Nice Fillies Finish Last ms-52

by Brett Halliday

  “He can’t be. But you aren’t betting against the odds, honey, you’re betting against the public. They don’t know anything. All you have to do is fifteen percent better than the public, to beat the tax bite, and you’ll make out OK. Honestly, when you came in I didn’t think I was going to end up giving a lecture.”

  “What about the twin double?” Rourke said carelessly. “I suppose he steers clear of that?”

  “I wish he did! He gets inspirations, like anybody, and so far he hasn’t even come close. Like the last time, when we were drinking tap water instead of Beefeater martinis, that was all because of a twin double. He thought it was in the bag. We hocked things to get in on it. They’re still in hock, I’m sorry to say. Oh, he has the gambling fever. Finish your drink and I’ll give you another before it gets too watery.”

  Rourke looked at his watch. “I have to be going in a minute.”

  “Oh, pooh. I’ve been trying to think what I could tell you about Paul that you could use, if you do the story, and I’ve just had a flash.”

  She brought the pitcher over. She was beginning to wobble, Rourke noticed. He drank up, to be ready with an empty glass. She went off balance all at once, as though a heavy truck had crashed into the side of the trailer. She ended up partly on the couch and partly on Rourke. Somehow she had managed not to spill any martinis.

  “Wow!” she said. “What happened? I don’t have to get off for a minute, do I? Give me time to adjust.”

  “If you’re comfortable,” he said. “The only thing is, these trailers are about six inches apart, and I don’t know what Paul would think if he-”

  “Don’t worry, he really won’t be back. He’s got a deal on the fire. I came over here to give you a drink. Where’s your glass?”

  She put the pitcher on the floor after pouring. He had the martini glass in one hand and nowhere to put the other except on her hip. He could feel the outlines of her bikini beneath the smooth dressing gown. She wriggled a little to settle herself.

  “What I was going to say,” she said comfortably. “About Paul and dames. He’s a good-looking guy. That lovely build. When he comes into the stretch going for a little gap between two sulkies, using his whip and yelling bloody murder, his cap usually off by that time-well, it makes me weak in the knees to think about it. All I have to say is, I’m not the only one. I’m reconciled to the fact. I mean he’d be a hit with the fair sex even if there wasn’t the money angle to it. But they not only want to get in the back seat with him, fast, they want him to whisper the name of some horse in their ear afterward. See what I mean? The public never thinks about that kind of problem. How does it strike you as an angle for the story?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She was moving more than necessary, he thought. If he was going to get anything significant out of this girl, he had better hurry up. He tried to think what questions Mike Shayne would ask.

  “Uh-does Paul do any driving for the Domaines any more?”

  “Sometimes. One of their horses won’t behave for anybody else. They aren’t enemies or anything.” She pulled back a little to get his face into focus. “Why are we harping on the Domaines all the time, honey?”

  “I just thought when you were talking about the twin double-why wouldn’t it be a smart idea for a big stable to compare notes with some driver who was theoretically independent? Figure two of the races, and you’d have a headstart.”

  “You can tangle yourself up in knots if you try to be too smart. All you want to do is beat that fifteen percent. You know what I like about you, Tim? Now don’t laugh. No muscles. Most of the guys around here think all they have to do is ripple their biceps a few times and they’re in.” She touched the side of his face. “I like people who can talk about current events and like that. I bet it takes plenty of brains to be a reporter.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Rourke said. “For example, I ought to be finding out about that suspension of Paul’s. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the way you look in a bikini. I can’t think of any more questions.”

  “Didn’t I tell you about that suspension? It was made up out of thin air. He was betting on a Domaine horse, speaking of coincidences, and the judge caught him with the ticket on him in the paddock. He just happened to pick it up off the ground, but would they believe him? No, he’s made monkeys out of them too many other times. There’s more gin, but I feel so lazy, don’t you? Everybody at the track gets up at the crack of dawn, and that’s why I think it’s OK to start drinking around lunchtime-it’s like late afternoon for ordinary people. Honey, Paul’s your best bet for this story, so why waste your time looking for anybody else? Stick around. I want you to say yes, because, boy, do we need that favorable exposure right now. What I’d like you to do-you’ll be interviewing other people about him, then come back and get our side of it. Paul has a funny habit of getting under different people’s skin. Look at him the wrong way and the next thing you know he’s in orbit. He goes around at about two hundred and eleven degrees all the time, one degree more and he boils over. There’s a reason for that. It’s not so bad being poor when you don’t see anybody else but other poor people. But in racing half the people don’t have a cent and the other half are rolling. Honey, stay where you are. I want to get some music.”

  One of her bare arms slid around his neck and pulled him forward. The kiss she gave him tasted of gin and vermouth, with a faint tang of olives. The couch slipped, as though threatening to come open by itself. Her tongue moved against his. She groped for his hand and put it inside her wrapper. His fingers were cold from the martini glass, and she shivered as they touched her stomach.

  He was trying hard to be objective. He knew she was hoping to delay him, and he knew she wasn’t as drunk or as taken with him as she wanted him to believe. He wondered if the questions about the twin double had made her suspicious, if she was trying to pin him down until her husband showed up. Still, he didn’t like to be rude. Against his will, he was responding to the movements of her tongue. His hand was in contact with the bikini. Mike Shayne, he knew, would stand up without ceremony at this point and dump her on the floor, but he had long ago faced the fact that he wasn’t Mike Shayne. She gasped something against his mouth and he felt her hand on his, directing him to the tiny hidden zipper.

  And then she pushed away suddenly, her lithe body in rapid fluid motion. Twisting, she was up in an instant, pulling her wrapper together. The belt had come off, and was probably somewhere beneath Rourke. She gave him an urgent frown. The drinks had slowed his reactions, and he was still frozen in a disordered position when he heard the door open. That released him. He came forward in a partial crouch, his face serious, as though he and Mrs. Thorne had been discussing foreign policy or some other important question.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rourke looked up out of the corners of his eyes. The man in the doorway had come in without knocking, and it stood to reason that he was probably Paul Thorne, who had been described to Rourke more than once as being a dangerous, violent, impulsive man. He was wearing a knit shirt, and the biceps the reporter had also been told about were out there in plain sight, bulging from the short sleeves. His neck was a short, solid column, seemingly made of something more unyielding than ordinary flesh. Against the bright sky his features were indistinct. He stepped on into the trailer, which at once became seriously overcrowded, and closed the door. Now his face took shape. He would have been exceptionally handsome if his eyes hadn’t been too small and too close together. There was a mean glint in them that sent a shiver down the back of the reporter’s neck. Thorne looked from his guest on the couch to the empty martini pitcher on the floor, and on to Win, who, in the half second she had been given, had somehow managed to look cool and indifferent, a little bored.

  “We were hoping you’d be back early, Paul. Mr. Rourke here is from the Miami News. They want to do a feature story on you. Isn’t that great? You’re just in time, he was getting impatient.”

  Without saying a word,
her husband picked her up by the waist in his huge hands and slammed her against the stainless steel partition separating the living area from the tiny kitchen. Her lips writhed, she was suddenly ugly. She slid into the kitchen, snatched up a butcher knife and whirled.

  “Don’t do that again.”

  Thorne laughed. He wasn’t as large as he had looked in the doorway, but he moved with the power and grace of a jungle animal. One of his front teeth had been broken and not yet repaired.

  “What have you got on underneath?” he demanded.

  “Don’t be stupid!” She flicked the robe open and gave him a glimpse of the bikini. “I’ve got my bathing suit on, or doesn’t that prove anything?”

  “You didn’t think I’d be back for a couple of hours. You knew I’ve got a busy afternoon. What are you on, about the fourth batch of martinis?”

  “I offered him a drink! Why not? What’s wrong with being friendly with a reporter? You don’t need favorable publicity, do you? What was I supposed to do, spit in his eye?”

  Rourke had checked his clothing and decided it would do no harm to try to get out without any broken bones. He sat forward, and the couch lurched underneath him.

  “Three’s a crowd,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll wait outside. Call me when the argument’s over.”

  “This won’t take a minute,” Thorne said without turning his head. He took a step toward his wife and put out his hand. “Handle-end first.”

  She made a stabbing motion at his outstretched hand. “Handle-end, hell. Right below the belly button, if you come any closer. Don’t you know how to behave? What kind of story do you want him to write about you anyway?”

  “I don’t need any help from the goddamn newspapers! You bitch, let’s have that knife before I-”

  “I’m supposed to hang around all day doing housework, is that it?” she cried. “How much housework is there in a twenty-eight-foot trailer? And where have you been, may I ask? I don’t suppose you’ve been bouncing around in a motel with anybody, have you? Of course not. She’s too busy helping out in the hospital. The nurses are so overworked, Lady Bountiful has to come in and change the flower water.”

  “Shut up, damn you. That’s over and you know it.”

  “Do I?” she screamed, dancing forward. “And you never really cared about her, did you? You were just in it for the money, to squeeze a few horses out of her before she got sick of you. You lying bastard. You saw her again last night. Don’t you think I know that perfume? I ought to by now. Those damn little cigars she smokes?”

  “I said to shut up.”

  “And what if I feel like having some sex in the middle of the day? Tim’s not like you. He’s got a little consideration for the way a person feels.”

  Her husband kicked out at her ankles. As she dodged back he feinted at her with one open hand.

  “And he wants to know about the twin tonight,” she cried. “And did you use to drive for Domaines. What did you want me to do, turn him loose in the barns?”

  He feinted at her again and as the knife came up his other hand came up beneath it. He caught her wrist and with a quick wringing motion shook the knife out of her fingers. She kicked at his groin with one bare foot. He jabbed her almost playfully in the jaw. It was more of a push than a blow, but it dropped her to the floor without a sound.

  Rourke, having finally forced the couch to let him go, was on his way to the door. He was fumbling at the knob when Thorne swung around and cuffed him lightly. Rourke stopped trying to open the door.

  “I hate like hell to slug a woman,” Thorne said ruefully, “but you don’t know Win. You may think she was fooling with that carving knife.” He shook his head. “She would have stuck it in me if I’d given her the chance. It’s happened before. She punctured one of my lungs. She probably soaked up quite a few martinis, didn’t she?”

  Rourke straightened his tie. “We only had a couple. She was telling me about that accident you had. What was the name of the horse? Don J.”

  Thorne tossed his head in a way that made Rourke think of a spirited horse. “Don’t remind me. Things were just beginning to break right for me when that happened.”

  Rourke motioned at Thorne’s unconscious wife. “We’d better do something about her.”

  “Aah,” Thorne said. “It’s a policy of mine-bat them around now and then, it’s the one way to keep them in line. She’ll be OK.”

  Reaching out suddenly, he pulled Rourke off balance and sent him spinning into the interior of the trailer. Rourke crouched, watching warily to see what came next.

  “I don’t pretend to be any great brain,” Thorne said. “I’m trying to figure something out, and it may take a minute. You’re a reporter, she said. From the News.”

  “I’ve got a press card if you want to see it.” Rourke knew he was sweating, but he didn’t want to show Thorne how nervous he was by wiping his face. “We want to run a piece about what actually happens in the course of a race, how you get the most out of a horse, the things you have to look out for, and so on.”

  “What was that about the twin?”

  Rourke smiled weakly. “Just talk. It happened to come up.”

  The flesh around Thorne’s little eyes contracted and he yelled, “Goddamn it, what do you mean, drinking my gin and necking around with my wife?”

  Rourke tried to look surprised and amused. “Was that what you thought when you came in? No, no. You’re barking up the wrong tree. She had a bit too much to drink and she tripped. That’s all in the world that happened.”

  Thorne sneered. “I happen to know that kid. Am I supposed to be blind, that I don’t notice the top button on your pants is open? The only thing that surprises me, she didn’t have the radio on.”

  He moved toward Rourke, completely filling the space between the furniture. The contest, Rourke could see, was going to be strictly one-sided. Thorne outweighed him by forty pounds, and it had been years since Rourke had had any exercise except pecking at a typewriter.

  “If you try to get back at me by putting something lousy in the paper,” Thorne said, “I’ll come after you, and I’ll find you, don’t worry. I can’t let you get away with feeling my wife just because you work on a paper. Win wouldn’t like it and she wouldn’t understand it. We’ll make up, but there’s got to be blood and a couple of teeth on the floor when she conies out of it, or she’ll think I don’t give a goddamn.”

  His eyes narrowed, and all at once Rourke realized that he was only using his wife as the pretext. Rourke had made the mistake of asking about the twin double, and Thorne was going to see to it that he didn’t ask any more questions until after the payoffs. That look didn’t mean the kind of friendly punch in the head he had given his wife. It meant a beating.

  Rourke took a deep breath and rushed him, butting as hard as he could at the point where his rib cage came together. It was like running into a wall. Rourke reeled back as Thorne’s left fist came around. It connected with, his ear and his head rang like a bell. He snatched up the butcher knife and threw it blindly at Thorne. Whirling, he cleared Win’s unconscious body in one bound and hurled himself at the long window over the stainless steel sink. A row of cactus plants was lined up on the sill, and Rourke carried them with him as he went through in an explosion of shattered glass, his eyes closed, arms up to protect his face. He bounced off a tank of bottled gas and landed in the dirt in a welter of glass and sash and broken pots.

  He rolled, came to his feet, and darted away between trailers. The emergency flow of adrenalin that had helped him through the window continued to carry him for a moment, but there was blood in his eyes and he could hardly see. He made a right-hand turn, realizing abruptly as the first wave of pain hit him that he wouldn’t be going much farther under his own steam. His one chance was to lose himself in the jumble of trailers, perhaps crawling underneath one to rest till he felt better. Then he could work his way back to the highway and see if some kindly motorist would take him to a doctor.

  He
stumbled and went down, his head still ringing from Thorne’s blow. He forced himself to his feet and kept going, at a dogged, shambling half-run.

  Then a solid figure loomed in front of him and he collided with Mike Shayne.

  CHAPTER 6

  Michael Shayne had walked into the lobby of the St. Albans Hotel in Miami Beach at two o’clock exactly, the time fixed for his appointment with the go-between who had promised to bring him one step closer to the recovery of stolen diamonds worth $100,000. The man was late. Usually this wouldn’t have bothered the detective. People in the go-between’s position often have trouble making up their minds. But today, after waiting only ten minutes, Shayne phoned the insurance company and told Mort Friedman, the man he was dealing with there, that his contact had failed to appear. He would call in, probably, and Shayne asked Friedman to set up another date for the following day.

  “Make it later this afternoon, Mike,” Friedman said. “This whole thing is very jumpy.”

  “I won’t be available,” Shayne said briefly. Friedman wanted to know why. Shayne replied evenly that something else had come up, Friedman made an acrid comment on that, and before the conversation was over Shayne concluded that he had possibly lost a valuable retainer.

  Leaving the Beach, he crossed the bay on the Julia Tuttle Causeway and picked up the northbound expressway in Buena Vista. Shifting onto the Sunshine State Parkway at the Golden Glades interchange, he continued north, holding his speedometer needle steady at ten miles over the speed limit. He was swearing to himself. Rourke, he knew, had a special nose for certain kinds of trouble. His way of working up a story was to walk in, ask leading questions, and see what happened; and more often than Shayne liked to remember, what happened was that he ended up flat on his back hollering for help. One of these days, the redhead promised himself, Rourke was going to get into some stupid jam and find that Shayne had packed a bag and taken his secretary to New York to see a few of the new shows, leaving no phone number where he could be reached.