“I’ve already told you I can’t.”
“Then you must keep trying,” MacGruder said. “And don’t be fussy with your memories, Dave. Any one little thing, any small lead may show us the way into Jake West’s life.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
MacGruder got up wearily and shook my hand. He gave me his fatherly smile. “No hurry at all. But if you dig up anything, will you call me right away?”
“Don’t wait up for me,” I said. “It isn’t going to be easy.”
“All I ask is that you try.”
He walked to the bar and said a few words to Horace Edge. He drank another Coke and went out. Through the door, the dusk was falling and the shadows deepening under the maples on the lawn. MacGruder stepped into a police car and a uniformed cop drove him away. I watched the black sedan turn into the main road.
CHAPTER 5
My mind wandered on the road out there. My imagination took me back into the hours when Jake West was last seen alive. Here, here in this very room he had talked to Nickles Shuba and the mysterious girl. And afterwards, Jake West had walked back beyond the bar to the side entrance of the inn. He had driven down the gravel driveway. Where did he go? Why did he go? How often had he set out on his nocturnal trips?
I closed my eyes and blocked out the present. I voyaged down the long, dark road into the past, projecting myself into the earliest times with Uncle Jake. The track at Hunterton Farms, in Virginia sweet with the smell of growing things, bright with the cloudless days when I watched him train the pacers. The quick flood of impressions. The hearty meals around the big kitchen table. The good-natured spirit of the farmstead, alive with the activity of horse breeding and horse training.
“You Jake West’s boy, sonny?”
“He’s my uncle. My Uncle Jake.”
“Better watch out or he’ll make a sulky driver out of you.”
Up through the years into late adolescence, my memory took me, into the greater awareness of the broad scope of the harness racing business. Some day, I told myself, I would write about the wonders of this sport. Some day I would put into words my feeling for Jake West’s prowess in the sulky. We were like father and son, Jake and I. He tutored me in the elements of training. He showed me the intricacies of the jogging cart, teaching me patience and forbearance in the handling of the colts.
“Walk him slow and easy, Davey. He’s got his hopples on for the first time today.”
“Is this slow enough, Uncle Jake?”
“Gentle, sonny. That colt can’t move so fast.”
“But he seems to want to go faster.”
“He’s a baby, Davey. He’s only a baby and don’t know his own mind yet.”
Up through the brief but stirring trips to the county fairs; out into the whistle stops, the Main Street towns with the small white churches and the quick lunches at the lardy dog carts; into the soft loam tracks where the betting is done without benefit of pari-mutuel; over the length and breadth of the land wherever harness racing had an audience; the big meetings at Hollywood Park and Yonkers and Saratoga Springs and Long Island Raceway; the quaint stop-overs at Oxon Hill and Freehold and the green gem at Batavia. The big moments came when Jake West appeared on the track for the preliminary scores before his races. He would see me standing with a groom in the shadows at the paddock. He would signal me, a private and personal gesture; a flip of his cap as he sailed by the first time, a snap of his whip before he rounded the turn to take his place at the starting gate.
“Get him moving, Uncle Jake!”
“Don’t you worry none about Jake West, sonny. Just watch him drive that horse.”
“He’s back too far, Bob! He can’t do it!”
“Jake West, he ain’t never back too far, sonny!”
“He’s wide! He’s too wide in the stretch!”
“Watch that horse move, sonny! Ole Jake he saved him for the last brush!”
“Who’s that coming out, Bob? Who’s that?”
“It’s your Uncle Jake, sonny!”
“He’s coming on!”
“Coming on? Haw! He’s won it, sonny! Won it easy! Haw! Glad I put my deuce on that Jake West man!”
The lazy days and the quiet days in between meetings came back to me; rich in boyhood memories; trips and expeditions into the country surrounding the tracks where we stayed; hikes and explorations in caves and canyons, on beaches and lakes; the highlands and the shore. But these were not the fragments I sought. These times were too early in my companionship with Jake West. I needed the latter-day incidents, the events around the big cities when I was old enough to share the more sophisticated enjoyments with him, the sad days before I left him for the army.
Freehold came to my mind, a late night when he was rained out. I was on a furlough from an army camp nearby. The rain burst heavily in the first race, a downpour that earned rain checks for the fans. My spirits were low. This would be my last visit with Jake until I returned from Korea. He was aware of my sadness.
“How about living it up tonight, Davey? A night club?”
“Whatever you say, Uncle Jake.”
“Feel like driving?”
“Nothing I’d like better.”
“How about you driving us into town? I say you need some laughs. Let’s go get ’em!”
I drove into New York, enjoying the feel of his new convertible. New cars were a must with Jake West. He enjoyed trading them every year. He enjoyed selecting the latest styles, with the most modern conveniences. He enjoyed everything about a car but driving. On long trips, whenever he traveled between tracks, he always employed one of his grooms as chauffeur. He liked nothing better than the relaxation that a good car affords—when somebody else is the pilot.
I drove through the Holland Tunnel and up into the core of Greenwich Village. The club was called The Famous Cellar, an intimate type of den created to snare some of the trade that couldn’t afford the high-priced bistros. It featured a zany comedian and the appropriate chichi singer of songs; blue lyrics and a voice that did not push the tune, almost conversational and yet husky-throated and telegraphing sexiness. The crowd applauded politely, but the table chatter was a perpetual buzz, often higher and louder than the vague voice of the featured chanteuse.
I laughed politely at the young comic. Uncle Jake sat beside me, anxious to join me but finding it difficult to release his usual hearty chuckle. He was a misfit here. He seemed out of place, somehow, like a rube at a cocktail party. We were sitting in a dark corner of the place, despite the fact that there were many tables available close to the small square patch of dance floor. Uncle Jake fidgeted and fiddled with his glass. It would have been more enjoyable to sit with him in a beanery and say my goodbyes. Yet, I hesitated to move him. It would hurt him if I showed my boredom.
Instead, I wandered to the bar for a few sneak drinks, so that I could let myself go and ease the growing tension in me. I took a double jigger of Scotch quickly, standing far back in the shadows at the end of the bar so that he could not catch my subterfuge.
A blonde girl sat beside me in the gloom. I bought her a drink and she slid closer.
“You out to get drunk, soldier?”
“I’m halfway home, sister.”
“Midge. You can call me Midge.”
“You’re pretty, Midge.”
“Pretty what?”
“Pretty enough to wrap up and take home.”
Through the arch, Jake West sat in the far corner of the main room, where I left him. Behind him, to the right, the band blared and sweated. When Midge had her hand in mine, I saw Jake get up from the table and say a word to the waiter. The waiter leaned into him and exchanged a pantomime message, and after that my uncle sat again.
“Maybe somebody else has got me wrapped up for the night, soldier.”
“Maybe we can avoid him, Midge?”
&n
bsp; “It could be easy. You’re bigger than he is. But he’s tough.”
“Where is the lad?”
“He won’t be here for a half hour.”
“You don’t have to wait that long, Midge.”
“It’s an idea. I hate the sight of blood, soldier.”
The two stools were back in the corner now. We were on our third Scotch and she had nice smooth knees. She was wearing a dress that did fantastic things to her elegant torso. She didn’t mind me kissing her between the pauses in dialogue. Her lips were young and fresh and ripe. They would be riper as the evening wore on. I opened my eyes in time to see the figure of Jake West coming across the inside room, out through the arch. He paused in the lobby and fumbled for some change. He didn’t see me in the corner. He went at once to the telephone booth near the check room. Midge was saying things to me by way of her fingers in my open palm. The things she said moved me off the stool.
“Where you going, soldier?”
“I’ve got to see a man. But I’ll be back, Midge.”
“Make it quick, or you’ll meet my other date.”
“We’re leaving. Why don’t you powder your nose? I’ll meet you at the door.”
“Try and stop me, soldier boy.”
She snaked alongside me, across the lobby and past the phone booth, headed for the powder room. It became important to see Jake West. Right now, so that I could say my last goodbye. I headed for the phone booth. The door stood half ajar. Without wanting to overhear him in there, I caught his voice in a half whisper:
“Esther? Hello? Esther?”
I stepped away from the booth, back behind the edge of the lobby, feeling like a sneak, regretting the impulse that had brought me so close to his private life. But in the next moment, he came out and saw me. He was not surprised when Midge emerged to take her place beside me. He smiled and shook my hand, wished me luck.
The memory died as it had begun. It was a small and weak inconsequential sequence, out of the limbo of a thousand little incidents I must review and research from here on out. Was this the only time I had seen Jake West disturbed? Was this the only woman’s name he had ever mentioned?
I would have started back into the past again, but the figure of Horace Edge appeared at my table.
“How about another drink, Dave?”
“Not now,” I said. It was later than I thought. I got up and slipped him a bill and thanked him for his cooperation. “I just remembered an important date, Horace.”
“Too bad. I thought you’d be eating here.”
He escorted me to the door, anxious to show his friendliness. He held me there for a moment with unimportant chatter. He was not aware that he had a willing victim for his inconsequential verbiage. I was still moored to The Famous Cellar.
“Did Uncle Jake ever mention a lady friend?” I asked.
“Not a single time,” Edge confessed, “in all the years I knew him.”
“A woman named Esther?”
“No woman at all,” Edge said. “Funny, wasn’t it?”
CHAPTER 6
The mind of a writer operates out of a frenzied imagination. He plots as he moves. He projects himself into the protagonist’s role and dives into the continuity, the way I was headed now. The mystery of Nickles Shuba irked me. He was the key. He was the answer man. I saw him as the red herring character in this story, the frenetic will-o’-the-wisp who had vanished deliberately, to confuse and confound the pursuing hounds of the law. Once caught and sweated out under the police lights, Nickles Shuba might reveal some of the hidden facets of my uncle’s personality. Once cornered, Shuba would tell much about the mysterious goings on after last night’s incident at Horace Edge’s tavern. Where had Nickles Shuba gone after he left the Sulky Inn?
I questioned a fresh group of people at the track. I abandoned the stables and moved into the parking area. I went down the line among the parking attendants, some of them familiar to me out of the not too distant evenings when I had come here to watch my uncle race.
One of them recreated a small memory of Nickles Shuba.
“I saw Nickles.” he reported. “He crossed back to the special lot in there, you know, where the big shots park.”
Alongside the official buildings there was a small enclosure, reserved for the track higher-ups, special guests and visiting celebrities. The attendant and I strolled among the cars.
“What did Nickles do back here?” I asked.
“First thing he did was talk to Jake West.”
I held him there. Was he sure the man Nickles saw was Jake? The attendant was positive, Jake still walked the place in his driving regalia. Nobody could mistake his colors; green and orange. Nor could anybody miss Jake’s personal posture, his upright, military bearing.
“Jake talked to him a while,” the attendant went on thoughtfully. “Then Nickles walked back here among the cars again. I thought I saw him talking to Blackburn.”
“You thought?”
“I can’t be sure,” said the attendant. “But it could have been Blackburn. He was standing near one of the foreign jobs, one of the black sedans. A Daimler, I think. Blackburn has a Daimler.”
“We’ll find out,” I said.
I thanked him and moved down the line, ferreting for more information until dusk had begun to rim the edge of the big track. Then I abandoned my vague and aimless hunt and headed for the clubhouse.
Eustace Sayre Blackburn awaited me. He was a midget character, cordial and warm. He resembled an elf, pert and briskly efficient. He had a headful of white hair. He wore glasses of the gape and gawk variety. He looked like a vagrant professor on the loose from his college classes. He had a quick and whimsical smile, but beyond his, perpetual good humor, behind his puckish stare, you could feel his sharp brain working you over.
He snapped his fingers for a waiter and got me a drink at once. And just as quickly, he launched into the important subject.
“Jake West,” he said. “A wonderful man. Best driver in the business. Jake and I were like brothers. For over six years. I’m going to miss him. No need to tell you, Dave.”
“My uncle was very fond of you, too.”
“We were good friends.”
I listened politely. The clubhouse was almost empty. A few odd parties had begun the evening meal, toying with drinks and warming themselves for the races to come. The restaurant was small and intimate, a characteristic of the Long Island layout. The track had been built to promote coziness. And over the years, because of the affection of its patrons, Long Island Raceway became the most popular nighttime sporting place in the metropolitan area. Up here, in the privacy of the clubhouse, the favored customers, the owners and trainers and outside bigwigs, gathered to dine and dope the harness nags. I had been here before, years ago, on a night when Uncle Jake was busy only in the first race. We had sat together at an outside table, enjoying the bird’s-eye view of the picturesque oval. I fought to recreate the little memory. I struggled to remember whether Jake West had spoken overlong to anybody that night. But the picture told me that my memory was bad. I could recall only the fact that he seemed friendly with everybody in the restaurant. Everybody knew Jake West. But nobody seemed to know him intimately.
“Did you know Jake West away from the track?” I asked Blackburn.
The big eyes blinked. The smile remained. “Away? How do you mean?”
“Socially?”
“Well, no. No, I didn’t.”
“How about his friends?”
“He had many friends. Hundreds. A popular driver, Jake was.”
“I mean social friends,” I insisted. “Women friends.”
Blackburn held up a hand. “I wouldn’t know that, Dave. You’ve got me there. You might say our relationship was business only. Strictly business.”
“Then let’s talk about business.”
“F
ine. Jake West earned lots of money. Mostly from me. I can get you the accurate figure, if you want it.” Blackburn sought the accurate figure somewhere on the ceiling. He couldn’t find it up there. “He was one of the top six in the country. You knew that? It means he earned close to a hundred thousand a year. Big, big money.”
“What did he do with it?” I asked.
“Do with it? He saved it, I suppose. Jake was frugal enough. Not stingy. Not miserly. But he didn’t toss it away.”
“Neither did he save it.”
“What was that? Are you sure?”
“The police checked his affairs,” I said. “Jake West was almost broke when he died.”
“Impossible.” Blackburn drew back to show his surprise. Nothing could kill the pert little smile. Yet, he managed to register his shock. Smiling shock. “What did Jake do with it, for heaven’s Jake?”
“I thought you might know.”
“I?” He began to shake his white head doubtfully. “I wish I could help you, Dave. But Jake never shared his personal affairs with me. Shocking. Almost incredible to think he went through so much money. He must have invested it. Somehow. Jake West was an intelligent man. A shrewd man. And a good man.”
“Also, a man with a private life.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“And a private group of intimates,” I said. “So private that even you didn’t know any of them. Which carries me to another dead end, Mr. Blackburn. I thought I’d be able to open the door to his personal world, through you. I thought you might remember a few crumbs for me. There must have been times when you invited him to a party?”
Win, Place, and Die! Page 4
