“Cuz, you ain’t supposed to,” Junior said. “Remember-you’re blind. The glasses, being so dark, give you something they call very-similly-tude. I read about it in one of the books. With these glasses you can’t hardly see through, you’ll feel and act more like the blind man you’re supposed to be. Get it?”
As he sat in the sun-drenched box seat, Red said to Wanda, “You’ll have to keep an eye out for Rexroth.”
“I can see him from here,” Wanda said. “He’s about twenty yards away, over in one of those terrace areas. I guess that’s where the horse owners sit. When he heads down to that paddock, we’ll just follow along and get close to him on the pathway.” Rexroth, wearing a tan suit, about the color of his bulldog Winston, who sat at his feet, was engaged in animated conversation with a group of boxholders to his right. He waved a giant black cigar as he talked, his big bald head glistening in the afternoon sunlight.
Rexroth’s three-year-old colt Old Flossmoor was to run in that afternoon’s seventh race, the sub-feature on the card headed by the Stars and Stripes Stakes. Rexroth, the Marchiks had learned, never missed an opportunity to visit the paddock on the days his horses competed.
Rexroth enjoyed preening among the other owners, usually with one of his attractive young bladers at his side. He frequently gave detailed instructions to the jockey who was to ride his horse. One time, Rexroth had gone so far as to hand a jockey named Frankie Sheehan a map of where he wanted him to be at every point during the course of a mile and one-quarter race. Sheehan, deeply insulted, and notorious for his fiery temper, had ripped the piece of paper to shreds and flung them down at Rexroth’s feet. That was the last horse Sheehan ever rode for Rexroth.
The Marchiks sat tensely for most of the next three hours. Wanda made some $2 show bets on horses whose looks she liked, cashing two of them. She permitted Red to have a beer prior to the fifth race, but that was all. When the sixth race was over, she saw Rexroth rise from his seat and descend the steps leading to where the horses would be saddled for the seventh.
“This is it, Red,” she said. Wanda took a longer look at their quarry. “Rexroth has got a redhead with him, and he’s got a dog with him too, on a leash. Bulldog, I guess. Jeez, what an ugly puss on that one. The dog I mean. C’mon, baby.”
Red growled, “Just point me at that sack of shit.” With his cane tapping and his free hand on Wanda’s shoulder, he followed her in Rexroth’s wake.
When the procession of paddock-goers reached a roped entrance, their credentials had to be checked before they could be admitted to the area by track security. Rexroth and his companion were fourth in line to be given the go-ahead. As they waited while those in front of them showed their passes to the security men, Wanda had Red edge ahead, Red clutching her arm tightly. The more polite people, noticing the blind man, stepped aside to allow Red and Wanda to advance. “We’re right behind him now, honey,” Wanda whispered. Red hastily lifted his glasses for a quick peek. Rexroth was about three feet from the point of the lethal cane.
Junior, relying on his manual, had instructed Red to aim at the Target’s lower leg; that way, Red wouldn’t have to raise his cane more than a foot or so off the ground in what should be a relatively indiscernible motion to any bystander.
Red quickly glanced at the target area. Then he dropped the sunglasses back down on his forehead into their original position. When he did so, there was a movement in front of him that Red, of course, did not spot.
Red heard Wanda hiss in his ear, “Do it, Red.” He responded instantly. Red thrust forward with the lethal cane, and the needle hit dead center in the leg muscle. Red smiled as he felt the contact being made by his weapon.
Unfortunately, Red, aiming blindly and from memory, had hit a leg muscle belonging to Winston the bulldog. The dog, feeling a tug on its leash, had moved closer to his master’s side just as Red struck. Winston dropped like a sack of cement, killed instantly.
Rexroth, meanwhile, having impatiently displayed his paddock pass to a security guard and wanting to move forward, gave a yank on Winston’s leash. He was startled by the leaden lack of response. Then Rexroth looked down and let out a yelp.
“What in the living hell,” Wanda heard Rexroth say as she guided Red away from the commotion that immediately erupted: Rexroth examining Winston in disbelief, his redheaded companion breaking into tears, the security men making a circle so as to shield the view of this scene from other paddock spectators.
“We got us a dead dog here at the paddock gate,” one of the security guards barked into his portable phone. There was a crackle of incredulous reply from the main security office. “Yeah, you heard me right,” the guard said angrily into the phone.
Wanda gripped Red’s right elbow hard as she continued to steer him across the walkway and toward the nearest exit. Her face was bright red.
“Dammit, Red,” said Wanda as she elbowed their way through the crowd, “we gotta get out of here! Take off those damn glasses and follow me quick!”
Chapter 20
Friday night of that week, Doyle was desultorily watching a heavyweight boxing match on cable television, the audio off, and scanning the thoroughbred industry trade publications in an attempt to keep as current as possible in his new occupation.
As the two over-muscled and under-skilled behemoths flailed occasionally, and for the most part unsuccessfully, at each other between their lengthy exchanges of glowering looks, Doyle sat, trying to recall if he’d made any major slip-ups in the course of his work day. None, he concluded, to match his faux pas regarding Pedro and the teaser. He took this as a sign of at least some progress.
Doyle was relieved to hear a light tapping at his door-anything to break the monotony of another tediously uneventful night. On the other side of the screen door he saw the shyly smiling face of Caroline Cummings. A breeze was blowing lightly, carrying with it traces of soft summer rain, and her face was moist. Before he could open the door, Caroline had pulled it open and was over the threshold and into his living room.
“Come right in.” But as she turned to face him, Doyle bit back further irony. He knew Caroline was here on some kind of mission that he would be wise to meet with other than his standard cavalier approach.
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning toward the couch. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
She shook her head, so Doyle closed the screen door behind her, then the oak door. He’d waved Caroline to the old leather couch, his apartment’s major piece of furniture. Doyle turned off the television and clicked on the CD player. The dark satin baritone of Johnny Hartman, John Coltrane’s tenor sax floating beneath it, started “They Say It’s Wonderful.”
Caroline nestled into the other end of the couch, sandals discarded, tanned legs folded up beneath her. Caroline was wearing white shorts which contrasted nicely with the beige, scoop-necked T-shirt she had on. He thought, not for the first time, that this was a beautiful, intelligent, and very appealing woman. Unfortunately, Doyle thought, she appeared to have something serious in mind.
Years before, Doyle had read with interest some rules for living laid down by the Chicago novelist Nelson Algren, who advised that a man should never play poker with a man called Doc, eat in a restaurant called Mom’s, or get involved with a woman with more troubles than his own. Doyle had adhered to the first two, but had never been much good about following the third, as his marital record attested. Attracted as he was to Caroline, he briefly considered reining in his interest. Then the thought came to him that while the woman was widowed and a single mother, she at least was not under the thumb of the FBI as race-fixer. Maybe they were at least equal in the troubles department. He felt better immediately and turned his full attention to her.