The room I’m left in is cluttered with small piles of clothing, an opened but unmade Murphy bed, stacks of magazines, a desk computer whose screen frame is littered with decals and Post-it notes.
I am suddenly thinking: Who is this woman and what has she become to me? A friend? Of course. A sister? Somewhat. A daughter? Absurd. A woman who might be my lover? No answer to that one. More “no” than “yes.” But maybe not.
I walk to the bathroom door. I hear the shower. Somehow the mere sound of the shower water raining down helps soothe me also.
I do not believe that time heals everything, but in this case, this time…I so very much hope and pray that it will. This is not just anybody in my life. This is Katherine.
Chapter 32
I stay the night.
K. Burke and I drink our glasses of scotch. She lies down on the “always-down” Murphy bed. I retreat to the green Barcalounger, which, I discover, is both incredibly ugly and incredibly comfortable.
When Detective Burke finishes her drink she holds out her glass. I move to the tiny kitchen area to pour more scotch. I’m gone maybe thirty seconds, but K. Burke is sound asleep when I get back.
I remove my shoes, my socks, my shirt.
I do not remember falling asleep. But I certainly do remember being awakened by the buzzing of my cell phone. I am not exactly surprised by the caller.
“Luc, as always we call at the most inconvenient time. It is me, Nicolas.” I glance quickly at the Felix the Cat clock on Burke’s wall and see that it is ten minutes after three in the morning.
“Wait just one moment,” I whisper. I take the phone into the bathroom and close the door so not to wake K. Burke. I still keep my voice low.
“Yes, yes. What is the problem?” I ask.
“It is the same. Only different. We are here in New York City, as you know, of course, for the upcoming Belmont. We are at the St. Regis, and…all of this is très mal…this…” he begins. I want to scream “Get to the point.” Then mercifully, the inevitable occurs: I hear Marguerite say, “Donne-moi le téléphone, Nicolas.” And Nicolas gives Marguerite the telephone. She begins talking.
“Luc, do you know what the time of day is?” she says.
Oh, shit. Is she going to be polite and long-winded also?
But I stay cool. Instead of saying, “Of course I know what the goddamn time is,” I say, “Yes. Tell me the problem.”
“There was a phone call from the lobby desk. Just a few minutes ago. The man at the desk said that there was a delivery for us. He said that the deliveryman insisted it be brought up to the room immediately. We are, you know, traveling without a maid or a secretary. So Nicolas answered the door buzzer and…Voilà!” She pauses.
This time I do not edit or censor my reaction.
“What was it, goddamnit?”
“An extraordinary wreath of roses. Hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds. Just like the roses we previously received.”
“A card? A message?”
“Yes. I shall read it to you,” she says. “‘Lose at Belmont. Or suffer the consequences.’”
I am silent. I am thinking. Then I say: “But of course. In the past they have delivered the roses at the victory party. This time they are certain that there will be no victory party.”
Silence. Then Marguerite’s voice again on the phone.
“Luc, are you still there?”
“Yes,” I say. But I’m not completely there. My brain is traveling—filtering and sorting and clicking away. But it clicks slowly. I am weary from lack of sleep. My skin is wet with sweat. My eyes burn. My instincts fail to bring cohesion to my brain.
Marguerite’s voice is just short of frantic. “What should we do, Luc?”
“Go back to bed. Try to sleep. I shall stop by your suite at 9 a.m.”
“Is there nothing else for us to do until then?” she asks.
“Yes. There is one thing.”
“Of course,” says Marguerite.
“Order coffee and croissants for a nine o’clock room service, and tell them to make certain that the coffee is very strong and the croissants are very flaky.”
Chapter 33
I do not fall back to sleep. K. Burke, however, sleeps soundly. Indeed, she is still sleeping when I leave her apartment at 7 a.m.
Back at my own place, a shower, a shave, fifteen minutes in the sauna, another shower, and then a phone call to Jimmy Kocot, the man who is known as “Bookie to the Stars.” He is so named because he does not accept bets below a thousand dollars. Further, he does not necessarily accept your bet if he does not personally care for the person placing the bet. How do I know all this? Via the recommendation of Inspector Elliott.
Yes, I know. Amazing. My police boss recommended my bookie. Here’s how: Approximately one year ago I told Nick Elliott that I had a good friend who was competing in a—don’t think me too foppish—cribbage tournament in Lyon. Because there was a one-day electronics strike in France I could not get through online or by phone to place a “win” on my friend.
Inspector Elliott said that he sometimes used a bookie (“Betting isn’t really betting unless you can bet odds,” he said, by way of explanation of his own breaking of the law). And so I spoke with Jimmy Kocot. I bet five thousand euros on my friend Pierre Settel. And so I lost five thousand euros.
“So, you got another frog buddy in a cribbage match, Mr. Moncrief?” Jimmy asks this morning when I call.
“No. I’m interested in the Belmont Stakes,” I say.
“So’s everyone else,” he says.
“A great deal of wagering?” I ask.
“A very great deal,” he says.
“What sort of odds are you giving on Garçon?”
“I’m not. The smart money is on Millie’s Baby Boy and Rufus. They’re both three-to-one to win. My clients are not keen on Garçon. I couldn’t tell you why.”
“No idea?” I ask.
“No. I’ve got no clue. But the other two nags are coming in, like I say, three-to-one for winning.”
“And nothing new to cause this change?” I ask.
There is a pause. When Jimmy speaks again his voice is quieter, intimate, almost a whisper.
“Two guys told me the horse has a sesamoid fracture. That’s the bones down around…”
I finish his sentence, “…the ankles.”
“Ridiculous,” I say. “I’m going with Garçon. I know the owners, and they’ve told me nothing,” I say.
“Whatever you want. I make my money either way. If you’d rather listen to those two old French people instead of me, it’s your loss.” He says it as a joke, but there is a note of malice in the joke.
“In any event, what are the odds on Garçon?”
“I’ve got him at seven-to-one.”
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“You say you don’t know any inside stuff, but I’m sure you know stuff that I don’t know,” says Jimmy Kocot, Bookie to the Stars. “Anyway, how much you betting?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“You want to tell me that one more time?”
“I think you heard me.”
“You doing a group bet, huh?”
“No. It’s all mine.”
“Fifty is a mighty big bet, even for me. How are you covering it? You know I can only do cash.”
“You’ll have it in less than a minute. I’ll wire it to you right now.”
Jimmy and I say our good-byes. I punch in the codes and numbers that deliver fifty thousand to a site called starsbook472ko.com.
Chapter 34
An hour later, perfect luxury is on perfect display in the Savatiers’ suite at the St. Regis on East 55th Street.
The elderly couple is, of course, dressed elegantly, Marguerite in a simple white suit with navy-blue piping, as if she had stepped out of a Chanel showroom in 1955. Nicolas in a dark-gray suit with a vest, a wide red silk tie with a diamond pin.
A waiter and waitress are pouring coffee into the exquisite St. Reg
is china cups—cups and plates that ironically are designed with a delicate border of roses.
Nicolas quickly reminds me that there are real and dangerous roses to deal with. “The floral arrangement is in the bedroom,” says Nicolas.
I step into the adjoining bedroom—the beds are already made, the carpet already vacuumed. I check this arrangement of roses against the photographs from the Derby and the Preakness on my phone. Indeed, all three arrangements are identical.
When I return to the living room Marguerite thrusts the accompanying note toward me. A quick glance verifies that the request is to “Lose the Belmont.” All I can do is read it and nod.
“Your croissants are getting cold, Luc,” says Nicolas. There is a teasing smile on his face.
“My husband is not nearly so nervous as I am,” says Marguerite, as we all sit down at the breakfast table.
“I am nervous, of course,” explains Nicolas. “But what can happen to us? What are these ‘consequences’ we will suffer should we actually win—not lose—the Belmont tomorrow? Will they shoot us? So what? We will have won the Triple Crown. We have lived long and happy lives. People have died in far worse circumstances.”
Marguerite sighs.
“No one loves her horses as much as I do, but I am not sure that I am willing to die for a horse race.”
“Let me ask,” I say. “Have you been in touch with the trainers and Belmont management about Garçon’s health?”
“Of course, we speak to the head trainer every few hours. And our jockey Armand calls constantly…” begins Nicolas.
“He calls almost too often,” Marguerite adds with a tiny laugh.
Nicolas: “And he is nervous but very optimistic about Saturday’s race.”
I am not surprised by this information. These trainers and Armand Joscoe have been with the Savatiers and their horses for many years. I nod, and then I take a big gulp of my coffee. I break off a crisp end piece from my croissant.
“Please, Luc. Tell us. What should we do?”
“First, we should finish our petit déjeuner. Then we should proceed as if all circumstances are normal. We will drive out to Long Island and watch Garçon go through his paces. Then we can decide what to do.”
“Just one more question,” says Nicolas.
“And that is?”
“Where is the delightful Mademoiselle Burke?”
“Merci,” I say. “How could I forget about her?” I click the contact list on my cell phone and call K. Burke.
“Where are you, Moncrief?” comes the very grumpy, very sleepy voice of K. Burke.
“I am at breakfast with the Savatiers, downtown. You must brush your teeth and comb your hair. Put on your clothing and put on a smiling, happy face. The Savatiers and I will come fetch you in less than fifteen minutes.”
“No way that I can…”
“We are on our way out to Belmont,” I say.
“I don’t know, Moncrief. I don’t think I can.”
“Please, K. Burke. Life goes on. Today is a day for working.”
Chapter 35
Belmont.
The day before the race.
The Mercedes SUV that carries Marguerite and Nicolas Savatier, K. Burke, and myself is allowed through three different gates. At the last gate hangs an enormous red-lettered sign:
WARNING: TRACK OFFICIALS, OWNERS, AND EMPLOYEES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.
As we pass through, Marguerite says, “Now that is a sign to warm the heart of a frightened old lady.”
I nod, but I am more taken with the exceptional beauty of Belmont racetrack—the hundreds of yards of lush ivy blanketing the walls, the freshly painted blue and white grandstand. Men and women in police uniform, men and women in official Belmont Park uniforms nod at us as we pass. The skies are cloudless and clear.
As we walk toward the stables I say, “The weather is a perfect seventy-seven degrees.”
K. Burke catches sight of Nicolas’s puzzled look and translates. “Seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit is equal to about twenty-five degrees Celsius.”
“Merci,” says Nicolas. “I am afraid our beloved young friend Luc has become transformed very much into the red-blooded American.”
At the stable the Savatiers move as quickly as they are able toward Garçon. They stroke the horse’s back. Nicolas looks into the horse’s eyes.
There is a great deal of embracing and cheek-kissing between the Savatiers and the jockey, Armand Joscoe; between the Savatiers and le docteur Follderani, the vet that they’ve imported from France. Then begins the hugging and kissing between the owners and the trainers and the groomers. Finally, I receive a warm embrace from the jockey’s tall son, Léon Joscoe. He looks very satisfied.
“Good to see you again, Léon,” I say.
“And I’m tremendously happy to see you again, Monsieur Moncrief. It’s been quite a ride for my father and me.”
Now we have a great crowd of Frenchmen, all babbling excitedly at once. Actually a lovely occasion. Voices overlapping. Nervous laughter. Marguerite raises her voice; very unusual. Nicolas’s eyes tear up; even more unusual.
K. Burke looks at me and says, “Okay. You win, Moncrief. I do speak French. But these folks are going way too fast for me. I don’t understand very much.”
“I assure you, it doesn’t even make much sense to me.”
Burke and I walk a few yards away from the small crowd of Frenchmen.
“So, we are alone for a moment. I am anxious to know: how are you feeling, K. Burke?” I ask.
“Not terrible,” she says.
“Not terrible. Ah, compared to last night that is wonderful.”
“And by the way,” she says softly, “Thank you for helping me.”
My voice now turns serious, a shift from banter between good friends.
“You shall feel even better in a very short while. I have deduced who it is that is threatening the Savatiers with the grotesque notes.”
“You know who is…?” she begins. But I keep talking.
“Ah, oui. This must be the same person who murdered the training horse. The same person who has stolen all the joy and luster from winning the races. But that person is now done for.”
“Who is it, Moncrief? How did you…”
“In a moment,” I say. We move back near the French group.
I interrupt, but my voice has a genuine smile in it.
“Please, I must ask a favor of all of you: if you speak only French, please speak slowly. Better yet, if you can speak reasonable English, please try to do so. It would be helpful to all the Americans.”
With a laugh Nicolas says, “Because English is the official language not only of our new American friend, Katherine Burke…but now it has also become the official language of our old American friend, Luc Moncrief.”
Most of the crowd laughs.
Armand Joscoe, usually a quiet, shy man, says, “It is for me not much English. So I speak not much. But Léon speaks so good English. He will have to translate for me.”
Almost everyone looks in the direction of Léon, who is fiercely tapping keys on his cell phone.
A sparse round of applause. Spirits are high. Nicolas shouts out, “Léon! Ah! Quel bon garçon! Such a good boy!”
Léon looks surprised at the sound of his name echoing through the stable. He looks up at the gathering. A moment of confusion on his face. I walk toward him slowly, without threat.
Léon speaks. His voice is thick with the nasal sounds of French pronunciation.
“Mon papa, he is very not correct. Very bad I am with the English,” says Léon with the forced trace of a smile.
“I’m surprised to hear you say that. You spoke such fine English when I first came in. To quote, ‘I’m tremendously happy’ and ‘It’s been quite a ride.’ Now that’s impressive, excellent…impeccable English, each word used properly, spoken properly.”
At first it seems as if he’s going to remain silent. But he’s a smart lad. Smart enough to trust his own brain. He spe
aks.
“You know how, monsieur, in the classes of English they teach first the American conversational English. The idiom expressions. Oui. It is a challenge they teach me good.”
I interrupt.
“Did they teach you to say ‘I’d like to bet ten grand on Rufus’ or ‘I’d like to place twenty thousand on Millie’s Baby Boy’? How did you learn that?”
He is now a frightened little boy.
I snatch the phone from his hand. I find the last message sent and I read out loud the recipient: “starsbook472ko.com.”
Then, holding the phone above my head, I say to the crowd, “It appears that Léon and I use the same bookie. Only this time Léon is betting against the horse his father rides.”
I hand the cell phone to K. Burke. She looks at the screen and shakes her head.
“Jesus Christ!” she says. “Who would have thought?”
I move in, close to Léon. Then I speak. Directly to Léon.
“First, you thought you’d spread a rumor to get longer odds on Garçon. But you realized you stood to earn more from sabotaging and betting against the expected winners. How could you do this? To your father? To the Savatiers? How could you hurt and betray the best people in your life?”
K. Burke gets it, too. Her mind works fast.
“You needed the money, Léon, didn’t you?” I say.
Burke begins explaining—in French—to Armand Joscoe and Madame and Monsieur Savatier what has happened.
Léon is the person who sent the threats and the arrangements of roses to Marguerite. Who murdered the training horse. That Léon threatened the Savatiers and told them to order his father to lose.
“Léon would make a fortune if Garçon lost this race,” I add. “Though he wanted Garçon to win the Preakness—and knew he could, due to his father, since Garçon runs very well in mud—so that the bets would be sky-high for this final race in the Triple Crown.”
The Savatiers’ faces are saturated with shock, horror, and confusion. How could such a thing be? How could someone so close to them execute a scheme so hideous? They simply don’t understand such an evil world.
French Twist Page 9
