Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

Goldie wore a dark suit, white shirt, and knit tie. His coal-black hair formed a widow’s peak low on his forehead and was plastered down and swept straight back. All the hair needed was a blaze of gray streaking through it and he would be perfect to play Count Dracula in a B-flick made by Ed Wood. When he smiled-which was probably often with people handing him money all day-his front tooth, the gold one, glittered.

Goldie departed and was replaced by our waiter. Sol ordered a Beefeaters and tonic, I ordered black coffee. Within minutes, a tall, well-built guy with a deep tan approached our table. “Hey Sol, whaddya say?”

“Vince, good to see you. Sit. Got any word on the next race?”

“Nope. Maxie the tout isn’t around, but I’m gonna go with the four horse.” Vince held up the Racing Form. “I handicapped it myself.”

“Oh, I see.” Sol said, and sighed.

“What? You don’t think I have a chance?”

Sol ignored the question. “Vince, I want you to meet Jimmy O’Brien.” Sol turned to me. “Jimmy, say hello to Vincent James. Used to play Dr. Riley on TV, remember?”

Vince had dark brooding eyes, was impeccably dressed, and it looked like he retained a very expensive barber.

“Yeah, sure. How you doing?” I asked.

He gave me a passing glance and then put his binoculars up to his eyes, aimed at the tote board in the infield. He leaned closer to Sol without lowering the glasses. “I have a message for you,” he said quietly.

“Oh yeah, what?”

“I went to a party last night, mutual friend’s house.”

Vince set the binoculars on the table and took a fast look around. “The man said you were trying to reach him.”

“You were at Sica’s house?” Sol asked.

“Yeah, not so loud, Sol, Christ . Anyway, I hung around a while. He likes me to show up at his parties. I guess I’m kind of a decoration.” He lowered his head for an instant, and then brought it up. “What the hell, he helps me out from time to time.”

“Sure,” Sol said. “He figures celebrities like you add a lot of class. Which you do.”

“Thanks. Anyway, he said for you to call him.” Vince slid a scrap of paper across the table. “He’ll be at this number at one-thirty today. Said not to call from the track. Use an outside payphone.”

Sol picked up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. It was ten minutes to post time and the horses were on the track.

Vince headed for the pari-mutuel windows to place his bet. I noticed that Sol’s Racing Form remained unopened on the table.

“You’re not going to handicap the race?” I asked.

“Nope, not betting this race or the daily double.” Sol sipped his gin and tonic. “We got a system working, my boy.” He glanced from side to side and leaned forward. “You’re going to make some money today. But we can’t let anybody in on it,” he whispered.

“System? What kind of system? Don’t they have a saying about gamblers with systems?”

“That they do, but this one works. It’ll only be for one race, later in the day, but we’ll clean up.” Sol’s eyes sparkled and he gave me a mischievous grin. “How much money did you bring?”

“Only a couple of hundred, but it’s all I got and it’s gotta last.”

“Don’t worry about it; this is money in the bank.”

“How does it work?”

“Not now, Rhodes is going to show up any minute. But I’m going to need your help to pull it off.”

“Sure, Sol,” I said, but I worried about betting the last of my money on a sure thing.

Vince returned a moment later with a stack of parimutuel tickets about an inch thick. “I bet five large. Ran into the Arab downstairs, lent me the money.” He glanced at a nearby table. “But I have to sit with him and his friends. See you around, Sol.”

“What’s the story with Vince,” I asked, after he left again. “He’s not a bad guy.” Sol shook his head. “Used to be on top of the world. But unfortunately, he got the gambling bug and now owes his soul to the mob. They take all his TV residuals, leave him enough to live on, but he has to borrow money to gamble. Don’t loan him a dime, Jimmy. He’ll never pay it back.”

“He gave you a message, something about a guy named Sica. What’s that about?”

“Later, this is probably Rhodes coming.” Sol nodded toward the aisle behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. A tall man about forty, wearing a business suit and spit-shined, wingtip shoes strode confidently toward our table with Goldie at his side.

“Excuse me, are you Mr. Silverman?”

“You’re Philip Rhodes?”

“Yes. But please, call me Phil.”

Sol offered him chair and he sat down. He ordered a single malt Scotch on the rocks, and after a few minutes of chatter, we got down to business.

“So, I understand you handled Senator Cranston’s winning bid for the senate seat,” I said.

“Yes, and we’ll be managing the governor campaign for the Welch organization. Some powerful people want us on the team.” He paused for a few seconds when the waiter brought his drink. “It’s still very hush-hush. We haven’t announced it yet. We won’t let it be known until after he wins re-election to the state senate.”

“We won’t say anything,” Sol said.

Rhodes took a sip. “Anyway, Charles Manatt asked me talk to you gentlemen.”

“I need some background on Welch,” I said. “I’m the lawyer defending the man accused in the homicide of his assistant.”

“I don’t know much about the murder, but I don’t think it will be an issue in the current campaign. We plan on running polls in the next few weeks.”

“Going to run strictly on the issues?” I asked.

“Of course. Welch’s political record will play well with the demographics.” His face took on a somber expression.

“But we’ve heard rumors of his profligate behavior.”

Sol looked at me and winked. “Yep, that’s Welch. He’s been known to profligate a lot.”

Rhodes turned and glanced at Sol. “Well, that’s not exactly what I meant to say.”

Sol laughed, and Rhodes eventually joined in.

“He’s a real big profligator, all right,” Rhodes said, laughing some more.

The bugle call interrupted our conversation, signaling that the horses were approaching the starting gate for the next race.

“You gonna place a bet, Phil? You a gambling man?” Sol asked.

“I don’t know anything about the ponies, and besides, I’m not much of a gambler.”

“Well it seems to me your business is one big gamble. Spend two or more years on a campaign and it all comes down to one day in November.”

“That’s true, Sol. But I get paid, win or lose. However, I’d be out of business if I lost too many.” He tapped the table a few times with his fist. “Knock wood, we’ve been fortunate, we rarely lose.”

The bell sounded. Eight horses, with jockeys clad in colorful silks and clinging low on their backs, charged out of the gate. The race began, and even though we hadn’t made a bet, we stopped our conversation for the minute or so it took the horses to circle the track. The number four horse, Vince’s horse, finished second to last.

The waiter appeared at our table. “Bring another round, Joe. But skip me,” Sol said, then turned to Phil. “I have to leave for a little while to make an important call, but feel free to order lunch.”

“Thanks Sol, but I won’t be able to stay much longer. I have an appointment this afternoon down in San Diego. Possible donor; could be very fruitful.”

Sol dashed off and I had to get the discussion back to Welch before Rhodes disappeared. I needed to get to the point, no finessing or beating around the bush. I wasn’t going to get anywhere by trying to cajole the information out of him. He would open up. Or maybe not. But I had to ask the questions burning in my brain.