by Ed McBain
“It does.”
“Handouts is what you mean, not loans. To my knowledge, Mullaney, you’ve never paid back a cent you borrowed, that’s a very bad failing. I know a man in Chicago got stabbed for not paying the money he owed to someone.”
“Lester, I’ll pay back everybody I ever borrowed from, I’ve always intended to pay back.”
“But never have.”
“But will. Lester, what kind of person do you think I am?”
“Well now, I don’t know, Mullaney. Suppose you tell me what kind of person you are.”
“I’m …” He hesitated. He felt extremely foolish. “I’m a nice person,” he said.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Lester, lend me the five hundred.”
“I’ll lend you two dollars,” Lester said, and reached for his wallet.
“Lester, look, don’t kid around. Two dollars isn’t going to …”
“All right, I’ll make it four dollars. You can buy yourself two Win tickets, how’s that?”
“If you can’t go the full five hundred, make it four hundred, okay? I’ll be paying you back right after the second race, four hundred plus another four hundred besides, as commission on your investment.”
“My investment, huh? I’ll give you ten bucks, how’s that? You can buy yourself a real big ticket, Mullaney.”
“Three hundred, okay? With the same …”
“Twenty bucks,” Lester said, “and that’s my limit. I won’t go a cent higher.”
Mullaney stared at him silently for a moment, and then shook his head.
“No, Lester,” he said. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“Okay, we’ll forget it,” Lester said.
“I still have my pride,” Mullaney said, feeling more foolish than ever. “Don’t forget that, Lester. I still have my pride.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Lester said, and walked away toward the Cash windows.
“I still have my pride,” Mullaney whispered after him.
He felt very small and very foolish. Oh, not because … well … no, no, not only because Lester had treated him like a beggar, had turned an honest request for a loan into a … a plea for a … a coffee-and-cake handout, like some wino coming up with an outstretched palm on the Bowery. Goddamn you, Mullaney thought, I once used to sell encyclopedias for a living, don’t you know that? I never once stabbed a person in my life, I never once carried a sword in a cane, I’ve only been married once, you bastard, and I didn’t divorce her because I stopped loving her, I divorced her only because I had to take the gamble, I had to get out here and live, don’t you treat me like a bum, Lester, don’t you ever dare treat me like a bum. But not only because of that, no, not only because Lester had swatted him flat on the picnic cloth causing him to ooze whatever dignity he had possessed until that moment—dignity, yes, and pride, yes—but also because he had come to Lester with a winner, had come with an absolute guaranteed winner, had come and said Look, I need five hundred, do you ask for five hundred on a loser? I’m going for the biggest prize, he thought, I came to you and asked for five hundred because this is my life on the line here, if I don’t make it today, if I … if I don’t make it, I’ll … I don’t know what I’ll do. Can’t you tell the difference between a simple loan when a guy only wants to win a few bucks on a horse, and a loan that is intended for a … a life?
My life, Lester.
My life.
His eyes were suddenly wet.
He dried them with his fist and thought Come on, come on, you’re a grown man, stop it, come on. He sniffed. Still feeling foolish, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed him crying, but no one had, all the gamblers were milling about the floor in their own universes, studying the tote board blinking new odds every few seconds, completely unmindful of Andrew Mullaney or his need. He looked up at the board. The odds on Jawbone had risen to thirty to one. His nose was running. He reached for a handkerchief, his pocket was empty, I don’t even have a goddamn handkerchief, he thought, and almost began weeping again in self-pity, but caught himself, forced himself to stand erect instead, his shoulders back and his head high, determined to find somebody in this crowd who would lend him the money he needed to put on Jawbone. Defiantly, he wiped the back of his hand across his nose (See the cop upon the corner) and dried it on his trouser leg (With the stripe upon his pants). Watch out, world, he thought, this is Andrew Mullaney here, rising from the picnic cloth where they thought, ha ha, they had swatted him flat, nossir!
Courage, he thought.
“The hors-es are on the track!” the announcer called.
Oh, he thought, give me courage.
He saw Merilee in that moment.
He saw her through the chain-link fence that separated the grandstand from the clubhouse section, saw her sitting with none other than Kruger, who had promised to kill him if he did not return with the money. She was wearing black, still wearing black though not the black velvet she had worn last night, which he had drawn up above her waist to spread her on the worthless jacket. He looked down at the shopping bag—JUDY BOND BLOUSES ARE ON STRIKE!—and at the crumpled jacket stuffed into it, and tried again to fathom its puzzle, and thought how much fun it would be to ask her for some money this time, thereby reversing the process of last night, “First the money,” she had moaned, “First the money,” and had only been screwed for her pains.
The tote board told him the time was now 1:55 and that post time was 2:06.
That is cutting it very close, Mullaney thought.
Even if I can catch her attention without Kruger seeing me, even if I can manage to do that without getting killed, how do I know she’s got any money, all she had in her bag last night was her driver’s license and a pearl-handled .22. Well, that is the gamble I must take, he thought, because the race is going to start in (he looked at the tote board again) exactly ten minutes, and the odds are now (another glance at the board) twenty-six to one, which means that the smart money is beginning to come in already, though it won’t be bet heavily enough to change the odds completely. If it continues to come in at this rate, the odds should hold at maybe ten or fifteen to one, which are very good odds, especially on a horse who will be receiving a little help—how do I get her attention without also getting Kruger’s?
Kruger put his binoculars to his eyes, watching the horses as they paraded on the track. Merilee, through instinct or because a Queens fly brushed her cheek just then, flicked her head to the right, looked straight into Mullaney’s face where he was standing behind the separating chain-link fence, nodded only once briefly, turned away, touched Kruger’s arm, whispered something to him, and then stood up. Her blond hair was wound around the top of her head, it looked like a neat golden yarmoulke similar to the white one Solomon had been wearing in the synagogue. Her black dress was cut low in the bodice, tight in the waist, flaring out over her long splendid legs, no stockings, black high-heeled pumps that clickety-clicked over the concrete steps as she walked toward the gate between the two sections. She was carrying a small black handbag in which Mullaney hoped there was something more than a driver’s license and a .22. The guard at the gate stamped her hand with invisible dye so that she could later put it under the ultraviolet light when she returned to the clubhouse section, and she came through the gate, winked at Mullaney, and walked right on past him toward the steps, very quickly, her sweet little backside wiggling, her pumps clickety-clicking on the vinyl tile floor, he would never forget last night in the library, though she had said it was lousy.
He followed her up the stairs at a safe distance, first glancing over his shoulder to make certain Kruger wasn’t watching, and caught up with her on the third floor, just outside the Man O’ War Room.
“Hello, honey,” she said, and smiled. “He’s going to Kill you,” she said. “He’s got George and Henry looking for you. You shouldn’t have mentioned Aqueduct last night. He remembered your mentioning Aqueduct.”
“Well, those are the chances one ofttimes takes
,” Mullaney said, thinking he sounded very much like K, and realizing that if he had mentioned Aqueduct to Kruger, he had doubtless mentioned it to K as well. It suddenly seemed terribly urgent to place the bet on Jawbone, collect his winnings, and get the hell out of here. “Do you have any money on you?” he asked.
“Yes, a little.”
“How much?”
“Oh, a little. He gives me a little to bet. He’s really very kind and generous indeed, though I can’t stand him.”
“Can you lend me some?”
“To get on an airplane to Brazil, do you mean?”
“No. To bet on a horse.”
“Oh that would be a terrible mistake,” Merilee said. “Lending someone money to bet on a horse.”
“This horse is a sure thing.”
“Besides,” she said, “I never lend money to strangers.”
“We’re not strangers, Merilee,” he said softly and sincerely. “We have been intimate.”
“Oh yes indeed we have,” she said, and smiled. “But still …”
“If the horse wins, I’ll share the profits with you.”
“You said it was a sure thing.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why did you just say ‘If the horse wins’?”
“I meant when the horse wins.”
“When you’re making love,” Merilee said, “you can say what you like. But when you’re talking business, say what you mean.”
“I meant when the horse wins, when.”
“And how much profit will there be when she wins?”
“That depends on how much we bet and what the odds are when we bet it.”
“Oh my,” Merilee said, “it all sounds so dreadfully complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all,” Mullaney said. “How much money have you got?”
“A little,” she said. “What will my cut be? Of the profits?”
“Well, let’s say fifty percent,” Mullaney said.
“No, let’s say seventy-five percent.”
“Sixty percent and it’s a deal.”
“Only because we once were lovers,” Merilee said, and lowered her eyes modestly.
“How much have you got?”
“Three hundred dollars.”
Mullaney glanced at the tote board. The odds on Jawbone had dropped to twelve to one. “Three hundred will have to do,” he said, and looked at the board again. It was five minutes to post time.
“There are complications I can think of,” Merilee said.
“Like what?”
“Like suppose the horse wins and they kill you before you can get to the cashier’s window?”
“They would have to kill me in the next six minutes or so, and I feel certain they won’t,” Mullaney said, not feeling at all certain.
“Well then, suppose the horse wins, and you do collect the money, but they kill you before you can give me my share?”
“If that’s bothering you, stay with me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll watch the race together. When the horse wins, we’ll cash the ticket, and I’ll give you your share on the spot. How does that sound?”
“Oh my it sounds very dangerous,” Merilee said. “I told him I was going to the ladies’ room. He’s liable to send someone looking for me.”
“We’ll watch the race from inside the restaurant. It’ll be starting in …” He looked again at the board. “… four minutes. He won’t miss you in that time. Merilee, please give me the money. We’ve got to place the bet before it’s too late.”
“What’s the horse’s name?” she asked.
“The money first.”
“The name first,” she said.
It was three minutes to post time.
“Merilee …”
“The name,” she said.
“Merilee, let’s not …”
“The name.”
Mullaney sighed. “No,” he said. “I can’t take that chance.”
“I thought you were a gambler.”
“I am, but …”
“One should always get the name first.”
“This is not a cocktail party,” he said, “it’s a horse race.” He looked at the tote board. “Merilee, the windows are going to close in two minutes, will you please for the love of God give me the money?”
“You’re a very distrustful person,” she said, but she opened her handbag and took out three hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills, which she handed to him immediately. “Will you tell me the name now?”
“Jawbone,” he said, and turned to run toward the hundred-dollar Win window.
“That’s a nice name,” she said behind him. “Jawbone.”
He bought the three Win tickets and looked at the tote board a last time before they went into the restaurant. The odds were holding at ten to one. If Jawbone won, they’d get three thousand dollars, give or take, and his share would be twelve hundred, which was exactly twelve hundred more than he’d awakened with yesterday morning. Enough to break open a Harlem crap game, enough to buy a hundred good poker hands, enough to start the upward trend, change the course of this damn gamble and have it start paying off at last. The Man O’ War Room was a sumptuous restaurant with twelve closed-circuit television receivers quartering the four walls of the room, enabling bettors to dine without missing any of the track action. Mullaney and the girl entered the restaurant just as the track announcer said, “It is now post time.” They took seats at a table in the far corner, away from the entrance doors in case Henry and George were still on the prowl, and looked up at the nearest television receiver in time to see the horses breaking from the gate and the announcer shouting, “They’re off!”
“Luck,” Mullaney whispered.
“Oh yes indeed,” the girl whispered back and covered his hand on the white tablecloth.
“It’s a good start,” the announcer said, “with no interference. Jawbone broke fast, God Sal is clear on the outside, Mercy’s Baby is third by a length, Felicity in fourth place leading the field. Heading for the turn now …”
“It looks good,” Mullaney said.
“Oh yes indeed,” the girl answered. Her blue eyes were glowing. She kept licking her lips with her tongue, squeezing Mullaney’s hand where it rested in a tight fist on the table top.
“… it’s still Jawbone in the lead, Mercy’s Baby head and head with Good Sal, Felicity in fourth place on the outside …”
“Come on, Jawbone!” Mullaney whispered.
“Come on, Felicity!” someone at another table shouted.
“Rolling around the turn now,” the announcer said, “it’s Jawbone by a length, Good Sal, and moving up in there, Felicity, getting into Contention now …”
“Come on, Jawbone!” Mullaney shouted.
“Come on, Jawbone!” the girl yelled.
“It’s still Jawbone by a head, Good Sal second, and Mona. Girl breaking away from the field, moving fast, moving up to fourth, passing Felicity now, making a strong bid, head and head with Good Sal …”
“Jawbone!” Mullaney shouted.
“Into the stretch,” the announcer said, “it’s Jawbone and Mona Girl, the others beaten off … Mona Girl coming to the front, Mona Girl in front by a length, Mona Girl leading by two lengths, coming to the finish line, it’s Mona Girl all the way, Mona Girl by three lengths, Mona Girl is the winner!”
“Mona Girl?” Mullaney said.
“One should always get the name first,” Merilee said, and sighed.
11. ROLLO
“You are a loser,” Merilee said, “oh you are very definitely a loser.”
He thought about that while watching the tote board for the final results. Sure enough, it was Mona Girl first, Jawbone in the place position, and Felicity showing; his Win tickets on Jawbone were worth exactly the paper they were printed on, like the New York Times bills that had been in the jacket. He thought Yes, I am a loser on this race, on this particular race, Merilee, but that does not n
ecessarily make me an all-time loser, I am just having a run of bad luck, that’s all. But his run of bad luck seemed to take a decided downward turn in that moment because it was then that George and Henry entered the restaurant and began glomming the room in twin intensity. Oh my, Mullaney thought.
He was feeling pretty depressed just then, truly feeling like the loser Merilee claimed he was, certainly too depressed to run again. Besides, he felt he had done quite enough running in two days, thank you, what had happened to that nice quality of unexpectedness he had initiated with the twins and used to such advantage? He decided to sit this one out, so he waited calmly at the table until the twins saw him, and then waited calmly as they walked over to him. Merilee, who had also seen them by this time, said only, “Oh my they are going to kill you, you are very definitely a loser.”
He doubted very much that they would kill him in the midst of a crowded restaurant, no one was that dumb. The unexpected, he thought, that is the secret.
“Hello, boys,” he said cheerfully, “nice to see you again.”
“I’ll bet,” Henry said.
“I’ll just bet,” George said.
“I think you had better get up and come with us,” Henry said. “Kruger would like to see you.”
“I’d like to see him, too,” Mullaney said.
“I’ll just bet,” George said.
They led him out of the restaurant and then over to the chain-link fence separating the sections, paid the attendant there (very nice of them) the difference between the admission prices for grandstand and clubhouse, and then led him over to where Kruger was sitting in the reserved section down front. The horses were already in the paddock for the third race, and Kruger was watching them through his binoculars. Mullaney sat down next to him, with Merilee on his right and with the twins taking seats behind him where they could shoot him through the head if necessary. Merilee crossed her legs, distracting some of the gamblers who were watching the horses in the paddock. She did not distract Kruger, however, who kept the binoculars to his eyes without turning to look at either her or Mullaney.
“You didn’t come back,” Kruger said.
“I know,” Mullaney said.”