Brett Halliday - Nice Fillies Finish Last

Moving the binoculars, Shayne saw Mrs. Moon at the same table. She was talking to people nearby, laughing in her usual glittering way.

After a brief fanfare, the hard metallic voice of the public address called out, “The pacers for the ninth race are on the track.”

Shayne turned to watch them pass the grandstand. The horse Paul Thorne was driving, Famous Son, was small and shaggy, with a mean look, and didn’t seem fast. Thorne was applauded; in addition to winning with his own trotter, he had had another first and a third. My Treat, the Domaine mare being driven by Brossard, had a long, pretty stride. Mrs. Moon’s Fussbudget, a medium-sized, undistinguished-looking roan, was listed at eighteen to one on the board. The lights blinked as more money was bet on the other horses, and the odds on Fussbudget lengthened to twenty. Famous Son was the favorite, at five to two. My Treat was getting new backing from people who went by a horse’s looks rather than its record. It was now fourteen to one.

“I’m going to use the glasses to watch the clubhouse,” Shayne said. “You watch the race and tell me what’s happening. I’ll see how they react. Keep an eye on Fussbudget.”

“This is one hell of a time to tell me to keep an eye on Fussbudget,” Rourke said. “We could have protected ourselves by taking one ticket on her and one on My Treat. I’ll have to report back to the hospital when this is over. I’m in agony.”

“I don’t think you’re in agony at all,” Miss Mallinson said. “I think you’re enjoying every minute of it.”

The public address cried, “The marshals call the pacers!” Two girls on ponies, in fake cowgirl outfits, began lining up the sulkies in the back stretch behind the starting car, a long white convertible supporting a wide folding gate. As the car moved toward the turn at ten miles an hour, the drivers brought their horses’ heads up to the gate and the announcer called, “The field is in the hands of the starter.”

A moment later: “The field is in motion!”

The car gained speed gradually. Bettors hurried back from the galleries. A yell arose, the starter shouted “Go!”, the gate folded in and the car swooped away. Shayne checked the final odds and swung his binoculars to the clubhouse.

Excited people lined the railing. Everybody who had stayed for the last race had money on it, and a handful still held valid tickets in the twin double. This group was close to hysteria, seeing visions of one of the rich payoffs that had been making headlines lately. The Domaines and Mrs. Moon had risen, Domaine between the two women. Claire’s clenched fists were pressed hard against her breast as she watched the rush for the turn. It was obvious to Shayne that she thought the whole course of her life would be determined by the outcome of the race.

“It’s Speedy Lad at the turn,” the announcer called. “Famous Son is second, Hurricane Edna on the rail, Painted Lady is fourth, then it’s My Treat, Fussbudget. Fussbudget moving up. Now it’s Speedy Lad, Famous Son-”

Rourke said prayerfully, “Come on, My Treat. Move.”

“Don’t talk to the horses, talk to me,” Shayne told him.

Of the three people he was watching, Mrs. Moon was screaming advice to her horse, Claire stood rigid and silent, Domaine watched the track with a faint smile. He glanced down at his left hand, where he held a stopwatch. Without hurrying, he took off his pince-nez and raised his binoculars to watch the horses go into the turn coming out of the backstretch.

“My Treat’s got an opening,” Rourke said. “There’s a cranny there she can get through. She’s coming out. She’s going to take that next horse. There she goes.”

Shayne heard the rattle of hoofs through the crowd-roar and turned to watch the horses come past the grandstand. Thorne had lost his cap. His long black hair was flying in the breeze. He was using his whip. The head of his horse, Famous Son, came abreast of the leading driver. The horse in first place was beginning to fade.

The announcer called, “And now it’s Speedy Lad, it’s Famous Son, Painted Lady is third-

Claire was pressing her fingertips against her temples. Domaine still had his binoculars up. He was no longer smiling.

“I can’t stand it,” Rourke moaned. “What’s the matter with that driver? Come on, My Treat! Get going, will you, Brossard? He’s relaxed! He doesn’t care if he wins or not! Well, finally. He’s brushing her now. That’s right, sweetheart, go. No-Painted Lady’s carrying her out, Mike! The driver’s lost a rein.” He howled. “She squeaked past, My Treat barely squeaked past. That was nice driving, but God it was close.”

In the clubhouse, Domaine had taken the binoculars down and snapped his pince-nez back on. His eyes were narrow. Mrs. Moon seized his arm in her excitement.

The announcer called, “Going into the back-stretch, it’s Famous Son first, then it’s Speedy Lad-”

“My Treat’s fourth,” Rourke said, “coming up fast on the outside. Fussbudget’s still hanging in there, damn her. It’s those four horses. Hey! Hurricane Edna broke. Pulled to the outside. Thorne’s whipping Famous Son again.” He said suddenly, “They bumped! Thorne wobbled, collided with Speedy Lad-I don’t know what happened. Maybe he did it deliberately to let My Treat through-”

The crowd was roaring insanely. Claire had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, but Shayne couldn’t see enough of her face to gauge the expression. Domaine was smiling again.

Rourke said, “They’re both out of the race. That was a rough piece of driving, Mike. Thorne and the other horse are out of it, their equipment is jammed together. And there goes My Treat!”

The announcer: “Now it’s My Treat first as they come into the stretch, it’s Fussbudget, it’s Painted Lady third by two lengths-”

“Thorne’s out of his sulky,” Rourke said. “His horse is dragging him.”

Domaine’s binoculars, Shayne saw, weren’t aimed at the front-running horses, but at Thorne. His front teeth were bared.

“Brossard’s trying,” Rourke said. “I’ll say that for him. He’s whipping his horse. Fussbudget’s coming up fast. My Treat is tiring. Now they’re neck and neck. Mike, we’re going to lose! Fussbudget’s past. Running strong. My Treat’s all done. She’s laboring.”

The announcer: “And now in the stretch it’s Fussbudget by a length, it’s My Treat second, it’s Painted Lady. Coming down to the wire it’s Fussbudget, it’s Painted Lady, it’s My Treat. Fussbudget wins it by two lengths, Painted Lady is second, My Treat third-”

Mrs. Moon, in the clubhouse, was jumping up and down, necklaces and bracelets flying, her hair wild. Claire was rigid again, but it seemed to Shayne that her eyes were shining. An odd expression moved across Domaine’s face, an expression of satisfaction and triumph. By the way they looked, they all three had a winner. Domaine raised the binoculars and looked off toward the turn, where Thorne had fallen. His lips came back again, showing his teeth.

Rourke moaned. “What the hell happened? She quit in the stretch. Half a furlong to go. I’ll never come that close to winning a twin.”

Shayne pulled out the key to Room 17 at the motel, the room he had rented that afternoon. “Stop thinking about money, Tim. Now the important things start happening. This is the Golden Crest Motel, on the ocean, between Pompano Beach and Lauderdale. Go there right away. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

“Jesus, will you look at that payoff,” Rourke groaned as the unofficial twin-double winner was flashed- 6 and 8, pays 22,717.80. “Twenty-two thousand bucks. You knew about Fussbudget and didn’t tell me. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.”