Win, Place, and Die! Page 3

  “Thanks,” I said. “For nothing.”

  “I told you all I know.”

  “Of course you did.” I didn’t expect him to break down into a confession for me. He was much too close to his track friends to level with me. He would clam up forever when the talk veered to names and races. It would take too much time and effort to explore the never-never land of the fix, the area of rumor and inside dope. “Let’s talk about Buffo some more,” I said.

  “I can’t tell you much,” Edge said. He stopped massaging the bar. He studied me with open admiration. Then his fat face broke into a smile. He tapped my arm. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Dave. You sure know your stuff in the question business. You’ve been asking me the same stuff that MacGruder asked me. You only forgot one angle on Nickles.”

  “Which angle was that?”

  “You didn’t ask me about how Nickles left here.”

  “I assumed he left with the girl,” I laughed. “From what people tell me about him, that would be his normal activity after a few drinks.”

  Edge shook his head at the idea. “Nickles left by himself. First the girl walked out. They stood over there near the front door.” He leaned over to give me what he considered a very important piece of information. He let me wait a while. He frowned mightily. “Then I saw Nickles get into a big car—down at the end of the lot.”

  “You know whose car?”

  Edge shrugged my question away. “A big one. With one man in it.”

  “Recognize him?”

  “It was too far off,” said Edge.

  “Did I miss anything else MacGruder asked you?”

  “Only the questions about Larry Seff. MacGruder would give his right eye to grab Seff on some kind of rap.”

  “Larry Seff has been in here?”

  Horace elevated himself to his full and flaccid stature. He breathed disgust at me. He pouted and puffed. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t let that tout in on my lawn, Dave, and MacGruder knows it. This is a place for the clean elements in the game. If Larry Seff ever tried to shove his weasel face inside here, I’d throw him out personally. It could be that Seff is on the loose, picking up a chance to get at the drivers for a shoo-in. But he wouldn’t dare to contact them in my restaurant. Besides, Seff is too clever to make any connections in public. It would be crazy for him to be seen here.”

  Horace’s blustering monologue made sense. Larry Seff was a high factotum in the world of the fix. He had invaded the flat races many years ago. He had grown fat and rich on the spoils of his dirty business. But he was cute enough to leave the racket when the city dicks were sniffing too close to him. He relaxed in a sideline for many years. He manufactured kitchen equipment. The public had been treated to a dossier on Larry Seff’s activities during the Kefauver investigations. Larry Seff, boy industrialist. Larry Seff, prodigy of the pots and pans trade. Larry Seff, patron of the juke box arts. And now? The nether world of crime and cunning loomed strangely close to Jake West. MacGruder had dropped a hint. And the star county dick was known for his efficiency and skill at pulling the important threads out of thin air.

  “What else did MacGruder say?”

  “MacGruder doesn’t say. MacGruder asks.” Horace Edge’s eyes went suddenly wide with surprise. A small bevy of sweat bubbles appeared on his upper lip. He licked at them but couldn’t quite make it. He stared over my shoulder. Then he tapped my arm and bent low to whisper to me. “Speak of the devil,” he said.

  Without turning, I could see the man who moved through the door. There was a long mirror over the bar. The man came in from the right. He eyed the bar. He blew his nose and started my way. He was Captain Sam MacGruder, of the Nassau County Homicide Squad.

  “What are you drinking, Dave?” he asked, at my elbow.

  “Be my guest,” I said.

  MacGruder ordered a Coke.

  CHAPTER 4

  Reality is often at war with fiction.

  Sam MacGruder stood an average five-six in his flat heels. He dressed simply, as plain as a plumber. He wore a Christmas tie of yellow and green dots. His face reflected a calm immobility found on all suburban trains. MacGruder’s face was round and simple, a square nose in a flat plane of flesh, a mouth that smiled quickly, an uneven row of uppers in sad need of dentistry. He had taken off his hat in an automatic gesture as he entered the place. Now he set it beside him on the empty chair near the window. He sucked at his Coke and lit a Chesterfield and plucked tobacco shreds from his lips. The fictional police detective invariably radiates a snide and gnawing temperament. I had written him that way. And often. Yet MacGruder exuded a certain warmth and affability that made him seem as casual as your next of kin.

  He spoke slowly and with an obvious lisp. The lisp made him spit a bit. He was aware of his speech defect, a slurred “s” that gave his voice an almost juvenile air. But his words were well chosen and always in good taste.

  “You’re still digging around?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I told you I would,” I said.

  “It should give you a wonderful insight into the job we cops must do,” MacGruder said. “It isn’t often that a murder novelist has the chance to do some investigating on his own. My hat’s off to you, West. Have you found anything interesting?”

  “Only that I’m running you a poor second, MacGruder. You’ve been in all the important places, all the way down the line.”

  “Sam,” he said affably. “You can call me Sam. I think I’ll have another Coke. Yes, it’s our business to run off in several directions at the same time.” He signaled to Edge for a refill. He sipped the Coke tentatively before continuing. “Like the way we’re knocking ourselves out right now, trying to locate Nickles Shuba. He’s a confusing sort of character, Dave. His landlady reports that this is the first time on the record that he’s stayed out all night.”

  “He could be afraid to go home.”

  “We’ve thought of that,” MacGruder smiled. “You have a good head, a good imagination. Have you followed through on the idea of Nickles being afraid? Afraid of what?”

  “It could be that he saw the murder done.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And in that case,” I went on, “Nickles must be hiding out for a while. He could be arranging a little blackmail, too.”

  “Why do you say that?” MacGruder asked. “You don’t know the man.”

  “He’s a betting man, Sam. And betting men often need folding money. He might be in debt and on the alert for a big bundle.”

  MacGruder nodded his agreement. He began a systematic crumbling and folding of his straw. Then he squeezed it and dropped it into the ash tray. He examined the tray critically. He was a slow and methodical thinker.

  “We’ve hunted the usual hangouts for Shuba. Nobody seems to know where he might be. That’s why I came back to this place.”

  “The girl?” I asked.

  “She might be a good lead. If I could get Edge to recall her.”

  “I’ve been through it with Edge. I drew a blank.”

  “He didn’t recognize her?”

  “Edge seems sincere.”

  “He wants to help,” MacGruder agreed. “I’ve known him long enough to let it go at that. No hits, no runs, no errors.” He sighed regretfully. “Sometimes a friendly witness can break a case like this one, Dave. When you realize that this girl was the last person to see Nickles Shuba, her importance is magnified. Shuba seems to be a fairly reliable person, according to the testimony of his boss, Blackburn. Oh, maybe he bets a little more than he should. And maybe he plays around with too many women. But aside from these habits, he worked out well on the track.”

  “He wasn’t exactly a popular type.”

  “Ah?” The little detective’s face creased in a broad smile. There was no trace of hilarity in it. He could have been my uncle, beaming his approbation. “You’ve been questioning
them over at the track, haven’t you? You’ve been right down the line? I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  “I drew a blank,” I said. “A lot of questions, but the answers were a large slice of nothing for me.”

  “It happens that way often. Then, out of nowhere, a break comes.” MacGruder eyed me thoughtfully. “If we could only learn more about your Uncle Jake. Let’s say a woman Jake West knew. We’re up against a stone wall so far as his private life is concerned. He led a strangely quiet life. Too quiet.” He mopped his brow. He was not sweating. He wanted a moment of pause. He gained it through the elaborate gesture, but he was watching me carefully while he went through his ritual of mopping. “That’s why I’m here, Dave. I wanted to talk to you about your uncle. You’re the only man who might have the key to his personal life.”

  “I know very little about it.”

  ‘That’s about a hundred times more than the police know.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  MacGruder came alive. “You can begin with the women.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “You knew none of his lady friends?”

  What did I know? The years were a curtain. The years were a veil. Back somewhere in my childhood, in my adolescence, there would be a small memory of my uncle, a thin and nebulous clue to his private world. How could I plumb the intricate web of years, the maze of incidents? How could I search out the one vital clue to Jake West’s amorous affairs? He had never discussed his friends with me. Yet, buried behind the fog of inconsequential memories, somewhere, somewhere in the mists of my boyhood, there must be a forgotten incident in which a woman’s name was mentioned.

  I began to open my book of memories for MacGruder. The detective listened patiently.

  I gave him a quick but descriptive account of my boyhood with Jake West. The life at the tracks. The wonderful southern training seasons. And afterwards, the Grand Circuit and the big races, the whistle-stop towns and the free and easy life around the stables. But where were the women? My relationship with Jake West did not allow for such intimacies. In his eyes I would always be the small nephew. He proved this to me when I returned from Korea. He was the same wonderful companion. He was the same hero for me, a little older, but still warm and friendly and full of bouncing joy on any sulky behind a good horse He insisted that I accompany him to Saratoga, for my health’s Jake. We shared the same room and ate the same food. Yet, throughout that wonderful season, I gained no important knowledge of Jake West’s inner man. His only friends were the driving bunch, his companions at the track. Later, when I left him for my own career, my visits to his temporary residences near the Yonkers Track or Long Island Raceway consisted of brief afternoon sessions and an occasional drink after the night was done. It was cut and dried. And completely useless to MacGruder.

  “When did you see him last?” he asked patiently.

  “About two weeks ago. I happened to be in New York to see a publisher. Uncle Jake insisted that I spend one evening with him, like old times. You’re going to ask me whether he seemed troubled now. He didn’t at all. Jake West was the type of man who carried his troubles lightly. He was a bit excited about a horse named Bully Boy, but that was all.”

  “Excited?” MacGruder came alive now. “In what way?”

  “The horse showed promise. The speed of a young pacer was one of my uncle’s favorite enthusiasms.”

  “So I’ve heard. Yet, Bully Boy lost an important race last night.”

  “Bully Boy was a three year old. They’re erratic.”

  “Did Jake West say so? Did he ever tell you Bully Boy was erratic?”

  “No,” I said. “But why do you ask?”

  “Because I’ve found out that Bully Boy was clocked at 2:06 for a mile, yesterday. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “I didn’t see the race. In a pacing race, lots of things can interfere with a horse’s true speed. Maybe Bully Boy was taken on the outside. That would mean a loss of time. Or perhaps Bully Boy broke.”

  “The horse stayed flat,” said MacGruder. I’ve checked some of the newsboys who saw the race. Bully Boy went off out of the number seven spot. But he was boxed in at the half pole.” MacGruder carefully examined a fresh straw. “Yet, my experts say that Bully Boy should have come out of the box and won in the stretch. What do you make of it?”

  “Are you suggesting the race was a boat ride?”

  “The winner,” said MacGruder quietly, “paid a $62.50 mutuel. A horse named Cashinhand. Appropriate name.”

  MacGruder’s words stabbed me. “Meaning what?”

  “Cashinhand is owned by Larry Seff. You know his reputation?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Seff might have arranged a boat ride.”

  “You lie like hell!” I reached out across the table for him and when my hand hit his arm the Coke bottle hopped off the cloth and smacked the floor. The glass smashed with a dull plop. The liquid sprayed MacGruder’s cuffs. He didn’t move his body an inch. I yelled: “That kind of talk about Jake West doesn’t sit well on my gut, MacGruder.”

  “Easy,” MacGruder said. “I was talking about Seff.”

  “In the pig’s crotch you were.”

  “How about starting all over again?”

  “Leave Jake West out of it this time.”

  “I never put him in,” MacGruder said dryly. He had the patience of a judge, and twice as much good nature. He only smiled his thin and effortless grin at me. “All I said was that Seff might have tried a fix in that race, Dave.”

  “Without Jake West.”

  “Possibly, possibly. I know your uncle’s reputation, boy. He was one of the cleanest in the game.”

  “The best. That’s why he didn’t need fixed races.”

  “Sometimes a man needs more money than he earns.”

  “Why don’t you check his bank accounts?”

  MacGruder nodded. “We have, Dave. Your uncle was flat broke.”

  The shock of this simple statement froze me. The quiet innuendo made the old memories burn again. I could quote Jake West chapter and verse on crooked harness drivers. He hated the whole world of cheap, sly touts and connivers. He had tangled with the czars of “the fix” in his early years as a driver. And Jake West had won the battle. The gambling set avoided him over the great span of years when I knew him intimately. In my adolescent eyes my uncle became the symbol of everything pure and honest. Yet in this exchange with MacGruder, something was happening to the image of Jake West. Slowly, slowly, he was sinking into a mysterious pit of his own creation. Was it possible that he needed money? He was one of the biggest winners in the past few years. Where had he spent his earnings? A woman? An unknown business?

  “Broke or rich,” I said, “I’ll make book on Jake West’s honesty.”

  “You could be right.”

  “I’m right.”

  “Yet,” said MacGruder, “you admit knowing nothing at all of his private life.”

  “I’m beginning to think I knew my uncle only casually,” I admitted. “If at all.”

  “You can’t think of any enemies?’ MacGruder smiled at his cliché question, aware of the flat and empty sound of it. “Kind of a stupid question, isn’t it? Yet, it’s in the book of rules. It’s a question that must be asked.”

  “I never considered my uncle a man with serious enemies, Sam.”

  “Everybody on earth manages a few. It’s a law of nature.”

  “You’re right, of course,” I said. “I’m doing my best to jerk myself out of the state of mind of an adolescent, but it isn’t easy. Jake West was my idol. I saw him through the eyes of a kid, and wherever he went people loved him. They went out of their way to be nice to him.”

  “That checks with the record,” MacGruder said. “But I’ve been doing some personal research on your uncle, Dave. You remember the Bannerman
case?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It might fit into your uncle’s life at a time when you weren’t with him. That would be about six years ago.”

  “It figures. I was in the army.”

  “The Bannerman case was well known in trotting circles,” MacGruder explained. “Bannerman was a good driver who went dirty. Overnight, he earned himself a lousy reputation because of a fixed race. Bannerman was kicked out of racing. And Bannerman thought your uncle was responsible for his downfall.”

  “He was wrong?”

  “Of course he was wrong. Jake West didn’t report him. Bannerman was fingered by a few inside men, track officials. The important thing is, however, that Bannerman threatened to kill Jake West at the time. He was convinced that Jake queered him.”

  “What happened to Bannerman?”

  “He went to pot. Never could get back into racing again.”

  “Did he ever threaten Jake again?”

  “That’s something we’ll never know,” said MacGruder, “until we pick up Bannerman.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “Haven’t the vaguest notion.” MacGruder paused to eye me speculatively. “Thought you might have discussed it with Jake at some time or other. Jake never mentioned Bannerman to you?”

  “Never. Uncle Jake couldn’t have considered Bannerman a serious threat to his life. Jake West wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody.”

  “Jake was hell-bent on keeping you pure,” MacGruder grinned. “He screened you from the seamy side of racing, all the way down the line. Jake had a flawless record, a reputation built of honesty and fair play. But, good Lord, Dave, he must have known a woman or two in his day. He was a good-looking man and could have had his pick of the female contingent. Yet, he seemed to live the life of a monk. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Maybe he thought me too young to meet his girl friends,” I said.

  “Even as late as this year?” MacGruder shook his head with a certain weariness. “No, Dave, I’m afraid you’re a bit off the track there. Neither of us can come to any conclusions. Not yet. Not until a lot more digging has been done. We’ve got to open up the hidden side of your uncle’s life and examine it carefully. It seems to me he might have moved among people you never knew. Certainly he must have been involved in something important, something big enough to keep his bank account drained. You were with him for quite a few years. Think back. Can’t you remember anybody who might have been real close to him?”