A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  “That sounds more like an opinion than a threat,” I pointed out.

  “Which was why we didn’t react to it.”

  “Did you keep it?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I threw it out. I never realized it was a threat until I got the phone call.”

  “Where did you receive the phone call?”

  “Here, at the track.”

  “What time of day?”

  “Early, before the day’s racing began.”

  “Was the caller a man or a woman?”

  “Uh, now that’s hard to say. It could have been a woman with a deep voice . . . It sounded sort of muffled, as if the person had their hand over the phone.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That Dreamland was going to take a ride, but that it wouldn’t be to Kentucky.”

  “How many other calls did you get after after that?”

  “Two. The last one said that Dreamland would be dead before he could reach the finish line.”

  “What about the threats against you and his jock?”

  “I don’t scare, Mr. Po, but he sure did.”

  “What?”

  “No, you wouldn’t know about that yet,” he said. “He quit yesterday. He got a call and wouldn’t even tell me what was said. He just wanted out, and I let him go. I don’t need a gutless jock.”

  “In what way were you threatened?”

  “They told me I’d be dead if Dreamland won the Derby. Bullshit!”

  “I wonder if I could see where you keep the colt now?”

  “Of course. Just let me finish watching Miss Emily work.”

  “The filly?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “She looks like a beauty. Is she named for Mrs. Nixon?”

  He nodded. “She bid on the filly herself, and went for more bucks than I would have. But then, it’s her money and I guess she knows what she’s doing.”

  We watched the filly work until, apparently satisfied, Hale said, “Come on, let’s go and see Dreamy. He’s impressive as all hell just standing in his stall.”

  We walked out to a parking lot and got into a ’73 Chevy that was covered with dust. We drove into the stable area on a dirt road, which explained the thick layers on the car. Most tracks have either dirt or gravel roads running through their stable areas.

  Hale stopped the car in front of one of the larger stables and we got out. I could see a uniformed guard standing outside one of the stalls, so it wasn’t hard to figure out where Dreamland was.

  “I’ve had a guard on him day and night for three days now, since the last call,” Hale explained.

  When we reached the stall, the guard nodded at Hale but made no attempt to stop me or have me identify myself.

  “This is Mr. Po,” Hale told him. “He’s from New York, and he will be in charge of security from now on.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard replied, and he nodded at me now that we’d been introduced.

  “Are you private, or track security?” I asked the guard.

  “Private, sir.”

  Hale said, “He’s actually from the same company the track uses, but he’s not assigned to the track permanently. Mrs. Nixon hired his company and they send us our own guards.”

  “Do you want to see my ID?” I asked the uniformed man.

  “Uh, that won’t be necessary, sir,” he answered.

  “Yes, it will,” I said, taking out my ID and showing it to him. “I don’t care whose company a stranger is in,” I added, “I want his ID checked. Understand?”

  The guard compressed his lips at the scolding and said, “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  I stepped past him, leaned on the stall door and peered in. Hale had been right; Dreamland was impressive. He picked up his head and looked me straight in the eye, wondering who the interloper was.

  “Well, hello, your majesty,” I greeted him.

  “You get that feeling too, huh?” Hale asked. “He’s regal-looking as all hell, eh?”

  “That he is,” I agreed.

  “And he runs like all hell, too.”

  “How many shifts do you have the guards working on?”

  “Three.”

  “When are you flying to Kentucky?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Okay, until that time I want two guards on every shift. One here, and one moving about.”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “It’ll cost more.”

  “Lady Emily doesn’t care about the cost,” he assured me.

  “Is that a nickname?”

  “One of the milder ones,” he answered, “and they’re usually used behind her back.”

  “Has McCoy been around today?” I asked.

  “Not today,” he said. He turned his attention to the horse and said, “See you later, Dreamy.” Dreamland gave him a sideways glance and then raised his head up high, as if ignoring us.

  “Not very friendly,” I commented.

  “And that may be his only idiosyncrasy. But the way he runs, who cares? Come on, let’s go to my office. If you can’t locate McCoy around here, you might find him there, lickering his wounds.”

  “Why wouldn’t I find him around here?” I asked. “He didn’t quit riding altogether, did he?”

  “When he quit me, he might as well have.”

  Hale gave me McCoy’s address and phone number, and then I spent the better part of an hour trying to locate him on the track. When the day’s racing began and I still hadn’t found him, I gave up. None of the trainers I spoke to would admit that McCoy had been blackballed, but none of them were using him as a rider.

  When I left the track, I grabbed a cab and gave the driver McCoy’s home address, which turned to be an apartment building in a middle class neighborhood. Asking the driver to wait, I went into the lobby and rang McCoy’s bell, but received no answer. I returned to the cab and had him take me back to my hotel, where I’d plan out my next move.

  I checked in at the desk to see if there were any messages, not really expecting any, but when you’re staying at a hotel you tend to do that. To my surprise, there was a message in my box. I controlled my curiosity until I got to my room. Once inside, I opened the envelope and took out a neatly typewritten note.

  I read: “Mrs. Emily Nixon requests that you dine with her tonight. A car will come by your hotel to pick you up at seven sharp.”

  No signature.

  It was some hell of a “request,” but since I wanted to talk to the lady anyway, I wouldn’t argue.

  I read the note again, then put it down on a writing desk. Before showering, I dialed McCoy’s number but got no answer. I showered, then tried again, still getting no response. I wanted very much to talk to McCoy and find out from him why he withdrew from a mount that very likely would have made him a lot of money. Hale had told me his version, but Hale—and Emily Nixon—were management; and management always had their own ideas about how things should be.

  I got dressed and was ready when “Miss Emily’s” driver knocked on the door.

  I didn’t expect to find anyone else in the car, since I thought that the vehicle was being sent specifically to take me somewhere, but there she was. When I stuck my head in, the first thing I saw were a pair of shapely legs. The second thing I saw was the face of an extremely handsome woman, which at the moment was wearing an amused smile.

  “Good evening, Mr. Po,” she greeted.

  “Mrs. Nixon.”

  “Please, step all the way in and take a seat.”

  When I stepped in, the driver slammed the door behind me, got behind the wheel, and got under way.

  “Let me say how grateful I am that you agreed to come to California and help us with our problem.”

  “I’m happy to be of help, Mrs. Nixon.”

  She had violet eyes that were very bright and intelligent. She appeared to be in her early forties, but was exceptionally attractive and radiated a youthful vitality.

  “I hope you like expensive food, Mr. Po,” sh
e said then. “It’s the only kind I ever eat.”

  “I only indulge when someone else is paying, Mrs. Nixon.”

  “Then you’re in luck, aren’t you?”

  We spoke idly of racing until we reached our destination, an extremely expensive-looking Italian restaurant on Wilshire. When we entered we received the preferential treatment a woman of her station deserved—and craved—and were shown to “her” table.

  After we had ordered dinner and had drinks in our hands, she said, “Well, what will your first step be in finding the man who has been making all these ghastly threats against us?”

  “I think I should explain,” I replied, “that my primary concern is not in finding the person making the threats, but to make sure that no harm comes to Dreamland or any of the people around him.”

  “I see,” she said. “I’m afraid I misunderstood then. I was under the impression you were a special ‘investigator’ for the New York State Racing Club.”

  “I am,” I assured her.

  “Oh? Then what is it that a special investigator does?” she asked. “Investigate, no?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes,” I said, trying not to lose my temper with her. “But not in this instance, I’m afraid.”

  “What have you done, then, to assure Dreamland’s safety?” she asked. Her tone was considerably colder than what it had been to that point.

  I explained that I had been to the track and had increased the security around Dreamland’s stall. I also told her that I had spoken to Lew Hale, and was looking for McCoy.

  “I don’t want to talk about McCoy,” she said vehemently. “How dare he do that to me!”

  “You’re talking about withdrawing from the mount?”

  “Of course! What else?” she shot back. “I cannot believe—” She stopped herself in midsentence, closed her eyes, and said, “I do not want to talk about that little man.”

  “What about Hale?”

  “Hale is fired if Dreamy doesn’t win the Derby,” she said. “I’ve given him long enough.”

  “Ten years, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ever since my father died. My father, George Gregg, had two Derby winners and three other horses who finished in the money. I have not had a horse accomplish any of that.”

  “Lew Hale seems fairly confident,” I observed.

  “We are all confident,” she agreed, “but confidence does not win horse races.”

  Dinner came and I asked if she minded talking while we ate.

  “Well, well, a gentleman,” she said. “How nice. No, of course I don’t mind. Thank you for asking.”

  As we cut into our food, I asked, “Will you be going to Kentucky with, uh, Dreamy?”

  “No, but I’ll be there later in the week, the day before the race,” she answered. “I don’t want to miss the Derby Eve festivities.”

  “Mrs. Nixon, about the threats. The notes, the calls—”

  “One call,” she said. “I received only one call.”

  “I understood there were more. And at least one note.”

  “The other calls, and the note, were received by Lew Hale.”

  “Did you see the note?”

  “No, I did not. He told me about it, but said he threw it away.”

  “What about the call you did get?”

  “A voice—”

  “Male or female?”

  That stopped her, as it had Hale, and she had to think about it.

  “That voice was rather deep. I did not get the impression that I was speaking to a woman.”

  I put a lot of stock into her “impression”—or lack of one. I reasoned that a woman would know instinctively if she were speaking to another woman.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “The voice said that if I made the trip to Kentucky, I’d be lucky as all hell to make it back.”

  This time I was the one who was stopped for a moment. Then I said, “Was that verbatim?”

  “What?” she asked, hesitating over a forkful of linguini.

  “The message you got on the phone, the way you gave it to me just now—was that word for word?”

  She thought a moment, then said, “Yes. That’s the way I remember it. Why?”

  “Nothing,” I said, not wanting to voice my thoughts at that moment. It would take more than what I was thinking to build a case. I went on, “How much contact have you had with Lew Hale over your ten-year association?”

  “Actually, not all that much. Outside of the winner’s circle—when we get there—I don’t think I see him more than two or three times a year.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Perhaps. But, unlike my father, I do not like the way horses smell. I don’t spend that much time around the stables, and if I’m at the track it’s either in the clubhouse or my private box.”

  “I see.”

  She put her fork down and said, “Why are you asking all these questions about the threats if you don’t intend to investigate them?”

  I was caught.

  “Curiosity,” I pleaded, “an investigator’s curiosity. A few questions can’t hurt, and if I can find something out, I naturally will. But security is still my prime concern. I’ll be satisfied just to see Dreamland run in the Derby.”

  “And win?” she asked.

  I put my right hand out, palm down, and wiggled it back and forth a few times. “I’m like that about who wins, although I am an Easterner at heart,” I confessed.

  There was less tension between us after that, and at times I thought she might even be coming on to me. But I feigned ignorance.

  When her driver arrived, we got up to leave and I asked if she minded if I made a phone call. She said she’d wait for me in the car.

  I found a pay phone and dialed Don McCoy’s number again and this time got a busy signal. I hung up, dialed again, got the same thing. On a hunch, I called the operator and had her check the line. She informed me there was no ongoing conversation and said the phone was either out of order or off the hook.

  When I got back to Mrs. Nixon’s car, I said, “Would you take me by Don McCoy’s apartment?”

  She compressed her lips and I thought she was going to refuse, but instead she said, “I’ll have Arthur take me home, and then drive you over there.”

  “Thank you.”

  We dropped her at “one of” her residences, a ritzy apartment house near Beverly Hills, and then her driver took me to McCoy’s less ostentatious residence.

  “Mrs. Nixon instructed me to wait if you wanted,” Arthur told me.

  “I appreciate that,” I said, “but I’ll find my way back. Thanks.”

  He touched the tip of his cap, then drove off.

  I went into the lobby of McCoy’s building and rang his bell. There was no answer. I tried the oldest trick in the official Private Eye Handbook. I pushed a few of the other buttons and was buzzed in. With access to the elevators now, I rode up to McCoy’s floor—the fifth—and found his apartment. I knocked and rang his buzzer and when I still didn’t get an answer, I used my lock picks to get in.

  The apartment was lit by a small lamp in the living room. On the desk next to the lamp was the phone, its receiver hanging by the cord, dangling just above the floor.

  I went from room to room—there were only three—and finally found what I wasn’t looking for in the bathroom.

  Don McCoy was in the tub, but he wasn’t taking a bath.

  He was dead.

  “How did you get in?” Lt. Taylor of the L.A.P.D. Homicide Squad asked me.

  “The door was open,” I lied.

  “Is that so? If I searched you right now, Mr. Po, I wouldn’t just happen to come up with a dandy little set of lock picks, would I?”

  “You might,” I admitted. “But that still wouldn’t mean that I didn’t find the door open.”

  He had to concede me that point, and he did so, grudgingly.

  After getting over the shock of finding McCoy in the tub, with his blood running down the drai
n, I put the phone back on the hook and called for the police. A squad car had responded first, taken one look at the tub, and put in a call for Homicide, Forensics, and the M.E.

  Homicide was Lt. Bryce Taylor, who reminded me a little of my sometime friend, sometime adversary on the N.Y.P.D., Detective James Diver. Taylor had a ruddy complexion and salt-and-pepper hair, and he also had a spare tire around his middle-aged middle. It didn’t look so bad on him, though, because he was tall enough to carry it. Actually, at six-six or so, he was tall enough to carry almost anything.

  The M.E., a Doctor Zetnor, came out of the bathroom and Taylor asked, “What can you tell me, Doc?”

  Zetnor, a small, neat, precise-looking man of indeterminable ancestry—and his name didn’t help—said, “He was shot twice, at close range. Either bullet looks like it could’ve done the trick, but I’ll know more after I go inside.”

  “Report on my desk in the morning?” Taylor asked.

  “As soon as I can,” Zetnor promised. He supervised the removal of the body, and followed it out.

  “You toss the place?” Taylor asked, turning to me. Before I could speak, he added, “Don’t dummy up on me, Po. I won’t come down on you if you level with me, but you’re out of town talent. If you hold out on me I could cause you a lot of heartache.”

  He was tough, but didn’t come on as tough as he could have, so I decided to level.

  “I did look around,” I said. “Just for something to do while I waited.”

  “What did you come up with that we’ll eventually come up with anyway?”

  “A note,” I said.

  “What kind of note?”

  I explained to him my reason for being in town, and told him that McCoy had received a note that had caused him to withdraw from the mount of Dreamland.

  “Horses,” he said, shaking his head. “You know, even my wife makes a bet at Kentucky Derby time. Waste of money. Where’s the note?”

  “Top drawer of his dresser.”

  “Not in your pocket?”

  “Lieutenant,” I scolded.

  “Sorry,” he said, touching his forehead, “I don’t know what came over me. Come on.”

  I followed him into the bedroom.

  “You dust this dresser yet?” he asked one of the Forensics men.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He opened the drawer, looked around, and came up with an envelope.