A Horse’s Head

10. Mona girl

It took him forty-five minutes to get to Aqueduct from Grand Central via the IRT Lexington Avenue line to the Fulton Street-Broadway station where he changed to an IND “A” train that took him to Euclid Avenue in Brooklyn where he changed for a Rockaway train that took him directly to Aqueducts own million-dollar station overlooking the racetrack.

He had been to the Big A more times than he could count in the year since he had taken the gamble. He felt now the same surge of excitement he experienced each time he approached the modern structure with its manicured lawns and blooming flowers, sprinkler systems going, a mild breeze blowing in off Flushing Bay. A smile erupted on his face. Still carrying the free shopping bag with its Judy Bond message, he walked jauntily up the wide concrete path to the grandstand entrance. He paid the man in the booth his two-dollar admission fee, bought a twenty-five-cent program and a copy of the Morning Telegraph from a hawker on the main floor, and then took the escalator up to the first floor. The track’s ceilings were high and soaring, built to accommodate the huge, hanging Totalisator boards that blinked electronically with changing odds every few seconds, harmonious browns and beiges and corals blending to form a serene backdrop for the surging excitement on the betting floor.

It was only 1:10, and the first race (expected to start at 1:36, according to the tote board) had not yet begun. This meant that Mullaney had little more than forty-five minutes in which to raise whatever money he could in time for the second race. Anxiously, he scanned the faces in the crowd, searching for someone he knew. This was Saturday, though, and the gamblers (who normally composed perhaps ten percent of the track’s daily attendance) were today spread even more thinly among salesmen and businessmen and out-of-town buyers, housewives who had saved their nickels and dimes, nine-to-five clock-punchers who were ready to blow their week’s salary on a hopeful nag or two. There were present, too, gentlemen bettors with binoculars on their necks and blondes on their arms, college girls home for the spring vacation, servicemen on leave, Park Avenue ladies in slacks and mink coats, touts and tarts, bookies and bimbos, old Crazy Annie who would spend all day searching the vinyl tile floor for Win tickets mistakenly discarded, and even a juvenile delinquent in a black leather jacket with a skull and crossbones painted on its back (he had obviously seen the movie). Impossible to find anyone you know, Mullaney thought, unless you look very very hard, so he started to look and heard the track announcer’s distinct, high, clear voice coming over the loudspeaker system, cutting through the din for only a moment: “The hors-es are on the track!”

That is marvelous, Mullaney thought. They’re already on the track for the first race, and I haven’t got the price of a two-dollar bet. He put down his shopping bag for a moment, leaned against one of the supporting girders, and opened his program. The second race was a six-furlong race with a $4,295 purse. It was limited to fillies and mares, four years old and upward, who had not won at least a $2,925 race since December 11th. The program noted that maiden, claiming, optional and starter races were not to be considered disqualifying, and then listed Jawbone as the number-3 horse, with morning-line odds of twenty to one, sure enough. She was owned by Targe Stables (whose colors were red polka dots on a white field, red sleeves, white cap) and she was to be ridden by Johnny Lingo, whom Mullaney knew to be an excellent jock. He nodded briefly, opened his Telegraph and scanned Jawbone’s track record. Apparently, she worked well on a wet track, which today’s track most certainly was, but she hadn’t won on any of her last three outings, leading the field each time only to run out of steam in the stretch, failing even to place. She was up against some damn good horses, the favorite being the 4-horse, Good Sal, at two-to-one odds, and the next closest longshot being the 8-horse, Felicity, at ten-to-one, which was still a far cry from the steep odds on Jawbone.

She might do it, Mullaney thought. She especially might do it with a little help. And if she isn’t about to get a little help, then why had his dice-player friend given him the tip as early as yesterday, and why had Jawbone then been scratched, and why had the tip carried over into today’s second?

It looked very much to Mullaney as if that sweet filly had been set to receive a little help yesterday, but maybe some wires had gotten crossed, so she’d been scratched before 8: 30 a. m., which was the official weekday time limit for scratching any horse. That meant that her owners had until 10:15 a. m. Friday to enter her in one of Saturday’s races, and since fourteen horses could be started in a six-furlong race, chances were she would draw a post position unless the race was overfilled. It had apparently worked just that way, and it looked to Mullaney as if she might just possibly very definitely receive the help she needed today. A tip doesn’t carry from one day’s race to the next, nor is it bandied about by a hood with a stickball bat (no matter what the hell he claimed it was — a broom handle, ha!) unless the fix is in there tight, Charlie, unless that little help is going to be zinged in right when it’s needed, yessir, she looked very good indeed. He decided to play her, very definitely.

All he needed was some money.

He picked up his shopping bag, and began circling the echoing betting floor, searching the lines at the cashiers’ windows, seeing a few people he knew (but not well enough to ask for a loan), and then hearing the track announcer’s voice saying, “It is now post time,” and then, “They’re off!”

He walked out to the grandstand to watch the race without interest, the announcer’s voice drowned out in the yelling of the crowd, “Come on, four! come on, Bidabee! come on, two!” everybody wanting some horse or other to come on, when of course none of the horses knew what anyone was yelling, and even if they did would probably pay no attention since horses are notoriously dumb animals who will bite you on your ass for no good reason, he disliked horses intensely. The crowd jumped to its feet as the 5-horse came streaking from fourth place to catch and pass the frontrunners and take first. Mullaney watched all the sore losers tearing up their tickets, and then looked at the tote board and saw that the race had taken one minute and thirty-eight seconds and that the present time was...

The electronically controlled figures changed as he watched.

1:39.

He had less than a half-hour to raise a stake.

He was delighted to see Lester Bohm in the crowd of gamblers walking up from the reserved grandstand seats, and more delighted when he realized Lester wasn’t tearing up any tickets but was instead holding in his hand two ten-dollar Win tickets on the 5-horse. The tote board had already posted the official results, and the price quoted on the 5-horse was $17.20, which meant that a bettor would get that amount of money for every two dollars he had invested. Lester’s ten-dollar Win tickets were each worth $86.00, so the possibility existed that perhaps he might be amenable to a small touch. Mullaney approached him confidently.

“Hello there, Lester,” he said.

“Oh, it’s you,” Lester replied.

He was a short red-faced man wearing a colorful plaid sports jacket and a Professor Higgins hat. He always carried a cane, and it was rumored here and there that the cane served as the sheath for a rapier, and that Lester had once used it on a Chicago bookie who had welshed out on him. Mullaney could not believe this, however, because Lester seemed to him to be a very pleasant and personable fellow who would never dream of cutting up anybody, especially when he was holding two ten-dollar Win tickets in his fist. Lester had been married and divorced five times and was now working on his sixth wife — “My own personal Russian roulette,” he was fond of saying with a grin. He was an excellent horseplayer in that he frequently won, but he also lost sometimes, though not often. He was a good man to meet at a track when you were in need of cash, or at least Mullaney hoped so; he had never asked Lester for a loan in his life.

“You’re off to a flying start, I see,” Mullaney said.

“Yes, I am,” Lester said. “What is it, Mullaney?”

“What is what?”

“What do you want from my life?”

Lester’s attitude puzzled him at first, until he remembered with something of a shock that Lester’s opening words had been “Oh, it’s you,” with the stress on the word “you,” as if something unspeakably vile had crawled out onto a white picnic cloth. Mullaney had never thought of himself as something unspeakably vile, and could not think of himself that way now. He was simply a gambler down on his luck, a situation that could be completely reversed this afternoon with a bet on Jawbone. But Lester’s attitude brought him up short, physically, so that he had to run to catch up to him, and then felt somewhat foolish chasing this dumpy roly-poly little man toward the Cash windows. He almost gave up the chase then and there, almost said The hell with it, there’s nothing for me here, he’s not in a moneylending mood. But something else within him forced him to continue his pursuit, the knowledge that he was not a vile and horrid insect that had crawled out into the sunshine, and the desperate need to convince Lester that he was not (although he could not imagine why Lester thought he was). I’m a very nice person, Mullaney said to himself. I’m just a little down on my luck, for Christ’s sake, I just need a few bucks to bet on a horse that’s a cinch to win. Don’t, for Christ’s sake, treat me like a loser.

I’m not a loser.

“Listen,” he said, and Lester turned to him, lifted his face to Mullaney’s and pierced him with a cold, blue-eyed, frigid stare. “Listen, I’m not a loser,” Mullaney said, thinking he should not be telling this to a little shit of a man who had stabbed a Chicago bookie and made a mess of his life with his goddamn personal Russian roulette, why am I telling this to him?

“So you’re not a loser,” Lester said. He stood leaning on the cane, his round face turned up and blandly impassive. “So?” he said. “So what?”

“I have a winner in the second race,” Mullaney said.

“Everybody has a winner in the second race.”

“This is a sure thing.”

“Everything is a sure thing,” Lester said.

“Lester, I’ve never asked you for a nickel in my life,” Mullaney said, “have I?”

“That’s true, you never have.”

“I need five hundred. This is a sure thing, Lester.”

“Oh, all you need is five hundred, huh?”

“Lester, listen to me. I know I’ve been down on my luck lately, but believe me this horse is a winner, I know it is, and I think you know I’m good for the money.”

“Oh yes, sure,” Lester said.

“I’ve been down on my luck, that’s all. You’re a gambler, Lester, take the gamble.”

“Five hundred, huh?”

“Yes, five hundred. I’ll be paying you back in less than a half-hour, I’ll pay you the five hundred and another five hundred besides. You can’t ask for better than that, Lester.”

“No, I certainly can’t ask for better than that.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Lend me five hundred. I hate to ask, but...”

“Yes, I know, you’ve just been down on your luck, that’s all.”

“That’s right, Lester. Lester, it hurts me to have to ask you for a loan, I mean it. Believe me.”

“Yes, it must certainly hurt you to have to ask loans from all the people you’ve asked loans from in this past year, mustn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Handouts is what you mean, not loans. To my knowledge, Mullaney, you’ve never paid back a cent you borrowed, that’s a very bad failing. I know a man in Chicago got stabbed for not paying the money he owed to someone.”

“Lester, I’ll pay back everybody I ever borrowed from, I’ve always intended to pay back.”

“But never have.”

“But will. Lester, what kind of person do you think I am?”

“Well now, I don’t know, Mullaney. Suppose you tell me what kind of person you are.”

“I’m...” He hesitated. He felt extremely foolish. “I’m a nice person,” he said.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Lester, lend me the five hundred.”

“I’ll lend you two dollars,” Lester said, and reached for his wallet.

“Lester, look, don’t kid around. Two dollars isn’t going to...”

“All right, I’ll make it four dollars. You can buy yourself two Win tickets, how’s that?”

“If you can’t go the full five hundred, make it four hundred, okay? I’ll be paying you back right after the second race, four hundred plus another four hundred besides, as commission on your investment.”

“My investment, huh? I’ll give you ten bucks, how’s that? You can buy yourself a real big ticket, Mullaney.”

“Three hundred, okay? With the same...”

“Twenty bucks,” Lester said, “and that’s my limit. I won’t go a cent higher.”

Mullaney stared at him silently for a moment, and then shook his head.

“No, Lester,” he said. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Okay, we’ll forget it,” Lester said.

“I still have my pride,” Mullaney said, feeling more foolish than ever. “Don’t forget that, Lester. I still have my pride.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Lester said, and walked away toward the Cash windows.

“I still have my pride,” Mullaney whispered after him.

He felt very small and very foolish. Oh, not because... well... no, no, not only because Lester had treated him like a beggar, had turned an honest request for a loan into a... a plea for a... a coffee-and-cake handout, like some wino coming up with an outstretched palm on the Bowery. Goddamn you, Mullaney thought, I once used to sell encyclopedias for a living, don’t you know that? I never once stabbed a person in my life, I never once carried a sword in a cane, I’ve only been married once, you bastard, and I didn’t divorce her because I stopped loving her, I divorced her only because I had to take the gamble, I had to get out here and live, don’t you treat me like a bum, Lester, don’t you ever dare treat me like a bum. But not only because of that, no, not only because Lester had swatted him flat on the picnic cloth causing him to ooze whatever dignity he had possessed until that moment — dignity, yes, and pride, yes — but also because he had come to Lester with a winner, had come with an absolute guaranteed winner, had come and said Look, I need five hundred, do you ask for five hundred on a loser? I’m going for the biggest prize, he thought, I came to you and asked for five hundred because this is my life on the line here, if I don’t make it today, if I... if I don’t make it, I’ll... I don’t know what I’ll do. Can’t you tell the difference between a simple loan when a guy only wants to win a few bucks on a horse, and a loan that is intended for a... a life?

My life, Lester.

My life.

His eyes were suddenly wet.

He dried them with his fist and thought Come on, come on, you’re a grown man, stop it, come on. He sniffed. Still feeling foolish, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed him crying, but no one had, all the gamblers were milling about the floor in their own universes, studying the tote board blinking new odds every few seconds, completely unmindful of Andrew Mullaney or his need. He looked up at the board. The odds on Jawbone had risen to thirty to one. His nose was running. He reached for a handkerchief, his pocket was empty, I don’t even have a goddamn handkerchief, he thought, and almost began weeping again in self-pity, but caught himself, forced himself to stand erect instead, his shoulders back and his head high, determined to find somebody in this crowd who would lend him the money he needed to put on Jawbone. Defiantly, he wiped the back of his hand across his nose (See the cop upon the comer) and dried it on his trouser leg (With the stripe upon his pants). Watch out, world, he thought, this is Andrew Mullaney here, rising from the picnic cloth where they thought, ha ha, they had swatted him flat, nossir!

Courage, he thought.

“The hors-es are on the track!” the announcer called.

Oh, he thought, give me courage.

He saw Merilee in that moment.

He saw her through the chain-link fence that separated the grandstand from the clubhouse section, saw her sitting with none other than Kruger, who had promised to kill him if he did not return with the money. She was wearing black, still wearing black though not the black velvet she had worn last night, which he had drawn up above her waist to spread her on the worthless jacket. He looked down at the shopping bag — JUDY BOND BLOUSES ARE ON STRIKE! — and at the crumpled jacket stuffed into it, and tried again to fathom its puzzle, and thought how much fun it would be to ask her for some money this time, thereby reversing the process of last night, “First the money,” she had moaned, “First the money,” and had only been screwed for her pains.

The tote board told him the time was now 1:55 and that post time was 2:06.

That is cutting it very close, Mullaney thought.

Even if I can catch her attention without Kruger seeing me, even if I can manage to do that without getting killed, how do I know she’s got any money, all she had in her bag last night was her driver’s license and a pearl-handled .22. Well, that is the gamble I must take, he thought, because the race is going to start in (he looked at the tote board again) exactly ten minutes, and the odds are now (another glance at the board) twenty-six to one, which means that the smart money is beginning to come in already, though it won’t be bet heavily enough to change the odds completely. If it continues to come in at this rate, the odds should hold at maybe ten or fifteen to one, which are very good odds, especially on a horse who will be receiving a little help — how do I get her attention without also getting Kruger’s?

Kruger put his binoculars to his eyes, watching the horses as they paraded on the track. Merilee, through instinct or because a Queens fly brushed her cheek just then, flicked her head to the right, looked straight into Mullaney’s face where he was standing behind the separating chain-link fence, nodded only once briefly, turned away, touched Kruger’s arm, whispered something to him, and then stood up. Her blond hair was wound around the top of her head, it looked like a neat golden yarmoulke similar to the white one Solomon had been wearing in the synagogue. Her black dress was cut low in the bodice, tight in the waist, flaring out over her long splendid legs, no stockings, black high-heeled pumps that clickety-clicked over the concrete steps as she walked toward the gate between the two sections. She was carrying a small black handbag in which Mullaney hoped there was something more than a driver’s license and a .22. The guard at the gate stamped her hand with invisible dye so that she could later put it under the ultraviolet light when she returned to the clubhouse section, and she came through the gate, winked at Mullaney, and walked right on past him toward the steps, very quickly, her sweet little backside wiggling, her pumps clickety-clicking on the vinyl tile floor, he would never forget last night in the library, though she had said it was lousy.

He followed her up the stairs at a safe distance, first glancing over his shoulder to make certain Kruger wasn’t watching, and caught up with her on the third floor, just outside the Man O’ War Room.

“Hello, honey,” she said, and smiled. “He’s going to kill you,” she said. “He’s got George and Henry looking for you. You shouldn’t have mentioned Aqueduct last night. He remembered your mentioning Aqueduct.”

“Well, those are the chances one ofttimes takes,” Mullaney said, thinking he sounded very much like K, and realizing that if he had mentioned Aqueduct to Kruger, he had doubtless mentioned it to K as well. It suddenly seemed terribly urgent to place the bet on Jawbone, collect his winnings, and get the hell out of here. “Do you have any money on you?” he asked.

“Yes, a little.”

“How much?”

“Oh, a little. He gives me a little to bet. He’s really very kind and generous indeed, though I can’t stand him.”

“Can you lend me some?”

“To get on an airplane to Brazil, do you mean?”

“No. To bet on a horse.”

“Oh that would be a terrible mistake,” Merilee said. “Lending someone money to bet on a horse.”

“This horse is a sure thing.”

“Besides,” she said, “I never lend money to strangers.”

“Were not strangers, Merilee,” he said softly and sincerely. “We have been intimate.”

“Oh yes indeed we have,” she said, and smiled. “But still...”

“If the horse wins, I’ll share the profits with you.”

“You said it was a sure thing.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why did you just say ‘If the horse wins’?”

“I meant when the horse wins.”

“When you’re making love,” Merilee said, “you can say what you like. But when you’re talking business, say what you mean.”

“I meant when the horse wins, when.”

“And how much profit will there be when she wins?”

“That depends on how much we bet and what the odds are when we bet it.”

“Oh my,” Merilee said, “it all sounds so dreadfully complicated.”

“It’s not complicated at all,” Mullaney said. “How much money have you got?”

“A little,” she said. “What will my cut be? Of the profits?”

“Well, let’s say fifty percent,” Mullaney said.

“No, let’s say seventy-five percent.”

“Sixty percent and it’s a deal.”

“Only because we once were lovers,” Merilee said, and lowered her eyes modestly.

“How much have you got?”

“Three hundred dollars.”

Mullaney glanced at the tote board. The odds on Jawbone had dropped to twelve to one. “Three hundred will have to do,” he said, and looked at the board again. It was five minutes to post time.

“There are complications I can think of,” Merilee said.

“Like what?”

“Like suppose the horse wins and they kill you before you can get to the cashier’s window?”

“They would have to kill me in the next six minutes or so, and I feel certain they won’t,” Mullaney said, not feeling at all certain.

“Well then, suppose the horse wins, and you do collect the money, but they kill you before you can give me my share?”

“If that’s bothering you, stay with me,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll watch the race together. When the horse wins, we’ll cash the ticket, and I’ll give you your share on the spot. How does that sound?”

“Oh my it sounds very dangerous,” Merilee said. “I told him I was going to the ladies’ room. He’s liable to send someone looking for me.”

“We’ll watch the race from inside the restaurant. It’ll be starting in...” He looked again at the board. “... four minutes. He won’t miss you in that time. Merilee, please give me the money. We’ve got to place the bet before it’s too late.”

“What’s the horse’s name?” she asked.

“The money first.”

“The name first,” she said.

It was three minutes to post time.

“Merilee...”

“The name,” she said.

“Merilee, let’s not...”

“The name.”

Mullaney sighed. “No,” he said. “I can’t take that chance.”

“I thought you were a gambler.”

“I am, but...”

“One should always get the name first.”

“This is not a cocktail party,” he said, “it’s a horse race.” He looked at the tote board. “Merilee, the windows are going to close in two minutes, will you please for the love of God give me the money?”

“You’re a very distrustful person,” she said, but she opened her handbag and took out three hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills, which she handed to him immediately. “Will you tell me the name now?”

“Jawbone,” he said, and turned to run toward the hundred-dollar Win window.

“That’s a nice name,” she said behind him. “Jawbone.”

He bought the three Win tickets and looked at the tote board a last time before they went into the restaurant. The odds were holding at ten to one. If Jawbone won, they’d get three thousand dollars, give or take, and his share would be twelve hundred, which was exactly twelve hundred more than he’d awakened with yesterday morning. Enough to break open a Harlem crap game, enough to buy a hundred good poker hands, enough to start the upward trend, change the course of this damn gamble and have it start paying off at last. The Man O’ War Room was a sumptuous restaurant with twelve closed-circuit television receivers quartering the four walls of the room, enabling bettors to dine without missing any of the track action. Mullaney and the girl entered the restaurant just as the track announcer said, “It is now post time.” They took seats at a table in the far comer, away from the entrance doors in case Henry and George were still on the prowl, and looked up at the nearest television receiver in time to see the horses breaking from the gate and the announcer shouting, “They’re off!”

“Luck,” Mullaney whispered.

“Oh yes indeed,” the girl whispered back and covered his hand on the white tablecloth.

“It’s a good start,” the announcer said, “with no interference. Jawbone broke fast, God Sal is clear on the outside, Mercy’s Baby is third by a length, Felicity in fourth place leading the field. Heading for the turn now...”

“It looks good,” Mullaney said.

“Oh yes indeed,” the girl answered. Her blue eyes were glowing. She kept licking her lips with her tongue, squeezing Mullaney’s hand where it rested in a tight fist on the table top.

“... it’s still Jawbone in the lead, Mercy’s Baby head and head with Good Sal, Felicity in fourth place on the outside...”

“Come on, Jawbone!” Mullaney whispered.

“Come on, Felicity!” someone at another table shouted.

“Rolling around the turn now,” the announcer said, “it’s Jawbone by a length, Good Sal, and moving up in there, Felicity, getting into contention now...”

“Come on, Jawbone!” Mullaney shouted.

“Come on, Jawbone!” the girl yelled.

“It’s still Jawbone by a head, Good Sal second, and Mona Girl breaking away from the field, moving fast, moving up to fourth, passing Felicity now, making a strong bid, head and head with Good Sal...”

“Jawbone!” Mullaney shouted.

“Into the stretch,” the announcer said, “it’s Jawbone and Mona Girl, the others beaten off... Mona Girl coming to the front, Mona Girl in front by a length, Mona Girl leading by two lengths, coming to the finish line, it’s Mona Girl all the way, Mona Girl by three lengths, Mona Girl is the winner!”

“Mona Girl?” Mullaney said.

“One should always get the name first,” Merilee said, and sighed.