Book One of the Travelers (9 page)

Junior looked from Gunny to Chubby. “I guess you're right,” he said finally.

“Good!” Chubby grinned. “Let's go outside to talk. It's too hard to hear in here.” Chubby led Junior toward the door.

What a turn of events,
Gunny thought as he followed them. He and Chubby working
together
to help Junior! And Junior was actually letting them! He finally had some good news to report to Jed.

A huge paw landed on Gunny's shoulder. The owner.

Do they grow them extrabig for this club
? Gunny wondered. Gunny was a big man himself, but the owner towered over him.

“A fight is starting in thirty seconds,” the owner said.

“Sorry, can't stay.” Gunny squirmed to get out of the man's grip. It didn't work.

“If Junior isn't back in the ring, someone had better take his place.”

“Fine by me,” Gunny said. “Now I really do need to catch up with my—”

“These people paid money to see four fights,” the owner said, his eyes narrowing. “Since you're the one who talked Junior out of fighting, I guess you're the one who has to tell them there won't be a fight. And you can refund all that money.”

The crowd was growing impatient. Boos and catcalls and angry shouts filled the air.

Gunny took in a deep breath and let it out again in a long, slow exhale. “I guess Action Anderson will be facing Gunny Van Dyke tonight,” Gunny said grimly.

T
here seemed to be nearly as much laughter as cheering when Gunny stepped into the ring. The shorts the owner found for him to wear were ratty, and the sleeves on the robe were miles too short. The gloves didn't fit much better.

There was a flurry of activity throughout the club when the patrons realized this wasn't some joke. Changing their bets, Gunny figured. The only person who sat still in his seat, a big grin on his face, was Ambrose. He must have bet on Action in the first place.

“Grandpa!” Action Anderson jeered. “This is going to be easy!”

“I'm not your grandpa,” Gunny snapped.

The referee had them touch gloves. “Have a good clean fight,” he said.

Gunny suspected that “good” and “clean” weren't in Action's vocabulary.

Clang!
Action's fist connected with Gunny's cheekbone before the final reverberation of the starting bell had
sounded. Gunny's head whipped back, but his hands instinctively blocked Action's next move.

Gunny sprang backward. He had to get a sense of Action's style. Action was younger, more experienced, outweighed him, and had serious power behind each blow: Gunny needed to fight smart, not hard.

They circled once around, Action tossing out little jabs and laughing, as if it were all a big game. Gunny stayed focused, moving, studying, learning.
Action leans to the right
, Gunny noted as he blocked an uppercut.

A shout from the crowd made Action's eyes flick to the ropes. He grinned, then he came in with another hook. It missed the mark.

That failed punch gave Gunny crucial information: Action wasn't paying complete attention. And he lurched off balance if he had to reach out to connect with Gunny.

Good, good
, Gunny told himself, moving in an ever-widening circle.
That's it, keep laughing, Action. I've got some surprises for you
.

Everything beyond Action fell away for Gunny. The room became a black backdrop, the shouts and calls from the crowd a dull, oceanlike roar. All that mattered was sensing Action's next move.

Gunny had done some boxing in the army, and his muscles began to remember the training from long ago. His body recalled the twists, the ducks, the feints. His hands picked up speed, letting him land now more than he missed.

Action is a brawler
, Gunny noted.
A slugger who relies on a power punch, not footwork or finesse.
Action's follow-
ups were slow—he didn't work combinations. And, more important, he followed a predictable pattern.

If I can stay out of reach, avoid Action's one good punch, I might have a shot.
Gunny couldn't match Action's power, but he had speed that the big lug didn't have.

“Don't want to get in and dance, Grandpa?” Action taunted. “You're staying awfully far away.”

“Don't like your breath,” Gunny snapped. But Action's comment made him think. Action wasn't paying complete attention because he underestimated Gunny. Let him.

Gunny began to slow down a bit, breathing heavily, as if he were already getting worn out. The more he faked it, the more Action smirked—and the sloppier Action became.

Crack
! Blood spurted from Action's nose. Surprise crossed Action's ugly broad face, swiftly replaced by anger.

Action's right hook shot out toward Gunny's ribs, and Gunny stepped backward rather than block. Frustrated, Action's left immediately followed—not a good move for Action—taking him slightly off balance. That little wobble gave Gunny his opening. He rushed in with two sharp blows to Action's midsection, then an uppercut that knocked Action's head up and back. He stumbled into the ropes. Gunny pounced, pummeling the huge fighter, sensing the fight leaving his opponent. At last Action sank to the floor of the ring.

“Eight…nine…ten!” The referee blew his whistle after Action failed to get up on his own. The bell clanged, and the crowd roared. The referee grabbed Gunny's wrist and held his arm aloft to take in the cheers.

“I got beat by a grandpa,” Action mumbled. “An old man.”

“I may look old to you, sonny,” Gunny said, “but I'm not out.”

Dazed, Gunny made his way out of the ring. People clapped him on the back, congratulating him. But Gunny just wanted to get dressed and out of there.

The cold night air refreshed him. The rain had left the street smelling a bit better. Gunny chanced a deep breath. His ribs were sore, his face hurt, but he didn't think anything was broken.

“Where's Chubby?” Gunny asked Junior, who stood leaning against the building.

Junior straightened up quickly. “What happened to your face?” Junior asked. “You're bleeding!”

Gunny's reached up and tentatively touched his cheek. He pulled his hand away and saw the blood. He hadn't been aware of it in the ring.

The door flew open and Ambrose Jackson and his entourage piled out of the club. They were all in high spirits.

“Great showing!” Ambrose told Gunny. “When you got in the ring with Action, I thought you'd bought it for sure!” He and his group climbed into a waiting car. “Gotta hand it to you—you got heart, baby!” Ambrose called out the window. “Even if you did cost me a bundle of cash!” The car sped away.

Junior gaped at Gunny. “
You
did the fight?”

Gunny shrugged it off. “I took your spot. But you shouldn't have been there in the first place. This is a dangerous neighborhood and those fights aren't regulated. It's just too risky.”

“It's the only place I can make money boxing,” Junior
said. “I need to—I have to help out. Now that…” His voice trailed off.

“Not this way, Junior,” Gunny said gently. “Your father would be proud that you want to take over as the man in the family. But he wouldn't want you to get hurt for it.”

“But he just wouldn't listen!” Junior exploded. “Not about Ambrose. Not about boxing.” Pain contorted his features, and he looked back down at his feet.

“Your dad was right about Ambrose,” Gunny said. “You have to stay away from that man.”

Junior studied Gunny's face. “You think it was Ambrose who killed my father?”

Gunny looked down at the ground. He worried what Junior would do if he confirmed Junior's suspicion.

“You do, don't you!” Junior exploded. “I'll kill him!”

Exactly what Gunny did
not
want to hear. Gunny grabbed Junior's arms and held him firmly in place. “You will do no such thing,” he ordered. “You try anything with Ambrose and it's
your
life that's over, not his.”

“But he—”

“He will come at you with guns blazing,” Gunny said. “Let the adults handle it.”

“I'm not a little kid!” Junior shouted. “I need to—”

“You need to stay safe,” Gunny cut him off. “For your mother. For Delia.”

Now it was Junior who stared down at the ground. Gunny hoped his words had sunk in. If Junior went after Ambrose, Gunny would have failed to keep his promise to Jed.

“In that ring,” Gunny said, “Junior, you were really good. I bet your dad would have come around to boxing. In time.”

Junior looked up with a grateful, hopeful expression. “You think?”

“I
know
.”

Junior's huge, relieved smile made Gunny think for the first time that maybe, just maybe, Jed wasn't crazy to have asked him to watch out for Junior.

T
he previous day's rain had left the racetrack muddy. The early morning sun hadn't had a chance to do its work, and the horses were kicking up mud as they went through their paces.

This was the closest racetrack—the one Marvin and Jeffrey would most likely have attended if they had a thing for the ponies. The question was, would Gunny also find something to link them both to Ambrose? And, more important, would he find Marvin Halliday alive and kicking?

It was still early and most of the folks there now were with the race or die-hard gamblers trying to scout the winners by watching the warm-ups. If Marvin or Jeffrey were regulars, these were the people who would know it.

My, my, my. Delia was right
. A very agitated Marvin Halliday was right at trackside. Other spectators were scattered along the track, but they seemed to have an unspoken agreement to keep out of one another's way.

Gunny tromped down to the track. “Where have
you been?” he demanded, startling Marvin. “Everyone's looking for you—me, the cops, everyone!”

A horrified expression crossed Marvin's face. “You can't tell anyone you found me!”

Gunny was taken aback. That was not the response he had expected. “You know that Jed has been arrested, right? The cops are even wondering if you're dead.”

Marvin laughed hollowly. “Faking my own death could be a solution…”

“You've got to come with me now. Go to the cops.”

Marvin shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“But Jed—”

Marvin cut him off. “Jed will get off—he's innocent.”

“There's no guarantee of that,” Gunny argued. “There's a lot of evidence against him.” Then the significance of Marvin's words hit him. “You know for a fact that Jed's innocent, because you saw who did it!”

Marvin noticed someone over Gunny's shoulder and went pale. “I've got to get out of here—now!”

“NO! You're coming with me!” Gunny shouted. He grabbed Marvin's arms. With a huge surge of energy, Marvin let out a loud bellow and shoved Gunny hard. Gunny stumbled and Marvin slipped away.

He righted himself, and now the streams of fans pouring into the track blocked his path. He gazed up into the stands. They were filling up fast. He didn't see Marvin anywhere.

But he did see Mr. Ambrose Jackson. Gunny was more certain than ever that Ambrose was the guy Marvin was hiding from—
and
Jeffrey Wright's killer.

“That mud is going to change things,” said a short
slim man taking a spot next to Gunny near the guardrail. He stared down at the racing form in his hands. “And I had my winners all picked.”

“Play the ponies a lot?” Gunny asked.

“Every chance I get.” The man grinned. “You?”

“First time for me.”

The man's smile broadened. “Oh, then let me tell you all about it! You need a system. And you gotta know all about the jockeys, and which horses like the mud and which need hard turf—”

The blare of the announcements drowned out the lecture by the friendly man.

The man leaned into Gunny. “I've got money on Red Robin. He's the favorite to win, so I won't get a big return. But I do like a sure thing!”

The horses were at the gate. The gun let out a
crack!
and they were off!

The blaring loudspeakers kept up a fast-paced, nonstop patter of unfamiliar names, though Gunny could pick out Red Robin in the buzzing announcements.

“Come on, come on, come on,” the friendly man chanted, becoming more and more tense. “What are you
doing
?”

Gunny could see that the lead horse was dropping back. Another horse surged steadily ahead, its legs a blur of motion and mud. How could it move so fast? Gunny wondered.

Within moments the new horse crossed the finish line.

“No!” The friendly man threw his hands up in the air. “Not possible!”

“In a surprise upset,” the announcer's voice blared from the speakers, “Gladiator took the field and won the
race!” The announcer sounded as stunned as the friendly man beside Gunny.

“He's not as good a horse?” Gunny asked.

“Nowhere near!” the friendly man said. “Gladiator was the long shot. You wouldn't even bet on that horse to place in the top three, much less win.” He stared back down at the form again. “Gotta figure all the percentages differently now,” he was muttering as Gunny walked away.

With the first race over, Gunny went back to searching for Marvin. There was a large crowd near the windows where the gamblers placed bets and collected winnings. Mostly he saw grim expressions.

He saw one smiling face though: Ambrose! He had just turned away from the teller's window with a big grin on his face. So Ambrose was the one lucky guy to bet on the winning horse?

Or,
Gunny thought,
he has inside information
.

Which meant Gunny had to find himself an insider.

Horse trailers, grooms, horses, jockeys, and owners crowded the grounds in the busy stable area. It was easy to spot the differences: The owners were dressed in their Sunday best, the jockeys were little fellas in brightly colored silks, some of the grooms wore the same colors as the jockeys, while still others wore regular work clothes. There were also folks who seemed to work for the track who were the least gussied-up of all. Gunny figured with his bruised face, mud-spattered coat from standing ringside, and rumpled shirt, he'd have his best shot at pretending to be with the track.

He spotted a groom unloading a bale of hay from a trailer.

“Let me help you there, sonny,” Gunny said.

“Thanks!” The groom smiled gratefully. He looked about eighteen. “I need to get this into King Rex's stall, but Mr. Sheffield wants me to walk King Rex around in front of some photographers.”

“Owners!” Gunny snorted knowingly. “Can't seem to understand you can't be in two places at once.”

The groom laughed as they lowered the bale to the ground. “Why don't I bring this to King Rex's stall,” Gunny offered. “Your owner won't care who makes the delivery. If he's like most owners, he's far more interested in the bright lights.”

“Really?” The groom looked up at Gunny with a grateful expression.

“Gotta do a check inside anyway,” Gunny said.

“Thanks! I owe you!” The groom helped Gunny load the bale onto a dolly, explained which stall King Rex was in, and took off.

Gunny dragged the dolly inside, dropped off the hay at King Rex's empty stall, then went in search of the winning horse and his jockey.

“Gladiator, Gladiator,” Gunny muttered, looking at the names posted on the stall doors. He moved deeper and deeper into the stable. There were fewer people in this area; with the races now under way, most of the horses had been brought outside for exercise.

But Gunny didn't want to talk to the jockey or groom of a horse that was about to race; he was after the people associated with the horse that had just won Ambrose big money.

He heard stomping and whinnying a few rows down.
Gunny hurried over and looked at the sign on the door. Gladiator. The long shot.

The horse was in the stall alone. It looked odd—agitated. Not that Gunny knew much about horses, but there was definitely something wrong with the animal.

“You're worried over nothing,” a nearby voice said.

Ambrose
, Gunny realized.
Heading this way.

Gunny dragged a stack of hay away from the back wall and slipped behind it.

“What if we get caught?” another voice said.

Gunny peeked through a gap in the hay bales. Ambrose was with a jockey.

“Doping a horse is a serious offense,” the jockey said.

“So we have to make sure no one finds out, don't we?” Ambrose said.

“What if they test the horse? Or Randall squeals?” the jockey asked, his voice rising in panic. “What if people find out that he threw the race?”

“What if? What if?” Ambrose repeated in a singsong imitation of the jockey. Then his voice grew cold. “Randall won't be talking. Neither will the horse. Or you!”

In a single swift blow, Ambrose knocked out the jockey and shoved him into the stall with the drugged horse.

“People really shouldn't smoke with all this straw and wood around,” Ambrose said, pulling a cigarette and a box of matches from his pocket. “Filthy habit.”

He dropped the lit cigarette and match into the dry straw. In moments there was a fast-growing blaze.

Ambrose shut the stall door and left, his cackle rising above the horse's terrified whinnying and the roar of the flames.