s pretty busy during the trotting season. Sometimes it’s even hard for me to locate him. The last I saw him, he was making a date with Gordon Fennisong.

Fennisong’s a fair detective, I said.

You know him? Her face relaxed. Now a feeble flicker of curiosity shone in her eyes. You’re not a detective yourself?

I write about detectives.

Not Dave West? she asked. The murder novelist?

In the flesh.

But I’m a fan of yours, Dave. Laughter made small wrinkles on the bridge of her nose. "I’ve just finished Hangman to Hate. I’m really crazy about your stuff."

The poor man’s Mickey Spillane, I commented.

You don’t look like an author. She eyed me with a deep and penetrating regard. She added me up. She started at my shoes and did a slow survey of my frame. She paused at my broken nose. She was staring at my nose when she said: You look like some sort of professional athlete. A boxer.

I used to box.

But you talk like a professional cynic.

Maybe it’s because I loved my uncle.

The horse whinnied again. The sun ducked behind a dry cloud. Nancy Blackburn had no answer to my last line. She looked away. A whiff of animal smell rose up from the stall. The horse stirred and kicked and was quiet. I stared at the dumb brute, wondering about my Uncle Jake. How often had he sat here? How many times had he petted this elegant animal? On the boarded wall, deep in the shadows, somebody had lettered the horse’s name: ARCTURUS.

I stepped inside and into the dusty shadows. A profusion of gear hung in the back. An old driver’s cap lay in the comer. The colors were green and orange. I picked up the silk cap. It stank of a special smell. A barbershop tonic. A smell like this could hurtle you back into the past, filling your mind with all sorts of memories. This was the odor of my Uncle Jake. It was as much a part of him as his quick smile, his sharp black eyes; his never-failing chuckle. It dug deep into my nostalgic sorrow for the man who raised me. It made me mad, all sick inside. Somebody had snuffed out the life of the one man on earth I worshiped.

You’d better move away from there, Nancy said. Arcturus is nervous.

Arcturus shied and fidgeted, the slick shanks muscled and powerful. I got out of there. I love horses. But I love my good health, too.

You found something?

His hat, I said.

Do you think you should take it? Maybe the police—?

I’ve seen the police, I explained. The county experts have come and gone. If they wanted it, they would have taken it. It’s nothing but a keepsake, really.

You’re all broken up about this thing, she said quietly.

I’m going to find out who killed him.

Why don’t you see Fennisong? He may be getting close.

I couldn’t hold back my laughter.

Don’t be funny, I said. You talk like something out of a Hollywood corn opera. The best cops on earth work for the city. The best cops on earth are the cheap-johns. You know why? Because a Homicide dick has to make murder his career. He’s out to find answers. In a hurry.

But Fennisong—

Sing me no Fennisongs. I interrupted. Detectives like Fennisong are ripe for the easy deals. They do well with simple assignments, like skip-tracing or occasional missing persons to dig up. But murder?

She let me fidget outside the stall. I was too hot for further badinage. The spot itself irritated me too much. Jake West was found dead not far from here. Somebody had planted a bullet behind his ear. At close range. But I could stand here from now until next Christmas and get nowhere. I felt thwarted and anxious, despite the fact that this case was fresh and new for the police. My mind skipped and bounced erratically. All of a sudden I was back at the start of it

I was out on Fire Island catching blues with my friend Haskell Hess when the news reached us on his ship-to-shore. After that, in Babylon, I read the complete story, topped by a headline in all the Nassau County papers: JAKE WEST, FAMOUS HARNESS DRIVER, KILLED. NEAR RACETRACK. The newsmen asked the usual questions in their frothy columns: Why had Jake West come to the stall of his favorite horse, Arcturus, so early in the morning? Who had met him there? Where was Nickles Shuba, the young assistant manager of the Blackburn stables? And what had happened during the Hopkinsville Pace last night? Jake West had driven the favorite, Bully Boy, but the horse had failed to come in the stretch. Cashinhand, a rank outsider, had grabbed the event, paying a handsome $62.50 in win money. Was Jake West part of a boat ride? Was he in on a fix? After all his flawless years of driving, did Jake West succumb to the lure of dirty money?

The nasty words still irritated me. Standing here, staring at Arcturus, his favorite pacer, I was reminded of Jake West’s Yankee face, his simple honesty; his almost boyish love of the sport. Over the long years, Jake had established himself as one of the six top drivers of all time. During my adolescence, Uncle Jake and I were constant companions. He had raised me, from the time my father died. We were alone together, the last male members of the West clan. And now he was gone.

I kicked angrily at the dry earth. The sun had already climbed over the big gas tank at the west end of Long Island Raceway. In a few hours the nightly meeting would begin; the marshal would lead the horses behind the automatic starting gate.

The big black horse whinnied. The girl lifted the water pail and let him drink.

Who’s driving Arcturus in the Coast Run? I asked.

Hank Luchon, she said. A good boy.

Jake would have wanted to drive this race. He loved Arcturus.

Arcturus will make it.

Jake would have guaranteed it, I said.

You just watch Hank Luchon. He’s an excellent driver. He’ll bring Arcturus in. Like to see the race?

I don’t like to watch horse races by my lonesome.

I can arrange suitable company.

Is that an invitation?

For dinner, she laughed. Up in the clubhouse. Just ask for Nancy Blackburn’s table.

I’ll be there.

She paused only long enough to smile again. She turned on her pretty heel and moved her elegant legs down the dirt path. There was a Hillman Minx parked near the gate. She stepped in. The motor roared and she waved her hand and wheeled the little car in a quick circle, handling it with the ease of a man. I watched her go. Then I stood for a while close to the stall. The big black horse eyed me and continued to drool. I patted his nose.

Brother, I said, if you could only talk.

But the horse had