Saratoga Payback

by Stephen Dobyns

  Emma began clicking the keys of her laptop. “If they were written about anywhere, they’d be in here. Did you eat any of those cucumber sandwiches?”

  “I ate one; I didn’t like it much. You could never make a meal out of them.”

  “Here’s one of the stories. They cut off the horse’s head? How awful!”

  “You found it already?”

  “The owners live over in Hyde Park, near where the Roosevelts lived.”

  Charlie wrote down the names of the owners and the date on which the horse was slaughtered. He’d hardly finished, when Emma spoke again: “Here’s a second one. They put the poor horse’s head on a flagpole! Who are these people?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The farm was west of Poughkeepsie, across the Hudson. Charlie again jotted down the names of the owners and the date of the killing. The deaths of the two horses matched two of the dates. One sentence had ended “interstice zip.” The kidnappers had demanded a hundred thousand dollars and hadn’t gotten it. The last words of the sentence referring to the second horse were “stoppage egg.” Here the kidnappers had wanted a hundred and fifty thousand, but had also received no money.

  “Those words mean the horses were killed? ‘Zip’ and ‘egg’? Such little words for such a terrible thing?”

  “That’s how it seems.”

  —

  Monday morning shortly after eight o’clock, Charlie entered the high school, on the southwest side of town and across from St. Peter’s Cemetery. The location pleased Charlie as a metaphor for the beginning and end of life: school and cemetery, suitable bookends for all the confusion between. The school was a brick and glass building of the sort called “modern” in the 1960s. Possibly some of its earliest students were already buried across the street, making the arrangement a model of convenience.

  Charlie was looking for Margaret Ross, who had worked for Mickey as secretary before Mrs. Penfield. Being in the high school reminded Charlie of the old high school he’d attended on Lake Avenue. He hadn’t liked it. When his tenth-grade English teacher said that someday he’d look back on this period as being the best time of his life, it had given him self-destructive thoughts.

  He asked for Margaret Ross at the front desk and was told that she worked in the dean’s office. After she’d been called and permission was granted to see her, an aide showed Charlie the way. Five students, boys with glum faces, were sitting in straight chairs against a wall. Do-badders, thought Charlie.

  Mrs. Ross was in her early fifties and a few inches taller than Charlie, with a rectangular and muscular body. She wore a maroon pantsuit with knife-like lapels and she stared at him, as if thinking: Prove it to me, little man. Her dark hair was cut in a pageboy, and Charlie guessed it had been that way for thirty years. Her wedding ring was very thin.

  “Yes?” she said.

  When Charlie said that he was trying to gather information about Mickey Martin, her eyes narrowed.

  “I hated him. I had to quit before I threw him across the room.”

  Charlie nodded, admitting this was a common response to Mickey. He explained that he was a retired private investigator and Mickey was murdered on his sidewalk. The killer hadn’t been found and Charlie wanted to know if he and his family were in danger. Although the police were watching his house on an occasional basis, he wanted to see if he could learn more.

  Margaret Ross didn’t unstiffen; rather, she seemed to change from iron to bronze: a hint of flexibility.

  “Many people must have been happy to hear he was dead. Personally, it made my day.”

  Charlie explained that he’d already talked to Mrs. Penfield. Had Mickey ever talked about horse racing or showed any interest in the subject?

  “We never talked unless it was about business. A few times I saw a copy of the Daily Racing Form on his desk. I tried to know as little about him as possible. If I could have found another job, I’d have left in a shot.”

  A boy of about fifteen came into the office. Mrs. Ross gave him a dagger-laden glance and he backed away. She’s the enforcer, thought Charlie.

  Charlie’s questions to Mrs. Ross elicited answers like “No,” “No way,” “Never,” as she kept looking at the clock on the wall.

  “Did any friends or acquaintances ever come to visit him?”

  She shook her head. “Never . . .” Mrs. Ross stopped and reconsidered. “I remember one time, after all. A man came in, ignored me and knocked on Mr. Martin’s door. He remained inside for ten or fifteen minutes. I could hear them muttering and several times the man raised his voice and called Mr. Martin names.”

  “What sort of names?”

  “Bad names.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Average looking, around forty, dark hair and balding. He wasn’t wearing a suit, just slacks and a shirt.”

  “What did his face look like?”

  “It was a regular face. No glasses.”

  “Pink, tanned, pale?”

  “Pale, his face was very pale. I was struck by that.”

  “Was it smooth? Had his nose ever been broken? Were there scars?”

  Mrs. Ross looked down at the floor. A moment passed. “He had acne scars.”

  Charlie recalled the man in the cab in Albany, the one who had gotten Campbell’s money. He experienced a small surge of pleasure, a glissando of gratification. “Did he have very small ears, without lobes, a little like a cat’s ears?”

  “Yes, he did. No lobes at all and very flat to his head. That’s one thing I remember well. Cat’s ears.”

  —

  Charlie’s next appointment came as the result of a certain amount of soul-searching. He had to admit that in claiming to be “investigating,” he was fooling himself. Could he talk to the people who’d had their horses stolen? Could he search for some commonality among them? Had they known Mickey Martin? Oh, he’d have lots of questions. Then he’d have to learn about those years when Mickey was in prison; also Dave Parlucci. Even if he were still a private investigator, it would take time. He had imagined he knew a lot, but he knew little, a few effects from a few causes. Basically, he knew nothing. He was in over his head.

  His first thought was to tell what he’d learned to Lieutenant Hutchins. But since Hutchins had no authority outside of Saratoga and couldn’t travel around the state, this would be pointless. Or perhaps he could turn the whole business over to the FBI, who could easily find the hidden causes of visible effects. They were good at that. They would learn, for instance, that Charlie had been playing at being a PI, which could result in being charged with meddling in a police investigation. They also might learn about the modified Benelli. All told, they could gather enough information to put him in prison. No, it would be a bad idea to talk to the FBI.

  Instead, Charlie made some other calls. The result was a scheduled meeting in the food court of the Albany airport at three o’clock that afternoon.

  Although it was barely thirty miles, Charlie left at one in case of heavy traffic or he had a flat tire or was hit by a truck. He was meeting an investigator with the Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau, or TRPB, who was flying up from Philadelphia and would presumably return later in the afternoon. Charlie felt sure the bureau already knew about the horse-nappings, but wouldn’t know about Mickey’s involvement. Years before, Charlie had known several investigators from TRPB, but they had retired. This man’s name was Shawn Smith. When Charlie asked how he’d recognize him, the man said: “I’m big, bald and black.”

  The result of Charlie’s haste was that he arrived at the designated table in the food court an hour before his meeting. He ate a green salad, and when that turned out not to be sufficiently filling, he got two slices of pizza.

  It took Charlie about a nanosecond to recognize Shawn Smith. He looked like a retired wrestler and his head was shaved, somewhat like Victor’s, but his h
ead was much bigger. Big chin, big mouth, big nose, big forehead—he could have been an escapee from Mount Rushmore. Charlie stood up, took a step forward, stretched out his hand and then saw his own hand disappear into the paw of the other.

  “I need to see some identification before we go any further,” said Smith. He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  Charlie handed him a bunch of cards and Smith handed him back his Saratoga Springs library card. “I don’t need this.”

  Smith had already talked to a retired investigator for TRPB whom Charlie had known years before: John Serphos, who now lived in Phoenix.

  He gave Charlie the rest of his cards. “Serphos says you’re dependable, impulsive but dependable. He also says you’re obstinate. You want a slice of pizza before we start? I’m getting one.”

  “No thanks.”

  “On a diet?”

  “I already ate one, actually two.”

  Smith grinned. “That’s what I like to hear!” A few people at nearby tables looked over at him.

  Charlie told the story from the beginning, right from when he’d woken in the night and remembered the garbage. He described finding Mickey and a little about his relationship with the Saratoga police.

  “That’s not a relationship. That’s called no relationship.”

  Charlie spoke of the other murders and the discovery of the little cardboard figures. He described Fletcher Campbell and the man with the little ears. He described Mickey’s office and the discovery of the notebook. He gave Smith a copy of the page with the sentences and the translated dates next to each entry.

  “Did you figure that out? That’s good work.”

  Charlie hesitated and then said, “My daughter did.”

  Smith had been taking notes and compared the dates to a list of his own.

  “Campbell never contacted us. We know the three instances when the horses were killed and three of the others. So that’s four we never heard of. Whoever’s doing it is after small operations. They’d never get away with it at a big farm. Why d’you think the horse-napping is separate from Mickey’s murder?”

  “I thought if it had something to do with the horses, then Mickey’s apartment and office would have been searched and they weren’t.”

  “That’s not sufficient proof. I’ll keep the question open. But we’d come to a brick wall in this investigation. Now we can start moving again. You expecting some kind of reward out of this?”

  “Just keep my name out of it,” said Charlie. “I don’t want the cops or FBI to know I ever spoke to you.”

  Fourteen

  Time passed: a day, several days, a week, several weeks, a month, six weeks. Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went. Throughout that time there was no trace of the man who had camped out in the Tea Kettle Motel and made those unpleasant little figures. The killer: That’s what he’s called, thought Charlie, there’s been no trace of the killer. Because this was a fact that Charlie wanted to keep in the forefront of his brain. The second fact was the man was still on the loose, meaning, in all likelihood, he still wanted to cut Charlie’s throat. These were the last things Charlie thought at night and the first he thought on waking in the morning. All in all, it made for restless nights.

  With security guards, a private bodyguard and visits from sheriff’s deputies and troopers, Fletcher Campbell claimed to be ready for anything. Artemis still brushed off the threat and went on as ever, though deputies and troopers dropped by regularly. Police cars drifted past Charlie’s house several times a day, and several times a week Charlie called Lieutenant Hutchins to see if there’d been any “developments.” Hutchins would answer with barely concealed impatience: “No.” For that matter, not even the snake had been found.

  However, when a few weeks had gone by, only a short time after Thanksgiving, Charlie had gotten a call from Shawn Smith at the Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau.

  “We’ve matched all the dates and talked to the owners of the horses. The last horse was taken on the night that Mickey Martin was murdered.”

  “You know who took them?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “How about Mickey’s killer?”

  “We’ve talked to the FBI, state police and sheriff’s department. Nothing’s turned up, but they say they’ve got some leads.”

  “So I’m still in danger?”

  “I’d say so.”

  Despite this, the Benelli in its hard case had slowly migrated from the living room couch to the hall closet to the upstairs bedroom to the bedroom closet and was on the very cusp of being moved to the attic.

  “Why don’t you sell it?” said Janey.

  “I’m not going to sell it till this guy’s been caught.”

  “He’s probably in California.”

  “No, I think he’s looking for his fourth person, before he gets busy with me.”

  “You’ve no proof of that.”

  “It’s a gut feeling.”

  Then Janey sighed.

  When Victor learned about the Benelli, he nagged Charlie about going out someplace “and blasting some targets.” This went on for a month.

  Charlie didn’t want to.

  “It’ll get all rusty and then where will you be?”

  But Charlie oiled it every week. He took it apart—which he learned to do online—rubbed the inside of the barrel with cleaning patches and the moving parts with Ballistol, which had a licorice smell. Soon the whole house had a licorice smell.

  “Can’t you do that out in the garage?” asked Janey.

  “I don’t feel safe in the garage.”

  After the sixth time that Victor said they should go out and shoot up some targets, Charlie agreed.

  It was two weeks before Christmas and the leaves had fallen from all but the most tenacious oaks. Charlie drove out through Schuylerville and over the Hudson into the hills north of Greenwich to the Washington County Gun Club. He and Victor signed their waivers, paid their money and walked out the dirt track to the rifle range. Victor carried the rolled-up target and kept blowing down the tube to make depressed cow noises, until Charlie asked him to stop. A red-and-black-plaid Stormy Kromer cap covered Victor’s shaved head. The air was crisp and the day clear. Just carrying the hard case in his right hand made Charlie feel stronger.

  How foolish, he thought.

  He chose the firing point in the middle of the long shelter and tacked up the target with the Western gunslinger drawing his .45. Then he opened the hard case. Once more he experienced a little thrill when his eyes focused on the black semi-automatic shotgun.

  Victor rubbed his hands together. “Hot damn!”

  He’d been talking nonstop about guns in general, the chances of Charlie getting his throat cut, his love life with the Queen of Softness and about a New York sirloin that she’d broiled the previous evening. He nodded to the sign on the stanchion. “Why can’t you shoot the red posts?”

  Charlie was sliding five rounds into the magazine and putting a sixth in the chamber. “Because it’d break them down.”

  “You really think you could shoot a guy running at you with a knife with that pretty chunk of metal?”

  Charlie didn’t answer. It was a question he had asked himself before.

  “Personally,” said Victor, “if I was in your shoes, I’d take the family to Costa Rica for sixth months. By the time you got back, this guy would’ve been caught.”

  Again Charlie didn’t answer. He handed Victor a set of earplugs, then inserted two into his own ears. Raising the shotgun, he aimed at the gunslinger’s heart twenty-five yards away and began squeezing the trigger. The six shots, so close together, were more of a rattle than individual discharges. The empty red shells leapt from the magazine. Again Charlie had obliterated the gunslinger’s right foot.

  “That’s one way to do it,” said Victor
calmly. “You don’t kill him, but you turn him into a cripple. Good plan.”

  Because of Charlie’s earplugs, Victor’s voice reached him as a whisper. He wondered what his life would be like if he always wore earplugs. Restful, most likely. He inserted another five rounds into the magazine and a sixth in the chamber. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to shoot someone attacking him with a knife unless he carried the Benelli twenty-four hours a day. It would mean putting the shotgun in a small duffel bag with his swimming stuff. But the shotgun still gave him confidence, irrational confidence. It helped him sleep at night. It gave him a sense of comfort more than a sense of safety. It was like money in the bank.

  Charlie aimed again, squeezed the trigger and put six rounds in the center of the target.

  “Atta boy. Is it my turn now?”

  But Charlie held on to the shotgun till he had fired twenty-four more rounds. He didn’t really want to hand Victor the Benelli. He wasn’t sure what would happen. But he had no alternative: A promise was a promise. So he showed Victor how to load the shotgun, how to aim, how to squeeze the trigger.

  “Come on, Charlie, I’ve fired guns before.”

  “Not a gun like this, you haven’t.”

  “A gun’s a gun. I’ll fuckin’ mow ’im down.”

  The six shots rattled from the Benelli. All six struck the red post on the left.

  “At least I hit something, right? Let me do it again. I got the hang of it now.”

  Again the six shots struck the red post, which leaned forward, bending in the middle. Only the backing on the target kept it from falling. Charlie had an empty feeling in his stomach that wasn’t hunger.

  “Think of it this way,” said Victor, “at least I’d put a scare into him. Should I blast the other post so they’re symmetrical?”

  “No, we’re going.”

  Charlie left Victor in the car as he went into the clubhouse. Four men in red-and-black mackinaws were playing cards. They gave him blank looks.