The Stars Shine Bright (7 page)

“Raoul,” she told the waiter, who knew to hover after my order, “my niece will have rye toast and a poached egg. Please change the Coca-Cola to skim milk.”

Raoul bowed and scurried away.

Eleanor picked up her coffee cup. The white rim was gilded with gold horseshoes. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry.”

“I was referring to your ribs.”

“They hurt. Especially when I'm hungry.”

“You should've stayed in bed.”

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “And you were supposed to fire me, but that didn't happen.”

She lifted her chin, telegraphing delivery. “When people have some slight disadvantage, they develop other things to make up for it, like charm. Who said that?”

“You did.”

“Amanda, in
The Glass Menagerie
.” She took another sip. “What's your plan for today?”

I shifted my gaze. Three tables behind Eleanor, Sal Gag sat hunched over the day's betting sheet. An unlit Havana rested in perpetuity between his sausage-like fingers, while the other hand pinched the handle of a demitasse. In his enormous hand, the tiny cup looked like it was stolen from a toddler's tea set.

“I think it's time to wager,” I whispered. “What can you spare?”

“I'm insulted!”

Sal Gag looked up.

I smiled, stiff as a corpse, whispering again, “I didn't mean to insul—”

“If hanging around this place is going to ruin your Southern gentility,” she trumpeted, “I'll send you back to those people who mangle the English language.”

Please
. I closed my eyes, praying.
Please let the Mob guy think “those people” are Southerners. Not Feds full of malaprops
. When I opened my eyes, Sal Gag seemed to be holding himself much too still. And Eleanor was lifting her chin again. I braced myself.

“You can be young without money but you can't be old without it. Who said that?”

I sighed.

“Maggie the Cat,” she said. “Scene one. The critic in Toronto noted my purring.”

Our dry toast arrived, doing its best imitation of cardboard, and I choked it down with the skim milk while Eleanor passed me her wallet under the tablecloth. I counted out $2,000, then excused myself.

“Don't do anything foolish,” she said.

“Don't worry.” I placed my napkin on my seat, an etiquette signal for Raoul, letting him know I would be back. “I'll be fine.”

“My dear,” Eleanor said, “I doubt that very, very much.”

From the grandstand's upper level, I watched the numbers flash on the light board in the track's inner circle. The first race's flickering odds were solidifying, but the numbers would keep shifting until the starting gate blew open at 11:00 a.m. I saw several names on the board that looked familiar, in particular SunTzu from Eleanor's barn. And Cuppa Joe, from Sal Gag's. The long shot that beat Solo in Seattle on Monday. But now SunTzu was marked for long odds, mostly because of the barn fire. Betting people were superstitious, and Solo's death was chalked up to Hot Tin's “curse” of “bad luck.” Meanwhile, Cuppa Joe was the new favorite. If he lost, Sal Gag would make a bundle as a bookie. If he won, the bundle would also go to the bookie—as the horse's owner.

It was an ingenious setup, and from what the Bureau could fathom, Sal Gag was offering three percentage points more than the track. Betting on a winner with the bookie meant potentially more money. Of course, losing meant you owed him more, but gamblers always thought of themselves as lucky—that's why they kept gambling. But Sal Gag was smart enough to hire a numbers runner to handle his illegal operation.

The runner's name was Anthony Pilato. Otherwise known as Tony Not Tony.

On this wet morning, Tony Not Tony was standing on the second tier of the grandstands. A former jockey, he had narrow shoulders that drew forward and a tendency to walk on his toes, making him look like a mouse on its hind legs. The tassels of his oxblood loafers touched the floor, his navy slacks were pressed, and his silk shirt was the color of the silver rain. His small hands, veined with strength, held betting receipts in some attempt to appear legitimate.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I said.

He looked over. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.” I made a mental note:
He never acknowledged sending flowers
. I wondered if he suspected my identity or if he habitually worried about surveillance wires.

“I heard the horse kicked you,” he said. “Or maybe not. And something about arson, but is that possible?”

Eleanor had told me Tony got his nickname for hearing and yet not hearing things. Perfect for a Mob guy. But even if I was wearing a wire, our whiz kids would have a tough time picking up the voice. Rather than speaking, he aspirated his words. And here among the concrete floor and metal ceiling, with a crowd murmuring around us like a busy river, his words barely registered.

“Yes, arson,” I said. “Somebody also closed the stall's door. And locked it.”

“Frightening,” he breathed.

I nodded. “But I know what would make me feel better. Making some money.” I smiled. “Some serious money.”

He glanced away. For several moments we stared over the seats. Down below the light board sparkled with illuminated greed, and the air smelled of hot dogs and morning beer and some kind of human-generated electricity.

“I enjoy wagering,” I said in a low voice. “But Aunt Eleanor doesn't approve, so I'd rather you didn't say anything.”

“Me?” The narrow shoulders came forward. “What would I know? I'm a simple jockey's agent.”

Yes, that was the cover. Tony Not Tony worked as a jockey's agent, matching horses to riders and collecting a percentage of the winnings. Just like he collected a percentage on the bets that went through Sal Gag.

“Two grand,” I said. “Cash on the spot.”

“Cuppa Joe.” The words floated from his mouth. “To win. He's a mudder.”

“Mudder?”

“He likes to run in the mud. Doesn't mind the rain.”

I reached into my purse. Tony Not Tony turned to face the track. His left hand dangled at his side. If the race-fixing pattern held, Cuppa Joe would lose. These guys would take home a bundle. I leaned toward him, as though speaking over the noise of the crowd, and surreptitiously laid twenty $100 bills in his open palm. Almost imperceptibly the money moved to his pocket.

“Ferragamos?” he said.

I stepped back. “Pardon?”

“Your sandals. Ferragamos?”

I looked down. The brown leather sandals were purchased for Raleigh David by Lucia Lutini, our profiler. But when I looked up, Tony Not Tony was smiling at me like we shared a family bond.

I smiled back. “How nice that someone recognizes true quality.”

“What size?”

I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “Nine . . .”

The smile stretched to the finish and revealed the former jockey's bridgework. “You know where my office is?”

I shook my head.

“Panel van,” he breathed. “Backstretch parking lot. Meet me after the final race. We'll celebrate.”

Chapter Seven

W
ith sixteen minutes to post, the atmosphere felt like the moment between lightning and thunder. The moment when life seemed to balance on the brink, anticipating an uncontrollable force. Thrilling, almost frightening, it reminded me of the minutes in DeMott Fielding's pickup truck, when snow silently fell around us and he asked if I would ever consider marrying him. They were the moments when the very next thing will change everything, forever.

Running down to the bottom of the grandstands, I flipped open my umbrella and jogged along the white rail. The announcer's voice crackled above me on the loudspeakers.

“In lane one, we have that brisk brew from Abbondanza, Cuppa Joe. Monday's big winner. And in lane two, Loosey Goosey, a fine fresh filly from Manchester Barn.” His voice sounded vaguely British, like a fake English accent. “In lane three, it's the mighty warrior known as SunTzu from the Hot Tin Barn.”

I glanced across the oval. The eight horses were walking single file, heading for the starting gate. The jockeys hunched their shoulders against the soft rain.

“And in lane four, Bubba's Revenge . . .”

I glanced at my watch. Eleven minutes. Eleanor expected me back in the dining room by post time. I hurried down the backstretch and stepped around a clutch of smokers who stood outside the Quarterchute Café, faces as lined as topographic maps. Closing the umbrella and giving it a shake, I opened the door. And smelled heaven.

Fries. Cheeseburgers. Grease.

“Freddie,” said a tiny woman behind the counter. “Love of my life, pay up.” She turned to the man working the grill. “Raleigh's here.”

On my first day out here, after Eleanor reordered my breakfast, I ran into this place like a beagle following a scent. By my second day, I had learned that Birdie Bidwell and her husband, Freddie, had opened the Quarterchute Café thirty-plus years ago, providing cheap food for the backstretch trainers, grooms, pony riders, and an assorted clutch of old gamblers whose wagers had won them small percentages of racehorses, just enough to qualify them as part-owners. The jockeys came in too, but only to drink water.

Birdie was a preternaturally tiny woman, almost childlike, with tourmaline-blue eyes and a round face. The cash register almost touched her chin. She held a Sharpie in one hand, carefully writing the day's word, which she hung daily on a birch tree beside the entrance. Spanish-to-English translations, for the track's many Hispanic workers. Today's sign read
Relaciones
= Relationships.

“Thanks for the flowers,” I said.

“Honey.” She capped the pen. “We were so worried about you we had to start a pool.”

I took a jumbo cup from the soda dispenser. “What was the wager?” I hit the button for Coca-Cola. Breakfast of champion liars.

“The wager was ‘Would Eleanor Anderson set foot inside the hospital?' That woman hates anything medical. But you know that.”

I didn't, but I nodded.

“Then I remembered something,” Birdie said. “When your uncle Harry got sick, that pneumonia killed him? Eleanor went to the hospital every single day. So I took long odds—and I won!”

“Congratulations.”

“Ah, it was easy. Any idiot can see how much your aunt loves you.”

I looked away, staring at the heat lamp on the counter. Underneath it, two foil packages waited, each labeled
Raleigh's BnE
. That acronym used to stand for breaking and entering. Now it was bacon and egg. I picked them up, feeling the warm, soft foil, and decided the worst part of being undercover was lying to the nice people.

“Thanks, Birdie.”

“Those are on me.”

“No, really—”

“Don't ruin my luck.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “Thank you.”

But she had already turned to the television opposite the cash register. A man dressed like an English beefeater raised a trumpet and began playing the opening tune. The Café fell into a reverential silence, as if the Pledge of Allegiance was being recited. The television shifted views, showing the track, the grandstands, the people, and a final shot of the inboard lights. The odds were almost locked in. The last shot was of the starting gate. In their confined spaces, the jockeys looked both compact and loose, straddling the horses. The trumpeter stretched out his last notes, extending that moment between lightning and thunder.

I checked my watch and walked over to the gingham-covered tables. If I ate fast, I could still get back to Eleanor. There was an open seat next to the old guy everyone called the Polish Prince. He was circling names on the betting sheet, slashing through others.

He looked at my food. “That stuff will kill you.”

“Aunt Eleanor already told me.”