The Disappearance of Penny

by Robert J. Randisi

  “What specifically started the fight?”

  He chose that particular moment to sip his coffee and I was reminded of Paul Lassiter sipping his drink before answering a question.

  Mapes’ eyes wouldn’t meet mine as he answered, “Just a combination of things, I guess.”

  I thought about the tall man I had seen Aiello talking with both before and after the fight. I was sorry I didn’t have a good enough description in my mind to relay to Mapes for a possible identification. “Tall, dark-haired, slim” fit an awful lot of people.

  “Okay, Eddie, skip that fight. What about those two downstairs? What was that all about?”

  He shrugged again. “Probably just a mugging,” he remarked.

  “C’mon, Eddie.”

  “Hey, c’mon, man. I didn’t ask you to stick your neck out or your nose in, right? Okay, I’m grateful, you pulled my chestnuts out of the fire, but butt out, huh?”

  He got up and paced. He wasn’t angry exactly, he was just being evasive. He was trying to anger me to throw me off my plotted course.

  “How about the accident in the sixth race yesterday, Eddie?” I asked, just to get his third mishap of the day into the conversation. “You going to tell me that was just another accident?”

  He stopped pacing when I said that, his eyes wide. Suddenly he was a very frightened man.

  “Eddie, I was just kidding,” I said, trying to calm him.

  “Believe me, if they could set that up — ” he began, then stopped short.

  I pulled one out of left field — or, at least, out of the backstretch.

  “Eddie, has all of this got anything to do with Willie Donero?”

  He turned away from me real quick and put one hand behind his head. Then he turned back and said, “Look, man … “but stopped and changed his mind. “I gotta go, “he told me, grabbing his shirt and putting it on. “I’ve got a big race to ride in tomorrow.”

  “You’ve had a hard day, “I told him. “You’re going to be pretty sore in the morning.”

  “I’ve had worse and still rode winners,” he assured me.

  “You going to win tomorrow, Eddie?” I asked him. “Or are you going to lose?”

  He buttoned his shirt, put his jacket on and collected the paraphernalia that most men carry in their pockets and returned it to his pants.

  “Mr. Po, listen. I really do appreciate what you did for me tonight, okay? But don’t stick your nose in my business anymore, okay?”

  I gave in — for now.

  “All right, Eddie, not unless you ask me to. I’m available, if you ever need help and there’s something you think I can do. Deal?”

  “Yeah, okay, deal,” he agreed, just to get me off his back.

  Then he left.

  I watched him from my window. He made it to the end of the block without falling down or being pounced on.

  I cleaned up the place, thinking more and more about that tall man I’d seen with Danny Aiello.

  Was that really a jockey/agent relationship, as I had originally thought?

  And what had Aiello said to Mapes that had set him off? He might have actually killed Aiello if I hadn’t stepped in at the right moment.

  It wasn’t part of my job to think about those things, but maybe I’d talk to Danny Aiello tomorrow. Maybe I’d find something out.

  You know, about Penny Hopkins?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I phoned Biel the next morning, just to let him know what was happening. Even though it was Sunday, he was in his office. He felt since there was Sunday racing in New York, there was no reason for him to be off.

  “What’s your reaction to Benjamin?” he asked.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask,” I answered.

  “That bad?”

  “I can’t say that I like him, Howard,” I admitted. “In fact, given time, I could probably very easily dislike him.”

  “It’s unfortunate that Benjamin has that effect on people,” Biel said, but he made no attempt to explain why this was the case.

  “I met Lassiter,” I told him. “Can’t say that I like him either.”

  “Did you meet anyone yesterday that you did like?” he asked. He was kidding, but the way he asked made me wonder if he didn’t know that I had met Brandy Sommers.

  I thought about Brandy, and even Debby Gannero, but chose not to comment on either one.

  “What’s your feeling about Penny, Hank?” Biel asked.

  “My feeling is that she’s missing,” I told him, “and if I keep talking on the phone I’ll never find her. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Hank, I would, uh, appreciate you giving this your very best effort. Penny is very, uh, special to me.”

  “How special?” I asked.

  “She’s my goddaughter, Hank.”

  “Okay, Howard,” I said. He wasn’t the type of man who was used to showing his emotions, so I didn’t dwell on the matter. “I’ll do my best, as always.”

  “I know you will. Thank you.”

  “Wait a second,” I called before he hung up.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing: I just wondered if anyone was back yet?”

  “Shukey got back last evening,” he told me.

  “Good. Maybe I’ll give her a call. I might be able to use her. Good-bye, Howard.”

  Shukey Long had originally been an investigative reporter for one of the country’s leading racing publications, until she was offered a position as one of Howard Biel’s special investigators — on my recommendations.

  In fact, I met Howard Biel and Shukey Long at the same time. Not at exactly the same moment, but during the job I had done for Biel I had crossed paths — and, to a certain degree, swords — with Shukey. She had made a favorable impression on me, not only as a lovely woman, but as a capable one. As a result of that I made my recommendation to Biel, he made his offer to Shukey, and she accepted.

  I dialed her number and she picked up on the first ring.

  “Sitting on the phone waiting for me to call, huh?” I asked.

  “Henry?” She likes my first name and refuses to call me “Hank.” She’s half English and, in fact, lived in her father’s country up until the time she was eighteen. She retains a good deal of her English accent, although sometimes she lays it on kind of thick.

  She can also lose most of it, should the need arise.

  I like Shukey, I like her a lot, but we’ve never had a thing going. We both avoid it. It would get in the way of business. “Yeah, it’s me, Shuke. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, and you?”

  “Great. How was California?”

  “Oh, it was lovely, simply lovely. If I hadn’t had to work it would have been that much more beautiful.”

  “I know what you mean. Have you got anything in the works now?”

  “Not that I know of. Mr. Biel didn’t mention anything in the offing. Have you got something?”

  “I have need of your talents,” I told her.

  “Which ones?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “As a seductress.”

  “A what?”

  “A vamp.”

  She started laughing and I waited for her to finish.

  “I’m serious. Do you still have your old ID from the magazine?”

  “I think so.”

  “I want you to go down to Island Downs and make like you want to do an interview with a young apprentice named Danny Aiello,” I explained, and went on further about what I wanted her to do.

  “You want me to play up to this kid, Aiello,” she recapped, “and see what he knows about Penny Hopkins’ disappearance, if anything.”

  “Right.”

  “And also see how he feels about Eddie Mapes?”

  “Right again.”

  “Are Hopkins and Mapes part of the same case?” she asked.

  “They might be,” I hedged. “Hopkins is the main event, though. Also, see if he’s seen another jock named Louie Melendez recently. Can you do all of
that for me, Shuke?”

  “For you, Henry? Anything, anytime. I’ll get on it today.”

  “Great. Oh, and Shuke …”

  “What?”

  “If our paths cross today, we don’t know each other, okay?”

  “Okay, Henry. I’ll try to restrain my natural impulses to throw my arms around you and smother you with passionate kisses.”

  “Hey, we’ll discuss that another time.”

  “Fat chance,” she told me, and hung up.

  I think I might have sent Shukey after Aiello more for the Mapes thing than for Penny’s disappearance. There was really no reason to believe that Danny Aiello might know more about Penny than anyone else. From what I’d told Shukey, she realized that, too. She had agreed simply as a favor to me, and I appreciated it. I made a mental note that I owed her one.

  At least.

  I got my car out of the parking garage where I store it and jumped on the Brooklyn Bridge. From there I took the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to the Verrazano Bridge and into Staten Island.

  The track had been built in the Clove Lake area in an attempt to develop the Island a little more — and bring more people through the bridge toll booths. The city stood to make quite a bundle, and not just from the added revenue the track would bring it.

  My first step of the day was to find Benjamin Hopkins. I had hoped to find him at the morning workouts again, but I wasn’t that lucky. It wasn’t that bad, though. Although I didn’t find him at the work outs, I did locate him at his stable. He and a vet were going over Penny’s Penny.

  “Good morning,” I greeted, having an endless supply of cool openings.

  He grunted something, but didn’t look away from Penny.

  “Any problem?” I asked.

  “No, just a checkup, “he answered, still not looking away from the animal.

  “Well, I don’t want to bother you, Mr. Hopkins, but I do need a picture of Penny — your daughter — and a look into her room, if that could be arranged.”

  His hand went into his pocket and came out with a set of keys. He let them dangle from his fingers and I took them.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “The keys to my house. Go take whatever picture you need, and have your look into my daughter’s room. I’ll be here all day so you can bring the keys back or leave them with Howard, if you like. In fact, you could leave them in the house; I have a spare set.”

  He never looked at me the whole time, just kept watching the vet and Penny.

  I backed away and left, wondering if he’d even remember that I’d been there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hopkins had a two-story ranch house in the Todt Hill section of Staten Island. He had purchased it not long after Island Downs had first opened, two years before. For a new track, the Downs had attracted top trainers, jockeys and horses fairly fast, but then, it was still New York, and the Big Apple tends to attract the best — as do the inflated purses.

  I pulled into his driveway and used the keys to enter the house.

  Although Hopkins might leave a lot to be desired as a person, there was no question that he was — or had at one time been — a great trainer. Judging from the photos that adorned the walls of his living room, he also had a very real love for thoroughbred horses. Since I had the house to myself, I tool the time to study the gallery of greats.

  Aside from the winners he himself had trained, he had framed photos of such great ones as Kelso, Dr. Fager, Ruffian, Forego, Secretariat, Seattle Slew, Alydar, Affirmed and Spectacular Bid.

  He obviously had strong feelings about his present charge, Penny’s Penny, for the largest of the framed photos showed the two-year-old colt crossing the finish line ahead of Bold Randy, whose head was just visible.

  There was also a den on the first floor of the house, and in there he had one massive framed photo on each wall.

  Obviously, Hopkins felt that these four were the greatest of all time, and they represented their particular divisions: The three-year-old colt was Secretariat, the three-year-old filly was the ill-fated Ruffian — who had broken a leg during a “match race,” a two horse race, against the top three-year-old colt of her time, and had to be destroyed — and the two geldings were Kelso and the mighty Forego.

  Aside from these two rooms on the first floor, there was a dining room and a kitchen. The bedrooms were on the second floor.

  Before looking for Penny’s room I probably overstepped my bounds, but I went through Hopkins’ desk in his den. I was very careful about it and hopefully he would not notice that it had been done.

  I found nothing of particular interest until I reached the bottom drawer, where there was a sheaf of xeroxed, typewritten pages bound in a manila folder and I had to wonder what the hell Benjamin Hopkins was doing with a transcript of the testimony of Willy Donero.

  I sat in his chair and skimmed it. There were mentions of many famous racing figures, retired and active, that Donero had claimed he had bought off. I found the reference to Eddie Mapes, flashed by a few more pages and was about to close the folder when a name jumped out at me. I hurriedly went back, trying to find the page, and there it was.

  The name was Brandy Sommers.

  I sat back and examined the ceiling for a few moments, wondering if I really wanted to know what it said about her. Then I said, “Ah, fuck it,” out loud and read it.

  Donero claimed to have paid Brandy off in money and traded for sex, and that she had done so with many trainers in the past for mounts.

  I closed the folder, put it back in the drawer as I had found it and tried not to think about what I had just read. Donero was obviously just trying to get himself off the hook by implicating others with his testimony. There was a massive investigation going on into thoroughbred racing as a result of Donero’s implications, and I was confident that the truth would be discovered: that Willy Donero was a lying fuck!

  I left Hopkins’ den and went upstairs in search of Penny’s room. The first room I found was the master bedroom. On the wall above Hopkins’ bed was a large photo of Affirmed and Alydar at the finish of the Belmont stakes, 1978, with Affirmed winning by a nose to clinch the Triple Crown. This was generally considered to be the most exciting race in thoroughbred racing’s history.

  I left his room and found Penny’s bedroom.

  It was all pink lace and that, combined with the sunlight streaming through the window, hurt my eyes. I drew the shade and cut off the glare. There was a small vanity table by the window with a couple of drawers which I went through very quickly and without reward.

  On her night table I found a framed five by seven photo of her astride a horse. As I removed the picture from the frame, I realized that it was probably the only photo I’d seen of her in the entire house. I guess with all of the horses, there was no room to waste on a picture of his daughter —

  — an only child, I had almost thought, but then I didn’t know that for a fact, did I? I’d never asked, which made it my own fault that I didn’t know.

  Yet if she had a brother or sister to whom she might have gone, wouldn’t Hopkins have mentioned it? From what I’d learned of the man to date, the answer to that question would not necessarily have to be yes.

  In fact, I thought it highly unlikely.

  I found something else on the night table. A TV guide, open to Thursday, the day before she “disappeared.” There were several programs with red check marks next to them. Apparently she planned in advance the programs she was going to watch.

  I looked through the drawers of the night table, but came up empty again. Empty of what? I didn’t know; I was hoping I would know what it was when I saw it. A note saying where she was going would have been very helpful.

  I was about to leave when I thought of the one place I hadn’t looked. I went to her bed, raised the pink bedspread and explored beneath the mattress with my hand. I found a small, black book with a lock on it, a diary. I wondered how old, or recent, it was.

  Do nineteen-year-old girl
s still keep diaries?

  I took the photo and the diary with me when I left the house. I left Hopkins’ key on the dining room table. I also took with me an uncomfortable feeling about Hopkins having a copy of that transcript, and what it had said about Brandy. I told myself that the charge of using sex was leveled against all female jockeys at one time or another during their careers.

  Outside I threw the black book into the back seat of my car and started to walk around to the other side to get in. I walked behind the car and suddenly heard an engine revving up from behind me. I turned in time to see a black sedan crossing the street from the opposite driveway, with the obvious intention of flattening me between it and the back of my car. I did the only thing I could think of doing at that moment. I jumped backwards, up onto the rear hood. When the front of the black sedan struck the impact threw me up into the air onto the top of my car and off the driver’s side. By the time I had regained my feet the other vehicle had backed out and sped down the street. It was too far away for me to catch the license plate, and I never did get a good look at the driver.

  Neither my car nor I seemed to be seriously hurt. The rear bumper guards on my ‘77 Chevy had kept it from being damaged, and I had landed on that part of my anatomy that was too hard to have been seriously affected. I had a cut on my head and no doubt would be sore tomorrow, but that seemed to be the extent of my injuries, for which I was very grateful.

  I saw no point in questioning the people in the house across the way. Obviously my assailant had simply chosen their driveway as a convenient place to lie in wait for me, hoping I would cross behind my car and not in front of it. Had I crossed in front he might have followed me further, waiting for another opportunity.

  I got into the car and waited for my hands to stop shaking before starting it up and pulling out of the driveway.

  Somebody felt I was getting close to something.

  I wished I knew what it was, if it had anything to do with Penny Hopkins, or something else entirely.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I’d only driven a short time when my back began to hurt, so when I crossed the Verrazano Bridge I went straight to Victory Memorial Hospital for a patch job on my head and a set of X-rays. The doctor said that it must have been a muscle spasm brought on by some kind of stress, and had I done anything lately that might have strained it? I told him I had taken a header down a flight of stairs, at which time I had also received the cut on my head. I left with a small bandage on my head and a few pain killers in case the spasm recurred. I also had the doctor’s assurance that there was no permanent damage — that he could see.