by John Birkett
She walked out the door. Rhineheart went over and sat down at his desk. The mail had been delivered. There were some letters and a large envelope from Reardon at Midtown Investigations. It was information on Lewis and Thoroughbred Security. Rhineheart didn’t bother opening it. He put his feet up and lit a cigarette.
After a while he turned on the radio, an FM station that featured jazz and blues. For a couple of hours, Rhineheart sat and smoked and listened to the music.
Late in the afternoon the phone started to ring. Rhineheart reached for it, then stopped. He didn’t know who was calling, and the thing was, he really didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to get involved in anyone else’s life. He was burned out. It was time to pull back, retrench. Hide. When the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, he got up and walked out of the office. He got in the Maverick, started the car, and took off. He was halfway out to the Downs before he realized where he was going.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rhineheart took Third Street south as far as he could—until he came up against roadblocks. A young kid in a blue Adidas T-shirt charged him ten bucks to park on someone’s front lawn. He walked the rest of the way, a couple of blocks down Third to Central and along Central past the souvenir peddlers and the T-shirt booths and balloon hawkers to the Downs. There were people wandering around in front of the clubhouse and grandstand entrances, and cops everywhere.
Near the cabstand he bought a clubhouse ticket from a scalper for a hundred dollars. The scalper, a fat, bald-headed guy, had a pair of binoculars hanging from a string around his thick neck. Rhineheart offered him twenty dollars for the binoculars. He whipped them off and held out his hand for the twenty.
Rhineheart walked through the parking lot to the Longfield Avenue entrance. He looked at his watch as he went through the gate: 4:50. The Derby would go to post in forty minutes.
He made his way through the crowded clubhouse grounds, skirting throngs of stylishly dressed people. Every other woman seemed to be wearing a fashionable hat, and everyone’s clothes were bright and summery. Large groups of people surrounded the garden areas where TV cameras had been set up and celebrities were being interviewed. All the benches in the clubhouse garden were occupied.
The paddock was encircled by a mass of people straining to get a look at the Derby horses being led around the enclosure by their handlers. On a scaffold above the paddock, a TV camera crew recorded the scene. The huge tote board blinked and flashed the odds and amounts of money bet in WIN, PLACE, and SHOW columns.
Rhineheart pushed through the crowd up to the fence and saw Duke Kingston standing in the cleared area in the center of the paddock where the owners and their entourage gathered before the race. Kingston was dressed in a blue blazer and light-colored slacks and was wearing a regimental tie. He had a drink in his hand and was chatting volubly with a group of well-dressed, important-looking people that included, among others, the governor of the Commonwealth.
Jessica Kingston was not there.
Borchek was standing near Kingston. Clark was in the crowd, and so was Hughes, but Rhineheart couldn’t see Gilmore or Lewis.
A little farther along the paddock, Howard Taggert stood chatting with a smaller group of people.
Rhineheart noticed Royal Dancer among the horses that were being led around. The colt’s ears were pricked and his head was up. He looked alert, maybe a little skittish. He didn’t look as if he had been drugged, but Rhineheart was no expert on the subject.
The jockeys appeared at the far end of the paddock, and the handlers led their horses into the individual stalls where the trainers began to saddle them.
A network reporter with a mike in his hand and a cameraman with a minicam on his shoulder walked from stall to stall conducting last-minute interviews.
Gilmore entered the paddock, walked over to Kingston, and whispered something in his ear. Kingston smiled and nodded.
In a few moments, Rhineheart knew, the paddock judge would walk to the front of the paddock area and call out, “Riders up.” The trainers would help the jocks onto their mounts and the grooms or handlers would take hold of the bridles and lead the horses along the paddock runway toward the tunnel. The call to the post would begin to sound over the loudspeaker system.
Rhineheart had seen enough. He decided that what he needed was a drink. Turning, he walked up the stairs to the terrace and through the doors to the main clubhouse bar. It was crowded. The tables were all full and customers were three deep at the bar, but the bartender, a thick-necked ex-cop named Skip, recognized Rhineheart, and made a little space for him at the end of the bar.
“What’ll you have, Rhineheart?”
“Double bourbon. On the rocks.”
“You got it.”
He set the drink down in front of Rhineheart, who started to reach for it and hesitated, the same kind of half-ass move he’d made a week before when the phone on his desk started to ring. Rhineheart picked up the glass, then set it back down, untouched.
“I get your drink wrong?” Skip asked.
Rhineheart shook his head. “I did.”
He squinted up at the TV above the bar. The horses were leaving the paddock. The call to the post was being played. You could hear it. Rhineheart knew, all over the racetrack. Even against the noise of the bar, the notes sounded sharp and distinct.
On TV the scene shifted from the paddock to the track where the horses began to appear, emerging from the tunnel. They were picked up by outriders on stable ponies and led down the track toward the finish line.
Rhineheart put a ten on the bar and told Skip he’d catch him another time. He left the bar and walked down the hallway, stepping outside just as the band in the infield struck up “My Old Kentucky Home.”
The clubhouse crowd rose as one and began to sing. Across the way, the infield was a solid sea of people, all standing and singing. Below, on the track, the horses circled around and began to parade back up the track.
Rhineheart climbed the steps to the top row of the clubhouse and found his seat. It was high up in Section G, under the overhang. The Kingstons’ private box was below to his right. Fifty, maybe seventy-five yards away.
Over on the backstretch the horses began to warm up. Rhineheart looked around—at the crowd in the stands and in the infield—and wondered what the hell he was doing there. Had he come out here to see how it all ended? To see if the fix worked? Maybe he was there just to get another look at Jessica Kingston.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused them and caught his breath when he saw her as clear as if she were seated next to him. No matter what she had done, she would always have that kind of effect on him. She was wearing a rose-colored dress and dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat that was pulled down low over one side of her face. There was a radiance about her today, Rhineheart saw. She looked more beautiful than ever. She was the kind of woman, he thought, for whom you did whatever it took—amassed a fortune, fixed a Derby, traded some evidence.
He shifted the glasses slightly to the right and Duke Kingston’s face leaped into view. Kingston looked half-juiced. His eyes were liquidy and a loose grin flashed on and off his face. He was saying something to Jessica, but she didn’t appear to be listening to him. Rhineheart panned around the box—Gilmore, Clark, Hughes, Lewis, and Borchek. Except for Corrati, all the principals. He felt a curious detachment, as if these people and what was about to happen were something that didn’t really concern him.
He lowered the binoculars. The horses had finished warming up and were moving toward the starting gate. He looked down at the infield tote board. TIME OF DAY. 5:35. MINUTES TO POST: 1.
He glanced over at the odds. Blustering was the favorite at 2 to 1. Taggert’s horse, Calabrate, was 7 to 2. Royal Dancer had come down slightly in the betting and was now 6 to 1. He would pay $14.00 to win—200,000 times $14.00 was what? Almost $3,000,000, Rhineheart calculated.
He looked back up the track and saw that the horses had arrived at the starting gate and were
beginning to load in.
The track announcer’s voice came booming out over the loudspeaker. “The horses have reached the starting gate. It is now post time. And . . . they’re at the post.”
The crowd instantly quieted, then let out a great roar when the doors clanged open and the horses burst from the gate.
Royal Dancer broke alertly from the number 3 post and sprinted quickly to the front. Montez, hunched up over Dancer, his knees high in the stirrups, the reins gathered loosely in his hands, steered him over to the rail.
On the outside, Calabrate rushed up to take second. The dark gray horse, Blustering, lay third on the inside as the field of horses swept down the stretch.
Royal Dancer had a one-length lead when he passed the sixteenth pole. To Rhineheart the colt seemed to be running easily. His stride looked smooth and powerful as he raced past the finish line for the first time and entered the clubhouse turn.
Rhineheart put the glasses on the Kingstons’ box. They were all on their feet, cheering.
He panned over to the race and caught Royal Dancer in a burst of speed in the middle of the turn. Royal Dancer’s stride lengthened and he began to pull away from Calabrate and the rest of the field. By the time he rounded the turn and hit the backstretch Dancer had drawn out to a three-length lead.
Unchallenged, he sailed down the backstretch, gradually increasing his lead.
Rhineheart looked over at the board. The fractions the colt was setting were blistering—.22 for the quarter, .45 for the half, six furlongs in 1.09.3. They seemed much too fast for a mile-and-a-quarter race.
Royal Dancer moved into the far turn with a big lead. Four, maybe four and a half lengths. From across the track it looked as if Blustering had taken over second. In the middle of the turn Royal Dancer disappeared from view. Rhineheart could see Montez’s royal blue and green silks bobbing up and down above the line of the crowd.
A few seconds later Royal Dancer came out of the turn and hit the top of the stretch. He was running a little wide but his stride was easy and fluid.
The crowd in the stands was on its feet, roaring, anticipating a big upset. Royal Dancer swung out to the center of the track and Montez hit him once right-handed and set him down for the drive. The colt drew off. The drug seemed to be doing its work. As Royal Dancer passed the eighth pole his lead was six lengths. They’re not going to catch him, Rhineheart thought. No way.
A few strides later, it happened.
Without any warning, Royal Dancer’s head dropped down suddenly and the jock, Montez, went flying, pitching forward onto the track. Montez rolled under the rail, and Royal Dancer’s stride slowed abruptly, becoming a series of stiff, lurching motions. He continued on for six, eight, ten more lengths, but he was no longer racing. He was hobbling. He pulled up finally, his right foreleg stuck out at a crazy angle.
Royal Dancer had broken down.
The rest of the field, led by Blustering, came pounding down the stretch. They surged past and around the lame horse and headed for the finish line. But by then Rhineheart wasn’t watching the race anymore. He had run down the stairs and was moving along the aisle toward Kingston’s box, where a commotion of some kind had erupted.
The aisle was thick with people. Rhineheart had to push his way through. He was too far away to see clearly, but it looked as if Kingston was struggling with someone in the box. Through a break in the crowd, Rhineheart saw that Kingston had his hands around Gilmore’s neck and was choking him. Gilmore broke free and pushed Kingston away. Kingston had a wild look about him, as if he had gone crazy. The chairs in the box were overturned. Jessica stood to one side, a look of shock and disbelief on her face.
Only a small group of people, those in the immediate area, were aware of the disturbance in Kingston’s box. Everyone else was watching the finish of the Derby. The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Rhineheart was still fifteen feet away when he saw Kingston look wildly around, then reach over and grab Borchek’s gun out of its hip holster. He aimed it at Gilmore whose back was turned to him and fired. The shot was muffled. It sounded like the snap of a firecracker against the noise of the crowd. Gilmore fell to his knees. Someone screamed.
Kingston’s head jerked around. He looked straight at Rhineheart, who was rushing up the aisle. He doesn’t recognize me, Rhineheart thought. Then Kingston raised his weapon and aimed it at him.
Jessica Kingston turned toward Rhineheart. She started to raise her hand to him and stopped in mid-gesture. She said something Rhineheart couldn’t hear, then turned and spoke to her husband. She stepped in front of the gun just as Kingston fired. Rhineheart saw her body recoil when the bullet slammed into her. She fell slowly to the ground.
Kingston watched her fall, a horrified look on his face. The gun was still in his hand, still pointed at Rhineheart. As he closed the last few feet of ground, Rhineheart heard a voice off to the right say, “Drop the weapon and freeze, mister,” and he looked over and saw a Kentucky state trooper in a brown uniform standing in the aisle with his gun pointed at Kingston.
Kingston, dazed, turned toward the trooper with the weapon in his hand. The trooper shot Kingston twice in the chest, and Kingston fell over backward into the adjoining box.
Rhineheart dropped to one knee, and cradled Jessica Kingston’s head in his arms. She was conscious, but just barely. She looked up at him, her face pale and scared.
“Michael.”
“Yeah.”
“Michael?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, babe,” Rhineheart said. “It doesn’t matter.”
She looked up at Rhineheart and started to smile, then winced and closed her eyes and died. Her body went heavy in his arms. He picked her up as if he were going to carry her somewhere. Then he saw a circle of faces watching him and he realized where he was and what had happened and he laid her down gently on the concrete floor. He knelt next to her body until they brought the stretcher.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jessica Kingston’s funeral was held on the Tuesday following the Derby. It was a private ceremony. She was buried in her father’s family plot in the Frankfort Cemetery, high on the side of a hill that overlooked the dome of the capitol and a bend in the Kentucky River.
It was raining. The weather had turned cold. The wind was sharp and bitter.
The minister read from the book of Common Prayer. I am the resurrection and the life . . . He that believeth in me . . . yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die . . .
We come into this world with nothing, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.
Rhineheart stood there in the rain with his head bowed. He tried to recall something that Farnsworth had said about losing. But he couldn’t bring it to mind. When the prayer was ended they lowered the casket into the grave and Rhineheart raised his head and walked down the hill and got into his car and drove back home to Louisville.
ADDENDUM
Blustering won the Derby. He paid $6.80 to win, $4.00 to place, and $2.80 to show. Taggert’s horse, Calabrate was second. A long shot named Marking Ink was third
The mile and a quarter was run in 2:01.2. The winner earned $450,000. Second place was worth $235,000.
Duke Kingston was pronounced dead at the scene. Harrison Gilmore was rushed to Methodist Hospital, where he underwent emergency surgery to repair a shattered spleen. He died on the operating table at 9:12 P.M. on Derby Day.
The sesamoid bone in Royal Dancer’s right front leg had snapped under the pressure of the race. The colt was operated on that evening by a crack team of veterinary surgeons. The operation was not successful.
Three months after the race John Hughes was brought up on charges of attempting to fix a horse race before the Kentucky State Racing Commission. He was found guilty and banned for life from all thoroughbred tracks in North America.
The Louisville Police Department investigated the deaths of Felix Sanchez, Tammy Sh
ea, and Carl Walsh. The evidence was presented to a grand jury, but no indictments were returned.
Six months after the Derby, Angelo Corrati was gunned down in the alley behind the Kitty Kat Club by person or persons unknown. The police are still investigating his murder.
Kathleen Sullivan left Channel Six and went to work for a CBS affiliate in Nashville, where she is now an anchorwoman.
William Lewis, the chemist, was found guilty in federal court of deliberately falsifying his income tax returns. He is awaiting sentencing.
Calvin Clark continues to live and practice law in Frankfort, Kentucky. Just the other day he was appointed to the Governor’s Commission on the Arts.
Rhineheart has moved. His new office is on Market, around the corner from the Hall of Justice. The rent is cheaper.
McGraw is up to twenty-five words a minute.
Read on for a sneak peek at
The Queen’s Mare
by John Birkett
Available now from Witness Impulse
ONE
IT was a Monday morning in May, a couple of weeks after the Derby, and I was sitting in my office with my feet propped up on the desk looking through the Racing Form. The Derby had been won by a longshot who’d paid 37 dollars and 40 cents. My pick was still running.
When the telephone rang. McGraw was seated at her desk, filing her fingernails. She made no move to answer the phone. I was two weeks behind on her salary, and this was her way of retaliating. I put down the Form and picked up my extension.
“Rhineheart Investigations.”
“May I speak to Mr. Rhineheart, please?” The speaker on the other end of the line had an old woman’s voice, thin, querulous, well spoken.
“This is him,” I said.
McGraw’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “He,” she said loudly. “‘This is he’ is the correct way to say that.”
“Mr. Rhineheart. My name is Hattie Beaumont. I am interested in exploring the possibility of obtaining your services. I wonder if we could possibly meet this afternoon.”
