Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

  “What makes you think that?” Eddie said.

  “He’s both a breeder and a collector. He buys every horse he possibly can that’s conceived from that particular bloodline.”

  Pendergrass stepped in front of Tony. “Obadiah, these gentlemen are with the authorities.”

  The little man extended his hand to Tony. “I’m Ob Stuart,” he said. “I’m not under arrest, am I?”

  “Why hell no,” Tony said, shaking his hand. “Like Mr. Pendergrass said, we just have a few questions to ask you.”

  Ob rubbed his chin as he assessed the way the visitors were dressed.

  “You boys don’t look like cops.”

  “We just made ourselves comfortable for the long flight here.”

  “Where you out of?” Ob asked.

  “Washington,” Eddie quickly said.

  Tony gave him no further chance to continue his own line of questions.

  “I’m Tony, the man that saved the girl is Eddie, and this man behind me is Frankie.”

  Ob gave Frankie an assessing glance. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

  “I get that a lot,” Frankie said. “Guess I got a common-looking face.”

  “What’s your last name, Frankie?” Ob asked.

  “Smith,” Frankie said, giving Eddie a sideways glance. “How much are you asking for White Lightning?”

  “More than a cop makes in a lifetime,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

  “Guess you’re right about that,” Frankie said. “Just curious.”

  “Probably something like two million dollars considering what Lightning Bolt sold for as a colt.”

  “Lightning Bolt is the reason we’re here,” Tony said.

  “I thought as much,” Ob said. “We heard someone killed him down in Louisiana. Damn shame! One of the best quarter horses I ever seen. Believe me, I seen quite a few.”

  “Mr. Pendergrass told us who bought the horse. Do you remember any of the other serious bidders?” Eddie asked.

  “There was only one,” Ob said.

  “You remember his name?”

  “Sure do. Wendell Swanson.”

  “Was Angus Anderson with him?” Eddie asked.

  Ob shook his head. “He was alone. As I recall, his last bid was nine hundred fifty thousand.”

  “Sure about that amount? It was three years ago.”

  “I remember because we’d already passed our all-time high bid. I was waiting on Wendell to be the first person to bid more than a million bucks. It was his bid. He stopped short by fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Why do you suppose that was?” Tony asked.

  “Hit his limit, I guess,” Ob said. “Strange, though.”

  Tony and Eddie exchanged glances. “What’s that?” Tony asked.

  “Wendell was bidding for Angus Anderson. If Mr. Anderson wants something, he don’t let money stand in his way. Seems unlikely to me he’d bid nine hundred and fifty thousand and not a million.”

  “What are you getting at?” Tony said.

  “The reason Mr. Anderson fired him.”

  “Which was?” Tony said.

  “Not like some people say for giving Mr. Anderson’s horses a belly bomb in New Mexico.”

  “What, then?” Tony asked.

  “For my money, someone paid Wendell a wad of cash to stop bidding when he did. More than getting him fired, it might even be what got him killed down in south Louisiana.”

  “You think it was Conrad Finston who bribed Wendell to throw the auction?”

  Ob put his hands in the air and took a step backward. “I never said that. I’m just an old drunk. Don’t believe a word I tell you.” He glanced at the Timex on his wrist. “Hope you boys are finished with your questions cause it’s past my bedtime.”

  They watched him limp away through the back door of the sales barn.

  “Not only is he a sot, but he's also a crazy old man,” Mr. Pendergrass said. “Please disregard his innuendos concerning Mr. Anderson and Mr. Finston.”

  Tony nodded. “I don’t believe a word he said.”

  “Neither do I,” Eddie said.

  “You are wise not to,” Pendergrass said.

  “Say, Mr. Pendergrass, that young woman seemed familiar to me. Who is she?” Eddie asked.

  “Jessica Smith,” he said. “The widow of Kenny Smith, the jockey murdered in New Orleans.”

  Chapter 25

  The facility used an old Jeep to drive potential customers around the track area. It was already after dark when Mr. Pendergrass took them to the infield where Frankie’s chopper awaited.

  “Thanks for all your help,” Tony said, shaking Pendergrass’ hand.

  “Glad to be of service,” he said.

  “Say, Mr. Pendergrass, what’s the story on Jessica Smith?” Eddie asked.

  “Dirt poor, on food stamps, and mucking stables to try and earn enough money to pay the bills for herself and her baby.”

  “Can’t her parents help her?”

  “Both deceased. She has distant relatives in California. Kenny met her there while he was racing. That’s where she moved from after they’d married. Except for her baby boy, I’m afraid she’s all alone in the world.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Kenny was an up and coming jockey and made good money while he was alive. Jessica has a little frame house not far from Main street. At least it’s paid for, free and clear, from the money Kenny earned as the winning jockey in a stakes race in California.”

  Eddie fumbled for his wallet, pulled out two twenties and a ten and handed the bills to Mr. Pendergrass.

  “Please give her this,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do that. I assure you, she’s a strong-willed woman and resents being thought of as a charity case.”

  “Then tell her it’s a gift to buy Halloween candy with,” Eddie said. “Either that or overtime money that she’s earned.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Toledo. I will see that she gets it.”

  Pendergrass sat watching from the driver’s seat of the Jeep as the chopper lifted off the infield and banked south, heading for New Orleans.

  “I’m developing a new opinion of you,” Frankie said when they’d reached altitude.

  “How’s that?” Eddie asked, holding his empty glass out as Frankie began dispensing scotch.

  “You’re brave, generous, and I like the way you handled those two cops. Both you and Tony think fast on your feet. I like that. How’d you learn to handle horses?”

  “No clue. I’ve never been on a horse in my life,” Eddie said.

  “You’re shitting me,” Frankie said.

  “Nope, I grew up in urban New Jersey. Only horses I ever saw were in parades.”

  “Then how the hell did you know how to handle that big stallion?”

  “Don’t know, other than I watched a million and one Western movies while I was growing up.”

  “I may have to change my opinion of you again,” Frankie said. “That was dumb. You could have been killed.”

  “My mom always said if I had as much between my ears as I have between my legs, I’d be really dangerous.”

  “Your mother said that?”

  “Not in those exact words, though that’s what she meant.”

  “What about the rest of your family?”

  “I have three sisters, two older and one younger. My dad died of a heart attack in his forties. I was the only male in the house growing up. It made me the man of the family, even when I was young.”

  “How’s your heart?” Frankie asked.

  “Solid as a rock. I must have inherited Mom’s genes and not Dad’s.”

  “That’s good to know,” Frankie said. “Where’d you go to school?”

  Eddie laughed. “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I have a degree in forensic science from Rutgers, and a law degree from the University of Virginia.”

  “Impressive,” Frankie said.

&n
bsp; “I worked for the F.B.I. after law school.”

  “Then how did you wind up with the Federal D.A.’s office?”

  “Someone there must have liked me and pulled strings to get me transferred. I’m still not exactly sure how that came about, but it’s worked out for me.”

  “Did you like the F.B.I. ?”

  “I like investigation, and I help Tony every chance I get.”

  “What do you think, Tony? Is Eddie any good at P.I. work?”

  Tony didn’t answer. He’d fallen asleep, his eyes closed and his chin resting on his chest.

  “Guess he can’t handle his scotch like us,” Eddie said.

  Frankie smiled, tapped glasses with him, and said, “That’s another thing I like about you.”

  “Wish your beautiful daughter liked me as much,” Eddie said.

  “I’m pretty sure she does,” Frankie said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “She told Adele.”

  Eddie had no reply for Frankie’s declaration and decided to change the subject to something not quite so touchy.

  “We got lots of information today. Wish I knew more about Conrad Finston.” When Frankie made a face, Eddie said, “You know him?”

  “Oh, I know him all right. He has a large horse farm in Florida. He breeds both thoroughbreds and quarter horses and owns the Finston chain of hotels.”

  “Wow, then he’s mega-rich. Did you buy Lightning Bolt from him?”

  “Not exactly,” Frankie said.

  “Maybe you’d better explain.”

  “I borrowed the horse.”

  “Does Finston know Lightning Bolt is missing?”

  Frankie’s wry grin melded into a grim expression. “He don’t know yet that I borrowed the horse.”

  Eddie shook Tony’s shoulder until he opened his eyes. “Wake up. Frankie just told me something I think you need to hear.”

  Still half asleep, Tony rubbed his eyes as Frankie repeated what he’d just told Eddie. Before he was half finished, Tony was wide awake.

  “Let me get this straight,” Tony said. “Finston’s chief trainer lent you Finston’s horse for one race so you could teach some chumps in New Orleans a lesson.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Surely, Finston knows by now that his horse is gone.”

  “He owns lots of properties including a Swiss chalet in the Alps. He’s there now and won’t be back until next week. Jensen, his chief trainer, ain’t about to tell him, and neither am I.”

  “Say we find Lightning Bolt, and that’s a big if. Who you gonna give the horse to, Jojo or Finston?”

  The chopper wobbled as the pilot flew it through a cloud. When they emerged, Frankie glanced out at the lights of a city below instead of immediately answering Tony’s question.

  “You think we got a chance Lightning Bolt is still alive?” he finally asked.

  “Earlier today, I thought he was dead. Right now, I’m not so sure.”

  “And if he ain’t?”

  “If Lightning Bolt ain’t dead, and that’s still a big if, I’d bet good money he’s in a stall right now at Anderson’s horse farm,” Tony said.

  “What’s your reasoning for believing that?” Frankie asked.

  “Want me to tell him, Eddie?”

  “You’re on a roll,” Eddie said. “Go for it.”

  Frankie freshened their drinks with more scotch and ice. “Yeah, Tony, tell me what I’m missing here.”

  “One of the main reasons we wanted to visit the sales barn was to find out if Anderson and Swanson went to the auction together. They didn’t. Swanson was alone.”

  “So?”

  “Wendell Swanson bid almost a million dollars for Lightning Bolt but stopped short, letting Finston outbid him. It tells me one thing and implies another.”

  “What?”

  “Anderson had enough trust in Swanson to authorize him to spend a million dollars of his. It also means he wanted the horse real bad.”

  “Maybe a million dollars was his top bid,” Frankie said.

  “If so, then why didn’t he bid that much?”

  “Because Finston went over that amount before he had a chance to.”

  Tony shook his head. “You heard what Ob Stuart said. He could have bid a million but stopped short by fifty grand. Most importantly, he thinks it was the reason Anderson fired him.”

  “You may be right,” Frankie said. “A few hundred thousand here and there is peanuts to a man like Anderson. His company spends billions drilling for oil in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Exactly,” Tony said.

  Even if he did fire Swanson for throwing the bid, what does it have to do with him having the horse now?”

  “Anderson coveted that horse. Swanson knew it,” Tony said. “Swanson also knew he would recognize the horse. That’s why he covered his blaze with shoe polish.”

  “Anderson figured out he’d been duped and decided to get even with you,” Eddie said.

  “Then why did he have Chuy Delgado’s son-in-law whacked?”

  “Don’t know yet. That’s still a question we need an answer for,” Tony said.

  “Maybe he saw a chance to pin the murder on you,” Eddie said.

  “And then stole Lightning Bolt, and had his newspapers and wire services concoct a false story about his death,” Tony said.

  “And you think maybe the dead horse was a plant and not Lightning Bolt,” Frankie said.

  “Maybe, though it don’t really matter,” Tony said. “Big Sam, a former jockey believes Lightning Bolt is dead, and so does Pendergrass and Ob Stuart.”

  “It just don’t make sense,” Frankie said. “Why would he have someone killed for a horse that he can never breed or race again, or for that matter ever let anyone know that he has?”

  “Don’t know,” Tony said. “Eddie and me intend to find out before we go making accusations.”

  “How you gonna do that?” Frankie asked.

  Tony held his glass for Frankie to pour him some more scotch. “Don’t know yet.”

  More than two hours had passed since they’d left Sallisaw. Now, they could see the ephemeral glow of New Orleans shrouded by cloud cover in the distance. It would soon be Halloween, the moon not yet full. Frankie yawned.

  “It’s getting late. Let’s call it a day and go to the farm. I’ll have the boys get your car in the morning.”

  “No can do,” Tony said. “Eddie and I have one more place to visit tonight.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Your man, Bruno Baresi’s in jail, charged with a murder you say he didn’t commit.”

  “I got lawyers working on it,” Frankie said.

  “Not good enough,” Tony said. “Anderson’s bodyguard, Lonzo Galvez was in a bar with Wendell Swanson the night he was murdered. We need to find out if he was also at the restaurant where Diego Contrado was killed. What’s the name of the restaurant and who is your contact there?”

  “Pinky’s on Toulouse. Pinky Robinette owns the place and used to work for me.”

  “Still on good terms?”

  Frankie smiled. “If he wasn’t, he’d be running his restaurant in Mississippi.”

  ***

  After dropping off Tony and Eddie in the infield of the horse track, the chopper disappeared in a vortex of rotating ground fog.

  “Shit,” Tony said. “Visibility zero and the car parked a hundred yards from here.”

  “I hear music coming from one of the restaurants at the track. Follow me; I have good ears.”

  They made their way through the fog to the track parking lot where they finally found Tony’s car.

  “Thank God for the fog lights,” Tony said as they headed toward Pinky’s on Toulouse.”

  “With this soup were in, we’ll be lucky if the place isn’t shut down for the night.”

  “Been like this almost a month now,” Tony said. “It’ll be open. Everybody’s pretty much got it figured out.”

  “If you say so,
” Eddie said.

  Tony was correct. Despite the surrounding fog, several cars were parked in Pinky’s lot. The restaurant occupied an old two-storied building, a peephole in the antique front door as in speakeasy days. Light jazz emanated from the New York-style bistro when they opened it and entered. They walked down a short flight of stairs where a smiling woman greeted them.

  “Two for dinner?” she said.

  “Just drinks,” Tony said. “Can we sit at the bar?”

  “You bet,” she said. “Have one for me while you’re at it.”

  The small white tiles on the floor reminded Tony of a barber shop. Dark wood paneled the walls, and antique fans hanging from the molded ceiling moved in lazy circles. White tablecloths draped the twenty or so tables, a few of them occupied by smiling customers. The ambiance was relaxing, and Tony could see why diners would enjoy the atmosphere.

  An antique wooden bar stretched across the back of the large, open room, the bartender dressed in a white tuxedo, his hair oiled and his handlebar mustache reminiscent of a bygone era.

  “I’m Louis,” he said with a smile. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”

  “Dalmore and water,” Tony said.

  “Make it two,” Eddie said.

  “Ever try Monkey Shoulder?” Louis asked.

  Tony shook his head. “Nope. What the hell is Monkey Shoulder?”

  “It’s a mixture of three different single malts. Most everyone likes it. Want to try a shot?”

  “Why not?” Tony said.

  Louis filled two shot glasses from a bottle that said Monkey Shoulder. Tony and Eddie were both smiling after downing the scotch.

  “That’s great,” Tony said. “Maybe my new favorite drink.”

  “Mine too,” Eddie said.

  “Don’t get too attached,” Louis said. “It’s sort of hard to find.”

  “Then it sounds like we’ll be coming back often,” Tony said. “Not too many diners tonight.”

  “Ground fog,” Louis said. “I’ll be glad when this weather pattern passes. It’s really starting to affect my livelihood.”

  “I hear that,” Tony said. “Pinky around tonight?”

  Louis’ smile disappeared. “Who wants to know?”

  Louis’ smile returned when Tony pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to him.

  “Me and Ben Franklin here.”