a scramble to see who can get richest.”
It was an accurate appraisal and I said so.
“It‟s what power‟s all about,” I told him.
“So I got a dollar, you got two. That makes you twice as good as me?”
“No,” I said, “twice as dangerous.”
He thought about that for a few seconds.
“I guess it all depends on who you are,” Dutch said. Then he dropped the bomb. “Findley‟s daughter
tried to take up the slack. After his son was zeroed, I mean.”
Bang, there it was.
“How‟s that?” 1 asked, making it sound as casual as a yawn.
“Married herself a hotshot All-American. He grabbed the ball from Findley and took off with it. Harry
Raines is his name. Talk about ironic.”
“How so?”
“Findley‟s own son-in-law‟s head of the racetrack commission.”
„That one caught me a little off guard.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“Wasn‟t for Raines, there wouldn‟t be a racetrack. We‟d all be dustin‟ our kiesters someplace else.”
“Raines I echoed.
“Harry Raines, the son-in-law,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. I was just thinking about the name. Harry Raines,” I said.
“Know him?”
“Vaguely.”
Harry Raines. I remembered the name but I couldn‟t put a face with it. Faces come hard after twenty
years.
“Raines put it all together. This whole racetrack thing.”
“Why?”
“You‟ll have to ask him that,” said Dutch.
“This Raines a stand-up guy?”
“I couldn‟t say different. What I hear, old Harry‟s gonna be governor one of these days.”
“You mean because of the racetrack?”
“I guess that‟s part of it.”
“What‟s the rest of it?” I asked.
“It‟s a long story,” he said. “Worth a dinner.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About whether Harry Raines is going to be governor or not?” “I think the sun rises in the east and
sets in the west,” he said. And that was the end of that.
4
LEADBETTER’S LEGACY
The rain had turned into a driving storm by the time we got to Dutch Morehead‟s war room, which
was in a small, rundown shopping center in the suburbs, a mile or two from the center of town.
Lightning etched in purple monochromes a shabby, flat, one-story building that had once been a
supermarket. Its plate-glass windows were boarded over and the entire building was painted flat
black.
“Looks like Gestapo headquarters,” I said.
“Psychological,” Dutch grunted.
A less than imposing sign beside the entrance announced that it was the SPECIAL
OPERATIONS BRANCH. Below it, even less imposing letters whispered DUNETOWN
POLICE DEPARTMENT. I had to squint to read that line.
“Nice of you to mention the police department,” I said.
“I thought so,” Dutch said.
“What exactly does Special Operations Branch mean?” I asked. “I‟m not real sure myself,” he said. “I
think they just wanted to call us the SOB‟s.”
A moment later Dutch roared like a lion demanding lunch. “That sorry, flat-assed, pea-brained
sappenpaw!” he said, curling his lip.
“Who?” I said, thinking maybe I had offended him.
“That six-toed, web-footed, sappenpaw, klommenshois Callahan,” he raved on. “The mackerelsnapping, redheaded putz stole my damn parking place again! If I told him once, I told him—arrgh...”
His voice trailed off as he whispered further insults under his breath.
A half dozen cars in various stages of disrepair were angle-parked along the front of the building.
Dented fenders, cracked windshields, globs of orange primer where paint jobs had been started and
never finished, hood ornaments and hubcaps gone; it looked like the starting line of a demolition
derby.
“Your boys got something against automobiles?” I asked.
He growled something under his breath and wheeled into a spot marked only THE KID.
“I‟ll take Mufalatta‟s place,” he said defensively. “He‟s never around anyway.”
We were fifty yards from the front door, a long way in the raging storm. He cut the engine and leaned
back, offering me a Camel.
“No thanks, I quit,” I said.
“I don‟t wanna hear about it,” he said, lighting up. He cracked the window and let the smoke stream
out into the downpour.
“I can understand about your feelings toward old man Findley,” he said. “The old boy had a lotta
class, I‟ll give him that. He dealt one last hand before he retired.”
“How‟s that?”
“His last hurrah. He brought in Ike Leadbetter to head up the force here. Findley was smart enough to
know the burg needed some keen people to keep an eye on things when the track was built—the local
cops were about as sophisticated as a warthog in a top hat. Leadbetter had been through the mill
already. He‟d done a turn up in Atlantic City before he came here, so he was savvy. Was Leadbetter
brought me in.”
“And Leadbetter is good?”
“Was.”
“Where‟d he go?”
“No place. He‟s dead. Leadbetter knew what was gonna happen, I mean law-wise. He had learned a
lot in Atlantic City. And he was honest.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Three years ago, ran his car into the river, if you can believe that.”
“You don‟t?”
“I stopped believin‟ in accidents an hour after I got here.”
I was beginning to wonder how Tagliani ft into the picture. Killing a police chief was not exactly his
way of doing things.
Anger crept hack into Dutch‟s tone. „The way it was, the case went to the homicide boys. You lump
that whole bunch together, what you end up with is a bigger lump. Not a one of „em can count to
eleven without takin‟ off his shoes.” Pause. “It went down as an accident, period, end, of course.”
“Who took Leadbetter‟s place?”
“Herb Walters.”
“What‟s the score with him?”
“Old-timer. Up through the ranks. Scared for his job. He don‟t swim upstream, if that‟s what you
mean. Herb likes calm waters.”
“Is he honest?”
“That‟s an excellent question. I just don‟t know. I guess old Herb‟s okay; he just hasn‟t had an
original thought since the first time he went to the john by himself.” He stopped, then after a moment
added: “Actually he‟s just a kiss-ass to the people on the green side of town.”
I laughed. “I gather you don‟t like him.”
“That‟s very smart gathering.”
“Why would anybody want to blitz Leadbetter?”
“Why would a lotta people not want to? A smart, tough, no-nonsense cop, honest as the Old
Testament, in a town going to hell. When Leadbetter was running the show, you couldn‟t find a
pimpmobile anywhere on Front Street. Now every other vehicle you see‟s either a pink Caddy or a
purple Rolls-Royce.”
“How does your outfit fit into all this?”
“It‟s borderline. We try to monitor the out-of-towners, but local stuff is handled by vice. Don‟t even
ask me about them.”
I slid down in my seat and shook my head.
“Wonderful,” I said. “Maybe I‟ll just take some sick leave and sleep this one out.”
“Stick around and watch the fireworks,” he said.
“You think that‟s going to happen, eh?”
“Well, what I don‟t think is that Turner and his pistol and his wife had a suicide pact.”
I laughed. “His name‟s Tagliani,” I said.