Part 15 (2/2)
”Did you catch that, about a fix at the track?”
He gave me one of those ”what do you think I am, stupid?” looks.
”So?” he said.
”So, if Tagliani knew about it, maybe the track's dirty too.”
Cisco's dark brown eyes bored into me. ”It's an illegal tape,” he said. ”Anyway, it's probably just some owner building up odds on one of his ponies. On the other hand . . . ” He paused for a few moments and stared off into s.p.a.ce.
”On the other hand what?” I asked.
”On the other hand, this commissioner, Harry Raines? He might be worth looking into. He's got more muscle than anyone else in the town.”
Bingo, there it was. I felt a twinge of vindication.
”He controls gambling in the whole state,” Cisco went on. ”The racetrack commission is also the state gaming commission. It's the way the law was written.”
”Interesting,” I said.
”Yeah. If they want anything, Harry Raines is the man they need to deal with-or bypa.s.s.”
”Maybe they bought him,” I suggested.
”From what I hear, not likely, although always a possibility,” said Cisco. ”I'll give you some logic. Whether they bought him or not, the last thing anybody wants right now is a gang war. If Raines is in their pocket, it puts him on the dime and destroys his effectiveness. If they haven't bought him, this melee still hurts everybody, the Triad included. The bottom line is that Raines needs this kind of trouble like he needs a foot growing out of his forehead. He and his partner, Sam Donleavy, are both up the proverbial creek right now.”
”Donleavy was in here last night,” I said. ”I saw t.i.tan talking to him, and the old man didn't look like he was giving away any merit badges.”
”They're all edgy,” he said, sliding the bill across the table to me. ”Here, put this on your tab. I've got to catch a plane.”
He stood up and threw his napkin on the table. ”It's time somebody put a t.u.r.d in the Dunetown punch bowl,” he said. ”Glad you're here-I can't think of a better person to do it. Finish your breakfast and get to work. See you in about a week.”
And with that he left.
I didn't have to leave the restaurant to get to work. Babs Thomas walked in as Cisco walked out. I decided it was time to find out whose shoes were under whose bed in Doomstown.
18.
CHEAP TALK, RICH PEOPLE.
The Thomas woman was tallish, honey blond, coiffured and manicured, dressed in printed silk, with a single strand of black pearls draped around a neck that looked like it had been made for them. Her sungla.s.ses were rimmed in twenty-four-karat gold. An elegant lady, as chic as a pink poodle in a diamond collar.
I scratched out a note on my menu: ”A gangster from Toronto would love to buy you breakfast,” and sent it to her table by waiter. She read it, said something to the waiter, who pointed across the room at me; she lowered her gla.s.ses an inch or two, and peered over them. I gave her my fifty-dollar, Toronto-gangster smile. The waiter returned.
”Ms. Thomas said she'd be delighted if you'd join her,” he said. I gave him a fin, dug through my wallet and found a card that identified me as a reporter for a fictional West Coast newspaper, and went to her table.
She looked me up and down. I was wearing unpressed corduroy jeans, a blue Oxford s.h.i.+rt, open at the collar, and an old, scarred Windbreaker. Definitely not the latest mobster look.
”If you're a gangster from Toronto, I'm Lady Di,” she said, in a crisp voice laced with magnolias, ”and I've got a good ten years on her.”
Closer to fifteen, I thought, but a very well-disguised fifteen.
”You don't look a day over twenty-six,” I lied.
”Oh, I think we're going to get along,” she said, pointing to a chair. ”Sit.”
I sat and slid the card across the table to her. It identified me as Wilbur Rasmussen from the Las Andreas Gazette in San Francisco. She looked at it, snorted, looked at the back, and slid it back across the table.
”Phooey, a visiting fireman,” she said. ”And here I thought I was going to be wooed by some das.h.i.+ng mafioso.”
”Do I look like a das.h.i.+ng mafioso?”
”You look like an English professor with a hangover.”
”You're half right.”
”Try a screwdriver. At least the orange juice makes you feel like you're doing something decent for your body.”
”I couldn't stand the vodka.”
”It'll get your heart beating again. What can I do for you? I'll bet you're here about that mess last night.” She leaned over the table and said quietly, ”Everybody in town's talking about it,” flagging down a waiter as she spoke and ordering me a screwdriver.
”No kidding?” I said, trying to act surprised.
”It was ghastly. I had calls before the maid even opened my drapes this morning. I hardly knew this Turner man, but he seemed like a charming old gentleman.”
”Charming?” I said. Uncle Franco was probably smiling in his grave.
”Well, you know. He contributed to the ballet and the symphony. He was on the board of the children's hospital. And he was quite modest about it all.”
”No pictures, no publicity, that sort of thing?”
”Mm-hmm. Why?”
”Just wondering. I always suspect modesty. It's unnatural.”
”You're a cynic.”
”Very possibly.”
”I always suspect cynics,” she said.
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