Brett Halliday - Nice Fillies Finish Last

The apron was jammed with homeward-bound horse-players, that vast majority with no winnings to collect from the cashiers. Shayne vaulted the rail onto the track. The official sign was up on the board and the horses had turned and were coming back. He kept close to the rail. Fussbudget turned toward the judges’ tower to have her picture taken. A guard shouted at Shayne; the redhead lengthened his stride. At the gap leading to the paddock, he ducked back under the rail and waited.

When he saw Franklin Brossard bringing in My Treat, he went under the rail again and grabbed the curved bar over Brossard’s sulky wheel. The horse felt the drag on the sulky and stopped at once.

“Take your hands off my bike,” Brossard said evenly.

“I want to talk to you, Frank. Do you recognize me? You crowded me off the road outside Lauderdale this afternoon.”

Brossard glanced at the paddock judge, who was watching like a vulture, his eyes hooded. Moving nothing but his right wrist, Brossard flicked the point of his whip across his body at Shayne. The redhead was waiting for it. He came up fast, let the whip wrap itself around his forearm, and pulled. He grabbed Brossard’s wrist as it came across. Brossard’s body was as tough and resilient as a twist of bridge cable, but balancing as he was on the precarious little seat, his feet up in the foot-brackets, he had no leverage.

The judge shouted, “Get your sulky out of the gap!”

Brossard’s mean eyes glittered at Shayne. “OK, tough guy. I’ll meet you in front of the Domaine barn as soon as I get a swipe to tend the horse.”

“We’re doing this my way,” Shayne said. “Don’t try to hurry your horse or I’ll pull you out on the ground.”

Two uniformed Pinkertons ran out of the paddock.

“Any trouble, Frank?” one of them said.

Brossard spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the dirt. Without replying he flicked the reins and the horse began to move. Shayne let go of Brossard’s wrist but kept a firm grasp on the bar. The big paddock barn was emptying. They went through at a walk. In the stable area, horses under blankets were being led around the walking circle. In front of some of the stalls, grooms worked on tack or washed bandages. A fluttery old man stepped out from under an overhanging shed roof, under a wrought-iron sign reading, “DOMAINE,” and took My Treat by the head harness.

“Baby doll,” he said sadly, “you lost me a five spot.”

Brossard swung down stiffly, rubbing the grayish stubble on his lantern jaw. “Your name’s Shayne, right? I didn’t make it an issue out there on the strip because I don’t know if Mr. Domaine-”

The rest of his breath came out in a puff as Shayne’s fist hit him above the belt buckle and dumped him backward against the shed rail and over it into the dirt. Shayne vaulted the rail after him. Brossard kicked out viciously, grazing Shayne’s kneecap, then shifted balance and came up at a slant, his folded arms protecting his face from a sudden jerk of Shayne’s knee, and tried to butt the detective in the stomach. Shayne caught his bristly chin in both hands, went backward a step, then dug in, brought his hands up and spilled Brossard back against the stall door. For an instant the driver hung there, and Shayne pumped a hard right against the side of his head, dropping him. He rolled, shook his head to clear it, and came to his feet with a short club that had a leather thong looped from one end, apparently some kind of instrument used to control horses. He was still groggy from Shayne’s right, and he moved in slow motion, like the horses Shayne had watched on tape in the racing secretary’s office. Shayne chopped at the big muscle of his arm and picked the club out of his numbed fingers.

A man came running across the wide dirt road from another stable. Shayne looked at him, the club in his hand. He stopped abruptly at the rail.

“Inside,” Shayne said to Brossard. “You’re going to tell me some of your boss’s secrets, and it’s too public out here.”

The driver gave him an evil look and went into the tack-room. Shayne followed.

“Take off your boots,” he snapped. Brossard looked surprised. “What do you mean, take off my boots?”

Shayne rapped the back of his knees with the club and Brossard sat down abruptly on the floor. He had lost his cap in the fight. Without it, he looked older.

“The Pinks are going to be along in a minute, and if you think you’re going to break my toes or anything-” Shayne slammed the door and locked it. He made a menacing gesture with the hardwood club and Brossard started pulling at his boots. Shayne picked up the first one that came off, turned it upside down and shook it. A twin double ticket fluttered out.

“That’s where I thought you’d be carrying it,” he said. “I didn’t see any pockets in those silks.”

“I thought I’d keep it for a souvenir,” Brossard sneered, “but if you want it that much you can have it.”

“Six and four,” Shayne said, reading the numbers on the ticket. “Six and eight was the winning combination. Who’s the four horse?”

Brossard looked at him curiously. “My Treat. The Domaine mare, for the love of God. Is that the reason for this punch in the belly? You thought I was faking it in the stretch?”

“She ran out of steam awfully fast.”

“You never saw that happen with a horse? I didn’t expect it with this baby, but she had that close scrape in the backstretch and I guess she didn’t have nothing left. The way she was fading there, I was lucky to bring her in third. But they don’t pay off in the twin on thirds. Give me my goddamn boot.”

Shayne tossed it to him and he yanked it on angrily. He came to his feet, brushing straw and dirt off his pink pants.

“After driving four races in three hours, I just love a good brawl before I go to bed,” he said. He felt his long jaw. “You pack quite a right hand, mister. Jesus, I could understand it if you’d broke any bones when I ran you off the road, but I hear you didn’t even have to put on a bandaid.”

He took a cigarette from a pack on a shelf and looked for matches. He opened a drawer in a workbench and whirled with a pair of brass knuckles on his fist. Shayne had been watching his movements closely, and crowded him with the short club. Brossard gauged his chances. Sneering, he tossed the knuckles back in the drawer.

“Give me a light.”

Shayne ignored the request. “Did you know Joey Dolan told somebody he was going to the Belle Mark an hour or two before he was killed?”

Brossard’s eyelids twitched. He said hoarsely, “Did you say killed?”

“You didn’t think that was going to be called an accident, did you?”

“Damn right it was an accident! Joey was no ordinary rummy. He wouldn’t drink wood alcohol unless he didn’t know what he-”

He looked sharply at Shayne and clamped his mouth shut. Somebody outside rattled the knob of the locked door. Brossard went to the door, looked at Shayne for an instant, then unlocked the door and opened it. Two of the track Pinkertons were outside. One had a gun showing.

“Beat it,” Brossard said with a jerk of his head.

“They said somebody was kicking you around, Frank-”

“Any time anybody wants to kick me around, they’re welcome to try. Go back to sleep.”

He slammed the door and found a match. “You said Joey told somebody. What does that mean, you don’t know who?”

“If we lit enough fires under people, we could find out. You didn’t kill him, did you, Brossard?”

“Why would I want to kill Joey? I liked the guy. But I don’t like that crap about my apartment. It makes me wonder if somebody’s trying to frame me.”

“Does Paul Thorne still have a key to it?”