The Bookwoman's Last Fling (28 page)

Sharon was dozing in her kitchen when I called. I explained what I needed and why, she said she'd wire us some money, and I began laying the groundwork for a hit-and-run operation. I would hit, Martha would run, and hopefully I'd get Bob and Erin out of here as well.

I called Golden Gate and left a message for Sandy. We needed to talk, ASAP.

I rented Martha a motel room across town, out near the airport. She had a big box, her logbooks and notes, and this was all she needed to take from the old place. We shipped it to Idaho, leaving her with only the small suitcase to carry.

Now came the hard part. I picked up the money Sharon had wired me and drove back to the racetrack in the fading afternoon. Erin was watching my approach with wary eyes, as if she knew exactly what was in the wind. Bob came to the open tack-room door and slouched there waiting. I sat in the empty chair and cleared my throat.

“This is not a good sign,” Erin said. “When he clears his throat, bad things are happening.”

“So how was Martha?” Bob said.

“Very good. I owe you one.”

“You want to tell us about it?” Erin said.

“Not particularly.”

She looked at Bob and rolled her eyes. “He wants us out of here.”

Bob brought out a third chair and sat facing us. “Be serious,” he said.

“He is serious,” she said.

“She knows me way too well, Bobby. And I know her.”

“You want us to leave when?”

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow morning would be good if we could arrange things that soon. At least by tomorrow.”

He shook his head: half dismay, half disbelief.

“It may just be for a few days. A week or two at the outside.”

“Give me one good reason and I will leave,” Erin said.

“I'm setting a trap for this bird.”

“And you're afraid we'll get in the way and mess it all up.”

“You each make me more vulnerable, not less. And you can double that four times over for both of you.”

I waited through the deadliest silence.

“I don't want to go,” she said.

Bob just looked at us. “What the
hell
did Martha tell you?”

“I'd rather not say just yet. In fact, neither of you may be in any danger at all. It might just be me he wants. Probably is. But I'd rather have you somewhere far away.”

Erin sighed loudly. “And just like that I have ceased being an asset.”

“You will never stop being an asset. But do this for me, please. Look at it as a short vacation. I promise you'll be back before you know it.”

“‘Please' is the key word, Bobby. I know he's serious when he goes polite on me.”

Erin and I walked up to the racetrack alone. At the rail I put my arm over her shoulder.

“I don't want to go,” she said.

“I know you don't.”

“I will never forgive myself if something happens and I'm not here to take care of you.”

“You do that so well, too.”

“Damn, I hate this.”

“Help me with Bob, will you? He doesn't want to go either.”

“I'll persuade Bob, if this is really what you want. If it's truly necessary.”

A moment later she said, “So is it? Necessary?”

“I don't know. That's the crazy part, I just don't know.”

“Is this really what you want?”

“No. But I've got to ask you to do it anyway.”

“I'll do it, then, under vigorous protest.”

“Thank you.”

 

In the morning I found Baxter over in Barn 136. His three ginneys were still unpacking saddles and bridles and other odds and ends. Bax sat in his shedrow, watching a blacksmith shoe one of his horses. I stood behind his chair and said nothing as the file husked a hoof into shape and the lightweight shoes were nailed in place.

“Hi, Bax.”

“Janeway. So what, you come over to get that job I offered you?”

“As a matter of fact I did want to talk to you about helping out till Sandy gets here. I'm going stir crazy over there.”

“So talk.”

He was less friendly today: Maybe it was just his time of the month, one of those mood swings Martha had told me about. “What about it?” I said: “You need help or not?”

“I always need help. Hard to get good hands these days. Are you a good hand?”

“I've got a strong back and a weak mind, and I don't tire easily.”

He warmed up a notch and laughed. “Hey, you're hired. You rub 'em too, or just walk?”

“I've got a little to learn about rubbing 'em yet, but I'll pick it up fast.”

“Good. Anybody can walk, but I've always got a need for another ginney. Just get into it, use your head, and ask Rigger or Ruthie if you've got any questions. If you run into anything you can't handle, see me.” He stretched out his long legs and said, “When can you start?”

“Right now on a temporary basis.”

“Come to work full time and I'll pay you two-fifty a month for each head. Start with three; if I like what you do I'll give you four. I pay on the first and fifteenth every month.”

“How about we leave it temporary for now? Hey, this is a freebie, Bax, you won't owe me anything,” and suddenly he brightened. “You wanna work under them conditions, damn right I need the help.”

His head ginney was a middle-aged guy named Rigger Boyles. He wasn't friendly or hostile, just all business. I soon learned that he had a nickname, Rigger Mortis.

“You gonna sleep in the tack room?”

“No, I'm just filling in and I've got a room.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

I walked back to Sandy's. The shedrow was quiet, almost tomb-like in the late morning. Bob was sitting in the sun, watching the action in the tow ring, but absently, with his mind far away. A young woman brought a black colt out from the opposite barn and blended into the walking circle. Business was picking up. Another stable had moved into our barn on the far end and we heard another was coming that afternoon across the way. I sat in the shedrow beside Bob and we talked. He asked where Martha was and I shrugged, implying I didn't know. “Looks like she quit her job at the kitchen,” he said.

“That's how it goes. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Nope. Not many career opportunities over there. But she didn't give 'em any notice.”

“That happens, too.”

“Unlike Martha, though.”

Meaningless small talk: a time killer. At last I said, “Bob, you might consider following Martha's example and getting the hell out of here.”

“Is that what she did?”

“Looks like it.”

“Get out and do what?”

“A little vacation is all.”

“How am I supposed to pay for all this?”

“Not to worry. There's money coming from your guardian angel.”

“Jesus. Just go, just like that? I might as well tell Sandy where to stick his job.”

“I'll try to cover you with Sandy when he gets here.”

“Crap,” he said under his breath.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Why, for Christ's sake? Make me understand why and I'll go.”

“I can't make you understand what I don't quite understand myself. But I've got a deal for you. Something you can't refuse.”

“Oh wow. Do I keep both hands in my pockets while you tell me? Or just bend over now?”

“This is ranch work, Bob, it's a piece of cake. Same kinda stuff you're doing now, only better money. Fine working conditions, happy people, good pay, needy horses. That's how I was sold on it. I think it can be fixed with Sandy for you to be gone till we see how the wind blows. But starting now, I'm going to be busy elsewhere.”

I could see the worry in his eyes. “I hear Erin's going with me.”

I nodded.

“She's a good gal, Erin.”

“Yes she is.”

“You're a lucky bastard.”

“Don't I know it.”

I dug deep for something else to say. “This is the right thing, Bob. Just don't tell anybody.”

“Who would I tell?”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “This too will pass, Bobby.”

That afternoon I got them booked on a connecting flight to Idaho. I handed Bob a roll of money and sent them off in a cab with no time to spare.

I called Martha from a bar near the racetrack and asked how it was going. Her nerves had worn thin.

“I left him a message at the stable gate,” she said. “Told him I'd call him there at four o'clock.”

“And he was there then?”

“Oh, you bet he was.”

“What was his reaction?”

“I couldn't tell at first from his voice.” I heard her take a deep shivery breath. “I knew he was uptight when he found out it was me,” she said. “More so when I told him what I wanted.”

“I'll bet he was. Was he shocked?”

“I think I'd describe him that way. Shocked numb in fact.”

“So what did he say?”

“He denied everything, but then I got angry and there was a quieter time when he just talked about the old days.”

“Did that strike you as weird?”

This whole goddam thing strikes me as weird. But I know what you mean. Here I've just accused him of murder and he slips into this quiet soliloquy, a reverie. The guard finally told him he'd have to stop tying up the phone.”

“Did you get a tape?”

“Yeah, I've done lots of interviews, I know how to do this. It came out fine.”

“I'll hear it later. But for now, what did he say? Exactly, Martha—as close as you can remember it.”

She paused a moment, then said, “He couldn't believe I would say something like that. It's not true, he said, over and over, but conversationally, not at all angry like you'd expect. I mean, what would you do if some dame called and told you something like that? You'd hang up, right? Not him. He says, Look, we've known each other way too long to let stuff like that be said, as if we were ever bosom buddies, as if I was betraying him and throwing his long, warm friendship back in his face. He comes at me with this hurt on his sleeve till I wanted to ask him for a barf bag. People don't trust each other anymore, he said. I told him there are good reasons for that, but he rambled on, remembering the days when it was just him and Damon and the old man. He remembered the first day I ever worked a race meet, years ago at Tanforan, how I walked horses for the stable across from him. He remembered things I had long forgotten, the colors of the silks, for God's sake: what colors my first trainer had, and I remembered them too as he talked about them. He said how pretty I was, how different everything is now. The life, the horses, everything: It's a whole new ball of wax. I almost felt hypnotized listening to him, his memories are so
vivid,
so real, and to anybody who worked here then, they're true.”

On the TV behind the bar the news bozo had passed off to the weather gal. Denver, Idaho, or Southern California, they all look alike: sweeping hair, perfect teeth, drowning the viewer in plastic.
Back to you, guys.

“What happened next?”

“More of the same. I let it go on for a while, then I cut him off at the knees.”

“What'd you say?”

“I know you didn't want me to get into this yet, but I had to say it. Had to. Damn, I thought I was about to explode. So I said come on, Bax, let's knock off the bullshit, I know you killed Candice. I didn't have to fake the anger. When I think of Candice and I think of that idiot doing that to her, I can't help it, I just get livid.” Her voice trembled. “And I've got to tell you, he frightens me.”

“Easy, Martha, it's all right. Just stay put, you'll be fine, you'll be out of there tomorrow. So you told him you knew about Candice. Then what?”

“Talked about maybe meeting him.”

“Umm-hmm. How'd that go?”

“It was easy. He's the one who brought it up. It sounded so natural; all I had to do was play my role. We really need to talk this out, he said. We can't have you go off believing this stuff, much less spreading it around. Like yeah, I would believe such a thing and still meet him alone somewhere. He must think I'm the one who's nuts.”

“Is that what he suggested, that you meet him alone?”

“He certainly implied that. Someplace, you know, where we could hash it out, and he could convince me—his words—that he was okay.”

The moment settled and I pondered it. There seemed to be nothing else to say: Just meet Baxter at the time and the place. “Where?”