get back to her table—or else, the laugh in Paul’s voice when he implied I might have some trouble escaping Mrs. Willingford, all that and more told me I was just about to be somebody’s pet poodle. One who could wind up in a pound.
Not Sam Russo, Staten Island’s finest PI, not by a long shot. I gently pushed my barely touched drink over to her side of the table. “You probably need this more than me.”
Mrs. Willingford stood up so fast the table thought about going over. I grabbed both glasses to keep them smashing to the floor.
“I was mistaken. Good luck finding your own way back to town.”
And she was out the door, had her zippy little roadster all revved up, and was gone in a fishtail of dust.
I looked at Paul and he looked at me and I had the best laugh I’d had in years.
It was about the last real honest laugh I’d have in Saratoga Springs. But I didn’t know that at the time.
“Close call, pal,” said Paul. “You’ll have to come with me. ‘Bout time I got back to work.”
As we were walking out the door of the witch’s house—what with this and that and the other, for me, Hansel and Gretel would always live in an oven at Haven’s Inn —Paul called back over his shoulder. “Put it on my tab, right, Ray?”
It could of been my imagination, but Ray’s response of “OK” didn’t sound too excited. Like most barkeeps, he’d probably heard it too often from too many people. I wasn’t surprised he was hearing it from Paul Jarrett. Paul was forever borrowing what little we had when we were kids. Sometimes we even got it back. With interest. Paul was the only kid I ever knew could calculate a rate of interest. Me and Lino were sure he’d go into banking.
Like Dillinger did.
Chapter 15
After all the reading I’d done in my pink room in its pink hotel, I should of known to play my cards close to my chest. Marlowe did, Poirot did, Spade did. But this was Paul Jarrett, a kid I’d known since I could remember knowing anyone, and I needed someone to talk to. So all the way back to town, I talked. Or listened. The listening turned out pretty well. For one thing I learned why the track would hire a wet sock like the kewpie doll ex-cop for security. From Paul, I learned the genius’ name was Carroll Goose. I wish I was kidding, but I’m not.
Paul, easy with his hands and feet, drove with a lot more care than Mrs. Willingford, and while he drove he gave me the low down. “Word’s out, some of the types hang out at the tracks don’t want good security. They have about two dozen scams in play at any given time on which good security could put the dampers. So they go looking for two-bit half wits to hire. Like Goose.”
I had a moment’s horror wondering if I was one of those two-bit half wits. But I shoved that into some part of my brain I seldom visited—and held it there, waiting for it to shut up.
Until getting hired by a track, all I knew about track management was what everyone else thought they knew about track management. They were men (a few rich widows and wives thrown in to make it interesting) who had a lot of money (don’t ask how they got it; the answers you’d hear would be about as straight as a shell game on the Atlantic City boardwalk), and who liked to invest that money in pedigree horseflesh. For longer than the U.S. was the U.S., they formed jockey clubs (which your usual jockey never saw the inside of) and built race tracks where highbred horses competed in races of various sorts for various trophies and various purses (real purses, made of silk and hung on a line across the track for the winner to snatch).
In the beginning most of the jocks were rich guys like our first president. Old George, sitting bolt upright in the English style, competed up hill and down dale against other rich guys like himself. And then they all figured less weight was better and stuck their smallest black slaves
Not Sam Russo, Staten Island’s finest PI, not by a long shot. I gently pushed my barely touched drink over to her side of the table. “You probably need this more than me.”
Mrs. Willingford stood up so fast the table thought about going over. I grabbed both glasses to keep them smashing to the floor.
“I was mistaken. Good luck finding your own way back to town.”
And she was out the door, had her zippy little roadster all revved up, and was gone in a fishtail of dust.
I looked at Paul and he looked at me and I had the best laugh I’d had in years.
It was about the last real honest laugh I’d have in Saratoga Springs. But I didn’t know that at the time.
“Close call, pal,” said Paul. “You’ll have to come with me. ‘Bout time I got back to work.”
As we were walking out the door of the witch’s house—what with this and that and the other, for me, Hansel and Gretel would always live in an oven at Haven’s Inn —Paul called back over his shoulder. “Put it on my tab, right, Ray?”
It could of been my imagination, but Ray’s response of “OK” didn’t sound too excited. Like most barkeeps, he’d probably heard it too often from too many people. I wasn’t surprised he was hearing it from Paul Jarrett. Paul was forever borrowing what little we had when we were kids. Sometimes we even got it back. With interest. Paul was the only kid I ever knew could calculate a rate of interest. Me and Lino were sure he’d go into banking.
Like Dillinger did.
Chapter 15
After all the reading I’d done in my pink room in its pink hotel, I should of known to play my cards close to my chest. Marlowe did, Poirot did, Spade did. But this was Paul Jarrett, a kid I’d known since I could remember knowing anyone, and I needed someone to talk to. So all the way back to town, I talked. Or listened. The listening turned out pretty well. For one thing I learned why the track would hire a wet sock like the kewpie doll ex-cop for security. From Paul, I learned the genius’ name was Carroll Goose. I wish I was kidding, but I’m not.
Paul, easy with his hands and feet, drove with a lot more care than Mrs. Willingford, and while he drove he gave me the low down. “Word’s out, some of the types hang out at the tracks don’t want good security. They have about two dozen scams in play at any given time on which good security could put the dampers. So they go looking for two-bit half wits to hire. Like Goose.”
I had a moment’s horror wondering if I was one of those two-bit half wits. But I shoved that into some part of my brain I seldom visited—and held it there, waiting for it to shut up.
Until getting hired by a track, all I knew about track management was what everyone else thought they knew about track management. They were men (a few rich widows and wives thrown in to make it interesting) who had a lot of money (don’t ask how they got it; the answers you’d hear would be about as straight as a shell game on the Atlantic City boardwalk), and who liked to invest that money in pedigree horseflesh. For longer than the U.S. was the U.S., they formed jockey clubs (which your usual jockey never saw the inside of) and built race tracks where highbred horses competed in races of various sorts for various trophies and various purses (real purses, made of silk and hung on a line across the track for the winner to snatch).
In the beginning most of the jocks were rich guys like our first president. Old George, sitting bolt upright in the English style, competed up hill and down dale against other rich guys like himself. And then they all figured less weight was better and stuck their smallest black slaves
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