Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

I just don’t know what the hell it is.

He picked up the jacket and slung it over his arm, thinking he might just as well hang onto it in the event he had a brilliant inspiration later, which inspiration seemed like the remotest possibility at the moment, and then decided he had better get himself out to Aqueduct before the second race went off without him. He didn’t know what good it would do to be there, since he now possessed only four dollars and ten cents. With subway fare costing twenty cents, and admission costing two dollars, he wouldn’t even have enough left to lay a two-dollar bet on Jawbone.

Well, he thought, we shall see what we shall see.

He left the library the way he had come in, though now he was carrying the black-buttoned, black worsted jacket over his arm. On his way to the IRT in Grand Central, he passed a department store, and saw two pickets out front. One of them smiled, walked over to him, and said, “Shopping bag, sir?”

“Thank you,” he said.

The shopping bag was white with large red letters proclaiming JUDY BOND BLOUSES ARE ON STRIKE! Not being a union man himself, but being of course in sympathy with working men all over the world, Mullaney accepted the shopping bag, dropped the jacket into it, and hurried to Grand Central Station.

It took him forty-five minutes to get to Aqueduct from Grand Central via the IRT Lexington Avenue line to the Fulton Street-Broadway station where he changed to an IND “A” train that took him to Euclid Avenue in Brooklyn where he changed for a Rockaway train that took him directly to Aqueducts own million-dollar station overlooking the racetrack.

He had been to the Big A more times than he could count in the year since he had taken the gamble. He felt now the same surge of excitement he experienced each time he approached the modern structure with its manicured lawns and blooming flowers, sprinkler systems going, a mild breeze blowing in off Flushing Bay. A smile erupted on his face. Still carrying the free shopping bag with its Judy Bond message, he walked jauntily up the wide concrete path to the grandstand entrance. He paid the man in the booth his two-dollar admission fee, bought a twenty-five-cent program and a copy of the Morning Telegraph from a hawker on the main floor, and then took the escalator up to the first floor. The track’s ceilings were high and soaring, built to accommodate the huge, hanging Totalisator boards that blinked electronically with changing odds every few seconds, harmonious browns and beiges and corals blending to form a serene backdrop for the surging excitement on the betting floor.

It was only 1:10, and the first race (expected to start at 1:36, according to the tote board) had not yet begun. This meant that Mullaney had little more than forty-five minutes in which to raise whatever money he could in time for the second race. Anxiously, he scanned the faces in the crowd, searching for someone he knew. This was Saturday, though, and the gamblers (who normally composed perhaps ten percent of the track’s daily attendance) were today spread even more thinly among salesmen and businessmen and out-of-town buyers, housewives who had saved their nickels and dimes, nine-to-five clock-punchers who were ready to blow their week’s salary on a hopeful nag or two. There were present, too, gentlemen bettors with binoculars on their necks and blondes on their arms, college girls home for the spring vacation, servicemen on leave, Park Avenue ladies in slacks and mink coats, touts and tarts, bookies and bimbos, old Crazy Annie who would spend all day searching the vinyl tile floor for Win tickets mistakenly discarded, and even a juvenile delinquent in a black leather jacket with a skull and crossbones painted on its back (he had obviously seen the movie). Impossible to find anyone you know, Mullaney thought, unless you look very very hard, so he started to look and heard the track announcer’s distinct, high, clear voice coming over the loudspeaker system, cutting through the din for only a moment: “The hors-es are on the track!”

That is marvelous, Mullaney thought. They’re already on the track for the first race, and I haven’t got the price of a two-dollar bet. He put down his shopping bag for a moment, leaned against one of the supporting girders, and opened his program. The second race was a six-furlong race with a $4,295 purse. It was limited to fillies and mares, four years old and upward, who had not won at least a $2,925 race since December 11th. The program noted that maiden, claiming, optional and starter races were not to be considered disqualifying, and then listed Jawbone as the number-3 horse, with morning-line odds of twenty to one, sure enough. She was owned by Targe Stables (whose colors were red polka dots on a white field, red sleeves, white cap) and she was to be ridden by Johnny Lingo, whom Mullaney knew to be an excellent jock. He nodded briefly, opened his Telegraph and scanned Jawbone’s track record. Apparently, she worked well on a wet track, which today’s track most certainly was, but she hadn’t won on any of her last three outings, leading the field each time only to run out of steam in the stretch, failing even to place. She was up against some damn good horses, the favorite being the 4-horse, Good Sal, at two-to-one odds, and the next closest longshot being the 8-horse, Felicity, at ten-to-one, which was still a far cry from the steep odds on Jawbone.

She might do it, Mullaney thought. She especially might do it with a little help. And if she isn’t about to get a little help, then why had his dice-player friend given him the tip as early as yesterday, and why had Jawbone then been scratched, and why had the tip carried over into today’s second?

It looked very much to Mullaney as if that sweet filly had been set to receive a little help yesterday, but maybe some wires had gotten crossed, so she’d been scratched before 8: 30 a. m., which was the official weekday time limit for scratching any horse. That meant that her owners had until 10:15 a. m. Friday to enter her in one of Saturday’s races, and since fourteen horses could be started in a six-furlong race, chances were she would draw a post position unless the race was overfilled. It had apparently worked just that way, and it looked to Mullaney as if she might just possibly very definitely receive the help she needed today. A tip doesn’t carry from one day’s race to the next, nor is it bandied about by a hood with a stickball bat (no matter what the hell he claimed it was — a broom handle, ha!) unless the fix is in there tight, Charlie, unless that little help is going to be zinged in right when it’s needed, yessir, she looked very good indeed. He decided to play her, very definitely.

All he needed was some money.

He picked up his shopping bag, and began circling the echoing betting floor, searching the lines at the cashiers’ windows, seeing a few people he knew (but not well enough to ask for a loan), and then hearing the track announcer’s voice saying, “It is now post time,” and then, “They’re off!”

He walked out to the grandstand to watch the race without interest, the announcer’s voice drowned out in the yelling of the crowd, “Come on, four! come on, Bidabee! come on, two!” everybody wanting some horse or other to come on, when of course none of the horses knew what anyone was yelling, and even if they did would probably pay no attention since horses are notoriously dumb animals who will bite you on your ass for no good reason, he disliked horses intensely. The crowd jumped to its feet as the 5-horse came streaking from fourth place to catch and pass the frontrunners and take first. Mullaney watched all the sore losers tearing up their tickets, and then looked at the tote board and saw that the race had taken one minute and thirty-eight seconds and that the present time was...