She shut her eyes and said in a rush, “All my winnings and an extra … an extra 100! Won’t be a moment, Linc!”
“Good luck. I’ll see you after the race.”
“Oh yes, sorry, in the excitement I forgot. Have fun!” She gave him a glorious smile and rushed off before he could ask her what she was betting. He had already bet. This race was a quinella, as well as the second leg of the double quinella. 10,000 HK on any combination of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass. That should do it, he thought, his own excitement growing.
He left the balcony and weaved through the tables heading for the elevators that would take him back upstairs. Many people watched him, some greeted him, most envious of the little badges fluttering in his lapel.
“Hi, Linc!”
“Oh hello,” he said to Biltzmann who had intercepted him. “How’s it going?”
“You heard about the foulup? Of course, you were there!” Biltzmann said. “Say, Linc, you got a moment?”
“Sure.” Bartlett followed him down the corridor, conscious of the curious gazes of passersby.
“Listen,” Biltzmann said when they reached a quiet corner, “you’d better watch yourself with these limey bastards. We sure as hell had a deal with General Stores.”
“You going to rebid?” Bartlett asked.
“That’s up to head office, but me, hell, me I’d let this whole goddamn Island drown.”
Bartlett did not reply, aware of glances in their direction.
“Say, Linc!” Biltzmann dropped his voice and bent closer with a twisted grin. “You got something special going with that girl?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The broad. The Eurasian. Orlanda, the one you were talking to.”
Bartlett felt the blood rush into his face but Biltzmann continued, “Mind if I put my two cents in?” He winked. “Make a date. Ask her for a date?”
“It’s … it’s a free country,” Bartlett said, suddenly hating him.
“Thanks. She’s got a great ass.” Biltzmann beamed and came even closer. “How much does she charge?”
Bartlett gasped, totally unprepared. “She’s not a hooker, for chrissake!”
“Didn’t you know? Hey it’s all over town. But Dickie said she was lousy in bed. That a fact?” Biltzmann misread the look on Bartlett’s face. “Oh, you haven’t got there yet? Hell, Linc, all you gotta do’s flash a little of the green st—”
“Listen you son of a bitch,” Bartlett hissed, almost blind with rage, “she’s no hooker and if you talk to her or go near her I’ll stick my fist down your throat. Got it?”
“Listen, take it easy,” the other man gasped. “I didn’—”
“You get the message?”
“Sure sure, no need to …” Biltzmann backed off. “Take it easy. I asked, didn’t I? Dickie …” He stopped, frightened, as Bartlett came closer. “For chrissake it’s not my fault—take it easy, huh?”
“Shut up!” Bartlett contained his rage with an effort, knowing this was not the time or the place to smash Biltzmann. He glanced around but Orlanda had already disappeared. “Get lost, you son of a bitch,” he grated, “and don’t go near her or else!”
“Sure, sure take it easy, okay?” Biltzmann backed off another pace, then turned and fled thankfully. Bartlett hesitated, then went into the men’s room and splashed a little water on his face to calm himself. The tap water, specially connected for the races, was brackish and seemed unclean. In a moment he found his elevator and walked to Dunross’s box. It was teatime. The guests were being served little sandwiches, cakes, cheese and great pots of Indian tea with milk and sugar but he did not notice any of it, numb.
Donald McBride, bustling past, stopped briefly on his way back to his own box. “Ah, Mr. Bartlett, I must tell you how happy we all are that you and Casey are going to be in business here. Pity about Biltzmann but all’s fair in business. Your Casey’s such a charming person. Sorry, got to dash.”
He hurried off. Bartlett hesitated in the doorway.
“Hey, Linc,” Casey called out joyously from the balcony. “You want tea?” As they met halfway her smile faded. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing, Casey.” Bartlett forced a smile. “They at the starting gate?”
“Not yet but any moment now. You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course. What did you bet on?”
“Noble Star, what else? Peter’s tipping Doc Tooley’s outsider, Winning Billy, for a place so I put 50 on him. You don’t look well, Linc. Not your stomach, is it?”
He shook his head, warmed by her concern. “No. I’m fine. You okay?”
“Sure. I’ve been having a wonderful time. Peter’s in great form and Old Tooley’s a gas.” Casey hesitated. “I’m glad it’s not your stomach. Doc Tooley says we should be safe from those lousy Aberdeen bugs, since we haven’t gotten the trots yet. Of course we won’t know for sure for twenty days.”
“Jesus,” Bartlett muttered, trying to force his mind off what Biltzmann had said. “I’d almost forgotten about Aberdeen and the fire and that whole mess. The fire seems a million years ago.”
“To me too. Where did the time go?”
Gavallan was nearby. “It’s Hong Kong,” he said absently.
“How do you mean?”
“It’s a Hong Kong characteristic. If you live here there’s never enough time, whatever your work. Always too much to do. People are always arriving, leaving, friends, business people. There’s always a crisis—flood, fire, mud slide, boom, scandal, business opportunity, funeral, banquet or cocktail party for visiting VIPs—or some disaster.” Gavallan shook off his anxieties. “This’s a small place and you soon get to know most people in your own circle. Then we’re the crossroads of Asia and even if you’re not in Struan’s you’re always on the move, planning, making money, risking money to make more, or you’re off to Taiwan, Bangkok, Singapore, Sydney, Tokyo, London or wherever. It’s the magic of Asia. Look what happened to you both since you got here: poor John Chen was kidnapped and murdered, guns were found on your aircraft, then there was the fire, the stock market mess, the run on our stock, Gornt after us and we after him. And now the banks may close on Monday or if Ian’s right, Monday will be boom time. And we’re in business together….” He smiled wearily. “What do you think of our tender?”
Casey held back her immediate comment and watched Bartlett.
“Great,” Bartlett said, thinking about Orlanda. “You think Ian will be able to turn things around?”
“If anyone can, he can.” Gavallan sighed heavily. “Well, let’s hope, that’s all we can do. Have you put your money on the winner yet?”
Bartlett smiled and Casey felt easier. “Who you backing, Andrew?”
“Noble Star and Winning Billy for the quinella. See you later.” He left them.
“Curious what he was saying about Hong Kong. He’s right. It makes the U.S. seem a million miles away.”
“Yes, but it isn’t, not truly.”
“You want to stay here, Casey?”
She looked at him, wondering what was under the question, what he was really asking her. “That’s up to you, Linc.”
He nodded slowly. “Think I’ll get me some tea.”
“Hey, I’ll do that for you,” she said, then she saw Murtagh standing nervously at the doorway and her heart missed a beat. “You haven’t met our banker, Linc. Let me bring him over.”
She went through the throng. “Hi, Dave.”
“Hi, Casey, have you seen the tai-pan?”
“He’s busy till after the race. Is it yes or no?” she whispered urgently, keeping her back to Bartlett.
“It’s a maybe.” Nervously Murtagh wiped his brow and took off his wet raincoat, his eyes red rimmed. “Couldn’t get a goddamn cab for an hour! Jesus!”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe maybe. I gave them the plan and they told me to haul ass back home because I’d clearly gone mad. Then, after they calmed down, they said they’d g
et back to me. Those knuckleheads called me at 4:00 A.M., asked me to repeat the whole scheme then S.J. himself came on.” His eyes rolled. “S.J. said I was full of sh—I was loco and hung up on me.”
“But you said ‘maybe.’ What happened next?”
“I called them back and I’ve been on the phone five hours in the last ten trying to explain my brilliance to them since your harebrained scheme blew my mind.” Murtagh suddenly grinned. “Hey, I’ll tell you one thing, Casey. Now S.J. sure as hell knows who Dave Murtagh III is!”
She laughed. “Listen, don’t mention it to anyone here. Anyone. Except the tai-pan, okay?”
He looked at her, pained. “You think I’m about to tell everybody my ass’s chewed to hamburger?”
There was a burst of cheering and someone in the balcony called out, “They’re approaching the gate!”
“Quick,” Casey said, “go put your bundle on the quinella. One and seven. Quick while you’ve time.”
“Which are they?”
“Never mind. You’ve no time.” She gave him a little shove and he rushed off. She collected herself, picked up a cup of tea and joined Bartlett and all the others crowding the balcony.
“Here’s your tea, Linc.”
“Thanks. What did you tell him to bet?”
“One and seven.”
“I did one and eight.”
Another huge roar distracted them. The horses were cantering past and beginning to mill around the gate. They saw Pilot Fish skeetering and weaving, his jockey well up, knees tight, holding on firmly, guiding him to his post position. But the stallion wasn’t ready yet and tossed his mane and neighed. At once the mare and the two fillies, Golden Lady and Noble Star, shivered, nostrils flaring and whinnied back. Pilot Fish brayed stridently, reared and pawed the air and everyone gasped. His jockey, Bluey White, cursed softly, dug his steel-strong hands into his mane, hanging on. “C’mon, sport,” he called out with a curse, gentling him. “Let the sheilas have a look at your dingledangle!”
Travkin on Noble Star was nearby. The filly had got the stallion’s scent and it had unsettled her. Before Travkin could prevent it she twisted and backed and shoved her rump carelessly into Pilot Fish who swerved, startled, to bump the outsider Winning Billy, a bay gelding moving up to his gate. The gelding skeetered, shook his head angrily and whirled away for a few paces, almost trampling Lochinvar, another brown gelding.
“Get that bugger under control, Alexi, for chrissake!”
“Just stay out of my way, ublyudok,” Travkin muttered, his knees conscious of the untoward tremors racing through Noble Star. He sat very high, part of his mount, stirrups short, and he wondered, cursing, if Pilot Fish’s trainer had smeared some of the stallion’s musk onto his chest and flanks to agitate the mare and fillies. It’s an old trick, he thought, very old.
“Come on!” the starter called out, his voice stentorian. “Gentlemen, get your mounts into their stalls!”
Several were already there, Butterscotch Lass, the brown mare still heavily the favorite, was pawing the ground, nostrils flared, excitement of the coming race and the nearness of the stallion sending shiver after shiver through her. She had stall eight from the rails, Pilot Fish now entering the stall in post position one. Winning Billy had stall three between Street Vendor and Golden Lady, and the smell of them and the stallion’s brazen challenge tore the gelding’s mind. Before the gate could close behind him he backed out and, once free, fought the bit and reins, shaking his head violently from side to side, twirling like a dancer on the slippery turf, almost colliding with Noble Star who swerved deftly out of the way.
“Alexi, come along!” the starter called out. “Hurry it up!”
“Yes, certainly,” Travkin called back but he was not hurried. He knew Noble Star and he walked the trembling, big brown filly well away from the stallion, letting her prance, the wind under her tail. “Gently, my darling,” he crooned in Russian, wanting to delay, wanting to keep the others off balance, now the only one not in the gate. A flash of lightning lit the eastern sky but he paid it no attention, or the ominous roll of thunder. The drizzle became stronger.
His whole being was concentrated. Just after the weigh-in, one of the other jockeys had sidled up to him. “Mr. Travkin,” he had said softly, “you’re not to win.”
“Oh? Who says?”
The jockey shrugged.
“Who’s the winner?”
Again the jockey shrugged.
“If the trainers and jockeys have a fix then let them know I’m not part of it. I never have been, not in Hong Kong.”
“You’n the tai-pan won with Buccaneer, that should satisfy you.”
“It satisfies me but in this race I’m a trier.”
“Fair enough, sport. I’ll tell them.”
“Who’s them?”
The jockey had gone away, the crowded changing room noisy and sweat-filled. Travkin was well aware who the ring was, some of them, who fixed races now and then, but he had never been a participant. He knew it was not because he was more honest than the others. Or less dishonest. It was only that his needs were few, a sure thing did not excite him and the touch of money did not please him.
The starter was becoming impatient. “Come along, Alexi! Hurry it up!”
Obediently he jabbed the spurs and walked Noble Star forward into her stall. The gate clanged behind her. A moment’s hush. Now the racers were under starter’s orders.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
4:00 P.M.:
In their stalls, jockeys dug their fingers into the horses’ manes, all of them nervous, those in the know ready to crowd Noble Star. Then the doors flew open and in a mad instant the eight runners were galloping, packed together along a short part of the straight, now past the winning post, now racing into the first bend. The riders were all crouched high up, side by side, almost touching, some touching, the horses getting their pace, hurtling through the first part of the bend that would take them a quarter of the course into the far straight. Already Pilot Fish was half a length ahead on the rails, Butterscotch Lass in fine position not flat out yet, Winning Billy alongside, back a little from Noble Star on the outside, crowding the others for a better place in the pack, all jockeys knowing that all binoculars were trained on them so any pulling or interference better be clever and cautious. They had all been warned that millions would be won or lost and it would cost each one of them their future to foul up.
They pounded through the turn, mud splattering those behind, the going bad. As they came out of the turn into the straight still together, shoving for position, they lengthened their strides, the sweat-smell and the speed exciting horses and riders alike. Winning Billy took the bit and closed up alongside Butterscotch Lass, now half a length behind Pilot Fish, going well, the rest bunched, all waiting to make their run. Now Butterscotch Lass felt the spurs and she leapt forward and passed Pilot Fish, fell back a little and passed him again, Pilot Fish still hugging the rails carefully.
Travkin was holding the filly well, lying back in the pack, still outside, then he gave her the spurs and she increased speed and he cut closer to the leaders, herding the others, almost bumping Lochinvar. The rain increased. The sting of it was in his eyes, his knees and legs tight and already hurting. There was not a length between them as they galloped out of the stretch into the corner. Going into the far turn they were all packed close to take advantage of the corner when a whip came from nowhere and lashed across Travkin’s wrists. The suddenness and pain unlocked his grip an instant and almost unbalanced him. A split second later he was in control again. Where the blow came from he did not know, or care, for they were well into the corner, the going dreadful. Abruptly, the gray outsider Kingplay on the rails just behind Pilot Fish slipped and stumbled, his jockey felt the earth twist and they went down smashing into the rails, pulling two horses with them. Everyone in the stadium was on their feet.
“Christ who’s down …”
“Is it … it’s Noble Star …”
“No, no it isn’t … Winning Bill—”
“No he’s lying third …”
“Come on for Christ’s sweet sake …”
In the uproar in the stewards’ room Dunross, whose binoculars were rock steady, called out, “It was Kingplay who fell … Kingplay, Street Vendor and Golden Lady … Golden Lady’s on her feet but Christ the jockey’s hurt … Kingplay won’t get up … he’s hurt…”
“What’s the order, what’s the order?”
“Butterscotch Lass by a nose, then Pilot Fish on the rails, Winning Billy, Noble Star, nothing to choose amongst them. Now they’re going into the last turn, the Lass’s ahead by a neck, the others hacking at her …” Dunross watched the horses, his heart almost stopped, excitement possessing him. “Come on, Alexi…” His shout added to those of others, Casey as excited, but Bartlett watching, uninvolved, his mind below.
Gornt in the Blacs box had his glasses focused as steadily as the tai-pan, his excitement as controlled. “Come on,” he muttered, watching Bluey White give Pilot Fish the whip in the turn, Noble Star well placed on the outside, Winning Billy alongside the Lass who was a neck in front, the angle of the turn making it difficult to see.
Again Travkin felt the lash on his hands but he dismissed it and eased a little closer in the bend, the remaining five horses inches apart, Butterscotch Lass crowding the rails.
Bluey White on Pilot Fish knew it would soon be time to make his dash. Ten yards, five, four three two now! They were coming out of the turn and he gave Pilot Fish the whip. The stallion shot forward, inches from the rails, flat out now as Butterscotch Lass got the spurs and whip an instant later, for all the jockeys knew it was now or never.
Travkin, stretched out parallel to Noble Star’s neck, leaned forward and let out a cossack scream near Noble Star’s ear and the filly took the primeval call and lengthened her stride, nostrils flared, foam on her mouth. Now the five runners were pounding the stretch, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching ahead of the Lass, all their withers sweat-foamed, now the Lass, now Pilot Fish ahead, and now the dappled gelding Lochinvar made his bid to conquer and he took the lead from Pilot Fish, taking the post position, all whips out and spurs in and only the winning post ahead.
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