"I wonder where Pete is?" Vera asked.
Vera was the tomato on my left, and I had to reach way down to put my arm around her. She was only five feet tall, but that still made her a head taller than Pete Pedro Ramirez, her husband. He was one of the season's leading riders at the Hipodromo, even though he was still an apprentice.
"He'll be here in a minute, Vera," I said.
He was a few minutes late, and we were to meet him here and wish him luck. Pete was riding Jetboy, the solid favorite in the fifth race coming up, and it was a big race for him. He'd started the day with a total of thirty-eight wins behind him and won the second race. One more winner and he'd lose his "bug," his apprentice's two-kilo weight allowance, and become a full-fledged jockey. It was important in another way, too. He was supposed to throw the race.
Elena Angel squeezed my right arm. "Here he comes, Shell."
For a moment, I just enjoyed the squeeze. This Elena was married to nobody and that pleased me hugely. She was tall, black-haired, with creamy skin and what I thought of simply as "Mexican" eyes. Dark eyes; soft, big, shadowed eyes with both the question and the answer in them. And her body could best be described with words that are pornographic.
I gave Elena a squeeze to make us even — actually, that particular squeeze put me way ahead — and looked to my left. I could see Pete walking toward us fast from the jockeys' room, practically sprinting. I always got a kick out of him when he was in a hurry — unless he was on a horse. He was only about four feet tall, wiry, a man of twenty-four who still looked like a kid — kid who'd haul off and slug you in the knee if you cracked wrong.
When he got close, I said, "Hi, champ. I'm sinking the roll this trip."
He grinned, jaws working while he flashed white teeth. Pete was nervous, high-strung as a thoroughbred, and he constantly chewed little candy-coated Chiclets.
"Sí," he said. "You sink it all, Shell. This one is a shoo-in. This one, I lose the bug for sure."
He spit out his gum and fished in his pocket for the pack, shook two white Chiclets out into his small palm. "Dio, they go fast," he said in surprise. "I thought I had a full box." He shrugged. "Gum?" He tossed one cube into his mouth and held out his hand.
The girls didn't chew. I took the gum, started to pop it into my mouth, and stopped when I saw Pete's face. I'd just noticed that his lips were puffed and the side of his jaw was swollen.
"What happened, Pete?" I asked. "You kiss a horse?"
He stopped grinning. "I kiss a fist. Jimmy Rath's." He saw the hot anger boil up in me at mention of the name, and he added, "I fix him. Don't worry. Sometime I fix him with a baseball bat. Anyway, I fix him good when I boot Jetboy in."
I looked toward the oval walking ring. Jimmy Rath was there with another guy about my size. I took a step toward them, but Elena and Vera both hung onto my arms and Pete said, "Relax, Shell. So what do we prove this way? When I boot this one home, I'm through for the day. I come up to your table, and you can stand right behind me when I spit in his eye. I don't need no bodyguard. Anyway, Rath's just Hammond's stooge. Hammond, he's back of it."
I knew what Pete meant. We both knew it, and everybody knew it, but proving it was another thing. When Cookie Martini sent me down here he'd given me a letter to Pete, and Cookie told me he'd checked and there wasn't a more honest jock in the business than Pete Ramirez. I'd watched Pete race Sunday, and met him afterwards. I told him what I was here for, laid it on the line. Pete was, if anything, more interested in cleaning up any mess here than I was. Like a lot of Mexican kids born in the poor outlying states, he'd had it tough as a kid. Now he was a jockey starting to make the grade and dream the big dream: a fine house, clothes — and a hundred pairs of shoes. Racing was his job, the center of his dream. Pete wanted it to be clean, and let the best man win.
And, Pete said, jocks were throwing races. He couldn't prove it but he knew it was happening because he could ride alongside the other jocks and see them pulling leather, holding their mounts back. Sometimes owners gave their jocks instructions that their horse wasn't to finish in the money, but Pete said this other thing was different; it happened too often, to the wrong horses. And Pete had heard soft talk, rumors of fixes and payoffs and threats against jocks who weren't supposed to win. Almost always it was the favorite supposed to lose, and a longshot that actually won.
Pete had nosed around, questioned the other jocks; I'd done a pile of routine legwork in Mexico City, checking the books I could find, talking to horse-players, trying to get a lead to who was putting the fixes in. The picture was pretty conclusive: at the top was a fat guy named Arthur Hammond whom everybody seemed to be scared of. He was from the States, had once been a trainer, but was ruled off the tracks for life because of shady practices. His retinue was a little mug named Jimmy Rath, and usually a couple of heavies. Hammond occupied the same table at the track every day. He'd been in a few scraps with the local cops, but never went to jail, mainly because he was "like that" with a Mexican biggie named Valdez. Valdez wasn't a politico, but he had almost as much behind-the-scenes power as the President. And Valdez always helped his pals. Always.
Jimmy Rath had got Pete alone yesterday and told him to lose the fifth race today, Thursday, for ten thousand pesos. Pete laughed at him and walked away, reporting the bribe offer to the Racing Commission and later to me. There were no witnesses or corroboration, and consequently no proof. Apparently Rath had just now made his offer again, a little differently.
I asked Pete, "When did this happen? Anybody see it?"
"No, no, of course not. He send me over to the tack room after the fourth, and boosted the ante to fifteen thousand. Then he say I either lose or get taken care of. I told him to go — well, you know. That's when he hit me, and when I wake up, he's gone."
Elena said angrily, "They ought to do something about that Rath."
"Yeah." As far as I was concerned, the "they" was rapidly becoming me. My fingers were sticky; I realized I still held the Chiclet in my sweaty hand, and the sugary coating was getting slippery. I stuck the gum into my coat pocket and looked toward the walking ring. Rath wasn't there. I knew where he probably was; with Hammond and two other bruisers upstairs.
In a few minutes Pete left to weigh in, and the three of us went back upstairs to our table high in the stands overlooking the beautiful oval track bordered by trees, the green lawn cool inside it. A hundred conversations swelled around us, and a constant stream of men and women wound in and out of the tables. It was pleasant and lovely, but mainly I was looking at four men seated a few tables away from us.
Jimmy Rath was there with two bruisers — and Hammond, a thick bulge of fat puffing over his collar. Rath's sitting at the same table was proof enough that Hammond was the boy fixing the races, as far as I was concerned. The Racing Commission and the cops felt differently. And it would take more than hunches to get Hammond because of his pal Valdez.
Suddenly I stopped paying any attention to Hammond. Something was moving on my leg, slowly, suggestively. Elena and I sat close together facing the track, and her hand was resting just above my knee, caressing me gently.
I turned and looked at her face close to mine, looked at the rest of her. She was wearing a gray skirt and a pink sweater that covered her up completely, but was still very nearly indecent. A shroud on that body would have looked indecent.
"Cuidado!" I said. "Be careful, baby. Two seconds and another inch, and I'll go screeching around the track with the horses."
She smiled, wiggled long lashes. My spine wiggled. "I will be careless," she said. "You do not look enough at me." Her hand moved. I moved. I had never been alone with Elena since Pete introduced us, but I knew if I ever was, there'd be plenty happening.
I put my hand over hers and said, "Honey, you want me to fall down frothing?"
"Yes," she said. Then: "What is frothing?"
The question was gone from her eyes now; only the answer was there. I started to tell her a terrible lie about what frothing meant, bu
t right then the high, fast notes of the bugle sounded, and the announcer said the horses were coming onto the track for the Quinta Carrera, the fifth race.
Elena took her hand away, and I put it back; then the horses were passing in front of us. I saw Pete in bright red-and-white silks up on Jetboy, a black five-year-old gelding with clean, graceful lines. I expected Pete to look up and nod or wave, but he went right on past, head slightly bent.
I realized I didn't have a bet down on Jetboy, so I went down to the window and bought two fifty-peso win tickets. Jetboy was one to two, the odds-on favorite. By the time I'd reached the table again, the race had already started. I sat down beside Elena, stuck the two tickets into my pocket and my fingers hit the sticky gum.
I pulled it out and started to throw it away. Then I noticed that the white coating had melted and there was what appeared to be a hole pushed into the gum. I squinted at it, spread the thing with my fingernails. There was a hole all right, with a white powdery stuff inside it. It hit me all at once, and I jumped to my feet just as the crowd did, except that they were yelling about the race.
The horses were charging down the far side of the track, opposite the stands, and Jetboy trailed the fifth place horse by four lengths. Usually Pete stayed closer than that, but he wasn't riding as smoothly as he usually did. I knew damn well why, and my heart jumped up into my mouth as he started his move on the last turn. The crowd was jumping up and down as Jetboy reached the fourth spot close behind the bunched leaders. I watched Pete slumped over the saddle, riding sloppily, not like a kid with thirty-nine winners behind him — and then he tried to go through on the inside, and I bunched my hands into tight fists and almost squeezed my eyes shut. He couldn't make it; there wasn't room and I knew he couldn't make it. I was yelling at the top of my lungs as I saw Jetboy practically brushing the hard, sharp wooden rail. The whip came down again, and it all happened in a second.
Jetboy leaped forward, running up on the heels of the horse ahead, and stumbled and fell. I saw Pete hurtle through the air like a bundle of rags, slam into the rail — and in the sudden shocked silence of the crowd I thought I could hear him hit. He fell to the dirt track, rolled and lay still as the other horse sprinted down toward the finish line. Jetboy struggled up and galloped away.
I heard Vera's piercing scream, and then intuitively, I looked toward Hammond's table. He was watching the finish of the race, more interested in that than in Pete's crumpled body.
I snapped out of it, whirled and ran down the steps, sprinting toward the track. By the time I reached the rail, the huddle of doctors and officials cleared away, and Pete was lying there with a white sheet over his body and head, and there was nothing else I could do — except break Hammond in two. Clear down the middle.
I ran back up the steps, the fury hot in me now, my hands itching. I saw Vera lying in a faint at our table, Elena bending over her. I didn't stop. I walked straight to Hammond's table.
None of the men looked up until I stopped alongside them. Hammond was on my right, facing the track. Opposite me and on my left were the two musclemen, and Rath sat with his back to me. I could feel the muscles around my mouth twitching.
I put my palms flat down on the table and Hammond glanced up, his fat pink face gleaming slightly with perspiration, thick lips dry. "Yeah?" he asked.
"Don't 'yeah' me, you fat bastard," I shouted.
There was a slight movement behind me. I reached out without turning, slapping Rath backhanded and knocking him out of his chair. His head cracked against the iron rail, and he let out a yell and started to jump up.
"Wait a minute," Hammond said. "Wait a minute. What's this all about?"
"You don't know, huh, Hammond? You haven't the faintest idea!"
An empty glass in front of Hammond held several colored tickets. His program was open in front of him, Number 2 circled — a horse named Ladkin. I looked at the tote board where the winning numbers were already lighted under the oficial sign: 2, 3, 6, 1; Ladkin was the winner at fourteen to one. Another sleeper. Hammond didn't stop me as I picked up the glass and dumped out his tickets.
There were twenty fifty-peso win tickets on Number 3, and ten win tickets on Number 4. Nothing on the winner. For a few seconds it puzzled me, but only for a few seconds. Those heavy bets were enough to push the odds on Ladkin up to fourteen to one.
"Hammond," I said, "you usually bet two horses to win in the same race? A question, fat boy."
His pink face grew pinker and for the first time he got nasty. He leaned toward me, his face angry. "Give a listen, Scott. I heard all I care to hear right now. I know you been poking your ugly nose in the wrong holes, you hear me? You keep it up, you never will get stateside."
"It isn't just a fixed race now, fat boy. It's murder."
"Murder, my backside! The kid made a bad ride, that's all. Everybody makes a bad ride every now . . ."
I didn't wait for more. Half a dozen partly filled plates of food were on the table, and some highballs. I lifted the edge of the table and the whole goddam mess against Hammond's belly. He tried to scoot back, but the plates and glasses slid off the table as it hit him, and food and liquor smeared his tan suit. The big goon on my left reached for me, but I was more concerned about Rath. His right hand jerked under his coat but before he had a chance to get whatever he was reaching for, I hit him with the side of my hand, hard on his right shoulder. He yelled like a madman, his fingers spreading wide in pain, and then Hammond shouted, "Hold it! Rath! Kelly! Knock it off. Quick."
I'd thought we were going to have a real knockdown brawl right there, but Hammond apparently didn't want it that way. Rath hesitated, then obediently sat down. Kelly followed suit.
Hammond glared at me, eyes narrowed to angry slits. He brushed at the slop in his lap and said, "You'll regret this, Scott. You're gonna be damn sorry for this, you hear me?" He looked around the table and jerked his head, then got ponderously to his feet. The four of them left. Nothing else happened. It surprised me, but I didn't worry about it. I went back to my own table.
Half an hour later, after Vera had dazedly spoken with the track doctor in the emergency clinic and looked once more at Pete, we left. She didn't break down till we reached Pete's car. As we drove away she lay flat on the back seat, fingers clutching at the cushions and her body shaking with sobs. Vera didn't want to go home, so we took her to her mother's house. Then Elena and I flagged a taxi, drove to her apartment in Lomas Colony, and I took her to her door.
Before I left, she said, "Shell, you must be careful. It is very bad, I know, but go with care. Perhaps another time we can be happier together."
"Sure, Elena. I'll keep in touch."
She moved close to me, kissed me lightly on the mouth, then went inside.
In the cab again I told the driver to head toward the Prado. There were a lot of things I wanted to do, but first I was going to get Hammond and Rath, one way or another, but I didn't know how. Hammond had a lot of protection and power on his side, and you can't convict a man for murder — or even fixing races — because he buys tickets on losing horses. I was still trying to figure a way to get Hammond when the cab driver yelled, "Madre Dio!" and grabbed for the wheel as if it were a life preserver. A big Packard cut close to our fender, ramming its nose ahead of the cab. The cabbie jerked the wheel all the way over to his right, and jammed on the brakes so suddenly that I almost flew into the front seat. The cab skidded along the road, almost slamming into the Packard, and then shuddered to a stop.
We were on the Reforma, far from town still, and in a wooded section. Trees grew at the right of the road and there was little traffic here. One of Hammond's bruisers was jumping from the side door of the Packard and starting back toward us, a gun in his fist. There were a couple of guys behind him.
I didn't wait to identify them. I threw the cab's door open and leaped out and started to run into the trees, but a gun cracked and I heard the bullet whistle by me. The guy yelled something at me from no more than ten feet away. I'd h
ad it; there wasn't a chance I could get into the trees before a slug hit me. I stopped.
I heard one footstep as I started to turn, but I never made it around. Probably it was a gun butt, but whatever it was, it was solid, and it landed on my skull. They were dragging me when I came to, and when I tried to move they stopped and dropped me. Somebody told me to get up, and in a minute I made it. We were deeper in the trees, and my company was Kelly, the other strong man, and Rath. Rath stood in front of me while the other two grabbed my arms and slammed me back against a tree, pulling my arms behind me around the tree trunk. And then Rath started in on me.
He was methodical about it, but it seemed to give him a sadistic pleasure. First he looked up at me from his approximate five-nine and said, "You sure made a fool of yourself today, Scott. You sure made the boss mad. We oughta plug you, but too many people saw that beef. We're gonna teach you to lay off us, though." He grinned. "After this, we figure you'll get a plane back to the States."
He waited till he'd told me all that, then he hit me. He hit me in the stomach, but I was braced for the blow and Rath wasn't an especially powerful man, anyway. The first time he hit me it didn't hurt so much; but along about the tenth time in the same spot it was getting bad. Once, while I still had the strength, I lifted one foot and tried to kick him in what is politely called the groin, but he got out of the way. Then he took a gun from one of the guys holding me, and slammed it along my jaw twice. My legs suddenly weren't strong enough to support me, and I sagged lower, my arms bending up behind me till it felt as if they'd pop out of their sockets.
Have Gat—Will Travel Page 15
