by Jason Starr
“It’s not our money anymore,” Pete said. “According to rules, once somebody puts a slip in the claiming box to claim a horse and the race goes off, the horse belongs to the new owner.”
I stared at Pete for a few seconds, then I started to laugh.
“That’s a good one,” I said. “You guys almost had me going there a second.”
“It’s true,” Pete said.
“Come on, you gotta be kidding me,” I said. Nobody was laughing. “What about all the insurance we bought? The insurance must cover this.”
“The policy kicks in after the race,” Alan said. “Unfortunately, Sunshine Brandy is ours now.”
I looked over at Bill Tucker and I could tell by his face that they weren’t bullshitting. Then I looked back toward the track. An ambulance had pulled up next to the horse and the workers were setting up the screen so the fans didn’t have to see them give the horse a lethal injection. In a couple of minutes we were going to own a thirty-thousand-dollar piece of horsemeat.
Suddenly, I lost it. I remember screaming and cursing like a wild man, running through the grandstand, pushing people out of my way. Somehow I made it back into my car. Next thing I knew, I was driving out of the racetrack, going as fast as my car would go, running red lights and swerving. I pulled over on a side street and took deep breaths, trying to get a hold of myself.
The horse was dead. It was still impossible to believe. One second she looked like the best horse in the world, the next she was on the ground and they were getting ready to give her the needle.
I needed to unwind. I spotted a bowling alley on Rockaway Boulevard and I pulled into the parking lot. I bowled for about an hour. I was just letting off steam, tossing the ball down the lane on two or three bounces to the pins. Afterwards, I felt better, more like my old self. Bowling had cost eleven dollars and now I had only three dollars and some change left to my name. I’d have to figure out a way to get some more money soon, that’s all. I knew I could talk Frank into giving me another advance on my salary, and then I’d have to figure out a way to get twenty grand, or however much I would need to buy another race horse.
It was a little after four o’clock. Driving over the Queensboro Bridge, I was looking forward to going to work tonight, getting my life back on track.
I exited the bridge onto First Avenue and headed uptown. I found a good spot near East Sixty-second Street and walked uptown, toward my apartment. Turning the corner onto Sixty-fourth Street, I noticed two cop cars in front of my building. I turned around and walked back toward my car, as fast as I could.
I had no idea how the cops had caught on to me and I didn’t have time to think about it. I had to get away, maybe leave the city, then I remembered I only had three dollars and some change.
Avoiding First Avenue, I walked up Sixty-second Street to Second Avenue and headed uptown. On Seventy-first, I cut over two long blocks to York. The sun had set and it was almost totally dark outside. I went into the vestibule of Janene’s building and rang the buzzer. She didn’t answer. Afraid she wasn’t home, I rang again, pressing down hard with my finger. Then I heard Janene say, “Who is it?”
“Tommy,” I said, relieved.
“Who?”
“Tommy. You remember me, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer for a few seconds. I was about to ring again when she said, “What do you want?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“What?” she said, like she didn’t hear me.
“A surprise,” I said.
“What’s the surprise?”
“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, will it?”
She didn’t answer. I rang again.
“What is it?” she said.
“I have your jewelry,” I said.
Again, she waited a few seconds before answering. “I thought you gave it to a pawn shop.”
“I did, but the guy bought it back and now I just bought it back from him. Come on, just let me up so I can give it to you.”
“I’ll come to the bar tonight to get it.”
“But I have it here—right now.”
“Why can’t you bring it to the bar?”
“I wanted to apologize to you too. I’m in Gamblers Anonymous now and in Step 6 you have to apologize to the people you’ve wronged. It would really help me if I had a chance to apologize to you, face to face. Come on, I’ll just come up for a minute then leave.”
The buzzer rang.
I took the elevator up to her apartment on the sixth floor. I rang once and she opened the door, wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt.
“Hey, how are you?” I said.
I tried to kiss her, but she backed away.
“I don’t have cooties,” I said smiling.
“Where’s my jewelry?” she asked.
“Aren’t you gonna invite me inside first?”
“Do you have my jewelry or not?”
“Yeah, I have it.”
I went by her, into the apartment.
“I was hoping you could lend me some money,” I said.
“What?”
“Just a few hundred bucks. I’ll pay you back tomorrow or the next day. I promise.”
“Do you have the jewelry or don’t you?”
“First lend me some money.”
“I’m not lending you money.”
“Why not? I paid you back last time, didn’t I?”
“Get out of here—right now.”
I spotted her pocketbook on a chair in the corner.
“Sorry to have to do this.”
“What are you doing? Give that back to me—”
I stiff-armed her, trying to keep her away, but she kept coming after me. Finally, I pushed her and she fell down onto the couch. I found about twenty dollars in bills in one of the pocketbook’s compartments.
“Don’t you have any more than this?” I asked.
Janene was crying. I thought about searching her apartment for more money when I had a better idea. I took her bank card out of her wallet and slipped it into my pocket. I put the pocketbook back onto the chair.
“If you just lent me the money this would have been a lot easier,” I said, “but I am going to pay you back.”
I left the apartment. On the landing of the stairwell I felt dizzy and I saw myself tumbling down the stairs. I took the elevator down instead. I walked around the corner to the Chase bank on First Avenue and Seventy-second. I still had Janene’s pin number memorized. I put her card in the machine and typed in the code. A receipt came out with a printed message:
TRANSACTION DENIED
Damn it—she must’ve called the bank already and put a hold on the account.
On my way out, I spotted a police car speeding up First Avenue. I ducked back into the bank and stayed there until the coast was clear.
I needed money—fast—and there was only one place to get it.
I walked over to Second Avenue, down to Sixty-fifth Street, then back over to O’Reilley’s on First. Luckily, there were no cops there. Frank was working the bar and a couple of old-timers were sitting on stools, watching TV.
Frank saw me come in and he screamed, “Get the hell out of here! Right now, you son of a bitch!”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You sick piece of shit! You fucking scumbag!”
“What?” I said.
“I don’t wanna look at your face anymore. Just get the hell out of here!”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” I said, “but I’m sure—”
“How long were you fucking her?”
“Who?”
“You know who—Debbie. My fucking wife!”
“Jesus, I can’t believe you just asked me that,” I said.
“No more bullshit!” Frank’s face was red and he looked crazy. The two guys in the bar got up and left.
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t fucking Debbie. Jesus, what kind of guy do you think I am?”
“Fucking liar! My doorman
saw you there—last week.”
“I did go there one day—looking for you.”
“Look, you son of a bitch piece of shit, I know you were there, so stop lying to me! You killed her didn’t you?”
“Take it easy,” I said. “I know you’re angry, grieving or whatever, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”
Frank came out from around the bar.
“A cab driver said he dropped her off by your apartment the day she disappeared. Then, that night, a cop pulled you over in Brooklyn.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I said.
Frank came after me, beating his fists against my chest.
“Come on, take it easy,” I said. “Chill out.”
Frank kept beating me until he got too exhausted, gasping for air.
“Look, you have to believe me,” I said. “I know how bad things look right now, but I think you know I’m a good person. You know I wouldn’t kill somebody. You’ll see—they’ll find the real killer and then you’ll forgive me. But don’t worry, I won’t hold a grudge. I know what you’re going through.”
“What did you come here for anyway?” Frank said. “Money? If you can’t steal it, you have to borrow it from your stupid boss, right?” Frank took his wallet out of his pocket and started throwing bills at me. “Here, you want my money? You want my fucking money? Take it! Take it all!”
I started to pick up the bills when I heard loud sirens. I looked behind me and saw two police cars pull up in front of the bar. I was about to make a run for it—maybe try to get out through the window in the kitchen—when I looked back at Frank. He was still throwing money at me, but he was slumping back onto a bar stool.
“Come on, buddy,” I said, trying to help him up. “Hang in there. Just hang in there!”
I looked behind me and three cops were standing by the door with their guns drawn.
“Hurry up,” I said. “Do any of you guys know CPR?”
“Put your hands up where I can see them!” one of the cops shouted.
“The guy’s dying here!”
“Put your hands up!”
“For Chrissake. Look at him!”
“Now, asshole!”
“You gotta help him!”
“Get your fucking hands in the air!”
I looked over at Frank, who was staring right at me. A cop came up behind me and pulled my arms behind my back and cuffed me. Frank was slumped over on the stool, leaning against the bar.
“Will somebody help him, damn it? Forget about me. Help him!”
One cop went over to Frank.
“Hang in there, buddy,” I said. “You just hang in there.”
Frank was looking at me, his eyes half shut.
“Let’s go,” one of the cops behind me said.
“Don’t die,” I said to Frank. “Whatever you do—don’t die. You have to make it out to Arizona, buddy. You’re gonna love it out there.”
“Come on,” one cop said to me, and the other one said, “Move it.”
I tried to turn around, to look at Frank again, but I couldn’t.
“See you tomorrow!” I yelled as the cops pushed me out the door.
From the Award-Winning Authors of FAKE I.D. and THE GUARDS
BUST, SLIDE and THE MAX
by KEN BRUEN and JASON STARR
“Some of the funniest dialogue this side of Elmore Leonard.”
— Otto Penzler
When Max Fisher hired Angela Petrakos as his assistant he was an unhappily married man. But the two of them had a plan to kill his wife and shack up together. Unfortunately, the hit man they hired had other ideas.
The fallout from this disastrous scheme will turn Max from an ordinary businessman into a would-be drug kingpin and catapult Angela from the streets of New York City to the slums of Ireland and the prisons of Greece.
Bust, Slide, and The Max are black comic masterpieces by two of the most acclaimed writers working in the crime fiction genre. Between them, Bruen and Starr have been nominated for every major award in the field, and their collaborations for Hard Case Crime have won raves from publications ranging from the Chicago Sun-Times and the New York Sun to Entertainment Weekly. If you enjoyed Fake I.D., you won’t want to miss this very different side of Jason Starr’s dark vision...
Available now at your favorite bookstore.
For more information, visit
www.HardCaseCrime.com
Shamus Award Winner for Best Original Paperback Novel of the Year
SONGS of INNOCENCE
by RICHARD ALEAS
Three years ago, detective John Blake solved a mystery that changed his life forever—and left a woman he loved dead. Now Blake is back, to investigate the apparent suicide of Dorothy Louise Burke, a beautiful college student with a double life. The secrets Blake uncovers could blow the lid off New York City’s sex trade...if they don’t kill him first.
Richard Aleas’ first novel, LITTLE GIRL LOST, was among the most celebrated crime novels of the year, nominated for both the Edgar and Shamus Awards. But nothing in John Blake’s first case could prepare you for the shocking conclusion of his second...
RAVES FOR SONGS OF INNOCENCE:
“An instant classic.”
— The Washington Post
“The best thing Hard Case is publishing right now.”
— The San Francisco Chronicle
“His powerful conclusion will drop jaws.”
— Publishers Weekly
“So sharp [it’ll] slice your finger as you flip the pages.”
— Playboy
Available now at your favorite bookstore.
For more information, visit
www.HardCaseCrime.com
Sexy Suspense From an MWA Grandmaster!
The Girl With the
LONG GREEN HEART
by LAWRENCE BLOCK
SHE WAS EVERY MAN’S DREAM – AND ONE MAN’S NIGHTMARE
Johnny Hayden and Doug Rance had a scheme to take real estate entrepreneur Wallace Gunderman for all he was worth. But they needed a girl on the inside to make it work.
Enter Evelyn Stone: Gunderman’s secretary, his lover—and his worst enemy. Gunderman promised to marry her, but never came through. Now she’s ready to make him pay...
ACCLAIM FOR LAWRENCE BLOCK:
“The narrative is layered with detail, the action is handled with Block’s distinctive clarity of style and the ending is a stunning tour de force.”
— New York Times
“Block is awfully good, with an ear for dialogue, an eye for lowlife types and a gift for fast and effortless storytelling that bear comparison to Elmore Leonard.”
— Los Angeles Times
“Wonderful.”
— USA Today
“Lawrence Block is a master of entertainment.”
— Washington Post Book World
Available now at your favorite bookstore.
For more information, visit
www.HardCaseCrime.com
More Fine Books From
HARD CASE CRIME!
The Peddler
by RICHARD S. PRATHER
OVER 40,000,000 BOOKS SOLD
In the cutthroat world of organized crime, Tony Romero was headed straight for the top. But his path was littered with bodies and broken dreams—some of them his.
Say It With Bullets
by RICHARD POWELL
AUTHOR OF ‘A SHOT IN THE DARK’
Bill Wayne’s bus tour through the West becomes more than he bargained for when bodies start turning up at every stop!
The Last Match
by DAVID DODGE
AUTHOR OF ‘TO CATCH A THIEF’
From the casinos of Monaco to the jungles of Brazil, from Tangier to Marrakech to Peru, the chase is on when a handsome swindler tries to escape the beautiful heiress out to reform him.
The Gutter and the Grave
by ED MCBAIN
MWA GRANDMASTER
Detective Matt Cordell was happily mar
riedg once, and gainfully employed, and sober. But that was before he caught his wife cheating on him with one of his operatives.
The Guns of Heaven
by PETE HAMILL
ACCLAIMED JOURNALIST
Terrorists from Northern Ireland plan to strike in New York City—and only one newspaper reporter stands in their way.
Night Walker
by DONALD HAMILTON
CREATOR OF ‘MATT HELM’
When Navy lieutenant David Young came to in a hospital bed, his face was covered with bandages and the nurses were calling him by a stranger’s name...
Available now at your favorite bookstore.
For more information, visit
www.HardCaseCrime.com
