The Disappearance of Penny

by Robert J. Randisi

  “You look, Spencer. Let’s stop going around in circles. There are a lot of loose ends coming together, and they’re starting to point directly at you.”

  “Me? What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “What happened to the accent?” I asked. He gave me a disgusted look and I continued. “First of all, Eddie Mapes was your regular rider until Danny Aiello arrived on the scene. That’s when you started squeezing Mapes out and easing Aiello in.”

  “Aiello’s is a damned talented rider,” he told me. “And everybody knows that Mapes was tailing off considerably.”

  “You mean, the word was going around that Mapes was losing it. If he heard it often enough, he might have started believing it himself. No, I think there was a campaign to convince Mapes, and everyone else, that he was on the downslide. Keep his mind off riding, that was Aiello’s part. In return, he’d be rewarded with live mounts — a lot of them from your barn.”

  “Why would anyone want to convince people that Mapes was losing his ability?” he asked.

  “I think Mapes wouldn’t play with a fixer, so the idea was to put him in a position where he would have to, or give up riding. Only thing was, there were still some trainers who believed in him. He rode one of their horses Sunday, in the stakes, and won when he was told to lose.”

  I paused a few beats, just for dramatic purposes.

  “They killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “Out-of-town talent. My guess is they were from Chicago.”

  He reacted to my mention of Chicago. His eyes got busy, roaming around the room.

  “One of your owners is from Chicago, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of,” he answered.

  “Sure, Angie DeLillo. He’s a big man in that town, isn’t he?”

  “Look, Po, if you think I’m involved — ”

  “Of course you are. Your assistant was the one giving Aiello instructions. I saw them together, just before and after he picked a fight with Mapes.”

  “Gordon?”

  “Where is Gordon, anyway? I’d like to meet him. He doesn’t seem to do much assisting — with horses, that is. I know of two jockeys who don’t even know his last name.” I meant Danny and Brandy. Apparently Gordon Brinks was around the track for purposes other than training.

  “Where’d Gordon come from?” I asked.

  “He came highly recommended,” Spencer claimed.

  “From Chicago?”

  “I think you had better leave. Mr. Po — ”

  “Was he sent by DeLillo, Spencer?”

  “Mr. Po, now I demand that you leave. You are questioning my integrity — ”

  “I’m questioning a lot more than your integrity, Mister. You’ve been in on this from the beginning, and it led up to Eddie’s murder. He was your main rider and you were taking away his livelihood. You passed the word to the other trainers that he was losing his skills. He was being pressured by a couple of thugs, badgered by Aiello, but he still wouldn’t give in. When he won a race he wasn’t supposed to he was killed by three men, one of whom got away after shooting me. Was the third man Gordon Brinks, Spencer?”

  “I never killed anyone.” He was starting to sweat, which was what I wanted. “It was — ”

  “It was who, Woody? Who gave the order to have Mapes killed? Was it DeLillo, or was it Donero? C’mon, Woody!”

  He looked very small, old and frightened, and the next moment I knew why the latter was true.

  “I gave the order, Po,” a voice said from behind me.

  I turned and saw a tall, dark, slim man with a short, fat ugly revolver. It was pointed right at me.

  “Gordon Brinks, I presume,” I said, calmly, much calmer than I felt. I was not used to having guns pointed at me. Last time I didn’t have time to be scared. Now I had all the time in the world and I was putting it to good use.

  Brinks was about thirty-five, with a smooth, totally unlined face, as if it were made of wax. He wore no particular expression, which enhanced that effect.

  He smiled at me now and said, “That’s as good a name as any,” and then the smile was gone. “Your friend Mapes got nosy, Po. Not only wouldn’t he play ball but he decided to play detective. He thought if he could get something on us, we’d have to lay off him.”

  “So you imported some talent and had him laid off, right?”

  “Clever with words, aren’t you?” he asked. He jerked the gun and my stomach jumped.

  “You know something, Po? I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for missing you that night.”

  I put my fingers to my head and told him, “Oh, you didn’t miss, pal, you were just a little to the right.”

  I was talking to try and keep my mind off the gun.

  If Brinks was the third man at that hotel the other night, then it was for sure that he was something other than an assistant trainer.

  “Do you even know anything about horses, Brinks?”

  “Actually, I could be a pretty good trainer, if my talents didn’t lie in other directions.”

  “Like murder?”

  “I-I never knew they’d murder anyone,” Spencer said at that point. He came around from behind his desk and moved alongside me.

  “I never knew you were going to — ” he started to say to Brinks.

  What happened next was Spencer’s fault for being such a small, light man. It was my only chance and I took it. I wanted to stay alive and, at that point, would have gladly traded his life for mine.

  In the end, we are all selfish creatures.

  I actually lifted Spencer up off the floor and threw him at Brinks. He crashed into his “assistant” and they both went through the door out into the gravel. The gun discharged and a bullet dug a hole in the ceiling and hid. I moved fast and drop-kicked the gun from Brinks’ hand. He got to his feet and took off.

  “Oh, shit,” I snapped. I had gone through this before with Aiello, and Brinks’ legs were a lot longer than the little jockey’s. I decided I needed some help.

  One of Spencer’s hotwalkers was walking a horse, cooling him out after his workout. I grabbed the reins from him, said, “Excuse me,” and jumped up on the horse.

  Have you ever tried to ride a horse bareback?

  It’s a good thing I didn’t have to ride him a long way, I would have fallen off ten times. Brinks was heading down the road toward the main gate and I aimed my mount — as best I could — in that direction. We made up the ground between him and us very quickly and I just kept on riding until my horse went right over him.

  Then I fell off.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I called Diver and Jackson from the security office, where I had two security men holding Spencer and Brinks.

  Diver got there first and came in the office demanding, “What the fuck is going on, Po? You were supposed to stay in touch with me, remember?”

  “I know, I know, but this was a hunch and I wanted to play it out first.”

  “Okay, what have we got?” he asked. His partner, Stapleton, took a seat in the comer and Diver stood in front of the desk, behind which I was seated. I had sent the girl on a coffee break.

  “Let’s wait for Jackson first. This is his territory.”

  “Has this got anything to do with the Hopkins girl?” he asked.

  “Mmm, probably more to do with the Mapes killing, I’d say, but you never know.”

  As if on cue, Jackson walked in. His partner, whose name I never heard, was behind him.

  “Po, I want to talk to you,” he almost shouted as he stormed in.

  He cooled off a bit when he saw the two Manhattan South Detectives there.

  “What’s going on, Diver?”

  Pointing to me Diver said, “It’s his show.”

  “Damn, Po — ” Jackson started again.

  “Easy,” I told him, “take it easy. This is the man who shot me the other night and got away, the third man who killed Eddie Mapes.”

  I was pointing at Gordo
n Brinks.

  “What?” Diver said. Stapleton sat forward in his chair. Jackson gave Brinks an appraising look and said, “Who is he?”

  “He says his name is Gordon Brinks. You could probably run his prints and find out who he really is. For the past few months he has been — or has been acting as — Woody Spencer’s assistant trainer.”

  “Who is Woody Spencer?” Diver asked.

  “That is,” I answered, pointing to Spencer, standing with the second security man. He hadn’t said a word since I threw him at Brinks. “He’s a top trainer in thoroughbred racing. I’ve recently learned that he trains horses for a man from Chicago, named DeLillo.”

  “Angie DeLillo?” Stapleton asked.

  “The same. It’s my guess DeLillo sent our friend, Brinks, here to set up a major ‘fixing’ operation. They were working on Eddie Mapes because he wouldn’t go along and, in fact, even started snooping around, trying to get something he could use to break up the operation. For that he got killed, by Brinks and the two out of towners.”

  “Can you prove that?” Diver asked.

  “I have a witness who heard him confess that he was at the scene of Mapes’ murder and did, in fact, shoot at me.”

  “You’re crazy,” Brinks finally spoke up.

  Stapleton got up and approached Brinks, then stomped on his right instep with the heel of his shoe. Brinks howled and hopped around for a few seconds, then maintained a seething silence.

  “Go ahead,” Stapleton told me, and returned to his chair.

  “Who’s the witness?” Diver asked.

  I pointed to what was now just a hunk of aging flesh and bones.

  “Spencer. He was in the room when Brinks told me that he was the one who shot me. I might add that Brinks was holding a gun on me at the time.” I opened the desk drawer and took out Spencer’s gun, a .45 automatic. “I think if you check this against the slugs you found in Mapes’ body you’ll find that they match nicely.”

  Jackson walked over to face Spencer and asked him, “Is that true?”

  Spencer raised his eyes and looked over at Brinks, who stared back coldly. Spencer’s career in racing was over, and he knew it. He looked over at me and I nodded, telling him that this was the only way to go.

  He looked at Jackson, then at the floor and finally said, “Yes, I’m a witness.”

  Stapleton got up again, approached Brinks and took out his cuffs.

  “You’re under arrest,” he told Brinks, put the cuffs on him and started reading him his rights.

  “You’re dead, old man,” Brinks told Spencer, and Stapleton, without pausing in his reading, again stomped on Brinks’ foot.

  “Would you hold him outside, please?” he asked the security man.

  Diver came over to me and asked, “Who was behind the whole thing, Hank?”

  I shrugged. “It would seem to be DeLillo, but Donero has to be in on it.”

  “Donero? He’s inside.”

  “So, who’d expect him to start setting up a major operation while he was inside?” I asked him.

  “I guess nobody would. How can we connect him, though?”

  “We don’t, you do. I’m finished. As far as I’m concerned we’ve got the three guys who killed Eddie. You run this guy’s prints and come up with his name, maybe you can connect him with Donero.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “That one I’m not done with.” I looked at my watch and saw that it was twelve-fifteen. I had forty-five minutes to get to the track in Long Island for my meeting with Melendez.

  “Got a date?” he asked.

  He caught me and I jerked my arm down.

  “No, a hot tip on a horse in the first race. I’ll see you later.”

  “I need you to make a statement,” he told me.

  “I’ll be along,” I promised.

  “Sure,” I heard him behind me. “Sure you will.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The drive from Staten Island to Long Island took thirty-five minutes.

  The Long Island track, although no longer in use, was still the property of the N.Y.S.R.C., and they maintained a skeleton security crew on duty there. I showed them my ID and was admitted. Louie must have known another way to get in without being detected, which really wasn’t unusual. There are usually ways of getting into ballparks, racetracks and such without paying and without getting caught.

  I walked into the clubhouse and climbed the steps of the unmoving escalator. Out of habit I used the one that would normally have been going up.

  Louie hadn’t said what floor to meet him on, so I intended to wander around a bit. The second and third floors were much more spacious than the fourth. They were all enclosed in glass because winter racing had first been introduced here, and it was necessary to keep the bettors warm no matter how cold it was outside.

  I made my way up to the fourth floor and looked out the windows at the track below.

  He was on the track, obviously waiting for me to show myself in the window because as I did he began to wave. I waved back to show him that I saw him.

  I worked my way back down to the track figuring that he had probably wanted to make sure I had come alone. He allowed me to go all the way to the top level, then put himself where I couldn’t miss him once I looked out.

  Right at the finish line.

  What if I hadn’t looked out the window? Then again, that’s a conditioned reflex in people. You see a window, you naturally look out.

  I walked through the grandstand area and stopped at the rail at the finish line. He remained at the rail directly opposite.

  “Meester Po?” he called out.

  “That’s right.”

  “You have identification?”

  I reached into my pocket, took out my wallet and threw it across to him. He reached for it, but it struck him in the chest and fell to the ground. He picked it up, inspected my ID, then walked across the track and handed it back to me.

  “I need help, Meester Po,” he told me.

  “That’s the message I’ve been trying to get to you, Louis. You didn’t kill Penny, did you?”

  He shook his head violently, so much so that I thought it might fall off.

  “I am not kill Penny, Mr. Po. I am in love with her.”

  My next question was delicate.

  “Excuse me, Louis. I don’t wish to offend you, but aren’t you a homosexual?”

  “I am a bisexual,” he corrected me, which made his relationship with Penny a bit more understandable. “Penny, she’s say that it’s no matter to her.”

  “You slept with her?”

  He nodded.

  “Before she disappeared?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Before she is die.”

  “Louis, do you know who killed her?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Louis,” I prompted.

  “I am not kill her, Mr. Po. You will tell this to police, please?”

  “I can tell them, Louis, but how do I prove it to them? If you know who killed her, you had better tell me.”

  Again he wouldn’t answer.

  “Louis, where is your gun?” I asked, switching tactics. “The thirty-eight?”

  “Is gone.”

  “Where? C’mon, Louis, you’re a marksman, you wouldn’t just throw your gun away. Where is it?”

  He put his hand on his hip, over his jacket, and said, “Is here.”

  “Is that the gun that killed Penny?”

  He began to cry.

  “Give it to me, Louis,” I told him, putting out my hand.

  He took a step backward and put his hand inside his jacket. It was the second time that day I was sorry I had left my gun home.

  I waited to see what he was going to do.

  He brought his hand out slowly, holding the gun, and he stared at it.

  “I am once think they are beautiful. Now, I am think they are ugly,” he finished, handing it to me.

  “They kill,” he added.

  “Not u
nless somebody pulls the trigger, Louis,” I told him. “Who pulled it, Louis? Tell me.”

  He stayed quiet.

  “I think I already know, Louis. Suppose I tell you what happened, and you tell me if I’m right. Okay?”

  He was about to answer me when something he saw behind me surprised and frightened him.

  “You lied!” he shouted at me. “You bring police!”

  I turned around and sure enough, I saw Diver, Stapleton, Jackson and about four uniformed police officers approaching us.

  I turned back to Louis to try and deny that I’d brought them.

  “Louie, I swear, I didn’t — ”

  “You lied!” he shouted again and lunged for the gun in my hand. I pulled it away in time and he missed. Instead of trying for it again he turned and started running up the track.

  “Oh, shit, not again,” I said aloud.

  “Melendez,” Diver yelled, “Melendez, this is the police! Stop right there!”

  “Louie, come back!” I shouted.

  Diver stopped alongside me and one of the uniformed officers came to my other side. The jerk had his gun out.

  “Oh, shit, don’t shoot him,” I told the guy. “Where the hell can he go?”

  The cop threw me a dirty look and kept his gun in his hand.

  Diver saw what I was referring to and snapped, “Put that damned thing away. Go out there and catch him. The rest of you, c’mon, go get him and bring him back.”

  Stapleton and Jackson stopped at the rail while the four officers vaulted it and took off after Louie.

  “Thanks for keeping in touch,” Diver said sarcastically. “Was this another of your famous hunches?”

  “I promised him I’d come alone,” I told him. I pointed to the six furlong pole and told Diver, “I’ll bet you he gets to that pole before they catch him.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “Odds?”

  I shook my head. “Even money.”

  “That’s what gave you away, you know,” he told me.

  “What?”

  “When I asked you if you had a date, you said you had a hot tip on a horse. You don’t bet tips, that’s when I knew you were up to something.”

  “We have a bet?” I asked.

  “You don’t — ”