T-Red fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum between the ordinary track workers and the wealthy horse owners who throw vast sums of money into the industry. He made his living arriving at the backstretch before dawn, seven days a week, galloping horses in their daily conditioning workouts. Of course, we knew that he supplemented his income by committing petty crime and occasionally ventured into larger scale larceny when the right situation presented itself. I hoped that he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew this time.
I hadn’t been back in my room for five minutes when the phone rang. T-Red’s voice was a raspy whisper. “I know you told me to call later, but this can’t wait. Can you get down with an out-of-town bookie on one of tonight’s races?”
“Maybe. What’s up?”
“I’ve been galloping a nag for an old timer who pays me in crawfish because he’s got no money. I figured I’d get even if the horse was ever ready to win, and now he is. He’s in tonight at long odds. If any serious money is bet at the track, we can’t get a good price on him. Can you get a bet down?” He was careful not to identify the horse before he had an answer. A few thoughts came to mind. Was he giving me this tip to set himself in with me? Was he testing to see if I’d make a personal bet or do it in an official capacity? Or, was he simply trying to make a score betting a sleeper who would remain a long shot? My gut instinct told me it was the latter.
“How much action do you want, Red? I have to get it down thirty minutes before post time or it’s no bet.”
“Bet me a hundred dollars across the board and whatever you can get down for yourself.”
“You want me to bet three hundred for you? If this is such a sure thing, how come you didn’t go to your mother with the deal? Why me?”
I heard faint laughter over the phone and he answered, “My mama can’t get down with an out-of-town bookie. Besides, I don’t have the three hundred, and my credit is tapped out with her.”
His answer was funny but true, and I told him, “I’ll try to get the bet down, but if the horse blows you’ve got one week to come up with the money before settle-up day with the bookie.”
“Deal, Tony. You know I get paid from all the trainers, in cash, on Saturdays and if the old crow blows the race tonight, I’m good for it then. His name is Bob’s Dream, third race, number two post position. He loves the rail and unless he gets left in the starting gate he’ll go to the lead and he won’t look back.”
I told T-Red to meet me before the third race in the grandstand, then hung up and shook my head from side to side and smiled. I thumbed the racing form to the entries for the third race. Bob’s Dream was an eight-year-old who hadn’t finished in the money in his last ten races, except once when he was moved up from fourth to third because of a disqualification. According to his published workouts, I could have run a half-mile in faster time. Even amateur handicappers would eliminate this horse from consideration, and he was sure to pay a big price if T-Red’s information was good. I had bet on tips many times before on less information than T-Red had given me. Besides, this was official ATF business. I picked up the phone and called a CI in New Orleans who made his living running a bookie joint. I made the bet and tacked on fifty dollars across the board for myself. If Bob’s Dream brought up the rear I’d be out one-hundred and fifty, plus I’d be on the hook for T-Red’s three hundred. I thought about how much fun it would be to list T-Red’s bet on my expense voucher for the case. If the old horse ran well I’d have a nice windfall and could send my son a belated birthday present.
I finished settling into the room that would be my home for the foreseeable future. After I paid cash for the month’s lodging, I had almost two thousand dollars left of the initial cash draw made from ATF for investigative expenses. I peeled out five hundred dollars and put it in my pocket, secreting the rest in the lining of the draw curtains. If the room was searched or tossed, that is one of the least likely and most overlooked places for hidden money. I put away my clothes and killed some time waiting for the night’s races by reading the racing form and watching television in my room. I wanted to call home but couldn’t call from my room for fear of the call being traced back to my personal residence. I thought about Nick’s birthday having recently come and gone without me, and about his laugh. I also pictured Gina’s face as it was when I left, her eyes swollen with tears. The cumulative time away from home was taking its toll on our marriage. She was strong and had already put up with a lot, but I knew this assignment put a load on her. The timing was terrible. I could only hope this case wouldn’t draw out very long and we could get a quick conclusion.
There was a long night ahead. The races didn’t get over until eleven-thirty, and there was no telling where T-Red and I would wind up after that. The Gallop was foremost on my agenda.
* * *
CHAPTER 7
I locked my snub-nosed revolver in the glove box and handed the Camaro keys, along with a five-dollar tip, to the valet parking attendant. I didn’t like being unarmed but couldn’t risk the possibility of being rousted by track security. I walked through the turnstiles at the Evangeline Downs grandstand just as the second race ended. The three-quarter mile dirt oval was well-lit with stadium lights for the night racing that took place. Horses were walked across the infield to come to and from the receiving barns. The track had all the routine accoutrements of the tracks I had been to in the past, but the atmosphere there was distinctively different.
In a corner of the spacious building was a four-piece Cajun band, complete with an accordion player whining the strains of Jolie Blonde in French. Listed along with the traditional fare of hot dogs and popcorn at the numerous concession stands were Cajun po-boy sandwiches, gumbo, shrimp, and boudin sausage. Small groups of racing fans milled around, their noses buried in their programs or copies of tip sheets and the racing form. Cigarette and cigar smoke hovered over the crowd in a hazy mass. Most of the conversations were in Cajun French. The unusual cadence and pronunciation was only a faint reminder of the fluent Parisian dialect. A few English words were sprinkled in with the unique French brogue. Lawn chairs were placed under the huge grandstand overhang, and scattered all over the paved apron between the building and the racetrack rail. The chairs were owned by the patrons who brought them and set up for close viewing of the races. The fans were relaxed in their seats, grouped around as if on a family picnic. To my surprise, and contrary to most racetrack policies, there were many children there, which added to the family atmosphere. Many of the fans were relatives or personal friends of the jockeys, trainers, and other personnel vital to the operation of the races. Most of them were dressed casually, except for the horse owners and trainers who were distinguished from the crowd by their western shirts and starched blue jeans, usually topped off by a cowboy hat.
When I arrived at the paddock where the horses were saddled for the third race, I saw T-Red talking to several people. He spotted me and quickly walked up and opened his mouth as if to ask a question. Before he could speak I blurted, “The bet is down, Red.”
“Hee-ya! What do you think of the old boy?” T-Red’s hand motioned to a large bay gelding being led into the number two stall of the saddling area by an elderly man in starched jeans. The horse had good conformation and an intelligent head, but both of his front knees were the size of softballs, swollen by the calcification built up over the years of racing and training. His legs were soaking wet all the way up past his knees, which indicated that the trainer had stood him in an ice tub, an old-time remedy for soreness, in preparation for this race.
“Well, Red, if the old man wasn’t trying to win tonight he wouldn’t have iced the horse.” He looked somewhat surprised by what I said and I could see it register with him that I had worked with racehorses.
“He’s trying, and the horse is right. We’re gonna cash a bet tonight.”
After the trainers saddled their horses in the numbered stalls, one by one the jockeys walked from the jocks’ room to the paddock, dressed in their standard
patent leather boots, white riding pants, and colorful racing silks unique to each racing stable. They carried leather whips under their arms like field generals past the crowd behind the fence who came to observe the horses being saddled up. The old man gave his jockey a few words of instruction, then legged him up onto the back of Bob’s Dream. As the horses paraded onto the track, we waited at the gate where the trainers entered the grandstand. T-Red greeted the old trainer in French, then made an introduction in English. “Tony, this is Alton Comeaux. Alton, this is a friend of mine from New Orleans, Tony Parrino.” The old man extended his hand and I shook it, and felt the rough calluses in his palms. Comeaux was in his early seventies, medium height and thin build, and had the leathery face common to many around the track, accented by deep age lines.
“Has he got a chance, Mr. Comeaux?” I asked in a half-doubting, half-hopeful tone.
The old man replied in an accent so thick that I had to strain to understand him. “They all have a chance as long as they’ve got four legs. But this horse don’t have four sound ones.”
The cool, crisp night was a welcome contrast to the stuffy, smoky air inside the grandstand. We stood on the cement apron to watch the race as the old man trotted to the row of betting windows. T-Red leaned over close to my ear and said, “Old Comeaux only bets ten dollars, if that much. He’s running mainly for the purse money because he’s got no cash. It takes all he’s got to keep him and the old horse fed.” As the jockeys warmed up the horses and made their way to the starting gate, I watched the tote board on the infield of the track and saw that Bob’s Dream was fifteen to one in the pari-mutuel betting. T-Red was pleased that his information had not leaked out to the betting public, which would have decreased the horse’s odds.
The horses were carefully loaded into the starting gate one at a time. When all were in, there was a pause for a few seconds as the jockeys and their mounts stood like statues and waited for the bell to ring and the gates to spring open. The crowd hushed its usual buzz and waited for the start of the race. Suddenly, the gates shot open and the track announcer shouted “Il sont partis!” from the loudspeaker. The strapping bay bolted from the gate in a tremendous burst of speed and quickly galloped a length ahead of the pack, then was settled in on the rail as the horses ran down the straightaway into the first turn. The jockey loosened his grip on the reins, throwing them forward to urge the horse on for more early speed. Bob’s Dream increased his lead as the horses thundered into the turn, and when they straightened out for the stretch run, he was four lengths in front of the pack.
“What did I tell you, Tony?” He loves the rail and when he’s in front his heart gets bigger and bigger,” T-Red cackled.
“Don’t count your money yet,” I told him as the favorite in the race began a cavalry charge down the stretch. “Lots of sprinters can’t hang on in the stretch run.” My words seemed like a prediction as the sleek chestnut colt with the number seven saddle blanket gained on Bob’s Dream from the outside. As they reached the green-and-white striped pole only an eighth of a mile from the finish line, the old horse was only a length in front. The challenger caught Bob’s Dream near the sixteenth pole, and the two horses strode alongside each other so close that from the rail they looked like one horse. The horses strained for each inch of dirt cupped under their hooves. The jockeys rode hard and flailed on the horses with their whips, urging their mounts to give every last ounce of energy. We watched intently as the announcer barked, “And it’s Battle Boy up on the outside! Neck and neck to the wire! Bob’s Dream! Battle Boy! Bob’s Dream! Battle Boy!”
We walked toward the rail to get a good look at the finish. The heads of Bob’s Dream and Battle Boy bobbed up and down with each stride as they crossed in front of the mirror at the finish line. It was anybody’s guess who won, and either way, only a hair would separate the two horses. We knew it would take the sophisticated photographic equipment and the placing judges to declare the winner. The announcer came on the loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a photo finish. Please hold all betting tickets until the results are official.”
The numbers of both horses flashed on and off the screen constantly on the tote board for several minutes while the judges reviewed videotapes of the race and the finish line photo. The jockeys remained mounted on number two and number seven as the trainers walked them in small circles on the track and waited for the judges to determine which horse would enter the winner’s circle. T-Red and I anxiously awaited with the rest of the crowd. Alton Comeaux had a worried look as he continued to walk his veteran of the race wars. The horse bounced with excitement, his nostrils flared from the tremendous exertion. The veins in his neck bulged and his body was covered in sweat. I noticed a slight limp in his gait as he made the circles with Comeaux.
Suddenly, the numbers stopped flashing where the results would be posted, and the tote board was blank for the first two positions. The crowd was silent. Then the board re-lit, with the number two placed on top and number seven in second place. The announcer blared, “After reviewing the photo finish, the stewards have declared number two, Bob’s Dream the winner of the third race.” The few bettors who had backed the long shot let out a shriek, while simultaneously a low groan came from the many in the crowd who had bet on the favorite, Battle Boy. T-Red replaced his look of relief with an ear-to-ear grin. For the first time, Alton Comeaux’s face cracked and he broke into a large smile. He guided his old horse into the winner’s circle and patted him on the neck. I felt the same relief and joy as T-Red and Comeaux, and calculated in my head how much Red and I had won. But a stronger feeling came over me. I felt elated by the win for Bob’s Dream, for the old campaigner who gave his all, extended his tired old body on sore knees that I knew pinched and hurt with every beat of his hooves. I admired that when he was challenged so strongly near the end, he looked the other horse square in the eye and gritted it out to the finish.
T-Red grabbed my arm to pull me into the winner’s circle for the victory picture, but I instinctively pulled back. A hit man surely wouldn’t have his picture taken in the town where he’d carry out a contract, or anywhere else for that matter. T-Red and Comeaux hugged as the camera’s flash recorded that on this night, in this race, Bob’s Dream and Alton Comeaux were winners. There were tears in his eyes as the old man led his horse away, which now limped more noticeably. I wondered if they were tears of joy for capturing the purse money he so desperately needed, or if they were tears of pride and accomplishment for the old horse who gutted out at least one more win. I looked at old Comeaux, who now cried unashamedly, and at T-Red, who was giggling and had taken out a pencil to figure up his winnings. I more easily identified with Alton Comeaux.
* * *
CHAPTER 8
The Gallop was situated on Louisiana highway one-ninety north of Lafayette. The building was set in the middle of a huge parking lot and was surrounded by cars and pickup trucks of all types, many of which had parking permits from racetracks all over the country stuck to the windshields and bumpers. In front of the tawny brick building a large, garish neon sign depicted the image of a girl clad in a two-piece outfit sitting inside a champagne glass. T-Red and I still chatted about the big win for Bob’s Dream as I made a double pass through the parking lot. Most of the license plates on the vehicles were from Louisiana and Texas, but several were from states like California, Arizona, and New Jersey. Lyle was right about The Gallop being a magnet. I parked and opened the glove box door, which illuminated the snub-nosed. T-Red watched as I stuck the weapon in my waistband in the small of my back, concealing it with an Armani sport coat.
“Hey, maybe you’ve got a chance tonight,” T-Red said.
“A chance for what?”
“A chance to come out of here alive, since you’re packing.”
“Trust me, Red. I’ve been in places where they check everybody going in for weapons. If you don’t have one, they give you one so you’re even with everyone else in the place.”
“Then you�
�ll feel right at home.”
We both laughed and walked through the front entrance. With the first step inside, I felt the vibrations from a deep blues bass. The smell of stale liquor wafted through the smoke-filled place. The club was large, with a low ceiling, and the darkness gave it an ominous look. It was so dark that it took a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust, even though we had come in from the nighttime. The walls were made of dark brick, as was the long bar which ran along the left side of the interior. The top of the bar itself had a shiny mahogany finish, and brass foot railings ran along the floor. A platform about six inches in height was at the far end of the bar, big enough to hold the loud band that was beating out a B.B. King tune. In front of the band platform was a medium-sized parquet dance floor, surrounded by a dozen small, round tables. They were encircled by larger cocktail tables. A row of booths hugged against the wall, and the seats and seatbacks were covered in pleated black vinyl. The booths were separated by a four foot brick divider, and they faced another row of booths, which gave that section of the club an air of privacy.
It was almost midnight, and things were jumping in The Gallop. We sat at the bar and T-Red hollered for a beer. “Bloody Mary, extra hit of Tabasco,” I told the bartender. He slapped a mug of draft beer on the bar in front of T-Red and stood in front of me to mix the drink. He was dressed the same way as the female bartender at the other end of the bar, in black slacks and vest with a crisp white shirt. T-Red reached into his pocket to pay for the drinks. I grabbed his arm and said, “Fuck it, Red, let Uncle Sam pay tonight.”
“I like this, Tony. When I pay my income taxes this year I’ll keep in mind where the money was spent.”
“Taxes my ass, Red. When’s the last time you filed a return?”
“Oh yeah, no shit, Tony. I forgot you were a Treasury Agent. Gonna have my returns pulled?”
Assassin Hunter Page 6
