The Blue Valley track sat back from the highway, with a huge lighted sign of a speeding horse at its entrance. Impossible to miss, coming from any direction. Hundreds of cars filled the gravel lot, not much different from Pendergast’s—same cars, same bettors, here to cover losses.
The stands were crowded with revelers hunched over racing forms, talking behind their hands, drinking beer in the evening heat. A buzz of conversation swirled like a cloud as she made her way to the top, near the betting windows. The floor was littered with discarded tickets. Jostled by the crowd intent on the pursuit of free money, Lennox felt her energy flagging. She would never find the old man in the crowd. But the track—she had been curious with all the news, and Amos’s inquiry.
The announcer came on, blaring the information that betting was closing on the fifth race. Urgency drove the bettors into a fury. This might be the race. The one.
Lennox scanned the boxes for Vanvleet’s bald pate, but that area was too far away, too crowded. Odious Georgie would be dressed in something flashy. But flash wasn’t in short supply. Hot and tired, she wanted to leave. But if she stayed a little longer, she could say she had made a good effort to talk to Vanvleet. Tomorrow, he would smile his benign little smile, and she would be forgiven.
The fifth race was fast and furious. A grumble of disillusionment followed it, winners glared at by losers. A long wait for the sixth race. Lennox walked the betting floor, back and forth, going to the ladies’ room, buying a soda, searching faces.
The sixth race was announced. Final odds were posted, Angel Blue, the favorite at three to one, Toby’s Girl at seven to one, Twinkle Toes at fifteen to one, Silver Sensation at seventeen to one, and the long shot, Smitty’s Dream, at thirty-five to one.
The windows closed and a hush of anticipation fell on the crowd. The horses and jockeys rattled in the metal gates. With a gunshot, the horses plunged forward, the crowd jeering, stamping feet. Angel Blue, dark and sleek, was an early lead rounding the first turn; then Silver Sensation, gray, with a black mane, took over. At the middle of the last turn, the long shot, Smitty’s Dream, a dappled brown-and-white that looked about as much like a beer wagon dray horse as a thoroughbred, nosed into the lead. The crowd held its breath. By the time the horses crossed the finish line, Smitty’s Dream had won by a length.
A poof of epithets crossed the air. Paper flew. A young man jumped to his feet, waving a ticket, then his hat, and scrambled to the aisle. Down in the front boxes, a woman in a yellow-plumed hat rose slowly. She made her way past the others in her box, clutching a ticket. Lennox strained to see her face, but it was shadowed by the hat.
With a clatter, the windows reopened and the winners lined up. Not many, since the long shot had won. Wouldn’t it be a kick, Lennox thought, to have put a load on that horse? Like God came down and tapped you on the head.
Her feet hurt. It was 10:30 p.m. and she wanted to go home. There were two more races to go. She stretched, trying to relieve the ache in her back. It had been a long time since the flight with Louie Weston.
The winning horses were led around the track by trainers and owners, patted and fed and encouraged. Backslapping was rife. Smitty’s Dream’s jockey held a blue ribbon, its gold lettering flashing under the strong lights. A dark-haired man had his face next to the horse’s neck, holding the bridle.
Lennox straightened. The man patted the neck of the horse, took the ribbon. Then he turned. It was Georgie Terraciano.
She moved down the aisles for a closer look. In a small clutch behind Georgie, one man stood above the others, on the edge of the group, watching. Tall, slicked-back hair: Reggie Vanvleet. Had he bet on the horse? Why wasn’t he in line? No sign of the old man.
Thirty-five to one. A man could make a small fortune on a win like that. She ran up and scanned the lines at the betting windows again. The woman in the yellow hat was gone. In a baggy summer suit, shuffling his feet, was a large man with graying hair. He kept his face toward the window, pushed his ticket under the glass. There was a pause while the attendant called a man to her side. The supervisor nodded, squinted at the bettor, nodded again. The attendant counted out stacks of bills, pushed them under the glass in bundles.
Stashing wads of money in all his pockets, the man walked away quickly. He kept his face down. Lennox moved around a group of beer drinkers to follow him. When he rounded the corner to go down the stairs, he looked over his shoulder. The boxer’s mug. Marilyn’s thug, the driver.
Marilyn Terraciano, whose maiden name was Smith.
Charlotte Street was deserted. Inside the boardinghouse, only the kerosene lantern lit the hallway. Lennox tried to remember if she had any food stashed in her room. She tiptoed through the dining room and into the kitchen. The door creaked on its hinges. A small intake of air told her she wasn’t alone.
At the kitchen table, her round shoulders hunched under a small light, sat Frankie with a book, reading.
“You scared me, child. Thought you was Mrs. F., catch me in here using her electricity.”
“What are you doing reading this late?”
Frankie’s dark fingers were pressed against the pages of the book propped on the table. Poppy’s daughter liked food, and she had gotten into a few scrapes with Mrs. F. over eating the leftovers. In a plain blue sack dress, Frankie fingered her ear under stumpy braids.
“Might be asking you the same thing, sneaking around in the kitchen so late.”
“I’m starving. I missed supper.”
“Wasn’t nothing worth writin’ home about. There’s some cold ham; I’ll get it.”
“I’ll get it myself.”
With a slab of ham and a mound of mustard, Lennox sat at the table across from the girl. She cut up the ham, dabbed it with mustard. Frankie’s bright eyes watched her.
“You look different tonight, Miss Dorie. Flushed. The day too warm for you?”
“It was hot, Frankie.” Lennox paused. “Do I look different?”
“Like something real excitin’ happened to you today.”
She chewed. The airplane ride with Louie Weston? Tarnished by Louie himself. But Talbot, he lingered on her like an essential oil. She swallowed and tried to smile. “What’s going on, then—what’re you reading?”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell my ma, will ya? It’s for this course I’m taking, and she don’t know nothing about it.”
“How do you take a course without her knowing?”
“I send things off to this professor.”
“Oh, a correspondence course. What on?”
“Books. Literature. I gotta come over here at night so my ma don’t see my light on.”
“I’m glad to see you improving yourself, Frankie. I studied English in college.”
Frankie’s eyes rounded. “English? You?”
“What? I don’t look like the brainy type?”
Frankie shook her braids and laughed. “Well.” She wagged a plump finger. “Mrs. F. told me you was a runner. She says you was very, very fast. Like the wind.”
Lennox sat back in the chair. “I had to take classes, too; that’s kind of a rule they have at the university.” She looked at Frankie’s book. “When I was little, I lived at the library. Sort of a second home.”
“Mrs. F. says you had to quit running ‘cause you tore up your knee.” She eyed Lennox. “You quit books, too?”
Majoring in English was just turning her back on the knuckle-headed pragmatism that had gotten her mother and everyone else she knew exactly nowhere. But it ended up at nowhere, too. What did the enjoyment of books have to do with the living and dying that made your life? Were the trials of the imaginary more keen, more true? Or was it just a way to forget? If that worked, she would read more.
“No, I didn’t quit books. It’s just not the same. What is this, then?”
She picked up Frankie’s book by the spine. Kafka again. Christ, was the whole world reading him as an initiation rite to another glorious and incomprehensible war?
; “Did you read it, Miss Done?”
“Don’t call me miss, Frankie. Makes me feel like I’m living at Tara.” She stuffed her mouth angrily and chewed. She didn’t like to think about college, and all that might have been. Frankie was rubbing her arms self-consciously. Lennox swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Yes, I read the book.”
“Then you can tell me what it’s about.”
“Wish I could. I never took on a course with it.”
“You quit college?”
“No running, no scholarship. No scholarship, no college.” She finished the ham and took her plate to the sink. When she sat down again, she wanted to change the subject. “Look, you know Luther. Do you know where he’s from, what he did?”
Frankie’s fingers fidgeted with the paper edges. She put her scrap of paper into the crease and shut the book. “Don’t know nothing. “
Lennox watched her. Her braids twitched, one loosening from a red barrette. She fumbled, getting it clipped.
“What’s his last name?”
“I got no idea, Miss D—uh. I got no idea who he is, where he come from, nothing. He just always been around on this street, on our street, too. He’s jus’ always there, his hand out for something.”
Her voice inched up the scale, like that phony darkey thing the movies played up. Frankie never talked like that. She knew something. Idon’t know nothin’ about birthin’ babies, Miss Scarlett. Back at Tara again.
Frankie looked up. “You won’t tell Mrs. F. I was here so late, will you?”
“Don’t worry. And if you figure out what the book means, let me know.”
The young woman smoothed her dress, then put her book in one of its large pockets. When she opened the back door, the tinkling sound of piano music floated in. “I’ll do that, Miss—I’ll do that.”
Lennox woke at dawn, when the birds began to chirp outside in the big tree. Lying on the bed, she wondered if she’d insulted Frankie. She hoped not. She didn’t have enough friends to lose even one. Had she made and lost two yesterday—Harvey and Louie? What a day. She sat up in bed and remembered what she should have done yesterday. The bartender.
Understandable, considering everything else that had happened. But unforgivable. She cursed loudly. She had been distracted and forgotten to do her job. Lennox covered her eyes with her hand and could still smell the racetrack on her skin, the earthy, horsy scent.
She had been dreaming again. This time, the bridge was gone. It was just her and a stranger. At the edge of the river, waves lapping at her feet. She felt cold, damp, alone. The way she’d felt when Verna died.
Lennox pulled her hand off her face. Damn, she’d forgotten Amos, too. She would call first thing, after she got hold of Vanvleet.
She roiled over in bed, buried her face in the pillow. What about Talbot? She had accused him of pumping her for information. She moaned and put the pillow over her head. Where had he gone last night after he took her home? Probably to visit one of his other “skirts.” No doubt he had plenty of them. Wouldn’t he, with hands like that?
She sat bolt upright again and slapped herself on the cheek, hard enough to get the job done. She let out a long breath and put her feet on the floor.
Then whispered in her best James Cagney: “Knock it off, sweetheart. “
THIRTEEN
Something looked wrong on Fifth Street. For midmorning, it was too busy, the wrong kind of busyness, with pedestrians rooted to the sidewalk, arms folded, huddled. Lennox parked the Packard next to the mattress warehouse and sat for a minute.
She hadn’t been able to reach Amos or his nurse Helen this morning at City Hospital. Today was the day he’d said he might get out, but he would have called her for a ride. He wouldn’t have taken the streetcar home, would he? And he wasn’t at home or the office, either.
Her last view of the Chatterbox that night, with Iris stepping out into the rosy light: What was it that nagged at her? No, she thought, not here, but at the Hot Cha Cha. The slow, deliberate way Iris Jackson had buttoned up her jacket. Like she was waiting for someone, something. Had she waited for Lennox, till the rummies moved on?
Lennox picked up the compact on the seat. Down the street, two uniformed cops appeared on the sidewalk, heads down, talking. She took another look at the Chatterbox, but its small dark windows showed nothing.
The powder was caked hard inside the compact. When she’d found it at the bottom of the bag of clothes the bartender had given her, it hadn’t seemed significant. A scratched gold-colored shell-shaped compact with old face powder and a flattened, oily puff inside. On the lid, under the scratches of use
and abuse, was an inscription, initials: Something, then R. H. A? N? M? C?
Had Iris Jackson stolen it? Bought it at a pawnshop? Was it her mother’s? Had it been left in the bar by Miss Howard, Miss Huckbert, Miss Alice Ruth Hottentot?
Lennox snapped it open, looked in the mirror at herself. A little sunburn on the nose, no lipstick on the teeth. She snapped it shut. She had Verna’s old compact with ancient powder inside, tucked away with the journals under her bed. Somehow, Iris didn’t seem like the sentimental type.
She palmed it, rubbed it between her hands, commanded it to yield up its secrets. The genie was silent. Lennox opened her small handbag and dropped it in. Down at the bottom were the keys from the Nash. She’d put them and the compact in her bag this morning, hoping their presence would work on her, make her smarter. Four keys. Two big, one medium, one small. She rubbed them and sighed, then chucked them back in her handbag. A heartbreaker, those keys. She was right about that.
She got out of the car into the morning air, warm already with the smell of burned hops from the brewery. A towheaded girl ran around the corner, as if someone was chasing her. An old woman and two men, standing across from the Chatterbox, startled as she bumped them.
Lennox watched the girl come closer. Her heart skipped. The girl was a dead ringer for Tillie. Her leather soles clapped the sidewalk cement, her hair flying in messy braids. So that’s how she’d do her hair at eight.
When Lennox turned back to the Chatterbox, the cops stood at the door, talking to a woman. The bartender she had spoken to on Sunday. Her hair was in disarray, her dress wrinkled and dirty. As Lennox stepped up on the curb, she saw the woman’s face was blotchy and swollen.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” the barkeep was saying, shaking her head. “Everybody liked him. Everybody. I just can’t think—I can’t—of anybody.”
Lennox stopped on the sidewalk. The cop spoke to the bartender.
“No, no, don’t know ‘im, never heard of ‘im,” she said, putting her hand up to her forehead. “Can I go make some phone calls now? I have to call Joey. Joey needs to come.”
The two policemen followed the bartender into the saloon. Someone was playing pool inside. The stench of stale beer wafted out the door. Lennox scuffed the pavement with her oxfords, then clenched her jaw and went in.
In the back of the bar, the policemen huddled with a man who had to be a plainclothes cop. Another uniform stood by with two young men who twisted with anxiety. Behind the bar, the lady bartender was on the phone, talking low. Lennox paused, let her eyes adjust to the darkness, made out a gray-haired woman sitting alone at a table, hands wrapped around a glass of water. The woman followed Lennox with keen eyes and gave a beseeching look to her nod.
Also sitting alone, midbar, was Alfie, the ancient beer drinker. The old man startled when she strode up. Wearing the same filthy waiter’s jacket and black sailor’s cap, he squinted at her.
“Some trouble here?” she asked.
Alfie blinked. “Davy. Gut-shot.”
It would be Davy. Tears streamed down the bartender’s face, and she was gulping words into the receiver.
“Poor woman,” she whispered. To Alfie, she said, “Is he—”
“Dead. Yup. And Marian won’t serve me no coffee.”
“You want coffee?”
Making her way down to the end of
the bar, washing out a white porcelain cup, Lennox watched the cops at the far end of room. They didn’t seem to be doing much of anything, except drinking Davy’s mother’s coffee. She deposited a cup of burned Java in front of the old man.
“Why, thank you, miss.” He immediately hunched over to blow the steam.
Leaving Alfie at the bar, she inched closer to the policemen. One of them looked a little like her old partner, Roger. The gray-haired woman shuffled over, approaching warily.
“You work here, do you?” She had the voice of a woman not used to speaking. Her clothes were clean but off, buttoned wrong. “You know Sylvia. You must. Have you seen her?”
“You’ve got me wrong, ma’am. I don’t—”
“She ain’t been home for days, and it’s not like the girl. This place”—the woman looked angrily about the dim saloon, the billiard tables, broken stools, filthy floors—“this place done it to her, made her run away. I know it. But I can’t get that Marian Esterly to give me the time o’ day.”
“Her son, Davy,” Lennox explained in a soft voice. “He’s been shot.”
“Here—in this place?” She began to shake. “But my Sylvia, she told me about Davy. He was so nice to her, gave her extra hours because she’s good. Oh, she’s a good girl.”
The policemen were dispersing. The two young men disappeared out the back. The lady clung to her arm. Lennox tried to leave. “I’m sorry. I have to—”
“Tell them, will you? Tell them Sylvia’s gone. I can’t get nobody to listen. Tell them, will you?” The woman squeezed her fingernails into Lennox’s forearm.
She pried off the hand, patted it. “Let me take care of it.”
As she walked away, the old woman called, “Anken. Sylvia Anken.”
Up ahead, the plainclothes detective and the last uniform stood together. It was Roger Carey, late of Sugar Moon Investigations. A lucky break.
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