by Eric Wilder
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Eddie asked.
“Sallisaw.”
“Oklahoma’s a long way from here. What do you think you’ll find that you didn’t get on the phone?”
Tony was already out the door. Even though his legs were short, Eddie had to hustle to keep up as he hurried toward his Mustang in the shell and gravel parking lot.
“Well?” he asked as Tony was unlocking the car.
“The name of the person that paid a million bucks for Thunder Bolt.”
Eddie climbed into the front seat. “You don’t intend to drive, do you? If you are, it’ll take us a day to get there and another day to return.”
Tony tapped the brakes and pulled to the side of the street. “I better call Frankie.”
Frankie picked up on the first ring. “Talk to me,” he said.
“Eddie and I need to go to Oklahoma.”
“For what?”
“Answers to important questions in our investigation.”
“Oklahoma’s a long way from New Orleans. How you planning to get there?”
“Fly to the nearest airport, and then rent a car, unless you got a better plan.”
“Where are you now?”
“About a mile from the racetrack.”
“Wait for me in the infield. I’ll pick you up soon as my pilot gets the chopper warmed up and ready.”
Frankie hung up before Tony had a chance to reply.
“What?” Eddie asked, having heard only one side of the conversation.
“Frankie’s coming for us in his helicopter. Up for a wild ride through this fog?”
Eddie laughed and shook his head when he said, “Do I have a choice?”
“Get in. We’re going back to the track.”
After parking the car, Tony and Eddie hiked through the cloying fog to the middle of the racetrack. The place was deserted. At that moment, it seemed like the loneliest place on the planet.
“You’ve really been shoveling out those hundred dollar bills,” Eddie said. “Hope Frankie pays well.”
“Last case I did for him he ate my ass out because the bill I give him wasn’t high enough. Lil and I took a trip to Italy on the money I made and still had lots left over.”
“Must be nice,” Eddie said.
“Frankie’s got more money than he can say grace over. He only buys the best, and only hires the best people. I know you’ll never go to work for him. If you ever did, he’d treat you like a king.”
“I’d say he’s more likely to whack me for dating his beautiful daughter,” Eddie said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Josie has him wrapped around her little finger. How’s your relationship going?”
Eddie laughed. “Absolutely nowhere.”
“I have eyes. I know better than that.”
“She has one hard and fast rule that’s stopping us from going much further.”
“And that rule is?”
“No sex outside of marriage and no divorce, not ever, for any reason.”
The sound of a turbocharged engine interrupted their conversation. Frankie’s Jet Ranger landed in a swirl of fog and flying debris. When the passenger door opened, Frankie signaled them to join him.
They lifted off in a blanket of thick ground fog, finally emerging into clear sky and then flying over a city that looked as if it were being engulfed by an angry cloud.
Frankie laughed when Tony asked, “Can we make it to Oklahoma in this crate?”
“And then some,” he said. “Fill me in on what we’re looking for in Sallisaw.”
“They have a spring quarter horse sale at the track every year,” Tony said. “I’ve got a buttload of questions I couldn’t get answers for over the phone. I also have a question for you.”
“Hit me with it,” Frankie said.
“Was it you that had Wendell Swanson put shoe polish on Lightning Bolt’s blaze?”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about?”
“The white blaze on Lightning Bolt’s face,” Eddie said. “Wendell covered it with black shoe polish before your race the other day.”
“Though I knew Wendell from seeing him at the track, he was just a temporary employee. If he knew about my plans for the horse, he figured it out on his own.”
“Must have, because he bet a pile of money on the race,” Tony said.
“How much?”
“Twenty four grand.”
“He didn’t bet it to win, or it would have mucked up the final odds.”
“Then maybe that’s the reason he bet the way he did. He boxed a four-horse trifecta. Another long shot busted the box. One of Angus Anderson’s horses.”
Tony and Eddie both grinned when Frankie said, “That cheating asshole. What are you two laughing at?”
“Don’t you think that’s like the pot calling the kettle black?” Eddie asked.
“At least my con was the winning con.”
“Don’t you have any remorse about all those poor bettors that lost money because of you?”
“I don’t feel sorry for any of those slobs that buy a racing form and bet on the ponies maybe once a week, or every now and then. If they’re too stupid to know the name of the game, they may as well dump their money down the toilet.”
Frankie shook his head when Eddie asked, “What exactly is the name of the game?”
Frankie didn’t immediately answer. They were already high above the clouds, flying over the rolling terrain of central Louisiana. Frankie broke out a bottle of scotch and poured them drinks before answering.
“Dog eat dog and may the best man win,” he finally said. “Enough about that. What are we likely to find in Oklahoma?”
“Wendell had an advertisement in his passport wallet for the spring quarter horse sale in Sallisaw. Problem is, it was from three years ago.”
“And?”
“We think Wendell and Angus Anderson, his boss at the time, attended the sale. One of the horses, namely Lightning Bolt, sold for more than a million bucks. We need to find out if Anderson was the bidder, or maybe even the buyer.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Frankie said.
“No, we ain’t,” Tony said.
“Then Anderson would have recognized the horse before the race,” Frankie said.
“Maybe not, since Wendell had covered Lightning Bolt’s most prominent physical feature with a bottle of shoe polish.”
Frankie gazed out the window as they passed over the city of Shreveport, and the eastern periphery of haunting Caddo Lake.
“I’m having trouble getting my head around this,” he said.
“There already was bad blood between Swanson and Anderson,” Eddie said. “Maybe when Anderson found out Wendell had pulled a fast one on him, he had his big Mexican henchman whack him.”
“That’s just one of the questions we need answers for,” Tony said. “We still don’t have a clue if Lightning Bolt is still alive. If he is, how do we go about finding him?”
“What do you really think? Is the horse dead?”
“I don’t have any hard and fast answers. My gut tells me he’s still alive.”
Frankie turned his gaze to Eddie. “What’s your opinion?”
“I’m starting to think you need to cool it with the Mexican mob. They may not be responsible for the two murders.”
“You know something you’re not telling me?”
“We got a few things working. Some of them we didn’t figure on,” Tony said.
“How much longer till you know something concrete?”
“No investigation ever goes as fast as you think it should. We’re where we need to be. If Lightning Bolt is alive, Eddie and I will find him. If we do, Jojo will be one happy little boy. If we don’t . . .”
“And you think we’ll get the answers we need in Oklahoma?”
“Don’t know,” Tony said. “That’s why we’re on our way to Sallisaw instead of enjoying this scotch on your veranda.”
Chapter 24
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br /> The headquarters for the yearly quarter horse sale in Sallisaw was at the track. Much as he’d done in New Orleans, Frankie’s pilot landed the chopper in the infield. Their unexpected landing must have caused a stir. A police car, its blue lights flashing, and two police officers were waiting for them as they exited the chopper.
The two officers were complete opposites, one tall and the other short. The short officer’s nametag identified him as Olsen. He had a weak chin, a pencil mustache, and a balding head. The taller officer with thick glasses never removed his hat or his hand off his revolver.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Eddie grabbed Frankie’s shoulder, looked him in the eye, and shook his head.
“Let me handle this. What’s your problem, Officer Olsen?”
“I got no problem,” he said. “You want to come down to the station and tell me what yours is?”
Eddie pulled his I.D. out of his wallet and showed it to him.
“We’re with the Federal D.A.’s office. We’re here on official business. You want to dial your superior and let me talk to him?”
“What kind of business?”
“That’s privileged information. Now, we need to get on with our investigation. Can you give us a ride to the administration office?”
Officer Olsen blinked twice before speaking. “Sure, get in.”
After dropping them in front of the administration building, Officers Olsen and his lanky partner drove away in a trail of dust.
“Pretty slick,” Frankie said. “What would you have done if he’d asked to speak to your boss?”
“I’d have called Wyatt. He would have covered for me.”
“And if Wyatt wasn’t around?”
“Guess we don’t have to worry about that, and those two saved us a quarter-mile hike.”
“You’re good,” Frankie said. “I like it.”
The administration building was a two-story, ell-shaped, flat-roofed structure that looked as if someone had built it on the cheap. Tony was almost through the building’s front door when he stopped and turned around.
“Quit stroking it, you two. It’s almost five. If we don’t hurry, we’ll have to stay here until tomorrow.”
“How do you know where to go?” Frankie asked.
“From the address on the sales notice. This building. Room 105.”
A middle-aged secretary with wire-framed glasses perched atop her head was straightening her desk, apparently in the middle of shutting things down for the day.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Eddie whipped out his I.D. again and showed it to her.
“We’re with the Federal District Attorney’s office. We have a few questions that need answers.”
Her tone was indignant when she said, “I wasn’t told of any impending investigation.”
An older man that looked enough like the woman to be her brother stuck his head out of the office.
“Who is it, Velma?”
“These gentlemen are with the Federal D.A.’s office,” she said.
“Oh? I’m Orville Pendergrass. How can I help you?”
“What’s your position, Mr. Pendergrass?” Tony asked.
“Director of sales,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Tony Nicosia,” he said, extending his hand. “The two gentlemen with me are Eddie Toledo and Frankie Smith. Can we impose upon you for a few minutes of your time?”
“What’s this all about?” Mr. Pendergrass asked.
“Nothing that pertains to you or your organization, I assure you. We just need your help in an ongoing investigation that we aren’t privy to discuss with you,” Eddie said. “Can we have a few moments of your time?”
“Of course,” he said. “Velma, you can go home now. I’ll lock up when I finish with these gentlemen.”
“You sure?”
She smiled and started for the door when he nodded and said, “I’ll take care of this. See you tomorrow morning. Please come into my office and have a seat.”
There were only two chairs in front of Pendergrass’ military-style desk.
“I’ll stand over here,” Frankie said, motioning Tony and Eddie to take the chairs.
“Now please tell me how I can help you?”
“We have a few questions about your yearly quarter horse sale, specifically the one you had three years ago. Do you have a list of potential buyers that attended the sale?”
“Of course we do,” he said. “The sale is exclusive. Buyers come from all over the world, and we have to prequalify them before letting them bid on the stock.”
“Mind if we have a look at your list?” Eddie asked.
“This will take a minute,” Pendergrass said. “I already shut my computer down for the night.”
“Sorry we’re keeping you overtime,” Tony said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m an old bachelor and take my meals at the diner in town. No one’s waiting at home for me.”
Pendergrass didn’t respond when Tony said, “Sorry to hear about that.”
When the computer finally booted, he pulled up a program and hit the print button. In a few seconds, the old printer across the room began to whirr. After it had spit out three pages, Pendergrass removed it from the printer and handed it to Tony.
“This list is in alphabetical order. I don’t find the name of the person I’m looking for. Is it possible it got left off the list?”
“Not possible. If their name isn’t there, then they didn’t attend the sale.”
“Do you have a list of the names of the horses and who purchased them?”
“Of course,” Pendergrass said, printing the list without Tony having to ask.
“I see that a horse named Lightning Bolt was sold for a million one hundred thousand dollars.”
Pendergrass smiled. “Yes, a record that still stands.”
“And the purchaser was a man named Conrad Finston. Is it possible that this person Finston was someone else and using an alias?”
“Impossible,” Pendergrass said. “Mr. Finston is a well-known breeder of quarter horses. We’ve dealt with him many times in the past. I assure you that it was he that purchased the horse.”
“Do you have a list of the unsuccessful bidders?” Eddie asked.
“Not in this database,” Pendergrass said. “Our resident auctioneer and his staff keep those records.”
“Can we talk with him?” Tony asked.
Pendergrass glanced at his watch. “He’ll be in his office, though at this hour he may be a little . . . How should I say this? In his cups.”
Pendergrass nodded when Tony said, “So he’s a drinker?”
“The finest auctioneer in Oklahoma,” Pendergrass said. “Except for his little drinking problem.”
“We’ll muddle through it because we really need to talk to him,” Eddie said.
“His office is in the sales barn. I’ll accompany you.”
The Sallisaw racetrack had hosted horse races until a failing economy had sent it into bankruptcy in 2010. Though never really world-class, the facility appeared far more than a large oval track with a few wooden bleachers. Now, the fading structure sat unused, a diva awaiting fans that had deserted her forever for a younger voice.
The stables, paddock area, and exercise paths were also empty, looking ghostly as the sun was already beginning to set in the western sky. They followed Pendergrass to a large sales barn, the only building in the entire facility with a fresh coat of paint. The sign over the door said, Home of the Annual Sallisaw Quarter Horse Sale.
The inside of the sales barn featured steel bleachers, a dirt floor, and the smell of manure. A microphone used by the auctioneer waited on a raised wooden dais. A row of wooden holding pens fronted one of the walls. Something was inside one, kicking and trying to get out. When a woman screamed, Eddie vaulted over the fence to help.
An obviously disturbed white stallion was turning in rapid circles as it kicked
at the walls with its hind feet. An attractive young woman with ash blond hair draping her shoulders, and dressed in faded denim and a red Western shirt tied in such a way as to show off her bare midriff was pinned between the horse and the gate. She’d backed up as far as she could, and there was no place left for her to go.
Eddie quickly got between her and the stallion and began waving his arms and shouting. When the horse rose up on its hind legs, Eddie grabbed the rope dangling from the beast’s neck and began easing him toward himself. He motioned the young woman with a cock of his head to get the hell out of the pen. Climbing the fence, she straddled it.
“Thank you,” she mouthed to him before dropping to the other side.
Too busy trying to rein in the big stallion Eddie had little time to react to her pretty face and winsome smile.
“Whoa, big fellow,” he said.
When he pulled close enough, he clutched the horse's bridle and began patting his neck. The white horse’s demeanor calmed immediately.
“It’s okay,” he said.
A bow-legged man of short stature raced into the pen, took the rope, and led the horse away. He shook Eddie’s hand when he returned alone. He was clad in manure-stained jeans and a torn Western shirt of unknown vintage. His leather cowboy hat was also old, oily and perched on his balding head. His clothes and breath reeked of whiskey.
“Son, you got a set of balls on you,” he said. “White Lightning is one of the meanest stallions to come through this sales barn. He’s already terrorized a couple of our handlers to the point that one of them quit.”
“Why do you put up with that kind of behavior?” Tony asked.
“Cause he’s a racing champ with a royal bloodline some buyers will pay a king’s ransom for.”
The little man smiled when Tony said, “Like Lightning Bolt?”
“White Lightning and Lightning Bolt are brothers. Makes sense to me that White Lightning’s as good as his brother and someday he’s gonna make some stud farm a bunch of money in fees. I’m betting I know right now who’ll end up with him.”
“And who would that be?” Eddie asked.
“Mr. Conrad Finston, the same person that bought Lightning Bolt.”