On the stool next to Young was a ravaged, colourless man in his fifties whose white plantation suit was creased and stained, as if he’d slept in it and then eaten spaghetti in it. Yellow streaks in his gray hair added to the look of dissipation.
“Dexter,” Young said, “two Blue, please.”
The ravaged man had his head down, but at the sound of the voice beside him he looked up and around. “Detective Sergeant Campbell Young,” he said.
“Mr. Harvey,” Young said. “How are you making out today?”
Priam Harvey pursed his lips. In front of him on the bar lay a Racing Form open to the eighth race at Caledonia Downs, an empty pint glass, and an empty package of Player’s Light. “My best recollection,” he said, combing his thin hair with long, nicotine-stained fingernails, “is that I contributed generously to the retirement fund of a certain party who shall remain nameless.”
“Oh, the bookies were in today?”
With his right hand Harvey made a zipper motion across his lips.
“Relax,” Young said, as Dexter placed two bottles of beer in front of him. “Next time I want to bust a few bookies, I’ll let you know. I’m here to talk about Shorty.”
“To me?”
“Yes, to you.”
Harvey shook his head. “I tried to interest my editor in a story about the life and times of Shorty Rogers, but there seems to be some suspicion that his death was not simply an accident, and of course if there’s anything unsavoury about a story, Sport of Kings will avoid it like the plague. As you know, Detective, we only write what reflects well on our industry, an industry—I needn’t point out to you—that depends for its success on the willingness of the poor, the halt, the lame, the stupid and benighted to gamble away their welfare and unemployment cheques, money that might otherwise be spent on milk for their babies or heat for their houses. No, Sport of Kings wouldn’t touch a story like the death of Shorty Rogers—good man that he was, good horseman that he was—with a ten-foot pole.”
“I heard you didn’t work there anymore.”
There was a pause before Harvey answered. “Who told you I didn’t work there? Of course I work there. They wouldn’t know what to do without me. I’m the only literate member of the staff, for God’s sake.”
“Well, I was hoping you could help me out in a different way.”
“Shorty was a valued citizen among the racetrack community, and he was a friend of mine. Furthermore, he was named after Shorty Rogers, the jazz trumpeter. Therefore, I would be honoured to assist in any way I can.”
Young scratched behind an ear. “I thought he was called Shorty because he was short. He was a jockey when he was younger.”
Harvey gave Young a withering look. “I know he was a jockey when he was younger. I’ve done stories on the man. By the way, you might be interested to know that his real name was Milton Rajonsky.”
“Shorty’s?”
“Yes, Shorty Rogers.”
“I thought his name was Delbert.”
“No, I just told you. His name was Milton Rajonsky.”
“The jazz guy or the racetrack guy?”
“The jazz guy, as you so quaintly put it. The trumpeter.” Harvey was fishing for something in the pockets of his suitcoat. “Our Shorty’s real name was ... well, isn’t that interesting. I’m not sure I know what Shorty’s real name was.”
“That’s what I’m telling you, his real name was Delbert. That’s why I was confused when you mentioned this Milton guy. And to tell you the truth, I’d be surprised if whoever gave Shorty his nickname had ever heard of the jazz guy.”
Harvey’s impatience turned to appraisal. Then he nodded his head. “You may be right. Anyway, proceed. How may I help?”
“Shorty Rogers was murdered. And it’s more than likely that someone involved in horse racing is the killer, or at least hired the killer. I know a bit about betting the ponies, but I know dick-all about the ins and outs of the racing business. That’s why I need you. You understand how it operates, who the big players are. You understand the politics. I need someone with that kind of inside information to help me with the investigation, to let me know what’s being said on the backstretch.”
Harvey lifted a fresh pack of cigarettes from a pocket and was trying to locate the tiny cellophane tab to unwrap it. “What’s in it for me?”
“Fifty bucks a day. You’ll be my consultant.”
“Why me? There’s lots of people who are knowledgeable about the track.”
Young shrugged. “I owe you one. You told me to talk to Shorty about a job for Debi.”
“I did? When?”
“Five years ago, give or take.”
Harvey laid down his pack of cigarettes. “I don’t remember anything about it. I have no recollection ...” He looked at Young, then away again. “You aren’t just feeling sorry for me, are you?”
“Of course not. You’re the best man for—”
“Isn’t that Percy?” Harvey interrupted. “It is. That’s Percy fucking Ball!”
During their conversation, Young had been watching the tanned woman in the bikini on TV #3. Young looked around to see Harvey pointing up at TV #1, the closed-circuit Caledonia Downs channel, where a short, skeletal man with bouncy blond hair was leading an exhausted thoroughbred away from the unsaddling area.
“No question about it,” Harvey said. “That’s Percy Ball. I thought he was dead. Skinny bastard owes me seventy dollars. I think it was seventy. I haven’t seen him in months, and there he is, large as life. When old Dawson—you know him, sits here a lot—when he told me Percy was dead, I said, ‘Oh well, I can kiss that seventy bucks goodbye,’ and old Dawson, bless his heart, he says, ‘That’s okay, Mr. Harvey, all debts are paid in heaven.’”
Young, lighting a cigarette, said, “Oh, Percy Ball is very much alive.”
“Little prick probably started the rumour himself,” Harvey said, “just so I wouldn’t come after him.”
“As it happens,” Young said, exhaling, “Percy Ball was working for Shorty at the time of the murder.” He lifted his chin towards TV #1. “But it seems he’s found a new barn.”
“They all find new barns,” Harvey said. “They’re like rats that way.” Then he sat up straight and waved his hand. “Dexter? A pint of Creemore, please, and a shot of Bushmills. Detective, allow me to buy you a drink.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Harvey, I still have a full one here.”
Harvey was leaning forward and looking around. “Where the hell’s he got to?”
A tall red-headed woman approached them behind the bar. She said, “Dexter’s downstairs getting a keg. What do you want?”
“Ah, the radiant Jessy,” Harvey said. “I require a pint of Creemore and a chaser.”
“Haven’t you had enough?” Her voice had an Irish lilt to it. She looked at Young. “Hello there, sailor.”
“Jessy,” he said.
She continued to look at him for several seconds. Then she turned back to Priam Harvey. “I think you’ve had enough, Mr. Harvey. I think it’s time you went home and lay down for awhile.”
Harvey was about to protest, but Jessy wagged a finger in front of his nose. “No arguments. Get going. I’ll add the bill to your tab.”
As