Murder at the Racetrack (15 page)

The pot was Las Vegas large, fifty thousand dollars, winner take it all. And I had no choice but to win it, going into the
late hours of the game down by twenty-five thousand, my winnings gone after a soiled streak of cold hands. The table had to
get the okay from Touchdown in order for me to stay in. I looked over and saw a beefy man with the girth of an old Chevy whisper
into Touchdown’s ear. Touchdown didn’t say a word, glanced at me, stared out with vacant eyes for a handful of seconds and
then nodded. He would stake me the twenty-five thousand I needed to stay in the game. If I won the pot, he would get back
the money he put out, plus half of my winning cut. It was worth the gamble. Touchdown would see a profit, I would get out
from under and we’d both leave the table with smiles. I knew it had to play out that way, there was no choice, it was the
only way the game could end. I was lost in the grip of the gambler’s reality, my mind clouded by visions of the big win. And
when I saw my hand, holding two Queens and two Aces in a game of five-card stud, I knew luck was back at my end and I would
walk away a winner.

That’s a brutal hand to beat under any circumstance, I don’t care who you are or how bad a run you’re in. But coming off my
hot roll earlier in the game, I knew I had the feel back, sitting there as I was with a calm look and a Shaq slam-dunk hand.
I could toss away one of the Queens and still take the pot, that’s how strong I felt going to the final draw.

“Make your call, Chief,” the young man in the granny glasses and short-cropped hair sitting straight across from me said.
It was down to the two of us, last hand of the game, a fifty-grand pot destined to find its way to my hands in less time than
it takes to pour a glass of scotch.

I sat up in my chair and laid down my cards, not bothering to hide the smile on my face. I knew I was home clear, a winning
hand if there ever was one, until I glanced over at Touchdown and saw an even bigger smile on his face. And guys like Touchdown
never smile unless they won the night and that’s when I knew I’d been taken. I didn’t even need to see the four Kings the
guy in the granny glasses laid down on his end of the table to know. I was on the short end of a fifty-thousand-dollar tab
and had to wait as the room emptied for Touchdown to explain to me how it was I was expected to pay it back.

“Let’s get air,” he told me, watching as I could do nothing more than stare at the now empty table where only minutes earlier
my surefire score was all spread out, waiting for me to grab. “We can talk while we walk.”

I was feeling pretty numb as we slowly made our way up toward Columbus Avenue, crossing against traffic and heading toward
the Museum of Natural History. “They tell me you train horses,” Touchdown said. “You any good?”

“Depends more on the horse than on me,” I said, being honest and hoping it wouldn’t come across as flip.

“You got this one horse, Yellow Mama, she seems to be pretty good,” Touchdown said. “You would stand by that, am I right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’d be right about her. She’s the best horse I ever worked with or been around.”

“Let me get to the point, then,” Touchdown said. He was tall, with a solid daily-workout build, even walked like an athlete.
That wasn’t why they called him Touchdown, though. That came from the fact that in all his years in the New York rackets,
he never failed to make a score. Not for himself and not for the people he worked with. With Touchdown around, everybody cashed
out. “You’re fifty large in the hole to me. That was my game in there and your debts are now mine as well. I’m guessing you
don’t have that kind of cash sitting around any local bank branch. And odds are better than good you don’t have either a friend
or a relative willing to front you that kind of money. You with me so far?”

I nodded and kept my head lowered. I wasn’t sure which way this was going, but I knew wherever it was, it wouldn’t be a good
place. Not for me and not for Yellow Mama. I took a deep breath and tried hard to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“Figured as much,” Touchdown said. “I don’t know how much you know about me or how I do business, so let me fill you in on
just the important points. I don’t waste time. I’m owed money, I want it back fast. In your case, we’re talking the end of
the weekend, Sunday afternoon, no later.”

“That’s in two days,” I managed to say. “Barely two days.”

“At least you can add,” Touchdown said, staring at me with eyes the color of black rock. “The faster we get this done, the
better. There’s a match race your horse is running this Sunday at one. She figures to win the race in a walk. From what I
hear about the other horse, an old goat could outrun her if she got enough of a head of steam. But that’s not what’s gonna
happen. Your horse, Yellow Mama, is gonna tank the race and you and me, we’re gonna make sure she does.”

“How are we going to do that?” I asked.

“Simple as laying down a bet,” Touchdown said. “First you talk to your jockey. Tell him not to go crazy. Run her slow and
hold her back if he has to. He gives you any lip, explain to him a jockey needs legs in order to saddle a horse and he’ll
be missing those if he screws this up.”

“What else?”

“Just to cover all our bases,” Touchdown said, “you give your horse a shot. Something to slow her down, make her want to nap
and not look to break any track records. I’ll have someone bring it around the day before the race. Takes about an hour or
so to kick in, so give it to her just as you’re getting ready to gear her up. Any part of this not clear to you?”

“And if Yellow Mama throws the race, I don’t owe you any money,” I said. “That how it works?”

“First of all, it’s not if but when she throws the race,” Touchdown said. “And second, you get out from under me by betting
$100,000 on the other horse, what’s her name?”

“Valley Girl,” I said.

“Cute,” Touchdown said with a slow smile. “You lay a hundred big on Valley Girl and she wins the race. I pick up your winnings.
The fifty thousand you owe is cleared. The rest is the price of doing business with a guy like me.”

“What if I don’t agree to it,” I said, the question sounding as foolish as I felt.

Touchdown stopped walking and turned to face me. He had me in inches and girth and his body language was just a tick shy of
lashing out and leaving me for dead only a few feet from the museum steps.

“Then I kill you, your jockey and your horse,” Touchdown said in a calm, even voice. “One after the other. You can bet on
that happening and that’s a bet you’d be sure to win.”

Touchdown gave me a hard pat on the shoulder, turned and walked away, heading uptown on Central Park West.

That was yesterday and since then I haven’t come up with any answers that would get me out of this fix. I ran the whole scheme
past Blue and got nothing back but a sad and angry look filled with hate and distrust. “I knew you would always risk tossing
away your own life,” he said to me. “And not give any more of a damn about mine. But I never for once thought you would do
anything to hurt Mama.”

“It’s only a race, Blue,” I said in a meek defense.

“To you,” Blue said. “And a way out. But it’s more than that to me. I’m never going to be confused with the great jockeys
of this business, but Mama made me into a winner and I’ll always love her for that. And racing and winning is all that horse
is about. You shoot her up and make her lose, be just like cutting out her heart.”

I stood and opened the door to the stall and stepped in. Mama, as she always did, walked up to my left side and nudged me
with her head. I stroked her thick brown mane and gazed into her eyes. They were warm and watery, large dark ovals that made
me feel as if she understood everything that went on around her. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of chestnuts
and put them near her mouth, watching as she gobbled up each one, careful not to nip at my skin as she did. “You deserved
better, Mama,” I whispered. “Better than what I’ve given you. You should have had a trainer who geared you for the big races,
not in cash grab stakes. A trainer that would have made you the champion you were born to be.”

Behind us, the starter’s horn blared for the start of the day’s first race. I walked toward the rear of the stall, next to
the pile of hay, and picked up a littl$e black box, the one with the needle and the fluid in it. It had been left there by
one of Touchdown’s crew, primed and ready to slow the beats of Yellow Mama’s runner’s heart, make her welcome a loss instead
of dying for the taste of the win. I put the box back in its resting place and turned around. Yellow Mama half-turned and
stared, her eyes seeing right through me. I stared back for several minutes and then smiled. It suddenly became all so clear.
I could get out from under Touchdown’s grasp, get away from the hustle of having to score fifty thousand dollars I didn’t
have and even walk away with some dough for Blue and Yellow Mama, see them live and work the right way, the way they should
have been all these years. I checked my watch and turned to walk out of the stall. I stopped and leaned my head against Mama’s
neck. “You get some rest,” I told her. “You got a race in the morning.”

I turned and left Mama in her stall, knowing she would lean her head out and stare after me until I was long out of sight.

I started the rest of my day meeting with Blue before placing bets with every bookie in town I knew and then heading uptown
to meet with a man I had only read about. Blue sat on the small cot in his tiny apartment and listened to what I came to tell
him, his body still as a statue. When I was done, he gazed up at me and, barely moving his lips, asked, “You sure about all
this? This the way you want it to go?”

“It’s the only way it can go,” I told him. “Don’t worry. You have to learn to trust me on this one, Blue. Maybe for the only
time in your life. But this is one hand I know how to play and come out ahead of the game.”

Uptown, the room was dark when I walked in and stayed that way through my stay. The small figure sat straight up on a thick
deep couch, at ease in his surroundings, a hot cup of espresso resting on the coffee table by his side. He was in his eighties,
his hair white as a cloud and thick, his hands holding a pair of reading glasses, the paper next to him open to the racing
pages. “Say what it is you came here to say,” he told me, speaking in a low, gentle voice, still coated with traces of his
Italian childhood.

I had arranged the meeting through an East Harlem bookie I knew. At first, he wouldn’t agree to make the call, but after some
prodding and giving him just the slightest hints to my plan, he agreed. “You better make good on this,” the bookie warned.
“You mess this up, they’ll break my fingers just for dialing their number and wasting their time.”

“Just get me in the room,” I said with all the confidence in the world. “I’ll handle the rest.”

The old man sipped his coffee and crossed one leg over the other. He had the air of someone who had lived his life on his
own set of rules, refusing to allow the words and actions of others to dictate the moments of his day. At an age when most
men are either in retirement homes or tending to small gardens out back, he still reigned supreme over a vast criminal enterprise
that controlled much of the New York and New Jersey area. I took a deep breath and then broke the silence. “I’ve laid down
close to five hundred thousand dollars in bets on tomorrow’s match race at Belmont,” I said. “I did that with less than fifty
dollars to my name and no chance in hell of paying it back if the horse I bet on loses.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to lay down double my action,” I told him. “Bet a million dollars on one race with the horse I tell you to bet.”

“And who’s going to cover such action?” he asked, more curious than anything else. “I know the answer isn’t you. So who then?”

“You lay your bet down with Touchdown,” I said to the old man. “He’ll take your action, believe me.”

“I don’t like to bet,” the old man said. “Especially not off the word of a man I only know as a second-rate horse trainer
who already owes more than he can pay. And I’m not looking to put any of my money in Touchdown’s pockets.”

“But you wouldn’t mind seeing Touchdown taken out of business,” I said, knowing I was about to cross into turf that was unfamiliar
to me. “And between my action and yours, he’ll finish the day close to two million in the hole and that’s a bad place for
him to be.”

“You owe Touchdown money,” the old man said. “Why not pay him and forget about it. You’re not made for a play like this one.”

“I haven’t been given much of a choice,” I said.

“Guys like you never are,” the old man said.

“This goes the right way and Touchdown belongs to you,” I said. “I get out from under his weight and he gets tossed on top
of yours. I don’t see where either one of us has anything to lose.”

“From what I heard of your plan, I have a million dollars to lose,” the old man said.

“You’re not going to lose,” I said, staring at him through the darkness of the room.

“My coffee’s cold and your time is up,” the old man said. “Time for me to find my way to the kitchen and you to the door.
Our time together is over.”

“There is just one more thing before I go,” I said. “It won’t take very long. It has nothing to do with me. But it’s something
I think you’ll want to hear.”

“What is it?”

“I’d like to tell you about my horse,” I said. “Her name is Yellow Mama and I think it’s a story you’ll like.”

The morning of the race, I was led into Yellow Mama’s stall by two of Touchdown’s goons. They waited and watched as I opened
the black box, pulled out the hypodermic and reached for the small bottle of clear fluid. Blue waited outside the stall, his
head down, arms folded across his chest. I turned and walked over toward Yellow Mama, the needle in my right hand. “Where
do you shoot it?” one of the goons asked.

“Back of her leg,” I told him. “The veins are thick there and it makes anything you inject run through her system faster.”