Стюарт Стерлинг - The Galloping Corpses

The waitress leaned close. “Dessert, Mister Madden?”

He stared up, startled. All the waitresses in their jockey costumes here at the Stirrup and Saddle were worth looking at, but the one who’d brought Madden his sirloin was something extra — small-boned, suggestively plump, with a pert elfin face under the long-billed jockey cap. Very cute indeed, in her scarlet satin blouse and shiny black riding boots. Under other circumstances, he might have patted the white, skin-tight breeches where they fitted most snugly.

“I’ll have apple pie,” he said. “Did I meet you somewhere?”

She inspected him nervously, but didn’t move away. “You really are a fast operator, aren’t you!”

Keene shook his head. “I’m just asking where we met before, ’s all.”

“I never saw you until tonight, Mister Madden.”

“How did you know my name?”

She glanced across the dance floor toward a smartly dressed young couple at a ringside table that must have set somebody back a tenspot to the head waiter. “One of the other girls heard Mister Larmin say things would begin to pop here at Saratoga now that they’d called you in.”

“He said that, did he?” The expression on Keene's long, lean-jawed, weather-leathered features was merely one of mild curiosity. There was nothing in his voice to suggest his angry astonishment.

He’d been in Saratoga Springs less than an hour. It was his first visit to the sleepy old racing town. Only one person had known he was coming. As far as Keene could recall, he’d never run into any of the crowd he saw here at Stirrup and Saddle — certainly not at the West Coast tracks. Yet he’d been spotted before he’d even had a chance to look over the ground. It could be bad.

“Piece of cheese with the pie, sir?” She pretended to scribble on her pad. “Mister Larmin said you were here to put the chill on those sure-thing fixers.”

“No sich animal as a sure thing.” Crinkles deepened around his watchful gray eyes.

“That’s what you think! Wait’ll you see what goes on at the track here!” She bit her lip as if she’d said more than she meant to, and hurried away.

Keene twisted in his chair, including the couple at the ringside table in his leisurely glance. He could have placed Clay Larmin without the waitress’ remark. There was enough likeness to the famous portrait of General Larmin which hung in the august Jockey Club. The youth in the white dinner jacket had the same abnormally long, sharp nose with the slightly upturned tip, the same bulging forehead above wide-set protruding eyes. But in the son’s face there was something else — a petulance of the small, pursey mouth — which robbed his features of the character which showed so plainly in the portrait of the man who had been Mister Racing up to a decade ago.

The girl opposite Clay Larmin seemed to be annoyed with her companion. She sat stiffly erect with the high-bosomed carriage of a horsewoman. A frown puckered the warm tan of her boyish face. The agreeably wide mouth was tight-lipped. Even with the dim lighting of the Spa’s smartest night spot, her smooth bob glistened like new copper wire as she bent forward to put her hand over the top of Clay Larmin’s highball glass, shook her head pleadingly.

The waitress set a thick wedge of deep-dish apple pie in front of Keene.

“I think I’m going to like Saratoga.” He gave her the slow up and down.

“It’s a nice town—” she bent over so her lips were close to his ear as she set down his coffee up — “if you keep away from dark alleys.”

“Oh.” He smiled as if she’d just told him she’d cleaned up on a long shot. “Really?”

“I'm only kidding.” She fiddled worriedly with sugarbowl and cream pitcher. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Some more dope.” He used the cream. “If you have any...?”

She bent her head, adding figures.

“Do you know anything definite?” he asked. She must have had a reason for letting him know she was aware of his identity. She hadn’t been fooling about those dark alleys, either.

“I might.” She put the check face-down on the table. “If it was worth something to me.”

“When are you through?”

“One o’clock.” She kept her voice low. “But I couldn’t—”

Keene laid a bill on the table. When he took his hand away there was a small key on the greenback.

“Gray Buick. California plates. Far side of parking oval. See you there around one.”

“No, no,” she whispered, in a panic. “Not tonight. I couldn’t possibly.”

He moved sway from the table. “Any trouble getting into there?” He pointed toward the ceiling.

She held the tip of her tongue between her teeth for a second. “I don’t think so, sir. Through the men’s room. But you’d better—”

“The change is yours,” He sauntered on.

Twenty feet away he paused to light a cigarette, looked back. Money and key were both gone. The girl was going toward the cashier’s wicket.

He headed for twin doors marked Colts and Fillies, pushed open the first one, went down a long hall, turned a corner. A short, squat-shouldered, bull-necked man in a bus boy’s white coat was tossing silverware into racks. He eyed Keene stonily.

“Wash room’s back there, bud,” he said.

“Yeah. I’m a collector.”

“Huh?” The man’s eyes narrowed. He dropped his handful of knives and forks quickly.

“Of antiques,” Keene said. “I’m interested in old spinning wheels.”

“Ho!” The guard relaxed. “Spinning wheels, huh?”

“They tell me there are some fine specimens, upstairs.” Keene held out a door bill folded lengthwise.

“That’s right.” The guard shoved the tip into his pants pocket. “They might be too expensive for you, though, mister.”

Keene said solemnly, “I’ll give ’em the once over.”

The guard pointed to a door with a brass Yale lock and painted red letters: Fuse Boxes. Keep Out.

“Maybe you’ll find something that suits you up there, at that.”

Keene opened the door and went upstairs.

Two wheels were in play, besides the crap table, a black-jack layout and a couple of chuck-a-luck cages. The biggest crowd was around one roulette table where everyone seemed to be riding on the swallowtails of a distinguished-looking individual, with a grizzled spade beard and shaggy eyebrows, who wore oxford glasses complete with black ribbon.

All the other white ties, doggy tweeds and strapless evening gowns waited for the bearded man to place his chips before making their bets. Most of the money went on the numbers where he dropped his chips. The description long-distanced to Keene had been surprisingly accurate.

“Who’s the joe who looks like an ambassador?” he asked a chuck-a-luck girl.

“Calls himself Towbee.” She was curt.

Keene watched the man haul in a stack of yellow ten-dollar counters. “He own a piece of the joint?”

The girl squinted at him suspiciously. “No, he doesn’t. He’s just having a run of luck. And the wheels aren’t gimmicked, here. The blackjack dealer doesn’t know how to second card. And you can test the dice in a glass of water before every pass, if you feel like it.”

“Nice to know these things.” He put a couple of greenies on the Low. The bird cage spun. The dice dropped High. He wandered over toward Towbee.