The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  In the hotel lobby, I collapsed in a chair close enough to the front desk to see if Calixto could con a room out of the desk clerk at Saratoga’s premier hotel in the middle of the night. With no reservation. Mud from the lake smeared his jeans and white shirt. A bit of dried pond scum stuck to his hair. God knows what I looked like.

  “Good evening,” Calixto said, his Cuban accent more pronounced than usual. “I am Calixto Coyune and I require a room.”

  The desk clerk’s raised brows and skeptical stare were unmistakable. “Sir, I’m afraid I don’t see your name on our reservations list. Do you have a confirmation number?”

  “Tell me,” Calixto asked, “what brand of coffee does the Adelphi serve?”

  The clerk appeared confused, then said, “Coyune, of course.” Sudden understanding lit his face. “Are you—”

  “Yes. Marquise Coyune is my father.” He pulled what must be his Florida driver’s license from his wallet.

  The clerk studied it a moment. “Oh, yes, Fisher Island, of course. I’ve heard your father has lived there for years.” He stared at his computer screen. “Would a suite with a balcony suffice?”

  * * *

  By the time I dragged myself into the hotel room, I could hardly stand up, let alone appreciate the splendor of the two-room suite. I staggered into the marble bathroom, cranked the shower and let the hot water wash away the remains of Lake Desolation. If only it were that easy. The water stung the heck out of my ear where the cow moose had struck it with her hoof, not to mention that Tony had repeatedly clubbed the same spot before knocking me out.

  After stepping from the shower, I gingerly patted the side of my head and the damaged ear with a hand towel, before wrapping myself in a terry cloth hotel robe, and drying my hair. Then I zombied toward the bedroom.

  “Fia,” Calixto said, as I passed through the parlor, “try to get some rest. I will stay on the couch tonight.”

  I nodded, and entered the bedroom where a damask coverlet of pale gold lay between me and the sheets. After tossing throw pillows onto the floor, I tugged the coverlet back, climbed between the sheets, and passed out.

  Sometime later, I woke with a start, thinking I’d heard someone crying out. Calixto sat next to me on the edge of the bed, one hand on my shoulder.

  “Corazón, you were having a nightmare.”

  The dream still gripped me, causing me to gulp in air. In the dim light that spilled through the bedroom doorway, I could see the worry in Calixto’s eyes.

  “I was sinking through that cold, black water … in the lake.”

  “You are safe now, querida.”

  “Did I thank you, Calixto, thank you for not letting me drown in that water?”

  “It was nothing. See if you can go back to sleep.”

  Eventually I did, and when I awoke in the morning, I found his note on my night table.

  “Stopped at your apartment to get you some clothes and your laptop.”

  What, you broke in? Went through my underwear drawer? I kept reading.

  “Breakfasting in the palm court downstairs. You need to eat, please join me.”

  Glancing around the room I saw jeans and several of my tops folded on a chaise lounge in the bedroom. On the floor next to it, I spotted my carryall that held my disguises. Investigating the clothes, I found a small pile of my inexpensive, embarrassingly functional underwear under the first top. Hidden beneath that was the diamond bat wing necklace he’d given me. He must not have wanted to leave the two-carat stone in my room. I stowed it in the room’s small safe, then I got dressed. Carefully.

  Bruises and strained joints from Lake Desolation slowed me down and caused me to wince more than once. In the bathroom mirror, my damaged ear reminded me of a red cauliflower. I thought about putting my wig on, but headed to the elevator instead. I found Calixto in the palm court, wearing a black blazer and perfectly creased slacks. He was working on a plate of ham, eggs, and potatoes.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said when a waitress arrived. “And coffee.”

  “What are your plans for the day, querida? You should rest upstairs. I like to think of you being safe. At least for one day, no?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I’m going to watch Stevie’s race. I’ll wear the blond wig.”

  “And your track clothes?”

  “I may have to pick something up.”

  The waitress came back with my coffee and a small pitcher of cream. The first hot sip was like a gift from heaven.

  “You mean go shopping, yes? You can’t go to your apartment.”

  I drank more coffee, then set the mug down. “I thought I might go to Violet’s.”

  “Excellent choice.” He pulled his billfold from his inside jacket pocket.

  “I have a credit card,” I said quickly. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I insist.” He slid a thumb and forefinger into the wallet, withdrew a thick wad of bills, and reached over to set them before me on the white tablecloth.

  Two women at a nearby table, who’d been having trouble keeping their eyes off Calixto, became almost bug-eyed. Their gaze flitted from him to the money, then to me.

  “Oh, great,” I said, “Now those ladies think I’m a call girl.”

  He glanced at the women and smiled. “You do look as if you were ridden hard and put away wet.”

  “Thanks a lot. You’ll pay for that.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  This man was going to drive me crazy.

  25

  With eight hundred dollars in my wallet, I took a cab from the Adelphi to the rental on Union. I scanned the avenue, but didn’t see any bad guys sitting in parked cars or loitering on the street.

  Still, I paid the cabby quickly, scrambled into my Mini, and put the pedal to the metal, keeping an eye in my rearview mirror to make sure no one was tailing me.

  I drove to Violet’s boutique, where I purchased a short white cotton dress, a pair of white and gold sandals, and a little gold bag to use instead of my battered tote. The boutique had some exquisite lace bras and panties in assorted animal prints, so I bought those, too, along with a pair of designer sunglasses. Amazing how fast you can whip through eight hundred bucks.

  It occurred to me Joan would approve of my selections, which reminded me I needed to call her. But after the stress of Lake Desolation, I decided to give myself a day off.

  Then I remembered I’d left her in a pretty bad way, dumping the information about Rich’s questionable deal with Savarine the way I’d done. What if something new had happened to upset her and she’d tried to reach me? Am I starting to care about her?

  At any rate, she couldn’t reach me on my cell, currently in Calixto’s possession. Though he’d said he’d bring it to the races, I was anxious about waiting that long to call her. I left the boutique with my purchases folded in lavender tissue inside a purple shopping bag and headed back to the Adelphi. Once in the room, I grabbed the ivory-colored phone, designed to look like a model from the previous century.

  I dialed Joan’s number and got her voicemail. When the leave-a-message indicator beeped, I said, “Joan, I left my cell at the track, but will have it later this afternoon, if you need to reach me. I hope you and Rich are okay. I’ll call again.”

  Since Stevie’s race didn’t run until four, I crawled back into bed, sank into a quiet and dreamless sleep, and didn’t wake up until one. I ordered a sandwich from room service and almost corrected the man on the phone when he said, “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Coyune?”

  I’d forgotten Calixto had registered us as husband and wife, a plan to thwart predatory Pizuttis who might be on the hunt for Fay Mason, Kate O’Brien, or Fia McKee.

  I took a hot shower before the food arrived, and after eating, I lay on the gold coverlet in my new animal print underwear watching a rerun of Burn Notice. I could get used to this. Not the Mrs. Coyune part, of course. But the pleasant benefits that came with money.

  I left the hotel at three, in
my blond wig, white dress, and new sandals, reaching the paddock as Becky Joe was leading Bionic in. After buying a program, I stood well back from the rail, relying on my disguise to hide me. I used the program to partially cover my face. Even so, I started with alarm when Mars and Rico Pizutti entered the paddock. Why wasn’t Rico in jail?

  What a pair. Mars, as usual, resembled a rooster, and Rico, a third-rate actor impersonating Marlon Brando in The Godfather. Why did he even show up? He knew his scam was broken. Did he plan to offer Stevie a bribe?

  I’d lay money the pair had hoped to take Bionic out of the race, but track stewards frown on late scratches, and Mars knew he was already under a microscope. It bugged me to know Bionic would likely win the race, and those two pricks would still receive the purse money. But they’d lose the big payoff they’d planned with trainer Sefino. Serve the assholes right.

  Inside the paddock, Sefino’s horse, Stay the Course, had arrived and was prancing behind Bionic. The new horse was a chubby little guy, and I could see why his odds were long. Aside from being overweight, his legs were so short it was unlikely he had much stride. His past performances indicated he was in over his head. What he needed was a teenage girl to ride him in amateur shows, adore him, and feed him bags of carrots.

  Ahead of Stay the Course, Bionic’s muscles rippled with health and strength. The veins popped out on his skin as his heart rate increased with excitement and anticipation. He knew what was coming.

  Stevie strode in with the other jockeys, and I felt like cheering. The shadow of fear had left his face. He looked positively jaunty. Mars and Rico scowled at him in unison.

  A moment later, the paddock judge called for “riders up,” and when Mars gave Stevie a lift onto Bionic, Rico’s hand rose like a claw and grabbed at Stevie’s knee. The old mobster’s mouth was twisted, his expression threatening. He said something to Stevie, and Stevie gave him the finger and laughed. Becky Joe, grinning like a Cheshire cat, led him and Bionic from the paddock. Still grinning, she handed them over to their pony escort who ushered them out of sight under the grandstand.

  I knew Calixto was watching events unfold on the monitor in the racing office. Earlier at breakfast, he’d said he planned to remind the stewards and Stevie about the planned scam with Stay the Course. Though this last warning was probably unnecessary, there was still a chance Stay the Course’s jockey carried an electrical device. He could fire his horse up like a rocket and achieve blastoff down the stretch.

  I figured Rico and his mob buddies had laid down a ton of money on overseas bets the day before. But with Stevie riding to win, they stood to lose it all. I wanted to march over, point a finger at them, and laugh. I settled for imagining it, and failed to stop the resulting grin.

  When the horses disappeared in the tunnel, I walked through the grandstand, came out trackside, and watched as they paraded before me. Some of them pranced sideways, their heads turned to stare apprehensively at the metal gate that loomed over them at the finish line.

  Two big tractors, engines running, were on the track. One was hitched to the starting gate and would whip the metal contraption out of the way before the horses came back around. Racetracks usually keep a second tractor nearby, in case the first one stalls. A metal gate blocking the finish line is not conducive to successful racing.

  The race would run a mile-and-an-eighth, the exact circumference of Saratoga’s dirt track. Once the horses warmed up, loaded into the gate, and burst free, one time around would do it.

  The crowd on the track apron cut off some of my view, but I was able to see Stevie and Bionic on the huge video board that stood in the infield. When the horses began to load, my heart beat faster. I had to remind myself to breathe.

  On the loudspeakers, Larry Collmus took the call. “Stay the Course balks slightly at the gate. And now he’s in. Bionic goes in, and we are waiting on Jenny’s Boy.”

  There was silence for a moment, then some jockeys yelled, “No, no, no,” when their horses thrashed in the metal stalls. Then silence.

  A loud clang as the metal doors flew open, the shrill sound of the bell, the roar of the crowd as the horses exploded from the gate.

  “And Jenny’s Boy goes for the early lead with Stay the Course running second. On the inside, Paisley Tie runs third, with Running Fool just to his outside in fourth. Behind these, Bionic sits comfortably in fifth, with Bravery just to his inside, running sixth.”

  I tuned Larry out, watching Stevie on the video board. He sat chilly, waiting for the race to unfold. I’d bet he had his eye on Stay the Course’s rider. I would if I were riding that race.

  The field was already through the first turn, entering the backstretch. Paisley Tie was starting to move and drew even with Stay the Course. Stevie let Bionic out a notch, and his colt’s stride lengthened.

  “Into the far turn now,” Collmus cried, “Jenny’s Boy starts to falter. Paisley Tie goes by that one and draws even with Stay the Course. Bravery is making a move, and Bionic is flying on the outside. And oh! Stay the Course makes a huge move, surging to the lead as the field reaches the top of the stretch!”

  Damn it. The rider had zapped Stay the Course. Stevie went for his whip.

  “Stay the Course is opening up. Bravery passes a tiring Paisley Tie. Bionic is coming. Stay the Course has the lead with a furlong to go. Bionic passes Bravery, and takes aim on the leader! Just strides to the wire! Stay the Course is not staying! Bionic is coming, and it’s Bionic with Bravery second, Paisley Tie third, and Stay the Course fading to fourth!”

  I had to stop myself from running out on the track to greet Stevie when he rode Bionic back. The scam had totally failed! I wanted to scream and jump up and down. Instead, I stood still, like I had no particular interest in what had just happened, like I was just a blond bimbette with a nice wardrobe. Undercover work can be so restraining.

  Out on the track an official’s car whizzed past and I spotted Agent Turner inside with a track security guard and a man in a business suit. The car stopped near the sixteenth pole and the men scrambled out. Striding forward, they stared down at the dirt as if looking for something. The guard took three fast steps, leaned over, and picked up a small object. Grinning, he held it in the air like a trophy. Though I couldn’t make it out, it had to be the zapper.

  No doubt, the stewards had been on the alert, had already reviewed the race on tape, and probably seen the jockey toss the evidence. They had him on film. He was in big trouble, and I hoped he’d rat on the rest of the scumbags. Get them all ruled off.

  Stevie rode Bionic to the winner’s circle, and I wanted to be in there with him. His win photo should be placed in the dictionary next to the word “triumphant.”

  But I’d seen enough, and didn’t want to risk hanging around just to get my phone back from Calixto. I decided the smart thing was to leave before the last two races and the inevitable traffic.

  Driving away from the grandstand my euphoria ebbed. As I navigated the streets leading back to the Adelphi, the bright colors of the shops on Broadway seemed to fade. Maybe it was stress about Joan or the murder at her home. Worrying if I should contact Detective Clark to see if there was news.

  And what had happened to Julissa? I could still picture her look of defeat as she walked back to Onandi and his Rastafarian sidekick the night of the murder. Once again, I wondered why so many good women end up in the hands of bad men.

  Thoughts like these were not helping my mood, but I couldn’t seem to stop its descent. In an effort to lighten up and get with it, I turned on the radio. Except, I landed on an oldies station with Gordon Lightfoot singing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I snapped the radio off, feeling cold and adrift.

  Lake Desolation was still with me.

  26

  When I entered my room at the Adelphi, a vase filled with red roses stood on the gilded table in the sitting room. A small card tucked into the fragrant blooms read, “For Leona. Calixto.”

  My fingers stretched to touch the velvety te
xture of the rose petals. I breathed in their sweet scent, and the darkness of Lake Desolation began to break up and drift away. It was time to live in the present.

  Prowling around the suite, I saw the bed was made, and two clean robes hung in the bathroom along with fresh towels. The French doors to the bedroom balcony, which I’d closed that morning, had been reopened, and the air that drifted in had a faint smell of bread and chocolate from the bakery next to the hotel.

  Using the room phone, I dialed Joan’s number, and this time she answered.

  “Fia,” she said, “I’ve been trying to reach you.” Her voice sounded strained.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m really worried. I feel like something bad’s going to happen.”

  “Are you at home?” She didn’t answer right away and my anxiety deepened. “Tell me where you are, Joan. I can drive to your house right now, or meet you somewhere. Talk to me.”

  “No.” Her voice sounded urgent. “Rich has someone here. I don’t want you to come now!”

  “Then when?”

  “Tomorrow, Fia.” She paused a moment. “Do you know where the Racing Hall of Fame is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you meet me in the lobby there at nine tomorrow morning? Wait, you’ll still be at work. I—”

  “I won’t be at work, Joan. I’ll be at the Hall of Fame, at nine.”

  “Thank you. I have to go,” she whispered. “Someone’s coming.”

  She disconnected, and as I set the ivory receiver back in its cradle, I realized the fear I’d heard in her voice had left me white-knuckling the hard plastic gripped in my hand. So much for a day off from stress. I was about to try to reach Detective Clark, when the phone rang. I grabbed it.

  “Joan?”

  “No. It is Calixto. You sound upset.”

  I explained about the abrupt conversation with Joan.

  “So, you will see her in the morning, and there is nothing you can do about it now, correct?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good. Then you should have an early dinner with me. And a drink.”