Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

My life, Lester.

My life.

His eyes were suddenly wet.

He dried them with his fist and thought Come on, come on, you’re a grown man, stop it, come on. He sniffed. Still feeling foolish, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed him crying, but no one had, all the gamblers were milling about the floor in their own universes, studying the tote board blinking new odds every few seconds, completely unmindful of Andrew Mullaney or his need. He looked up at the board. The odds on Jawbone had risen to thirty to one. His nose was running. He reached for a handkerchief, his pocket was empty, I don’t even have a goddamn handkerchief, he thought, and almost began weeping again in self-pity, but caught himself, forced himself to stand erect instead, his shoulders back and his head high, determined to find somebody in this crowd who would lend him the money he needed to put on Jawbone. Defiantly, he wiped the back of his hand across his nose (See the cop upon the comer) and dried it on his trouser leg (With the stripe upon his pants). Watch out, world, he thought, this is Andrew Mullaney here, rising from the picnic cloth where they thought, ha ha, they had swatted him flat, nossir!

Courage, he thought.

“The hors-es are on the track!” the announcer called.

Oh, he thought, give me courage.

He saw Merilee in that moment.

He saw her through the chain-link fence that separated the grandstand from the clubhouse section, saw her sitting with none other than Kruger, who had promised to kill him if he did not return with the money. She was wearing black, still wearing black though not the black velvet she had worn last night, which he had drawn up above her waist to spread her on the worthless jacket. He looked down at the shopping bag — JUDY BOND BLOUSES ARE ON STRIKE! — and at the crumpled jacket stuffed into it, and tried again to fathom its puzzle, and thought how much fun it would be to ask her for some money this time, thereby reversing the process of last night, “First the money,” she had moaned, “First the money,” and had only been screwed for her pains.

The tote board told him the time was now 1:55 and that post time was 2:06.

That is cutting it very close, Mullaney thought.

Even if I can catch her attention without Kruger seeing me, even if I can manage to do that without getting killed, how do I know she’s got any money, all she had in her bag last night was her driver’s license and a pearl-handled .22. Well, that is the gamble I must take, he thought, because the race is going to start in (he looked at the tote board again) exactly ten minutes, and the odds are now (another glance at the board) twenty-six to one, which means that the smart money is beginning to come in already, though it won’t be bet heavily enough to change the odds completely. If it continues to come in at this rate, the odds should hold at maybe ten or fifteen to one, which are very good odds, especially on a horse who will be receiving a little help — how do I get her attention without also getting Kruger’s?

Kruger put his binoculars to his eyes, watching the horses as they paraded on the track. Merilee, through instinct or because a Queens fly brushed her cheek just then, flicked her head to the right, looked straight into Mullaney’s face where he was standing behind the separating chain-link fence, nodded only once briefly, turned away, touched Kruger’s arm, whispered something to him, and then stood up. Her blond hair was wound around the top of her head, it looked like a neat golden yarmoulke similar to the white one Solomon had been wearing in the synagogue. Her black dress was cut low in the bodice, tight in the waist, flaring out over her long splendid legs, no stockings, black high-heeled pumps that clickety-clicked over the concrete steps as she walked toward the gate between the two sections. She was carrying a small black handbag in which Mullaney hoped there was something more than a driver’s license and a .22. The guard at the gate stamped her hand with invisible dye so that she could later put it under the ultraviolet light when she returned to the clubhouse section, and she came through the gate, winked at Mullaney, and walked right on past him toward the steps, very quickly, her sweet little backside wiggling, her pumps clickety-clicking on the vinyl tile floor, he would never forget last night in the library, though she had said it was lousy.

He followed her up the stairs at a safe distance, first glancing over his shoulder to make certain Kruger wasn’t watching, and caught up with her on the third floor, just outside the Man O’ War Room.

“Hello, honey,” she said, and smiled. “He’s going to kill you,” she said. “He’s got George and Henry looking for you. You shouldn’t have mentioned Aqueduct last night. He remembered your mentioning Aqueduct.”

“Well, those are the chances one ofttimes takes,” Mullaney said, thinking he sounded very much like K, and realizing that if he had mentioned Aqueduct to Kruger, he had doubtless mentioned it to K as well. It suddenly seemed terribly urgent to place the bet on Jawbone, collect his winnings, and get the hell out of here. “Do you have any money on you?” he asked.

“Yes, a little.”

“How much?”

“Oh, a little. He gives me a little to bet. He’s really very kind and generous indeed, though I can’t stand him.”

“Can you lend me some?”

“To get on an airplane to Brazil, do you mean?”

“No. To bet on a horse.”

“Oh that would be a terrible mistake,” Merilee said. “Lending someone money to bet on a horse.”

“This horse is a sure thing.”

“Besides,” she said, “I never lend money to strangers.”

“Were not strangers, Merilee,” he said softly and sincerely. “We have been intimate.”

“Oh yes indeed we have,” she said, and smiled. “But still...”

“If the horse wins, I’ll share the profits with you.”

“You said it was a sure thing.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why did you just say ‘If the horse wins’?”

“I meant when the horse wins.”

“When you’re making love,” Merilee said, “you can say what you like. But when you’re talking business, say what you mean.”

“I meant when the horse wins, when.”

“And how much profit will there be when she wins?”

“That depends on how much we bet and what the odds are when we bet it.”

“Oh my,” Merilee said, “it all sounds so dreadfully complicated.”

“It’s not complicated at all,” Mullaney said. “How much money have you got?”

“A little,” she said. “What will my cut be? Of the profits?”

“Well, let’s say fifty percent,” Mullaney said.

“No, let’s say seventy-five percent.”

“Sixty percent and it’s a deal.”

“Only because we once were lovers,” Merilee said, and lowered her eyes modestly.

“How much have you got?”

“Three hundred dollars.”

Mullaney glanced at the tote board. The odds on Jawbone had dropped to twelve to one. “Three hundred will have to do,” he said, and looked at the board again. It was five minutes to post time.

“There are complications I can think of,” Merilee said.

“Like what?”

“Like suppose the horse wins and they kill you before you can get to the cashier’s window?”

“They would have to kill me in the next six minutes or so, and I feel certain they won’t,” Mullaney said, not feeling at all certain.

“Well then, suppose the horse wins, and you do collect the money, but they kill you before you can give me my share?”

“If that’s bothering you, stay with me,” he said.