Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

In the main control room, the lure operator was leaning forward, arms folded, over the long arm of the notched rheostat. The track announcer glanced around as Shayne looked in. Recognizing Shayne, he brought the front legs of his chair down with a thump. The TV technician and the chart writer, young men with nearly identical drooping mustaches, were laughing about something. The laughs faded instantly.

All twelve closed-circuit screens on the big console were working. Nothing was moving in the lockup kennel. A few late arrivals were still clicking through the turnstiles. Lines of impatient bettors had already formed at the sellers’ windows.

Shayne nodded and passed on.

He caused a similar stir in the judges’ box. There were six men here. He recognized none of them. If they hadn’t watched Painter’s press conference, in which Shayne’s name had figured prominently, they had seen clips of it later. Quick looks were exchanged. What was Shayne, the recipient of $80,000, doing here?

Shayne moved on to the VIP lounge. This was a big room, comfortably furnished, with its own bar and serving pantry. Tonight, of course, it had been used by the dignitaries now on the infield platform. The TV monitor showed the same scene that could be watched by looking out of the windows, but the sound was choked down to a whisper. The rabbi’s prayer was finished at last, and his place at the mike was taken by an official of the Dog Racing Association. Shayne found that the bar stocked his brand of cognac, and he poured himself a shot. He looked at the dog pictures on the wall, and was at the big window, drinking, when the door opened behind him and one of the men from the judges’ group came in. He was breathing rapidly, as though he had come a much longer distance.

“I need a drink. I can’t listen to that crap.”

He had a manila envelope under one arm. He put it on the bar while he poured whiskey, and when he sat down, laid it on the couch beside him. Behind dark-rimmed glasses, he blinked continually.

“I don’t know if this was such a hell of a good idea, Shayne, showing up tonight, but if you want to know something, I was thinking about calling you.”

“I don’t place you,” Shayne said.

“I’m Lou Liebler. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m getting a little edgy.”

“We all are,” Shayne said. “Max surprised a few people. There are some things that shouldn’t be put in writing. What was he trying to prove?”

“I can’t figure that one out.”

He drank, put the glass down, touched the envelope, scratched under his jaw, and reached for the glass again. If he had been any more nervous, he would have been flying.

“Liebler, sure,” Shayne said, remembering the name from the program. “You’re here looking after the interests of the State of Florida.”

“Correct. And when the state’s interests clash with my interests, I try to work out a compromise. Do you want to give me a general statement of where things stand at this point?”

Shayne studied his cognac. When he was satisfied with it, he drank.

“The difference is,” he said carefully, “people are going to be watching now. Changes have to be made. New shares all around.”

“Ouch. Well, I won’t say we didn’t expect it.” Liebler gestured at the monitor, on which a fat TV comedian, very much in earnest, was extolling Max Geary’s selflessness by citing the charity drives he had headed, as well as many small, unpublicized acts of kindness and generosity. “Not all that generous, I didn’t think. But without that big piece off the top, Max’s piece, there’s going to be more for everybody.”

“We don’t want to get involved in a war.”

“I’ll go along on that,” Liebler said, his eyes jumping from Shayne to the monitor, and then back to Shayne. “I’m a confirmed pacifist. At the same time, I know what I’m entitled to.”

The most interesting thing about this conversation so far was that Liebler’s name hadn’t been one of the ones in Geary’s book. Painter had identified only one name from the Wagering Board.

“What about Wolf?” Shayne said. “Is he going to be reasonable?”

“I wouldn’t like to be the one to put it to him, but he must be shaking and shivering today. Frankly, I was surprised at the size of his number.”

“Didn’t he have this job before you?”

Liebler gave him a quick look, which might have been slightly tinged with suspicion. “Al Wolf. Yeah. And when his transfer came through, he recommended me to replace him. For which I couldn’t thank him enough.”

“Can he hack the publicity?”

“I don’t see why not, if he keeps his mouth shut.”

Again Shayne thought about what he was going to say before he said it. “That’s what I wanted to check up on. If Painter had anything else to go with that little black book, he wouldn’t be handling it this way. He’d be after indictments. He’s hoping to get the hysteria going, so somebody’ll panic and they can turn him around.”

“Ah-ha,” Liebler said, relieved. “That explains why you didn’t want to postpone this conversation. If you’re worried about me, don’t be. Painter? He doesn’t impress me. Definitely bush.”

“Can we count on-you know who I mean, I always forget his name-”

“Fitz?” That would be Fitzhugh, the racing secretary. “He’s all right. He did say something about grabbing the next plane for Costa Rica”-Liebler laughed-“but I talked him out of it.”

Shayne finished his cognac, and went for more. As he passed the couch, he picked up Liebler’s envelope. The tax man stabbed after it, but Shayne moved it out of reach.

“What’s so important it had to come with you?”

“Hell, Mike. You know-it’s understandable.”

Shayne opened the envelope at the bar. It contained a diagram of the wiring in the auditorium and the control deck, and three minute-to-minute timetables, each starting at 7:30, when the betting machines opened. “Seven-thirty, restaurant. Seven-fifty, john. Seven-fifty-three, PR. Eight-o-six, phone, main level. Eight-ten, bar. Eight-sixteen, TV lounge, moving about. Eight-thirty-six, control room, outgoing phone call, monitor switches. Eight-forty-one, own office. Eight-forty-three, Fitz’s.”

“Do you blame me?” Liebler said. “Every day that goes by, we’re losing money. Max probably thought he was justified to keep it to himself, but damn it, there are times when you need a little mutual trust. I’m not trying to move in and take over. Don’t get that idea. It just occurred to me there was one weakness in the setup. A beautiful thing otherwise, but if anything happened to Max, the cash flow would dry up overnight. And he was drunk most of the time at the end. Drunks get careless.”

Shayne returned the papers to the envelope and tossed it back to Liebler. “What happened to the Tuesday money?”

“He had it in his dispatch case, six thousand, thereabouts. Burned up, more than likely.”

Shayne brought the cognac back. “Now I’m going to ask you to be patient a little longer, Lou. Let the dust settle.”

“I’m in agreement, but… Fitz is worried about the widow. If she sells, that’s it, and what’s to keep her from selling?”

“Selling what, the track?”

“Haven’t you heard that Harry Zell wants to put a hotel here?”

“That deal’s been hanging fire for years.”

“Because Max kept turning it down, and he can’t turn it down when he’s dead. All right, it wouldn’t be finalized until the end of the meeting. Twenty-one racing days left. We ought to be taking advantage. I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking in terms of my old age. Twenty-one days. Put that in utility bonds, and it’d be a nice thing to tack onto the pension.”