Win, Place, and Die! Read online

  “So there were. Of course. Naturally.”

  “I’m talking of social affairs.”

  “Here,” said Blackburn. “Never at my home. But here, many times.”

  “For dinner?”

  “And after a night of racing. Over at Buffo’s. For drinks and chatter. Certainly. Certainly.”

  “He always accepted your invitation?” I asked.

  “Not always. But often enough.”

  “And did he ever bring a woman?”

  “Never.” The answer was automatic and straight out of his memory. There were no strings on his dialogue. His friendly, half-smiling face seemed convincing. “Never in all the times we met at Buffo’s. Or here, for that matter.”

  “Did he gamble at Buffo’s?”

  “Jake West never gambled,” Blackburn said flatly.

  “He knew Buffo?”

  Blackburn sighed. He fixed his eyes on me. Was a flick of impatience burning in them now? The light died as quickly as it was born. He was only expressing fatigue. “You must remember one important thing about your Uncle Jake, Dave. He knew loads of people. Literally thousands. And they knew him. They liked him. But they were not really friends.”

  “Nickles Shuba was a good friend of Jake’s.”

  “I’d say so, yes.”

  “And Nickles is a good friend of yours?”

  “Friend?” The smiling cherub began to frown. “Not exactly.”

  “You don’t happen to know where Nickles is?”

  “How on earth would I know that?”

  “You could have been the last person to speak to Nickles.”

  “That sounds like nonsense, Dave.”

  “The hell it is.” I let him see my impatience with him. You can’t keep stabbing at a grinning cherub. His angelic little face was beginning to annoy me. “You spoke to him last night.”

  “Did I?” Blackburn asked himself.

  “In the parking lot.”

  “It’s possible, of course.”

  “You don’t remember the conversation?”

  “Only a greeting,” Blackburn said. He shrugged the memory away. “After all, Shuba is an employee.”

  “You’re happy with him?”

  “He does his job adequately.”

  Over his shoulder, across the room, a knot of people stood near the elevator door. The head waiter fussed over them. One woman did not enjoy the delay. She came through the crowd and stared around the room. She spotted Blackburn and smiled at him. She was an eye-catching morsel. She was of average height, very blonde and very shapely, dressed in one of the more modern types of peasant improvisation, a colorful blouse and a flared skirt designed to accent the wonderful contours of her torso and hips. She moved with an animal grace, aware that every masculine eye followed her through the room. When she arrived, Blackburn was on his feet to kiss her.

  “Lisa Varick,” said Blackburn. “This is Dave West.”

  “Hello, Dave.”

  She gave me only part of her personality, a quick appraisal that told me of her indifference. Her skin was the color of light coffee, skillfully tanned to promote the bright white cut of her smile. She smiled often, but only in the direction of Blackburn.

  “Scotch?” he asked.

  “That’s the ticket, doll. I need a good strong drink for the headache the hairdresser gave me this afternoon. How do you like my new hairdo?”

  “Beautiful, Lisa. Just fine.”

  She removed her mirror from the tricky handbag and began to appraise the cut of her coiffure. She had the poise and confidence to get away with such a gesture, a woman who realized that her beauty would always make her the center of interest in any public place. She operated on oiled hinges, smooth and soft.

  “Dave West?” she inquired smoothly. “Did you say your name was Dave West?”

  “Jake’s nephew,” Blackburn answered for me.

  She gave me a sufficiency of her attention now. “Funny thing, I never thought of him that way. Relatives, I mean.”

  “You knew Jake well?” I asked.

  Lisa Varick shrugged. Her brittle mind seemed already tired of the subject. Or was she developing another routine for me? She fingered her program and produced a small gold pencil and began to make notes on it.

  “I met Jake West a few times,” she said. “He was a nice man.”

  Blackburn began a description of the best race he ever saw Jake drive. He enjoyed the telling, remembering the entire field against Jake, seven horses and seven drivers and the post positions and the tempo of the race all the way around to the finish line.

  “Jake was a specialist at appraising a horse,” Blackburn said. “He could work his miracles because he knew an animal’s capabilities. He had the master touch, Jake did.”

  When Blackburn excused himself from the table, Lisa Varick seemed to come alive for me. She put away her racing program and gave me her attention. Suddenly she was interested in my writing career. She was able to discuss the plot of my last novel. I had the feeling that she was drawing me out to know me better.

  “I collect autographed books,” she told me. “I’d like you to sign my copy of your last one, Dave.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I mean it.” She regarded me with deep appreciation. She finished her third drink as the waiter appeared with her fourth. He had been through this routine before with her. She nodded to indicate still another. The Scotch worked fine to build intimacy in her. “I love to read, Dave. Tell me about how you write the murders?”

  “It’s easy to kill a man,” I said. “In fiction.”

  ‘But it’s hard to arrange the solution?”

  “Murder isn’t written without a solution.”

  “How many have you killed?”

  “At least a dozen.”

  “Many women?”

  “I don’t specialize.”

  “It must be a lot of fun.” Up close, she was a remarkable woman. She belonged to the rare group of females who can skillfully hide the weight of years. She could be thirty or forty. Yet her skin was fresh and firm in the face and her body strong and unlarded, with well-curved breasts and no signs of flabbiness in the arms and neck. And her face? Where would she fit in a writer’s catalogue of women? It was a smooth, soft oval, the contours of a perpetual siren. Age had only mellowed and ripened her overwhelming beauty. She would continue to operate as a mantrap for at least another decade. She could snare you with a flick of her challenging eyes. The way she was snaring me now, the pressure of her knee against mine a subtle invitation. “It must be thrilling,” she said, “to get your research.”

  “I’m never finished with the research.”

  “I could give you lots of it.”

  “Is that an invitation?” I asked.

  “Do you need one?”

  But I couldn’t answer her question. Not now. Blackburn was on his way to the table and when she saw him her manner changed.

  She was at work on her program again when he arrived.

  “Got something good?” he asked.

  “Not yet, doll.”

  “Lisa’s a fine handicapper,” Blackburn said, patting her hand in the usual rhythm. “She has her own clever system. Tell him about it, Lisa.

  “It would take too long.”

  “You make it sound tough,” I said.

  “It is tough.”

  So she was back again in the deep freeze. What an actress! Her tone brushed me off, telling me that our little game was over now, that it would be best to sit back and play dumb for the time being. She returned to her former pastime of buttering up Blackburn with her bedroom eyes. And Blackburn enjoyed her warmth, completely lost to her. He leaned over to follow the course of the little gold pencil, murmuring suggestions in her ear. She whispered her answers, as if trying to conceal her calculatio
ns from me.

  But she was talking to me with her knee, under the table.

  “Nancy is late,” I said.

  “Nancy is always late,” Lisa said. “Fashionable.”

  “Now, now,” Blackburn said.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s forget it, Lisa. Let’s talk about Arcturus.”

  “Arcturus isn’t late often, doll.”

  “Now, now,” Blackburn said again. He was embarrassed by her obvious distaste for his daughter. He lifted the program and pointed out the competition to me. “Arcturus should do well tonight, Dave. He’s in a good post position.”

  “Nancy Blackburn,” said Lisa with a laugh. “A good name for a horse. A good name for a breaking mare.”

  Blackburn colored but said nothing. Her knee still rubbed mine under the table. I calculated that the Scotches must have hit that knee because the motion was more deliberate, the feel of her cozy and demanding. I moved away from her subtly. She began to laugh in a higher key.

  “I think I’ll put a few bob down on Arcturus,” I said.

  “Safe bet,” said Blackburn.

  “How about Luchon? Is he good?”

  “A fine driver, Dave. Arcturus should breeze in. I’m really optimistic.”

  He was back to massaging her hand again in a steady and ridiculous rhythm. Pat, pat, pat. He broadened his smile when he looked at her and talked to her. There was something almost adolescent in his obvious worship of her. He stopped talking suddenly, however, when his eyes swept the room behind her. Something back there bothered him. He withdrew his hand and coughed. He straightened perceptibly in his chair. He became more formal and much more distant. I followed his gaze and knew the reason.

  The reason was Nancy. She came quickly our way, very young and beautiful in her summery evening outfit. Blackburn bounced to his feet. She pecked at his cheek. She shook my hand.

  Lisa Varick continued to write on the racing program.

  “Find anything terrific for tonight?” Nancy asked her.

  “Hello, darling,” Lisa said. The term of affection meant nothing. Her eyes were veiled pits of hate. “You kept your boy friend waiting a long time.”

  “I’m sure you entertained him adequately.”

  “You say the sweetest things,” Lisa cooed. “Do you ever mean any of them?”

  “Now, now, girls,” said Blackburn.

  “Don’t lump us that way, Dad,” Nancy said. “You were changing my diapers when Lisa was a big girl.”

  “Do I have to sit here and take that garbage?” Lisa said.

  “Why not stand up and take it?” Nancy’s eyes burned. She was aware of her advantage. She was enjoying it. Something like an alcoholic aura hung about her. Was she half lit? She tapped a cigarette, lit it and puffed it. She blew the smoke at Lisa. It was all very silly.

  “You’re drunk, darling,” Lisa snapped.

  “Not drunk enough.”

  “But you will be.”

  “Now, now, girls,” Blackburn cooed.

  “Let Lisa talk,” Nancy said. “She’s so good at saying nothing at all. Talk some more for the people, Lisa.”

  “Drop dead, darling,” Lisa said.

  “You see, Dave? I’ll bet you can use this dialogue.” Nancy began to laugh. Her good humor was out of control. An undercurrent of petulance and anxiety came through to me. She ground out her cigarette savagely. Her eyes glazed when she faced me, dulled by an alcoholic arrogance. “When I made the dinner date with you, I thought it would be a family affair. I didn’t mean for you to suffer. If you’ve spoken to Dad, we can leave now. We’ll get a table on the terrace. The air’s better down there.”

  “Don’t break your neck on the way down,” Lisa said to her program.

  “Oh, come now, girls,” said Blackburn.

  Nancy disregarded her father. We crossed the restaurant and took the elevator down. Nancy ordered a drink immediately. She was drinking Aquavit. She explained that she always drank Aquavit. It warmed her appetite and left her without a hangover in the morning. She sipped two glasses of it while we ate. She did a lot of talking. It was mostly wild and incoherent talk, stemming from her dislike of Lisa Varick.

  “Isn’t she an old cow?” she asked.

  “Your father doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “She has a strange effect on him.”

  “Lisa Varick’s an attractive woman, Nancy.”

  “An attractive slut,” Nancy said. “She’s a product of the theatrical slime belt, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I looked her up. I know all about her.”

  “You must have done a lot of research.”

  “I have her complete dossier.”

  “But why?”

  “Can’t you guess?” She laughed at me again. This time her amusement slipped out of control. “Isn’t it obvious what sort of a woman she is? I know her background thoroughly. She’s been living off the proverbial stage-door Johnnies for years. I can name the names.”

  “And now she wants your father?”

  “She wants his money. And she hates me because I’m aware of her goal.”

  “Your father seems to enjoy her.”

  “My father is a bit naïve.”

  A runner came to the table for our bets. The first race would be off in ten minutes. She waved him away. She told him to come back for the third. She continued to talk about Lisa Varick during the first two races. The time skipped by, punctuated by several glasses of Aquavit. The liquor had subdued her. But it did nothing to slow her steady monologue.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she said. “But I’ve already put a detective on her background, Dave. I want to prove to my father what an adventuress she is.”

  “You’ve actually hired a man?”

  “And he’s produced results. I hired Fennisong.”

  “He’s supposed to be an excellent research man,” I said. “Has he found anything?”

  “He’s found plenty. Lisa Varick got her start in burlesque. She worked her way up to the Broadway shows, but she never did anything really good. She was a dancer, a member of the line in several unimportant revues. But she managed to collect a long list of admirers via the stage-door routine. She’s nothing but a successful tart.”

  “She was married, wasn’t she?”

  “Twice, and she picked two odd ones to marry. The first was George Lattimer. But when Lattimer died, she went through his money in a few years. After that, she was the consort of such men as Arthur Debevoise and Marcuti, the Italian tenor. And, of course, Larry Seff. He was her second, and last.”

  I stopped her there.

  “When did Seff abandon her?”

  Nancy seemed to come out of her spell of spleen. She sat back and gave me her curious stare. “Now why on earth would you be interested in an item like that?”

  “I’m interested in Larry Seff.”

  “You might try asking him.”

  “I might, if I knew where to reach him.”

  “I can take you to him,” Nancy said. Something fresh and exciting sparked her eyes. “Tonight, after Arcturus runs.”

  “You know Seff?”

  “I know where to find him. He’ll most certainly be at Buffo’s, tonight.”

  “I’ve never achieved enough recognition to allow me into places like Buffo’s.”

  Nancy put down her program and sipped her drink. She was hard at work again, tossing me around in her brain. She made it obvious. She gave me a pleasant appraisal, complete with her quiet smile. It was difficult to remain dead pan. I managed it.

  “Humble punkin,” she said at last. “Why do you talk like one of your characters, Dave? You’re doing a terrific job with the big, strong, forthright man routine.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I smiled. “You
’re doing pretty well yourself.”

  “Now what does that mean?”

  “Why do you drink so much?”

  “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” I said. “I want to set you straight in my cast of characters. But I can’t quite figure you, Nancy. You’re no longer the F. Scott Fitzgerald debutante. Or are you?”

  Her eyes flamed. She ground out her cigarette and finished her drink. “I never liked that label,” she snapped. “I’d like to meet the little louse columnist who started it.”

  “Now you resemble Fitzgerald’s girl more than ever. Complete with the temper tantrum.”

  “Oh, please,” Nancy said, her voice lower now, her eyes aimed into the deep bowl of the sky. “Drop it. I’ve had enough of it for a while.”

  “What’s bothering you, Nancy?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It could be my business.”

  “You talk funny,” she said, puzzled now. “Or are you making sly verbal passes at me?”

  “Not at you,” I said. “I’m aiming for your worry.”

  “Forget my worry.”

  “Does it concern Nickles Shuba?”

  I dropped it for what it was worth. I let it fall and leaned in to await the explosion. In a crowded room, surrounded by the buzz and hum of wagering people, the effect of such a stab would take careful watching. Nancy put down her glass. She tried for a continuation of her carefree, casual poise. She didn’t quite make it. In adjusting her body near the table, her elbow hit the glass. It slid off the table and splattered a lady at Nancy’s side. There was enough liquor in the glass to erupt the lady. She stood fluttering over us, making stabs at her wet dress with a napkin and muttering weak protestations at Nancy. In the confusion of apologies and good manners, Nancy chose to forget my remark about Nickles Shuba. When she sat again, the marshal was leading the pacers down the track for the third race.

  Nancy called a runner. She bet a hundred dollars on Arcturus, on the nose. I bet a modest five.

  “No confidence?” Nancy asked.

  “No money,” I said.

  Hank Luchon took the big pacer out of the second post position and drove him hard around the first turn. He was brushing with Calliope, one of the better horses in the field. Calliope drew away to a four-length lead, a hot and happy front runner. The crowd sucked in a breath of astonishment, a dull rumble of wonderment as Calliope seemed grooved for the win. The field dropped far behind, all but Arcturus. The big black horse held the rail, still four lengths behind Calliope, but not falling back any more. At the half mile, something happened, Arcturus came to life before the grandstands. The gap began to close as the driver snapped his whip. The fans in the stands were on their feet now. A great fresh wave of noise went up.