Saratoga Payback

by Stephen Dobyns

  “How’d you get here?” said Charlie. His immediate thought was that she might be in danger.

  “I’m doing work for Artemis today.” She said this proudly. “She had some errands in town, so she picked me up.”

  “You don’t seem dressed for work.”

  “First I ride, then I work, then, if there’s time, I ride again. And I get to do the same thing on Sunday. Isn’t that great?”

  “Shoveling manure?”

  “I’ll do that and grooming and horse-walking. It’s awesome. I’ll totally do anything she wants.”

  “Your mother know you’re here?”

  “She was out, so I left her a note.”

  Charlie opened his mouth to protest, but decided to say nothing. His first image on seeing Emma dressed in riding pants and boots had been of Emma being thrown over the horse’s head. Then he’d visualized other dangers—she might be stepped on, or a girth would break and send her flying. But the memory of the little figure in the dancer’s skirt conjured up more realistic dangers. That was what scared him most. Despite the sheriff’s deputy parked out front, someone wanted to murder Artemis, and Emma might be in the way.

  “Call your mother right now. And when I leave, you’re coming with me.”

  “But that’s not fair,” she said indignantly. “I want to stay. I’m certainly old enough to stay here by myself.”

  “It’s not a matter of your age. I’m taking you home.” Seeing Emma’s face redden with anger, he added: “Look, it’s police business. People have been killed. It’s not safe here.”

  Artemis was walking toward them from her small office. “How do you like my new assistant? She’s perfect on a horse, quite natural. I’ll have her standing on its back in no time.”

  Again Charlie had an image of Emma falling. “Great, that’s just great.”

  Emma was still angry. “Charlie wants me to go home with him. He says it’s not safe here.”

  “Not safe?” Artemis turned to Charlie. “Oh, you mean those murders. But why would someone want to hurt anyone here? It’s ridiculous. Anyway, policemen are strolling around all over the place.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t care. When I go, Emma comes with me.”

  Shortly, he and Artemis were in her office in a corner of the barn. Charlie wanted to know more about Matthew Durkin, and he also wanted to convince Artemis that she was in danger. He was leaning against the door frame, while she sat at her desk.

  “I don’t know what to say. He was a small, nervous man. Polite, inoffensive, relatively clean. I don’t think he had much experience with horses, but he caught on quickly. If he weren’t a thief, he might still be here. I felt sorry for him. As I said, I tried to offer him help with his addiction, but either he didn’t want it or he wasn’t able to take it. So I let him go. He was quite angry about it, which surprised me, since after all I was the victim. But how could I employ him if I didn’t trust him?”

  Artemis wore a khaki shirt with a red scarf at the neck, khaki pants and black boots. A small wave of hair fell across her forehead and she brushed it away. She looked at Charlie with a mix of expectancy and good cheer.

  “Did he live in town?”

  “He lived here. There’s a small room with a cot at the other end of the barn. He said he couldn’t afford a room, much less an apartment. He only had one duffel bag and a box with tools. He also did carpentry work, which was useful. He drove a very old Datsun pickup that kept breaking down. He was always tinkering with it.”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Children?”

  “He never mentioned any.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Someplace downstate. Perhaps Kingston, or nearby. I think he still had family in the area.”

  “Did he talk about anything that you remember?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. He wasn’t interested in the races. He had a small radio with which he listened to baseball games in the evening. The Yankees, most likely.” This last was said with the slight scorn of a committed Red Sox fan.

  “He wasn’t a reader and had no off-color magazines. He was fond of solitaire and didn’t drink. I’ve known heroin addicts who take a daily fix or two and just move along with life. Matthew seemed like that. I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t been stealing. He also took a dressage saddle when he left. It was a Devoucoux, which was expensive. They’re quite light. Even a used Devoucoux can cost three thousand dollars.”

  “And you didn’t contact the police?”

  “I wasn’t interested in punishing him. I was sorry when I heard Campbell had him arrested. Campbell’s always liked forceful solutions to small problems.”

  Charlie pushed himself away from the door and glanced at the photographs of horses that covered the walls. “Do you have a dog?”

  Artemis raised her eyebrows. “I have half a dozen cats, if that’s any help.”

  “Dogs bark.”

  “Yes, I’ve known them to do so.”

  Charlie was sure that Hutchins would arrive at any minute, but he wanted to convince Artemis of her danger.

  “I was talking about guard dogs. Do you remember those murders in Saratoga in October?”

  Artemis nodded. “Very unpleasant. Cutting a man’s throat is such an intimate crime. Personally, I’d rather be shot.”

  “Another man had his throat cut in Albany the day before yesterday: Rodger Toombs. He was one of the men who stole Fletcher Campbell’s horse.” Slowly, he told her the story of the murders, speaking of his own connection and what he’d found out. He again repeated that she was in grave danger.

  “Lieutenant Hutchins described the cardboard figures,” said Artemis. “I was rather offended to learn that mine wore a tutu. When I perform, I’ve always worn tights.”

  Charlie went on to talk about Matthew Durkin in prison, describing Mickey’s accusations that Durkin was a snitch and had told the warden about the buying and selling of drugs, which had led to Durkin’s murder.

  “But why would Mickey Martin have done that? It was so cruel. Matthew was absolutely harmless.”

  “It cut his sentence by two-thirds and got him out of prison.”

  She listened with her head lowered and her hands folded together on the surface of the walnut desk.

  “What disturbs me most,” she said at last, “is the knowledge that Matthew was murdered in prison. I bear some responsibility in sending him there. I should have done more to help him with his addiction.”

  “You did what you could.”

  Artemis slightly raised one shoulder as if to suggest she didn’t quite agree.

  “In any case,” continued Charlie, “you’re in danger. Of course, I may be wrong, but you should leave here for a while.”

  “Dear Charlie, there’s no way that I can leave here. You must have been a mother hen in a former life.”

  Charlie smiled. “Is that meant to be an insult?”

  “Only a little. I’m extremely busy for the next few weeks and I simply don’t have time to have my life threatened. I’m not sure I like it that you told me. I would have preferred ignorance.”

  Charlie was impressed and annoyed by her unconcern. “Come on, Artemis, Hutchins will be here at any moment. Why can’t you stay at my house for a few days, or until this is over? We’ve a very nice guest room.”

  “That’s impossible. You may have a nice house, but you lack a stable. Those deputies will just have to stay awake, that’s all. Anyway, I thought the deaths were connected to the horse-napping and I had no involvement with that.”

  “No, I think they’re connected to Matthew Durkin and you are involved with that. The people who were killed all knew him, with one exception.”

  Charlie heard heavy footsteps and guessed their source. In a few seconds, Lieutenant Hutchins appeared at t
he door. “I saw your little car outside, Charlie. I figured you’d be hurrying over here. Now you gotta go.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me this is police business and how important it is?”

  Hutchins wasn’t amused. “Just get lost.”

  “At least try to convince Artemis that she’s in serious danger.”

  —

  Charlie and Emma had just driven back to Saratoga and were waiting at the light by city hall. Emma hadn’t spoken to Charlie the whole way and exuded disapproval and unhappiness like sweat in an August heat wave. Charlie was about to apologize for the tenth time when he saw a familiar figure entering Adirondack Trust across the street on Broadway: Eddie Gillespie. As soon as the light changed, he pulled to the curb and jumped out.

  “Put the car someplace,” he told Emma. “I need to speak to Eddie. I’ll call you in five minutes. No later.”

  Emma began to protest, but then she hurried around the car and got behind the wheel. “It better be no more than five minutes,” she called.

  But crossing the street, Charlie didn’t hear her as he hurried toward the bank. Broadway had changed in the many years he’d known it. Now it was crowded with stores mostly found in malls. As Artemis might have said, they lacked charm. It was still early, not quite eleven o’clock.

  Entering the lobby of Adirondack Trust, Charlie saw Eddie’s black pompadour bobbing in front of a cash machine.

  “Eddie, my friend.” Charlie put a hand lightly on Eddie’s shoulder.

  Eddie didn’t cringe so much as to become smaller. He sucked himself into himself, bent his knees and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He was one of several people waiting in line.

  “Jesus, Charlie, I told you I can’t talk to you in public,” he said in a whisper. “What if the wife found out?”

  “Eddie, you hurt my feelings. I wanted to buy you breakfast.”

  “I’ve already had breakfast.”

  “Then lunch.”

  “It’s too early for lunch.”

  “Eddie,” Charlie hissed, “if you don’t come with me now for at least a cup of coffee, I’ll make a scene.”

  Soon the two men were sitting at the back of the Common Ground, a coffee shop on Broadway close to the bank. Eddie sat hunched over with his back to the room. Even his pompadour seemed to deflate.

  “You’re just lucky the wife’s in Tampa seeing her folks or I’d never come with you.”

  “I’m honored, Eddie. So you’re home by yourself? It must be lonely.”

  Eddie was picking the paper off a blueberry muffin that he’d condescended to have with the coffee. “It’s just another week but I gotta eat frozen, you know, frozen pizzas, frozen mac and cheese, frozen chicken dinners. That shit’s a whole lot smaller than its picture on the box. Like you gotta eat two just to have one. I been starving most of the time.”

  “Why don’t you come to my house for dinner?”

  Eddie looked up. “What’re you having?”

  Charlie arranged his features into a benevolent expression. “Whatever you want: chicken, spaghetti, steak, fish . . .”

  “I never been a fish person. They’re too slippery. You talkin’ porterhouse?”

  “Of course! You like it with mushrooms?”

  “I never been a mushroom person either. Like they grow them in horseshit from the track. Anyway, I like my porterhouse straight, maybe a baked potato on the side. The wife won’t cook steaks. She says they’re too fatty. Jesus, Charlie, I thought fatty was the point of steak.”

  “What about a green veg?”

  “Does it have to be green?”

  Charlie’s benevolent expression had begun to ache. He worried about getting a cramp in his cheeks. “What would you prefer?”

  “I like a nice yellow veg, like corn.”

  “Corn it is. Seven o’clock okay?”

  “You serious? You really think you could sneak me in somehow?”

  “Sneak?”

  “People talk. If the wife hears I been hanging with you, my balls are gone.”

  “I’ll slip you through the back.” Charlie paused and looked concerned. “You been doing Valentine’s Day shopping?”

  Eddie wrinkled his brow. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Valentine’s the day we husbands get a chance to make up for a year’s worth of little mistakes.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if you could give the wife something really big? It’d make up for a lot.”

  Eddie shook his head. “A big box of candy’s about all I can afford. I still got bills from Christmas.”

  “That’s the trouble with holidays,” said Charlie. “They cost money. When I was a cop, I’d have to take a second job just to buy presents for my nephews and nieces. As for Valentine’s Day, Marge didn’t want just candy. She liked big presents, like fancy handbags. You going to take a second job or d’you already have one?”

  “For Valentine’s Day?”

  “You don’t want to seem cheap.”

  Eddie leaned back in his chair and stared at his left hand as if an interesting jingle were written across the palm. “Yeah, she calls me cheap sometimes.”

  “Well, then, there you are.” Charlie gave a friendly grin.

  “I looked around for a part-time job at Christmas, but I couldn’t get anything. I went all over. All I could find were day jobs and those’d mess up my real job.”

  Charlie plucked a large crumb off Eddie’s blueberry muffin. Popping it in his mouth, he chewed slowly and smiled. “So, Eddie, I’ve got some work for you: one hundred for the night and no heavy lifting. You can even sleep on the job.”

  Eddie narrowed his eyes. He’d been burned by Charlie’s generous offers in the past. “What is it?”

  “Simple. You sit on the couch. Maybe watch some TV. Eat some cookies. You a light sleeper, Eddie? You sit there from eleven till seven in the morning and I’ll give you a hundred bucks for each night you do it.”

  When Eddie spoke, there was a hiss to his voice. “What’s the catch, Charlie?”

  “Catch, Eddie? Why d’you think there’s a catch?” Charlie got to his feet. “And don’t forget dinner tonight!” Then he slapped his head. “Good grief, I’ve forgotten Emma.” Nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed since he’d promised to be gone only five minutes. Worse, he’d left her alone with the Benelli.

  Charlie hurried out to the sidewalk and punched in her number. Emma answered immediately. “You’re really lucky I love you or I’d never forgive you. Anyway, I’m home now. I suppose you want to be picked up.”

  “How’d you guess? Is the shotgun still in the car?”

  Eighteen

  It had often seemed to Charlie that just when he needed sleep the most, events conspired to keep it from him. Shortly after midnight on Sunday morning, his cell phone rang. Removing his head from under the pillow, he reached for it on the bedside table only to knock it to the floor. Now he had to climb from bed to retrieve it, patting the rug with his palms till he found it. Flicking it on, he heard discordant music. It was Bad Maud calling from the Greasy Mattress.

  “You still looking for an ex-con from Adirondack? I got one for you.”

  Charlie heard shouting in the background, and glass breaking. “Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”

  “Not if you want to talk to him. I mean like now.”

  So Charlie began getting dressed.

  Janey grunted. “What time is it?”

  “Twelve thirty. I’ve got to talk to Bad Maud.”

  “Give her my best.” She puffed up her pillow a few times, rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Charlie tiptoed downstairs in order not to wake Eddie Gillespie, who was snoring on the couch. Eddie had had no wish to spend seven nights on Charlie’s couch, but the
offer of seven hundred dollars was too much for him. Charlie, however, didn’t tell him he’d be waiting for a murderer. Nor did he know where he’d get the money to pay him. It seemed unfair that he should have to get an equity loan from Adirondack Trust just to keep himself from being killed.

  “There’ve been break-ins in the neighborhood,” Charlie had told him, “and I thought I heard the back door rattling the other night. If someone sneaks in, just shout a few times. I got the cops on speed dial.”

  “He might shoot me.”

  “That only happens in movies.”

  Eddie wasn’t armed, but he had a baseball bat.

  Looking at him now in the light from the streetlight, Charlie saw that Eddie wore a hairnet to protect his pompadour. That in itself, thought Charlie, would frighten away any intruder. He tiptoed toward the kitchen and back door and then stopped. Eddie was snoring softly. Charlie returned to the living room and lightly stamped on the floor, but Eddie remained asleep. He stamped hard several times. No reaction.

  Emma appeared on the stairs. “What’s all this racket?” she asked sleepily.

  “I’m conducting an experiment.”

  Emma went back upstairs. “You’re weird,” she said.

  —

  As feeding time is the best time to hear lions at their noisiest, so Saturday nights were the best time to see the Greasy Mattress at its most colorful. As he made his way through the parking lot toward the door, Charlie heard shouting and a local band playing “Stairway to Heaven.” He wore jeans, a flannel shirt and a moss-green barn coat, all of which made him think he was overdressed. His attire should have been ripped, paint-stained and dirty. Two bouncers at the front door wanted to see his ID. Each outweighed Charlie by a hundred pounds. Their angry expressions, thought Charlie, must have been a vital part of their wardrobes since birth, as if they’d broken out of the womb like breaking out of jail.

  “Maud wants to see me,” Charlie shouted over the noise.

  One of the bad guys gestured with his thumb over his shoulder and seemed sorry he couldn’t give Charlie a smack in the nose.

  He elbowed his way through the crowd and toward the bar. The customers were mostly biker types with Harley-Davidson paraphernalia and club names written on the back of their jackets: The Zombies, Devil-Lovers, Wrath of God.