Corman shook his head doubtfully. “Sarah Rosen didn’t have a brain tumor.”
“Well, there’s all kinds of people, Corman,” Grossbart said. “Some are lucky. That’s just the way it is. Others, it’s like they’re made up of some different kind of substance. Velcro, something like that. Trouble sticks to them.” He smiled. “Just petty stuff sometimes. When they’re on the ramp, the fucking train takes forever.”
“It would take a lot of trouble for someone to end up like she did,” Corman said.
“Some people are born drowning,” Grossbart said. “They bob around a little, gasp for air, but basically, they’re drowning.”
Corman leaned forward. “If I were trying to run down the story of this woman, where would I begin, Harvey?” he asked. “Like I told you back at Number One, I’m new at this. I could use a few tips.”
Grossbart shrugged. “Well, you could start with the neighborhood.”
“I did that. They’re all illegals. They won’t talk about anything.”
“Didn’t Lang have a guy?”
Corman shook his head. “He thinks I’m a millionaire, hit me up for money.”
“Which you don’t have much of, I take it,” Grossbart said.
Corman wondered what it was that made him look so strapped, and realized that if Grossbart had noticed it at all, then Lexie would see it written across his face in bright, pulsing neon.
Grossbart pulled himself to his feet. “Well, I don’t know what else to tell you. You’re working a case now, so you learn how it is. Either you get something direct, or you stumble on to a new lead, or … you just come up a crapper.”
“I can’t do that,” Corman said, surprised by the edge of desperation he heard in his own voice.
Grossbart looked at him a moment, then took the napkin from the table and unnecessarily wiped his fingers again. “You know what I say, Corman, not just to you, to everybody. I say, ‘Hey, you looking for a mystery, some big tragedy? Look in the fucking mirror.’” He smiled thinly and let the napkin float back to the table. “Nobody has to go any further than that.”
Corman smiled tentatively and thought of Lucy. “I do,” he said.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
A SHORT FLIGHT of stairs led up to the second-floor landing of the Inside Track. Corman paused at the bottom of them, slapped some of the rain from his hat, then headed up.
There was a small counter just inside the door. The man behind it nodded politely as Corman walked in. Corman nodded back and began to make his way to the right toward a room filled with small tables and chairs.
“That’ll be five dollars,” the man behind the counter said.
Corman turned to him. “Five dollars?”
“Entrance charge,” the man explained.
Corman hesitated for an instant, then reluctantly reached for his wallet and counted out the money.
The man took the money and handed Corman a small booklet.
“What’s this?” Corman asked.
“The racing program,” the man told him matter-of-factly. “Good luck, sir.”
Corman walked toward the room to the right, searching through the crowd for Willie Scarelli. He found him near the front windows, sitting with another man, both of them going over the same racing program Corman had been handed at the door.
“Who do you like in the first?” Scarelli asked. He was dressed in dark navy-blue pants and a red blazer. A cigarello hung from the corner of his mouth, and while he went over the program, he chewed its white plastic tip determinedly.
The other man frowned. “Where’d they get these wheezers?” he said. “Off a truck to the glue factory?” He shook his head despairingly. “Every year, more of these cheap claimers in New York.”
“Yeah,” Scarelli moaned. “Shit.” He circled something in the program, then thought better of it, crossed it out, put another one around something else.
Corman touched his shoulder. “How you doing, Willie?”
Scarelli looked up. “Corman?” he said, obviously surprised to see him. “I didn’t know you followed the ponies.”
“I don’t,” Corman told him. “I was looking for you.”
“Well, pull up a chair,” Scarelli said. He nodded toward the other man. “This old fart is Darby McMillan. He pretends inside knowledge.”
Darby continued to stare at the racing program. “Glad to meet you,” he muttered. He puffed irritably at a white meershaum pipe, grunting under his breath from time to time, as his eyes went down the program.
Corman took a seat.
“Be right with you,” Scarelli said. “Soon as I decide what to play.” He glanced toward Darby. “What about Forest Drive,” he said. “What do you think?”
Darby’s eyes swept the form. “I think he’s being ridden by a douchebag,” he said.
Scarelli’s face tightened as his eyes returned to the program. “Eddie Sheen. Yeah, not the go-jockey for that fucking stable.”
“Look at the guy on Ginger Snap,” Darby said. “Another douchebag apprentice.” He shook his head. “With these old nags, you got to have a rider with some balls.”
Scarelli considered it for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Fuck the first,” Darby said. “I’ll just place some recreational doubles. We can still play Ginger Snap in the fourth.”
“You gonna play any exactas in the first?” Scarelli asked.
Darby laughed. “Exactas?” he said. “Fuck. I’d be more willing to bet that two of these old whores won’t make it to the eighth pole.”
The two men laughed together, then went on to the fifth race, comparing jockeys, horses, trainers, stables.
They were still doing it when a voice suddenly sounded across the room: “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our National Anthem.”
Chairs scraped loudly across the floor as the people in the room got to their feet, then stood silently as the anthem swept over them. Darby placed his hand over his heart, while his eyes roamed about the room, catching for a moment on a tall young woman who chewed the end of a swizzle stick while she stood in place. “Oh, Sweet Jesus,” he moaned under his breath.
“Well, let’s do it,” Scarelli said when it was over. He sat down quickly, glanced at one of the television sets that hung from the paneled walls, then handed a roll of bills to Darby. “Just spread it around on some doubles,” he said. “And include that fucking apprentice in some of them. Who’s to say, lightning might strike.”
“Okay,” Darby said. He reached for his wallet with one hand and thrust his other one palm up toward Scarelli. “I’ll always put myself out for a two-dollar bettor.”
Scarelli nodded. “Don’t forget my change,” he said with a wink.
Darby turned and walked toward the betting booths at the back of the room.
Scarelli took a sip of ale then wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“So, what’d you want to see me about?” he asked, as he glanced toward Corman.
“A story,” Corman said. “At least, a possible story. A guy I know—in publishing—he thought you might be interested.”
Scarelli leaned back in his seat. “Well, absolutely,” he said. “You know me, I’m always looking for a story. What’s yours?”
Corman dug into his camera bag and came out with the picture. “Take a look at this,” he said as he handed it to Scarelli.
Scarelli eyed the photograph casually. “Looks like somebody gave her a good beating,” he said.
“She jumped out of a window.” Corman pointed to the small mound of cloth that could be seen near her outstretched hand. “Threw a doll out with her.”