LITMIR.BIZ

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deal,” Harvey said. “I’m respected by barflies and members of the service industry.”

      “And you’ve got your own barstool, for fucksake. How do you explain that?”

      “It’s not charisma, I can tell you that. It’s not even my somewhat seedy, down-at-the-heels, philosopher-prince persona. It’s quite simply that I win more than I lose on the ponies and I’m better than anyone else at the trivia game. I’m smarter than them, that’s all.”

      Young nodded and smiled, then glanced at the Blue Light clock above the bar. “So,” he said, “excuse me if I cut to the chase, but what have you got on Percy Ball?”

      Harvey almost choked on his beer. “There’s a non sequitur if I ever met one.”

      “I don’t know what that means, but I do know that yesterday you told me, and I quote, ‘I’ll have something for you tomorrow.’”

      Harvey shrugged. “I’ll need another couple of days on that one. It’s turning out to be more difficult than I anticipated.”

      Young said, “Look at me, Mr. Harvey,” and when Harvey wouldn’t look at him, Young said, “You’re a pretty interesting guy, and I know you’re smart and all, but how difficult can it be to get the goods on a smalltime crook who drinks all the time in the same place and who talks too much? You haven’t done anything, have you? You haven’t even begun. That offer I made you—fifty dollars a day—that only applies to those days when you actually do something. I hope you understand that. So far you haven’t earned a cent.”

      Harvey was looking into his glass. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

      Young shook his head. “I’ve already talked to him. Twice. He’s leery of me. That’s why I want you to do it. He won’t have his guard up with you.”

      “Fine,” Harvey said. “I’ll have a full report for you tomorrow.”

      “I find that a little hard to believe,” Young said, standing up from his stool, “seeing as how you’re settling in so nicely here. When exactly, between now and tomorrow, do you plan to talk to him?”

      Harvey’s hand shook as he reached for his pint.

      Young put his hand on Harvey’s wrist. “You said you’d help, but you haven’t done fuck all. If you won’t help me—or can’t help me—I’ll find someone who can.”

      Harvey nodded.

      “Tomorrow,” Young said. “I’ll give you till seven in the evening. I’ll meet you here. Me and Trick are stopping by for a drink.” He rattled his car keys in his trousers pocket, then turned and headed for the door.

      Harvey waited until Young was gone, then lifted his head. “Dexter, my good man,” he said, “a shot of Bushmills, please.”

       Saturday, June 10

      Young was out at Caledonia Downs by 6:00 a.m. Officially, he had the day off, but he figured he could kill four or five birds with one stone: he could watch the morning workouts, interview Shorty Rogers’ regular jockey, Trinidad Grant, and Trinidad’s agent, Ronald Outhouse, visit with his daughter, and stay for the after-noon’s card of racing. He’d be back on Sunday with Trick, of course, but this was a special treat. He was excited about watching the morning workouts—the rumble of hooves as the horses galloped out of the mist at the head of the stretch—and propping himself against the rail with the trainers and grooms and hot-walkers and clockers.

      But just as he stopped his minivan at the backstretch gate and showed his badge, the gathering clouds let loose, and even though plenty of horses would still do their workouts, Young decided the rain was too heavy to stand out in and jogged from the parking lot to Barn 7, where he found Debi mucking out a stall.

      “Daddy!” she said, dropping her pitchfork. She stepped out of the stall and hugged him. “What are you doing here?”

      “Business. I’m looking for Trinidad Grant and his agent, a guy called Ronald Outhouse.”

      “Well, you’ll probably find Outhouse in the track kitchen, hustling mounts. Trinny’s most likely still out at the training track. You don’t think they had anything to do with—”

      “No, sweetie, I just want to ask them some questions. I’ll catch up with you later.”

      The rain had let up, and Young walked out to the training track. He wanted to catch the last of the work-outs. He stood at the rail for a few minutes, one railbird among many, before he recognized the small man standing near him with a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes.

      “Morning, Mr. Wright,” he said.

      Tom Wright lowered his glasses. “Oh, it’s you, Detective.”

      “You working Doll House?”

      “No, she ran yesterday. She’s all tuckered out. I expect she’s snoozin’ in her stall.”

      “How’d she do?”

      “Never got untracked.”

      “I forgot she was running. Guess I saved some money.”

      “She’s back on July 2. Mile and a sixteenth. It’s a Sunday, I think.”

      “I’ll be here.”

      “Looks like a good fit for her, but as I always say, Detective, don’t bet the farm.” Tom raised his glasses to his eyes again. “So how you doin’ with the Shorty Rogers case?”

      “Still chasing down leads. Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’m looking for Trinidad Grant.”

      Tom lowered his glasses again. “Well, you’re in luck,” he said, and pointed at a black horse cantering past them. “That’s him right there.”

      Five minutes later, Young and Trinidad Grant were walking towards the track kitchen. Grant was small and handsome and looked like Harry Belafonte.

      Young said, “You know my daughter, Debi Young?”

      “Sure, I know Debi.” Grant looked carefully up at Young. “She’s with Eldridge Carver, right?”

      “That’s right.”

      “He’s good people. He’s my homey.”

      Once inside the kitchen, Grant led Young to a table in the corner occupied by a cadaverous man smoking a cigarette. Pale and unshaven, he was wearing an Expos cap and had a Racing Form and a Hilroy scribbler open in front of him. “Ron,” Grant said, “this is Detective Young. He wants to talk about Shorty.”

      The man nodded at Young. He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and lit a fresh one. “I got you a mount in the eighth.”

      “Excellent,” Grant said, as he and Young sat down. “Any chance?”

      Outhouse shrugged. “Not much.”

      “How many I got altogether?”

      Outhouse checked the Hilroy. “You got the favourite in the first, you got a two-year-old in the third, first-time starter, and this one in the eighth.” He turned his attention to Young. “So, what can we do for you?”

      “Answer a couple of questions is all.”

      “Fire away.”

      “Mr. Grant, am I right in thinking that you rode most or all of Shorty’s horses, and that you, Mr. Outhouse, arranged those mounts with Shorty?”

      Grant nodded, and Outhouse said, “Right on both counts.”

      “You were on good terms with Shorty?”

      “You asking me or him?”

      “Both of you.”

      They looked at each other. “Yeah, we was on good

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