Brett Halliday: Nice Fillies Finish Last

“True,” Shayne agreed gravely.

Rourke put a cigarette in his mouth and fumbled for his lighter. He had trouble bringing the flame and the end of the cigarette together. He threw the lighter away and caromed off a chair on the way to the mantlepiece for the keys to his Ford.

“I guess I shouldn’t have taken that last drink,” he mumbled, running his words together. “But don’t worry, I’ll get there. That heap of mine just about handles itself.”

He was putting some of this on, but the truth was that he didn’t look forward to the drive alone. The Sunshine State Parkway had been engineered to eliminate all forms of distraction, and he often came close to falling asleep on it even in daylight, when he was fully awake to begin with.

Shayne watched his helpless-drunk act, unimpressed.

“What a faker,” he commented. “All right, we’ll go in my car.”

The grooms and hot-walkers had finished cooling out the horses that had raced in that evening’s program. After putting their charges away for the night, they had gone to bed themselves. In another hour or so, a new set of grooms and trainers would arrive for breakfast, but at the moment Sweeney’s Cafeteria, across the street from the one-mile training track at Surfside Raceway, was all but empty. An attendant or two dozed behind the steam tables. Four or five customers, including Rourke and Mike Shayne, were scattered about the brightly lit dining area.

The big clock over the cash-desk said five minutes to four, and there was still no sign of Joey Dolan. Shayne had brought a pint bottle of cognac, which not only helped keep them awake but improved the taste of the thick, bitter coffee.

“What do you say, Mike?” Rourke asked. “Give him ten more minutes?”

“That’s up to you,” Shayne said. “This is your excursion. I have nothing to do when I get back except sleep, and I can do that any time.”

“I’m sorry. From the way he sounded on the phone, I thought we could count on him.”

“Oh, I’m glad I came, Tim. Otherwise I never would have got to know Sweeney’s, which is undoubtedly one of the really great cafeterias of the Eastern seaboard.”

“Will you lay off, Mike? I said I was sorry.”

Shayne poured another slug of cognac into his coffee. “What kind of guy is this Dolan?”

“Christ, Mike, if you’d asked me yesterday, I would have told you he was one of the pleasantest, best-adjusted people I know. It always seemed to me that he lived pretty much the way he wanted. How many people can you say that about? He probably averages one shave every couple of weeks. He has a little goatee-it tends to fade into the background when he hasn’t shaved for awhile. He changes his socks whenever he feels like it, and that isn’t often. If he’s broke at mealtime, he goes over to the trailer area and sits down to dinner with practically anybody. He’s more in tune with horses than anybody I know. I mean-somebody like Ad Kimball will work from past performance form and bloodlines and all that crap, but Joey just looks them in the eye and finds out how they feel. I always figured that the only reason he needed cash was to keep the sherry flowing. And now it turns out that he wants to own a TV set! He wants to hit big, like the rest of us. That’s the result of the publicity about those mammoth twin-double payoffs lately. I’m disappointed in him, but at the same time, if he’s really onto something, I’m not going to refuse to get in on it.”

He sighed. “Let’s wait till a quarter after. I wish I knew where to look for him, but I don’t. He could be anywhere.”

“You say he’s a sherry-drinker. How did he sound on the phone?”

“Normal,” Rourke said. “He gets a buzz going before breakfast and keeps it going all day. He always knows what he’s doing. Damn it, will you stop looking at me like that? Maybe somebody came along with a half gallon, and he killed it and forgot about his appointment with me. It doesn’t sound like him, that’s all. Or maybe he got the financing from somebody else before we got here. Or maybe I’m all wrong about the guy and he was trying to hustle me. When he looked in the window and saw I’d brought somebody, he changed his mind and sneaked away. But it would really surprise me. More coffee?”

Shayne made a face. “What do you think I am, copper-lined?”

The revolving door squeaked, and Rourke swung around hopefully. A shaky old man in rumpled khakis took a check out of the dispenser.

“Dolan?” Shayne said.

The reporter shook his head. One of the attendants drew a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter to the old man. He carried it to a table in both hands. One of the bows of his horn-rimmed glasses was held together with adhesive tape. His white hair was neatly parted.

“I know who he is, though,” Rourke said. “What’s his name? Goldy something.”

The old man lowered his face toward the coffee, not trusting his trembling hands to lift it off the table. Rourke waited a moment more, then went over to him. After taking a deep gulp, the old-man sat back and began fitting the frayed butt of a cigarette into a filter holder.

“My name’s Tim Rourke,” Rourke said. “I met you the other night with Joey Dolan.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man said. “Pleased to encounter you again, Mr. Rourke. Rinngold Rutherford.” He waved at a chair. “Perhaps you might be interested in a pacer in the fourth. The trainer owes me a favor. I saved him from drowning as a young boy. He informs me in confidence that the horse is ready. It will cost you a five-spot.”

“Sounds pretty good,” Rourke said. “What would you think about a jolt of something in your coffee?”

“I know I’d like it,” Rutherford said simply.

“Then come over and join us.”

Rourke carried his cup for him. Rutherford acknowledged the introduction to Shayne with an old-fashioned bow.

“It is a privilege. I know your reputation, of course.” He sat down between them and murmured as Shayne produced the cognac and poured a large dollop into his cup. “I see that you have excellent taste in brandy. Mr. Rourke and I have been talking about a 2:03 pacer in the fourth tomorrow evening. This evening, I suppose, as I see it is after four o’clock in the morning. This is a horse I can recommend with confidence. I’ve clocked him myself. The stable personnel are unanimous. They believe they have a winner.”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute,” Rourke said. “Meanwhile, have you seen Joey?”

Rutherford took a tiny sip of coffee and breathed in deeply, his eyes closed. “Marvelous. Makes the Sweeney Java really quite drinkable. Yes, I was talking to Joey earlier tonight.”

“When?” Rourke said. “He told us to meet him here at three-thirty.”

Rutherford slid his glasses down his nose and focused on the big clock. “Joey Dolan is not one of the world’s most punctual men. Still, there’s nothing to be gained by being annoyed with him. Joey is Joey. At his age, he’s unlikely to change the habits of a lifetime.”

He pursed his lips in thought, then opened them to take another swallow of coffee. “I, too, you understand, am not a slave to the clock. I consider it no friend of mine. Joey has recently fallen on hard times, and he has been forced to accept a position as hot-walker for the Domaines. He was walking a filly who did quite badly in the sixth, I’m afraid. Finished well out of the money. After he brought her in, we shared a bottle and a few reminiscences. By that time it must have been-oh, two.”

“Then what?” Rourke prompted as the old man’s attention wandered.

“Then he went to bed. We parted behind the Domaine barn. Joey is strongly averse to spending money for a mattress in the bunkhouse, and so am I. The climate is generally salubrious, and even the most luxurious hotel can’t provide its guests with a bed that is more comfortable than a pile of loose straw, especially if you are lucky enough to finish the evening reasonably well oiled.”