Part 50 (2/2)

We took her to her car and Lark got behind the wheel. DeeDee sat motionless beside her, staring through her tears at nothing.

”d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n!” she cried vehemently, her anger suddenly spilling over. ”d.a.m.n them all!” And she covered her face with her hands as Lark pulled away.

Seaborn's spidery fingers were dancing along the edge of a barren desk the size of a soccer field. He was trying to look busy when I tapped on the door and entered the room without being invited. He was startled, his eyes widening like a frightened fawn's.

The office was big enough to comfortably accommodate the enormous desk and was as barren as the desktop. Behind the high back desk chair, facing the door, was an oil portrait of a stern-looking man with devilish eyebrows that curved up at the ends and unsympathetic eyes. I guessed from his dress that the man in the painting was Seaborn's old man. There was one other picture in the office which I a.s.sumed to be of Seaborn's family. Otherwise, the room was as sterile as a spayed b.i.t.c.h. He started to object when I entered but I cut him off.

”DeeDee Lukatis' brother has been killed,” I said. ”Lark is taking her home. I told them I'd tell you.”

”My G.o.d,” he said, ”how frightful. What happened?”

”Boating accident,” I said, perpetuating the new lie. ”He was in the water for a couple of days. The predators made quite a mess of things.”

His face turned gray contemplating what I had just told him.

”What can I do?” he said, half-aloud, as though asking himself the question.

”Well,” I said, ”a little tenderness and understanding would help.”

”Of course, of course,” he said. Seaborn seemed to have trouble saying anything once. After a moment he cautiously asked, ”Did this have anything to do with . . . uh, the, uh . . . ”

”Murders?” I said. He winced at the word. ”Why would you think that?” I asked.

”Her brother's been in trouble before, you know,” he said, as though letting me in on a secret.

”I've heard,” I said. ”I can't answer that question. Right now I'm more concerned about DeeDee than why her brother died.”

”Of course, of course,” he repeated. And then, ”What is she to you?”

”Just a friend,” I said. ”We all need them, you know.” I left him sitting in his vast, sterile office, wiping the thin line of sweat off his upper lip.

As I left the bank, a frenetic little man with spa.r.s.e black hair and hyperactive eyes scurried past me, hugging his briefcase to his side. Lou Cohen, making his daily deposit. Death didn't change anything in Doomstown.

56.

DEAD HEAT.

Driving out to the track, I kept thinking that it seemed like an awfully festive thing to be doing after the events of the morning. For the first time in years I felt connected to someone else's pain. I could feel DeeDee's, like psychic agony, but there was little I could do about it.

A cloud as dark as Tony's future followed me most of the way to the track, then obliterated the sun and dumped half an inch of rain in about thirty seconds. It was one of those quick, drenching summer showers that come and go quickly, but it made a mess of the traffic at the racetrack gate and made me a few minutes late arriving.

Callahan was waiting at the back gate, with his customary flower decorating a tan silk suit and his cap c.o.c.ked jauntily over one eye. Here was a man who dressed for the occasion.

”What's the latest body count?” he asked dryly as we headed for the grandstand.

”I've lost count,” I said, not wis.h.i.+ng to get into the Tony Lukatis thing. ”What's happening today?”

”Disaway's going to win,” he said matter-of-factly. ”Little storm drenched the track down just enough.”

”Will it bring down his odds?” I asked.

”Doubt it. Hasn't shown anything his last two times at bat. Players don't trust him.”

”Are you going to put some money on him?” I asked.

”Never bet the ponies,” he said. ”Rather give my money away.”

The stadium and grounds were exquisite. The grandstand, with its gabled roof and tall cupolas at the corners, was Old South to the core. It could have been a hundred and fifty years old. Callahan led me on a quick walk through the premises.

The place was jammed. The parking lot was almost full and people were milling about the betting windows, worrying over their racing forms, studying the electronic totalizator boards, which showed Disaway paying $33.05 to win, almost fifteen to one.

”He has to beat Ixnay,” said Callahan. Ixnay was the favorite, paying only $3.40 to win. ”The eight horse,” he continued. ”Two horse, Johnny's Girl, is favored to place. Then it's nip and tuck among the field.”

We went from the betting rooms to the paddock. Disaway and the rest of the horses in the first race were on display. He was showing good temper, standing with his legs slightly apart, his nostrils flared, checking out the crowd. Judging on looks, I would have had my money on Disaway. The other horses in the first race didn't look like they could carry his feed bag.

”Good-looking horse,” said Callahan. ”Too bad he's got such tender feet.”

”Who's riding him today?” I asked.

”Scoot Impastato's up,” Callahan said.

”I thought he was through with Thibideau,” I said.

”Who knows,” Callahan answered vaguely. ”Maybe he needed a ride.”

”Why would he do that?” I asked. ”He seemed so dead against him the other day.”

Callahan looked at me like I had just spit on his shoe.

”How would I know? Why do you do what you do? Why do jockeys jock? h.e.l.l, they get fifty bucks a ride, a piece of the purse if they win. Rainy days, when the track's muddy, it's easy for a horse to go down doing forty miles an hour. Jock can get trampled to death.”

”You mean like today,” I said.

”Not too bad out there now,” Callahan said. ”Sun'll cook off most of the standing water. When it's real muddy, s.h.i.+t! I'll tell you, racing in the mud is one p.i.s.s-poor way to make fifty bucks. But it's a ride, what they do. Thibideau probably said, 'I'm sorry, kid, here's an extra fifty,' old Magic Hands is up. Kid knows the horse, Thibideau wants a winner. He made peace.”

After the paddock we went to the top tier and he walked me through the private club section, a posh series of tiered rooms protected from wind, rain, and sun by tinted gla.s.s, with royal-blue velveteen sofas, low-cut mahogany tables for drinks and snacks, and TV monitors to provide close-ups of the race for the privileged. Red-jacketed waiters, all of whom seemed to be elderly black men, solemnly served refreshments. The place seemed to brag of its elegance, a fact I mentioned to Callahan.

”The sport of kings,” he said. ”These are the aristocrats. Owners, breeders, money people. All part of it, all part of the show.”

From the elite of the club we went down among the commoners at the rail. The crowd was already four deep. Callahan, I learned, had a box in the club section, courtesy of the track, but he preferred to be as close to the horses as he could get.

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