So, here is an old Halloween story I wrote during my horse-racing days (betting, not riding or owning), about a horse-player who may have sold his soul for a winning streak. Helena did some helpful editing (she knows a bit about the horse races too). It is a little bit Doctor Faustus,and a little bit Damon Runyon.
A Dark Horse
- Story copyright Dale Olausen and Helena Puumala
- Cover image copyright Dale Olausen
By the way, Helena Puumala's Halloween story "Beyond the Blue Door" is doing nicely on Amazon this Halloween - in the top 10 or so for the "Ghosts and Haunted Houses" category and top 35 for Kindle Short Reads, Literature and Fiction.
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A Dark Horse
"No!
Please! I'm begging you! Stop!" The woman's shrill voice
reverberated down the long corridor.
The
young man hesitated and turned to his partner. The older man just
nodded.
The
axe sliced through the air and met its target with a sickening thud.
Weakly, the woman begged
once more, then fell silent with the next swing of the axe.
"She's
tougher than I would have thought", the young man said with an
embarrassed smile.
The
young man warmed to his task. The axe rose and fell three more
times. Suddenly the young man dropped the axe and bent over.
"Dammit",
he cursed. "Something flew up and went in my eye! I can't see a
goddamn thing."
"Serves
you right", the woman said spitefully, "for destroying such
a beautiful door. They don't make 'em out of solid maple like this
no more, you know. If I asked you once, I asked you a dozen times,
just wait half an hour and my husband will be home with the passkey.
But would you listen? Of course not. Cops!" She spat the last
word out, making no effort to hide her contempt for the men. "Maybe
you guys better give me your badge numbers or something. Just 'cause
you're cops don't give you the right to come in and damage honest
people's private property, you know."
The
older man let out a long sigh. "I'll go through this one more
time, Mrs. Donaldson. In fact, I'll go through it step by tiny step,
just so there won't be any misunderstanding.
My
name is Captain MacNiel and this is Lieutenant Royker. We are police
officers engaged in legitimate police business. The occupant of this
apartment, one Mr. Daniel Foster, has been reported missing by his
girlfriend. His employer says he hasn't been at work for nearly a
week. We have therefore sought and received authorization from the
court to search this unit and attempt to ascertain the whereabouts of
said occupant. You've seen our search warrant. The owners of the
building have been notified, and they'll be fully compensated by the
City of Edmonton for any damage that's done. They can't blame you -
it's entirely out of your hands.
As
for your husband - read the warrant. We are not obliged to waste all
day waiting on him and his passkey. That's the way the law works, and
if you don't like it, you're perfectly free to say so during the next
election. Now would you please leave us alone to do our job!"
"Yeah,
sure", she replied as she walked back down the long corridor.
"But you just wait 'till my husband gets back. He knows the law,
you know. You won't be able to talk so tough once he gets back here."
MacNiel
shook his head and turned his attention back to the door. "It's
alright, Royker", he said. "I don't think we'll be needing
the axe anymore. I ought to be able to just get my hand through this
hole that you've already made. You take it easy until we get into
the apartment. Then we can attend to your eye."
"I'm
OK, Mack." With a wave he dismissed his partner's concern. "It
was just a little splinter."
Quickly
he snaked his hand through the small opening and began to unlock the
door. "Jesus, can you figure this? Three deadbolts on top of the
regular lock. This Foster guy was some kind of a paranoiac."
"Maybe
for good reason", MacNiel replied.
The
officers stepped through the doorway, directly into the living room.
The place was tidy, but not homey. It had the spare, utilitarian
look typical of a bachelor's residence. Beyond the living room they
could see a small kitchen and dining room; to their right was a
hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom.
"Check
out the bedroom and bathroom, Eric", MacNiel said to his
partner. "And you'd better get on the horn to some forensic
boys."
MacNiel
did a preliminary search of the kitchen and living room. Nothing
suspicious, he thought. Certainly no signs of a struggle.
He
walked over to a large writing desk that dominated the living room.
There were two empty glasses and an empty bottle of scotch resting
upon it.
Glen
Fiddich, he thought. At least this Foster was no piker. Taking his
hanky out of his pocket, he gingerly opened the desk drawers. The
top drawers held the usual assortment of junk. Pens, pencils, stamps,
unopened junk mail, receipts - nothing very interesting, at least not
on the surface. The lower right hand drawer held some back issues of
newspapers. That might contain some leads, he thought. The lower
left held a sheaf of handwritten papers. He lifted the papers to look
beneath them. His eyes opened wide with surprise.
"Nothing
terribly interesting in the bedroom or bathroom", Royker said as
he returned to the living room.
"Nothing?
That's odd. That's very odd. I was expecting something quite
terribly interesting."
The
younger man shrugged. "Just some back issues of The Daily Racing
Form and a few skin magazines. Not exactly unusual items for a
single guy to have. Mind if I close the window? Cold as death in
here. You’d swear there was a damn blizzard outside."
"Don't
touch that window!", MacNiel yelled suddenly. "Sorry, Eric
- not 'till it’s been dusted for prints."
MacNiel
carefully removed the papers and placed them on the desk top. Then he
gently slid the drawer closed, hiding its other contents. Royker
walked over and stood beside him. Together, they examined the
documents.
*
* *
"October
31
It’s
hard to know just where to begin. This whole situation is so
confusing, so unreal that it’s got me shook up pretty bad. I'm
only putting this down on paper to give myself a chance to really
think things through. Maybe once I've done that I'll be able to get
a decent night's sleep. Maybe that damn dream will quit coming back.
Then I'll see how ridiculous, how fanciful this whole thing is. I'm
sure it's just a bunch of coincidences, nothing that an intelligent
person should get worked up over.
I'll
admit it - I'm a gambler. Fact is, I'm a degenerate gambler. If I
wasn't, none of this would have ever happened. I know gambling isn't
exactly the most wholesome activity going, but I can't help myself.
I've always been attracted to it. Sometimes I think I must have been
conceived at the racetrack, and knowing my old man, that's not
entirely out of the question. It's in the blood, you know.
Anyway,
a while back, I was locked into the deepest losing streak I'd ever
known, maybe the deepest losing streak anyone has ever known. At
least that's how it seemed to me.
I'd
been six straight weeks without a winning day. Hell, at one point I'd
went fifty-seven straight races without seeing the cashier's window.
The odds against that must be astronomical. A dead man could do
better. I mean, pure dumb luck ought to count for something. At any
rate, I was feeling pretty desperate.
Desperate
is just a word. The truth is, I was terrified. The losing streak
wasn't so bad - I had ridden out enough of them in the past. Nothing
lasts forever - not in this world anyway.
The
thing with this one was, I'd gotten careless. I'd overextended
myself with a bookie by the name of Black Mickey. I know it's bad
news to fool with a bookie, but I'd ran out of chips, and figured my
bad luck had to break sooner rather than later. I mean, this streak
was getting old. It was due to end and the odds owed me a good
score. Then there'd be plenty to go around, even after the bookie
got his cut.
Bookies
- I'd always figured them to be a necessary evil, with heavy emphasis
on the evil. I remember one time, when I was a teenager, my sister's
boyfriend got every finger in his hand broken by some tough guys that
his bookie had sent around. That was for a thousand bucks. I owed
twenty gee's - God only knew what that would be worth to a guy like
Black Mickey.
Black
Mickey. He wasn't Irish and he damn sure wasn't black. Anyone stupid
enough to go in for a dramatic nickname like that just had to be
dangerous.
Everything
was going wrong. Things were closing in. That's when the dreams
began. The dreams - I'll try to describe them. They always began the
same way.
I
can see myself lying in bed sleeping, tossing and kicking, as if I'm
having a nightmare, maybe being chased by something.
Suddenly
I wake up with a start.
I
sit up in bed and stay real still for a while, as if I'm trying to
hear voices in another room. Then, I get up and slip on my robe.
The room's dark but it's not so dark that I can't move around easily
enough. It's like maybe a full moon is shining.
I
open the door and walk down the hall into the dining room. That
room's really bright, impossibly bright, way brighter than any light
fixture could ever make it. There's a figure sitting at my writing
desk. In the middle of the desk there's a bottle of Glen Fiddich and
two empty glasses. I sit down across from the man. He pours us each
a drink.
I
say man, but the word doesn't really fit. He's dressed very
strangely, in something like a monk's habit. But this garment, it's
made of some kind of cloth that I ain't ever seen outside of that
dream. It's black, so black that it looks as if it's drinking up the
light. If you've ever been caught after sunset walking down a
deserted country road, when there's no moon or stars in the sky, you
know what I mean. It was like all the light that fell on that gown
was getting lost somewhere in the fabric and never finding its way
back out.
He's
got a cloak covering his head. You can't see his face, because that
weird cloth is soaking up all the light around it. Just the whites
of his eyes can be seen, and in the center of them are pupils that
are even blacker than his clothes. I try not to look at those eyes,
but somehow I've gotta look, the way you can't help but stare at a
someone who's been badly burnt when you walk by them.
The
first time I had the dream I could hear myself ask, "What is
your name?". He didn't say a word, but even though I couldn't
see his face, I had the feeling that he was smiling.
"Why
are you here?" I asked.
"You
know why."
"Yes,
I do." I surprised myself by blurting out the answer so fast.
"Your
troubles seem very great to you, but they are inconsequential. I can
help you, but you must realize that you have to return the favor."
"Return
the favor?"
"Everyone
has a price. You know what I mean."
"Yes,
I do." Again, I surprised myself.
"Then
you agree?"
"Yes."
I said it quietly, so quietly that the sound seemed to be too feeble
cross the width of the desk. But of course it did.
"It
is done. The man you fear will no longer trouble you. We will drink
to our arrangement." At that he raised his glass, and the
scotch disappeared into the dark place where his mouth ought to have
been. I drank my scotch in one throw, surprised at how smooth it was
on my tongue. But it burned horribly on the way down.
As
I turned to go back to my bed, I heard him say 'Fateful Star'. Then
I went back to my bed and fell into a deep sleep. There were no more
dreams that night.
The
first morning after I'd had that dream, I woke up before dawn. I lay
in bed thinking. I'm usually not much of one for recalling dreams but
this one had such an uncanny feeling about it that I sort of lost my
bearings. I remember having the crazy notion that the dream was a
real memory. It was that authentic, like the memory of a car accident
or a street fight, being played back in slow motion, with every
detail vivid and in perfect focus.
Eventually,
these feelings wore off. The sun was up by then, and it made me feel
kind of foolish. I must confess, though, that on my way to the shower
I couldn't help but glance over at the table, half expecting to see
two empty glasses at my writing desk. Well, now I'll be honest. I
examined that table pretty carefully for stains from the glasses. It
was that kind of a dream.
As
I left the building, at about noon, I was still feeling vaguely
troubled, remembering that dream.
My
troubles suddenly became anything but vague.
"Hey
now, sonny-boy, don't you have a little debt to society that you'd
like to come clean on?" It was an ugly voice that intruded. I
turned to my left and saw a face that matched the voice perfectly.
At the same time, a hand that would never need the assistance of a
pair of vice grips squeezed my right shoulder.
"You'd
best answer the man", came an even uglier voice from an even
uglier face. "He's an agent for a very important person."
"Yeah,
yeah, take it easy" was all I could manage through the sudden
pain. The grip on my right shoulder let off a bit.
"About
that debt", the first voice continued, "our employer would
hate to have to cancel your credit."
"You'd
better not disappoint us", the second voice added. "'Cause
when the boss writes off a debt, he writes off more than just the
debt." He increased the pressure on my shoulder for emphasis.
"Get it, pal? He writes off more than just the debt!" The
two men cackled like it was the best joke they'd heard all year.
"Alright
already. Tell Black Mickey that I'll have a payment for him
tonight", I answered in desperation. I hoped they could hear me
above the sudden pounding in my temples. I sure couldn't.
"Alright",
the first ugly voice said, "but no peanuts.
Remember,
we always know where we can find you." His partner gave my
shoulder another squeeze for good measure.
What
a spot to be in. Money. I needed money. All of a sudden it wasn't
hard to forget that dream, not hard at all.
It
wasn't hard to forget every book I'd ever read, every girl I'd ever
known, every job I'd ever held. Even remembering my own mother's name
posed a problem. The only thing that mattered was money. How much
could I get and how soon could I get it.
The
only money I had left was a five thousand dollar bond that my
grandmother had left me in her will, about four years back. I'd
always prided myself on the fact that I hadn't yet gambled that money
away. I'd always liked the old gal - respected her even. Even a
degenerate gambler has feelings. If she'd have known what I was
gonna use that money for it would have killed her. Good thing she
was already dead, was all I could think.
I
hurried off to the bank. I needed that money in my pocket right now.
I needed to see it, to touch it, to smell it. It was the only
lifeline I had left.
It
was the kind of bond that paid good interest, but only if you could
stick it out for the full five years. Seeing as how four years and
change had passed the bank was only too pleased to see me cash it.
What the hell. It was money. It would buy me time.
But
what was my next move to be? I could give Black Mickey the whole wad
and promise him most of my paycheck for the next five years. That
might work - at least he'd be impressed by my good intentions. But
that would leave me without a stake to operate with, and I wasn't
sure his type would stay impressed by good intentions for long. Or I
could take the five grand and hope to parlay it into a big payday.
Then maybe I could get the louse off my back for good. All I had to
do was pray that my bad luck streak would snap. Of course if I lost
it all....
That
night's betting started off promisingly enough. The first three races
were sucker bets, so I held off from any action until the fourth.
That wasn't easy in my state of mind. But the fourth had a nice
little filly running, one I'd seen a couple of times before. Lucky
Steal she was called. She had good inside speed and by this time in
the meet the track usually favored inside speed. To boot, she was
coming off two solid wins against a field notable for its mediocrity.
To my surprise, the crowd laid off her. By post time she was offering
five to one. It was now or never. I wagered a grand on the nose.
Lucky
Steal, all right. Only, whoever was lucky, it sure as hell wasn't
me. And the only stealing done was out of my wallet.
I
bet a cee on the fifth. It looked like a promising little exactor -
So Friendly to Mister Buzz Wuzz. Naturally it came in Mister Buzz
Wuzz to So Friendly and naturally it paid in the high nineties on a
deuce. Naturally, I was too stupid to back up the bet. There went
forty-five hundred, down the drain.
The
field in the sixth was garbage, so like a good trooper I held off.
But it's tough to hold off for long when you're desperate. I was
losing my confidence - I needed a win the way a baby needs its
mother.
A
nice safe chalk bet. I figured that would be just the ticket. Rusty
Sailor was favored in the seventh and he was good for anything a guy
could scrape together. So I threw down five yards, even though he
was only going off at three to five. Three hundred bucks wouldn't
help the cause much, but I just had to have a trip to the cashier's
window. A fourteen to one shot came in.
By
now my mood was getting black. I'd already gone though sixteen
hundred bucks and my luck was worse than ever, impossible as that
seemed. What would sixteen hundred be worth to Black Mickey?
Probably
a couple of busted fingers. That's all money meant now - so much hurt
for so many dollars.
Like
I said, my mood was awfully black. As black as something you might
see in your worst nightmare... Could it be? I scanned the form. Sure
enough, there he was in the ninth race. A horse by the name of
Fateful Star.
The
past performances were good and he'd ran some awfully fast times in
recent workouts. Funny thing was, the morning line had him badly
underrated.
I
approached the race with a kind of dreadful curiosity. I don't
believe in all that supernatural mumbo-jumbo but I had to admit this
was some kind of a weird coincidence.
I
kept a close eye on the tote board - his odds were incredible. Two
minutes to race time and he was still better than ten to one. The
way the crowd was laying off him, it was like they were reading from
a different racing form.
What
the hell. He was too good to pass up, especially at those odds. I
knew then that I had to pump him, dream or no dream, and I had to
pump him big.
I
laid down three grand to win. The odds barely budged. I decided to go
up to the grandstand to watch the race. This one was too important to
see second hand on some lousy closed circuit TV.
It
was cold up there, so cold that most of the crowd had already gone
inside. I hardly noticed it though - it felt like fifty thousand
volts were going through me. I'd never bet this money much on a
single race in my life and I'd never played for stakes this high. It
was the moment that every gambler dreams about.
If
only I hadn't had that stupid dream.
The
race was a mile and a sixteenth and as soon as it had begun I knew I
was sunk. Fateful Star - it all seemed like some kind of a cosmic
joke now. He came out of the starting gate like he wasn't sure which
way he ought to run.
By
the three quarter pole he must have been a good thirty five lengths
back. All of a sudden, though, he went wide and seemed to catch fire.
He hit the stretch like he was equipped with afterburners. He flew
by the leaders and crossed the wire an easy three lengths ahead.
Hell, he had so much speed to spare that the jockey couldn't restrain
him 'til they'd circuited the track again. It was the damndest move
I'd ever seen.
I'm
not usually one of these guys that gets emotional at the track. It
always struck me as bad form to get exited in public over a win and
even worse to get morose after a loss. In this case, though I
suspended my rule. After all, I may very well have saved my neck or
at least a couple of kneecaps. I just hope the poor dummy I wound up
hugging half to death wasn't left thinking that I wear ladies
underwear.
I
left the track a new man, a free man, a healthy man, and not
incidentally a reasonably prosperous man. Things were definitely
looking up. Even after paying off that leech, Black Mickey, I'd
still be up a good six grand on the day. Grandma, you can rest easy
again.
I
was feeling so high that the gravel road to Black Mickey's 'shop' in
the country felt as smooth a mirrored glass. His strong armed thugs
weren't going to have a nice soft body to beat on, after all. That
was too bad. They'd just have to practice flexing their muscles on
something else, like maybe a D-9 Cat.
Once
I'd got to Mickey's I was shown to his private office. He seemed
surprised when I came up with the dough, although pleasantly so. In
fact, he displayed a whole new aspect to his character.
"You
have the money, I see. Frankly I didn't expect it. I didn't realize
that you were a man of such means. I must congratulate you. I'd
assumed that you would have turned out to be just another deadbeat."
He almost seemed sad to find out that he wasn't such a shrewd judge
of character after all.
"Come
into my study. We'll have a drink together to celebrate your good
fortune."
I
had to admit that his study was very nicely decorated. As crumbs go,
he had taste. The walls were covered in finely crafted wood paneling,
mahogany by the look of it. Two whole walls were reserved for books,
all of which seemed to be exclusively confined to early editions,
probably none less than a hundred years old. Not that that proved he
could read. There were two hand stitched leather chairs, separated by
an antique card table. The center of the room was dominated by a
massive billiard table, very old world it seemed. It had obviously
had a new cloth installed recently. It was a very bright red, almost
blinding. Strange choice for such a room, I thought.
"Have
a seat", he said as he motioned me to one of the leather chairs.
"Nice
room", I told him. "Tastefully decked out."
"Colloquially
put, Mr. Foster, but I thank you just the same. Actually I rarely
have guests in this room, unless I find them either quite promising
or quite interesting."
"Where
do I fit in. I mean, why do I rate such a high honor?" I was in
no mood to hide my sarcasm.
"Interesting,
I should think. Knowledgeable perhaps. Would you care to play a few
hands of poker? You seem like the sort who enjoys a good bluff."
"No
thanks. I'm not sure that you'd provide adequate stimulation."
"Very
droll. Perhaps I should re-categorize you as promising. Billiards,
then? Maybe you'd like to test your luck."
"No,
I think I'll pass on that one, too. I'd hate for you to wind up owing
me money."
All
this phony refinement was beginning to get under my skin.
"As
you wish. Surely you'll join me in a drink though?"
At
that he walked over to a bar that was behind the pool table. I
hadn't noticed it earlier. That garish red felt must have distracted
my eyes.
"Very
fine scotch. Glen Fiddich. The finest available in these parts."
He was beginning to swagger.
"I'm
impressed", I said with my most unimpressed voice.
"So
what is it that makes me so interesting?"
"Merely
that you managed to come up with such a substantial amount of money
on such short notice. As I stated earlier, I'd expected you to be
one of those who would need considerable persuading before you would
you would have taken your debts seriously. Not that I mind - that
part of my business is truly dreary. Let's just call my interest
professional curiosity. How did you manage it?"
"I'd
rather not say. Professional discretion, you might call it. I don't
like to disclose my sources." I took a drink of the scotch.
Very smooth to the tongue but hot on the way down. I idly wondered
what was familiar about it, then made the connection with an
involuntary shudder. Just another stupid coincidence I thought.
"Perhaps
it was an inside tip? A reliable source that you'd prefer not to
compromise? It might even have been a mutual acquaintance." He
almost leered when he said that.
"Maybe.
Who knows? It could be something like that. Listen, it's been a
pleasure doing business, but I've gotta go." I forced myself to
remain calm as I tossed back the remainder of the scotch.
"We
have an interesting history, you and me. Perhaps we can make another
mutually profitable arrangement sometime?"
His
choice of words was really beginning to make me jumpy.
"You
mean another loan? For another bet?" I said it quickly and
sharply, definitely lacking the cool edge I'd come in with.
"But
of course", he said with a smile. "Whatever else could I
mean?"
"Maybe
later. You can never tell", I said as I hurried out of the
room. I had to get out that man's presence. I could barely talk
now. My mouth was so dry that I felt like I could gulp down a river.
As
I left though, I couldn't help but look back.
"You're
real name can't be Black Mickey. What do your friends know you as?"
"Alas,
good business sense precludes me from divulging it to any but my
closest associates. You understand, don't you?" The last
sentence should have been a question, but to my ears it came as an
accusation.
"Yeah,
sure. But why Black Mickey?"
"Ah,
well. One such as yourself, a gambler labelled me with that moniker.
I believe the colloquial expression is, it stuck. But be patient,
I'm quite sure that we'll eventually be on a first name basis."
I
couldn't be sure, but I think he smiled when he said that.
That's
the last time I've been to see Black Mickey. I've had no need of his
services since then. My luck changed dramatically and all for the
better. It's been the hottest winning streak I've ever had, for all
I know it's been the hottest winning streak of all time.
I
don't know and at this point I really don't care. You see, this
streak has been too much, to unreal for me to feel comfortable with.
I like to win. Every gambler likes to win. Hell, everyone likes to
win, gambler or not. But this thing - I don't know. I think I
preferred the losing streak.
The
thing that's really got me are those damned dreams. Every night it's
the same thing. They follow the script, the one I described before.
I get up and go to the desk. The dark man refuses to tell me his
name. We make a bargain, and we seal it with a drink. As I turn to
leave, I hear the name of a horse. The next day that horse is on the
card. If I bet the horse, he wins. If I don't bet he loses. I've
made over $200,000 in the last month alone, and I'm not even trying.
A horse player's dream, right? I'd give it all up for a good night's
sleep.
For
a long while I thought I had it all figured out. Maybe I still do -
who knows. Anyway, here's how I figured it.
I've
heard that everything that a person reads, hears, thinks, or
otherwise experiences is stored permanently in some part of the
brain. It's kind of like a complete record of your life, perfect
down to the tiniest detail - only you can't usually get at it very
well. A brain surgeon found out about it when he was poking around in
some poor sap's head - you stimulate the right place, and bingo! The
guy remembers a book he read when he was eight years old.
Like
any serious handicapper, I read the Bible - The Daily Racing Form,
that is - studiously. That means buying the form for the next day’s
racing as I'm leaving the track and poring over it that evening. My
theory was that my subconscious mind was rereading the form and doing
my handicapping for me. Then, in the dream it would let me have the
next day's best pick.
My
mind probably chose the symbol of the dark man to convey the
information because I was so rattled by Black Mickey and his henchmen
when this whole thing started. As for all that stuff Black Mickey
said about inside tips from a mutual acquaintance and getting to know
his real name - it's all perfectly logical. As a big time bookie he
must get lots of inside information about fixed races, from all sorts
of people. It makes sense that when I won so big, he'd think I was
doing the same – betting on a fixed race. And of course I'd
eventually learn his real name - I'm a big time gambler and he's a
big time bookie - what could be more natural than us eventually
becoming 'close associates'.
As
for the scotch, that was just a coincidence.
That
theory seemed to explain it all nicely - until last night. The dream
was different. The dark man didn't give me the name of a horse to
play. Instead, he said that the next time I made a bet I would pick
my own winner. But when I did, I would discover his name. Then it
would be time for me to pay up.
I
don't mind saying that I was plenty spooked by that.
As
soon as I woke up I looked over today's card with a microscope. But
try as I might, I couldn't find a horse whose name sounded in the
least, well I'll say it, demonic.
I
guess I could have just skipped today's races altogether. That way
there would have been no chance for the dark man's prediction to come
true. But I couldn't let this superstitious nonsense get to me. I
mean, hell, I'd be haunted, never making another bet for as long as I
lived for fear of stumbling upon that name.
I
didn't bet tonight until the tenth race. By then I was getting
awfully jumpy. I figured I had to take on a little action - it was
the only thing that would release me from this crazy phobia.
I
carefully avoided looking at the horse's names. I just picked the
most pathetic nag I could find. It was a little roan with absolutely
hopeless past performances. She was a five-year old who still hadn't
won a race. And she was up against a better than average field.
Going on form, she didn't even belong in the race. To be doubly sure,
I went down to the paddock and had a look at her. She didn't look
like she could outrun a snail on valium. I figured I had a sure
thing, dead last by at least fifty lengths. That would rid me of
this mumbo-jumbo for good.
The
race was a carbon copy of the first one that the dark man had gave
me. For the first half my horse was so far back it looked like she
was gonna be lapped. But once she hit the three quarter pole, she
took off like she'd been shot out of a cannon. She won by five
lengths going away and didn't even slow down for a good half mile
past the wire.
When
I looked up her name in the racing form, I couldn't figure it out for
a while. Ellehcim de Roin, she was called.
Kind
of a stupid name, I thought, but then who knows with horses. It
sounded French, but these weren't French words I was familiar with
from my University days. Until you spelled them backwards - Michelle
de Noir. Black Mickey. It was a bad joke, but it fit.
So
that's where it stands. It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm sitting in my
apartment - just me and a bottle of Glen Fiddich, waiting for
something to happen. Even after rereading what I've put down I'm not
so sure what it all means. Probably nothing at all.
There's
a knock on the door. I don't want to go look.
But
it won't go away. This is crazy. I've gotta go – gotta fight this
stupid phobia or it'll drive me mad.
Nobody
there. I must be hearing things - worrying for nothing. Probably
it's just the booze.
There
it is again. Only it's not the door. It’s the window - it's
someone rapping on my window. But...Oh my God, it's not humanly
possible. I live on the sixteenth floor!
*
* *
"So
Mack, how do you figure it?", the young lieutenant asked.
"I'm
not sure, Eric", his partner replied.
"Aw,
come off it! You don't take any of this garbage seriously do you? I
mean, a gambler selling his soul in a dream - a two hundred thousand
dollar winning streak - a devil-bookie claiming his soul?". The
young man gave an incredulous look.
"I've
been in this business a bit longer that you. There's more things in
heaven and earth, Horatio..."
"No
offence, Mack. I know you're Catholic and all that, but still."
"I
suppose you're right, Eric. How do you figure it?"
"OK,
I'll give you my theory. Maybe this guy was in trouble with a
bookie. He can't pay him off, so he concocts this fantastic tale and
splits town. He knows that once we read this thing and make our
report, word will get out on the street. He figures maybe the
bookie'll buy it and not bother to chase him to Montreal. Or
wherever. End of story."
"That
could be. But there's a couple of loose ends. What about the locks?"
"What
about the locks?", the younger man asked.
"Seems
to me, we had to break into this place with an axe because the door
was locked from inside. One lock and three deadbolts as I recall.
And obviously there's nobody in the apartment."
Royker
looked uncomfortable. He hated to have to acknowledge such an
obvious flaw in his theory. "Well the window was open. A rope
ladder maybe".
"Sixteen
floors. That's an pretty long rope ladder. And how did he unhook it
from the window so's that we don't see it now?"
The
young man thought for a while. "Safecrackers got all kinds of
devices - electromagnetic stuff that can open a lock from the wrong
side. I suppose they can lock a door from the wrong side too. That's
probably what he did."
"Could
be. The brass'll like that explanation better than devils. But
there's one other loose end that I haven't told you about. And it's
really hard to figure. If you can explain it, you've got me sold."
The
young detective felt he was on a roll. "Fire away, Mack."
Slowly
the older officer opened the desk drawer that had contained the
papers that they had just read. The young man watched and couldn't
help but let out a low whistle as he saw the neatly stacked bundles
of hundred dollar bills.
"He
said he was up two hundred grand. I ain't counted it but I can tell
it's one big pile of dough. So why didn't he pay off the bookie and
go to Vegas with the rest?"
"I
don't know Mack. Maybe you and Shakespeare are right - maybe there
are more things in heaven and earth."
"You're
learning. Like I said, I've been in this business a long time.
Sometimes cases like this come up. Did you ever think of going to
church, Eric?"
The
young man just smiled. "So how are we gonna file this one,
Mack?"
"It's
just another missing persons case, son. Just another missing persons
case."
