Hard Case Crime: Fake I.D.

by Starr, Jason

  I stood up and shook Alan’s hand.

  “A pleasure,” he said. He had a firm handshake and he looked at my eyes until he let go.

  The waitress came around and we all ordered. My stomach was still hurting from breakfast so I took it easy, ordering the pepper steak and a side of pork dumplings.

  When the waitress left we started talking horses. Rob, it turned out, was a big poker player and he told me a story about a game he was in down in Atlantic City at Caesar’s Palace. Then Steve told me how he was down in Florida last week, visiting his mother at a condo, and he made it over to Gulfstream Park a couple of times and hit a triple for two thousand dollars. I told him about the last time I was in Florida, six years ago, and how I hit Calder, Pompano Park, Tampa Bay Downs and a few dog tracks. Our food came and we kept bullshitting about gambling and horse racing. We started talking about next year’s Triple Crown races and the new crop of three-year-olds.

  Sitting there, talking horses, I felt like I belonged. When I was at the bar, checking IDs, or at auditions with all those phony pretentious wannabes, I felt out of place. But sitting here, with a bunch of guys who loved horse racing, I felt like I fit right in. I even thought Alan was cool, definitely not as stuck-up and into himself as I’d thought he was.

  “We should probably get down to business,” Alan said, then he waited until everybody at the table stopped talking and was paying attention to him. “As everyone here probably already knows, Tommy here is the fifth and final person on our little ownership team. Just to update you, Tommy, we’re planning to claim our first horse next week. Bill Tucker, the trainer we’re planning to use, has been watching a few horses in the twenty-five to thirty-five range and when he’s ready to put a slip into the claiming box he’ll let us all know. Now what else did I want to discuss? Ah, yes, insurance. I spoke with several—”

  “Can I just ask you one question?” I said.

  “Of course you can, Tommy. What is it?”

  “You were talking about Bill Tucker. When do we meet him?”

  “Well, we all met Bill a few weeks ago out at Aqueduct,” Alan said. “But we’ll all meet him again when we go to the track to claim the horse.”

  “And about the horse,” I said. “You said Tucker has a few horses he’s watching. Do we get to help decide which one he claims?”

  “We’ve discussed that already,” Alan said, “and if you don’t have a strong objection we’d prefer to leave that decision up to Bill Tucker. The way we figured it, we’re not down at the track every day, watching the horses train, so we might as well leave the hands-on decisions to someone who knows more about the business than we ever will. It’s like owning a baseball team. When the owner starts jumping in, making decisions for the manager, the whole team gets screwed up. But when the manager makes the on-the-field decisions the team has a chance of winning.”

  I asked Alan which horses Tucker was thinking about claiming and he told me the names. I’d heard of all of them, except the one Tucker liked the most—a filly named Sunshine Brandy. She had a great pedigree, Alan explained—her grandfather was out of Secretariat—and she’d recovered from physical problems that had plagued her early in her career. She had done most of her racing down in Louisiana, which explained why I never heard of her. Tucker thought that if we could claim her for thirty or thirty-five grand it would be a steal.

  Alan started to talk about insurance again, then I said, “I have one more question. Let’s say we claim the horse for thirty-five K. We have fifty K in the pool total, right? So what happens to the other fifteen Gs?”

  “Good question,” Alan said. “Training costs, insurance, a lot of other expenses that the packet I’m going to give you will get into more. You know owning a race horse isn’t inexpensive. Owning just one horse could cost as much as twenty grand a year with various fees and expenses. Hopefully the horse’ll be making some money so we can get some of that back, but we also have a bimonthly billing plan worked out that we’ll adjust against any profits at the end of the year.”

  Everybody was talking at once and I was busy day-dreaming about what it would feel like to be a horse owner, to sit in one of those owner’s boxes, smoking a cigar.

  Then I heard Alan say, “Before we go I just have to say something that needs to be said and if no one else is going to say anything then I will.” He was quiet for a couple of seconds, then he looked at Pete and said, “I really don’t want to embarrass you, but I’ve brought this up with you before and you haven’t done anything about it so I have to say something again. Can you do us all a favor and start wearing some deodorant?”

  Rob and Steve were trying not to laugh and I thought it was pretty funny too.

  “What?” Pete said, sniffing his underarm. “I don’t smell.”

  “I don’t want to argue about it,” Alan said. “You might not think you smell, but other people think you smell, and if other people think you smell then you smell.”

  Rob and Steve couldn’t hold back anymore and they started laughing hysterically. Alan was smiling too, but I could tell he was really upset.

  “Nobody else thinks I smell,” Pete said to Alan. “You’re the only one who thinks I smell.”

  “Do we really have to go through this at every meeting?” Alan said.

  “I don’t smell,” Pete said. “If I smelled wouldn’t my wife say something to me?”

  “Maybe she smells too,” Rob said. Now I couldn’t hold back—I started cracking up, and Alan started laughing too. The only person who wasn’t laughing was Pete.

  “Hey, don’t make jokes about my wife,” Pete said.

  “Come on,” Rob said. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “Seriously,” Alan said to Pete. “Why can’t you put on some deodorant?”

  “Because I don’t smell,” Pete said, “and I’m sick of you guys saying I do.”

  “All right, you want to get an objective opinion,” Alan said. Then he looked at me and said, “Tommy, your honest opinion—do you think Pete smells?”

  I played it good—with perfect comic timing. Everybody at the table got quiet. Then I looked at Pete, staring him down, and said, “Like a hot piece of shit.”

  Everybody at the table laughed, including Pete. I really liked these guys a lot.

  Finally, we all settled down. Pete said he’d start wearing some cologne if it would make everybody happier. The waiter came to take our dessert orders. I was handling my food pretty good so I ordered two scoops of vanilla ice cream.

  The waiter came back and put the desserts on the table. We were all laughing it up, having a good time, then I said to Alan, “Before I forget—I want to give you the money. You know, the ten grand.”

  “Oh, right,” Alan said. “I guess that’s a good idea.”

  I reached under the table, picked up the gym bag, and started to pass it across the table to Alan. Everybody stopped eating and was looking at me.

  “‘What’s this?” Alan asked.

  “It’s a gym bag,” I said, “but don’t worry—it’s been laying around my closet forever. Toss it out when you get home—I don’t need it.”

  “I don’t mean the gym bag,” Alan said. “I mean what’s inside it?”

  “The ten grand,” I said, wondering what the big problem was.

  “You brought cash?” Alan said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You told me to, didn’t you?”

  Alan smiled.

  “This is a joke, right?” he said.

  “No, what kind of joke would this be? You told me to bring you the money, I brought you the money.”

  “I thought you’d bring a check.”

  “I don’t write checks,” I said.

  “Then a money order, whatever. I can’t accept your money in cash.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “It’s real money,” I said. I unzipped the bag and took out some wads of bills. “See?”

  “What did you do,” Rob said, “rob a bank?�
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  “What do you mean?” I said, wondering what everybody’s big problem was.

  “That’s a lot of cash to be walking around town with,” Pete said.

  “I took it out of the bank this morning,” I said. “Alan told me on the phone to bring the money.”

  “We just had a little misunderstanding,” Alan said. “It’s no big deal. We know you’re serious now and that you’re good for the money. I don’t think anyone will object if you get me a check later in the week.”

  Now I knew what was going on—Alan was just trying to bust my chops, pulling a power trip. Maybe my first impression of him was right after all. If I’d brought my checkbook he probably would’ve said, “Sorry, I only take cash.” Uppity bastard. Well, there was no way I was going to screw around with checks or money orders. I wasn’t stupid. I knew if I went to the bank or post office with hot money, started filling out slips, it couldn’t lead to anything good.

  “Money is money,” I said. “Why don’t you just take it the way I brought it, and that’ll be the end of it?”

  “Because this is a business transaction,” Alan said. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was getting louder. “I need a check for accounting purposes. I’m not going to go to the bank and deposit ten thousand dollars in cash.”

  “Look,” I said, “let’s not make a big deal about this, all right? Just take the money.”

  “I can’t accept cash,” Alan said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t. Weren’t you listening to me? Are you some kind of idiot?”

  I was about to jump over the table and bust Alan’s head open.

  “Hey, cool down guys, Jesus,” Pete said. “So there was a little misunderstanding—what’s the big deal? I know what we’ll do—I’ll take the money. I’ll deposit it in my account and write Alan a check directly. Then, Alan, you can write Tommy out a receipt for your records. How’s that sound?”

  “I guess that’s all right with me,” Alan said. “If you feel like doing that.”

  “How does that sound to you, Tommy?”

  “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Anybody else have an objection?”

  Steve and Rob shook their heads.

  “Good, then the issue’s resolved,” Alan said. “See, that wasn’t too hard, was it? Christ, maybe the MSG from this food is going to all your heads.”

  Steve or Rob, I forget who, laughed. I was still looking at Alan, trying to figure out why he was being such a dick.

  While we finished our desserts, Alan just talked like Mr. Know-It-All about “finances” and “insurance.” I knew he was just trying to show everybody up, talking about what he knew. I could’ve done the same thing if I started talking about acting or working in a bar. I wanted to see him read a line from a script or try to explain how to make a Long Island Iced Tea. Finally, Alan said he’d be calling everybody in a couple of days to tell us what was going on with Bill Tucker. There was a chance Bill might want to claim a horse later this week or early next week and Alan said that if that happened we’d all meet down at the racetrack to watch the horse run. The check came and we split it evenly. Usually, I didn’t have a problem splitting checks, but Alan’s part of the bill was five bucks more than everybody else’s and you’d think a big-shot Wall Street guy, probably with more money than he knew what to do with, could pay his own way.

  Pete left the restaurant with me.

  “Don’t worry about Alan,” he said when we were on the sidewalk. “He’s a really great guy once you get to know him—hell of a stockbroker too. That’s how I met him. He got me into Microsoft at thirty bucks a share.” Pete laughed. “Anyway, you wait—you’ll see what a great guy he is too. When I first met him we didn’t really hit it off. He likes to do things his way and that’s it. So—besides Alan—what do you think of the syndicate?”

  “It all looks cool to me,” I said. “I guess I owe you one.”

  “Ah, forget about it,” Pete said. A strong wind blew down John Street. It seemed colder than before.

  “Well, I better take off to the bank,” Pete said. “This bag of money’s getting heavy.”

  “Take it easy,” I said.

  Pete walked toward his car and I went the other way, toward the Broadway-Fulton Street subway station. For a while, I was still pissed off at Alan, but then I started to forget about him. I was officially part of a horse syndicate now, and I really didn’t care about anything else.

  Eleven

  When I got off the subway at the Sixty-eighth Street station, instead of walking downtown toward my apartment, I headed in the opposite direction.

  I knew Frank wasn’t going to be home this afternoon. He’d told me last night that he was going to be busy all day today, meeting with distributors at the bar. I didn’t feel like going home and sitting on the couch alone all afternoon, so I decided to celebrate my new career as a horse owner by visiting Debbie O’Reilley.

  I’d never been to Frank’s building before, but I passed it all the time. It was one of those classy, old doorman buildings on Seventy-second Street near Third Avenue. The doorman didn’t seem very surprised to see a strange guy asking for Debbie O’Reilley in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe this was the time that most of her boyfriends came to visit. The doorman had to ring twice, then he said, “Tommy is here to see you,” and he hung up the receiver and said to me, “Go right up—apartment 19B.”

  The inside of the building was even nicer than I thought it would be. The lobby had a big gold chandelier and there was red carpeting in the elevator. I got out on the nineteenth floor and walked along the wide hallway. I didn’t even have to look for apartment 19B because Debbie was sticking her head out of the doorway, smiling at me.

  The first thing I said to myself when I saw her was, What the hell am I doing here? Without makeup and with her hair wrapped up in a towel she looked like she could be my grandmother. But it wasn’t her looks that bothered me as much as her. I remembered how I’d always hated her, how I thought she was just a nasty drunk who treated her husband, a great guy, like a piece of dog shit. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Frank more than I already had, but there I was, about to fuck his wife.

  She let me into the apartment. She was wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe and looked like she just came out of the shower.

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she said, looking at me the way she always looked at me at the bar, like I was a fresh piece of meat on the slab. From a few feet away I could smell the Scotch on her breath, so she’d already had at least one drink today. “And all dressed up too. Well, come inside. Make yourself at home.”

  We went into a big living room with black leather furniture. There were tall windows with a view down-town—in the distance, I could see part of the Empire State Building. Debbie sat down on the couch and I sat next to her.

  “I’m very glad you’re here,” Debbie said. Her words were slurred slightly, but she wasn’t smashed. “But, to be honest, I’m a little upset that you didn’t let me know first. I would’ve gotten myself together for you—you know, put on some leather.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “You look great just the way you are.”

  Debbie put her hand on my leg and smiled. She really was disgusting.

  “All full of compliments,” she said. “Well, thank you very much. But why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My memory gets a little fuzzy when I drink, but if I recall the last time we were together you were trying to break my arm.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s all right—I’m sure I’ll figure out a way for you to make up for it.” She was rubbing my leg now. “So what made you change your mind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on. Obviously you were never very interested in me before.”

  “I was just passing by so I decided to come up. But maybe you want me to go home.”
r />   “No, of course I don’t want you to go. I just meant did you come here for a good time or because you find me irresistibly sexy?”

  “I really don’t know why I came here,” I said.

  “Well, at least you’re honest,” she said. “That’s an unusual quality for a man.” She moved her hand over my crotch, then said, “I could use something to drink. Can I get you something?”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Really? In that case I’ll skip my drink too. I don’t want to be on a different plane than you.”

  She was still rubbing my crotch.

  I said, “So Frank’s not around, right?”

  “No, he’s at the bar. We have the apartment all to ourselves for at least a few hours.”

  “Maybe it was a bad idea to come here—”

  She grabbed my arm—holding it tightly. Then in a deeper, sexier voice she said, “What do you like?”

  “Like?”

  “I mean maybe you have a favorite fetish? Do you like to be spanked? Do you want mommy to tell you that you’ve been a very bad boy. What do you like?”

  “I don’t have any fetishes.”

  “Everybody has some fetish, a fantasy they’ve never experienced before. Something they’ve always wanted to do, but never tried. Maybe you like it rough.”

  She pinned me against the side of the couch and started kissing me. I felt her hard implants rubbing against my chest.

  “This is what you want, isn’t it? This is what you like.”

  I was looking into her dark brown eyes. She was kissing me, biting hard on my tongue. I tasted a mix of alcohol and blood. Her hands were under my shirt, her long fingernails scratching my chest.

  “Come on, tell mommy you like it. Tell mommy you want it.”

  She continued to bite and claw me and I didn’t stop her. Finally, she pulled me into the bedroom. I saw the wedding picture on the dresser. Frank was right—Debbie did look a lot better back then. I tried not to look at the picture again. I hated myself for being there behind Frank’s back, and I hated Debbie for putting the idea into my head in the first place.