LITMIR.BIZ

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box. “How can I help you, sir? Me and Shorty went back a long ways.”

      Young said, “We were friends, too, at one point, and he was good to my daughter, and I want to find out whether his death was an accident or whether there’s some other explanation.”

      Tom said, “What can I do?”

      “You can tell me who else to talk to. Who else Shorty had daily contact with. Jockeys, agents, owners. Whatever.”

      Tom took off his grimy fedora and scratched above one ear. “Well, gosh, let me see...”

      “Who did he spend the most time with?”

      “Oh, well, if you put it like that”—Tom smiled—“that’s easy. That would be Percy Ball.”

      “Name rings a bell. Wasn’t he a rider?”

      Tom said, “That’s right. Rode a few years at the Fort, and a little bit at Greenwood. B-tracks mostly. Didn’t last long. Couldn’t keep the weight off. Now he’s an exercise rider. Works all of Shorty’s horses.”

      “Him and Shorty spent a lot of time together?”

      “Oh yes,” Tom said and nodded.

      “They drank together is what you’re saying.”

      “You could say that, yes, sir.”

      “You think Percy might be able to help.”

      Tom smiled and shook his head. “He’s an aggravatin’ little so-and-so, and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but maybe he knows somethin’.”

      “Where’d they drink?”

      “JJ Muggs, mostly. It’s in the Caledonia Mall. If he’s not there, then he’s probably at McKenzie’s. You know where McKenzie’s is at?”

      Young nodded. “What time’s he usually get there?”

      Tom raised his left wrist and squinted at his watch, then shook his head. “Wife gave me this for my birthday, but whenever I wanna know the time, it takes two minutes to figure it out. Blasted thing’s got no numbers to it.” Tom squinted at the watch again. “Let me see, let me see. Well, it’s only nine. He’ll ride his last horse around ten-thirty, so you’re likely to find him over there around eleven, or whenever they start servin’.”

      “How will I know him?”

      Tom thought. “He’s got a sort of a Beatles haircut, dyed blond. He likes to flip it around for the girls.”

      Young spent the next two hours examining the crime scene and talking to grooms and trainers whose horses were stabled in the same barn. The only useful piece of information came from Morrison, the evidence man, who determined that no one had been dragged into the stall. But Young realized that that didn’t prove much, because Shorty was small enough for a strong man to carry. A detective from King County Homicide finally arrived shortly after eleven, delayed, he claimed, by a wee-hours drug-related shooting in the Finch Hills projects, in his southeast quadrant. When he asked Young, somewhat suspiciously, why a detective from downtown was on a case that was, geographically speaking, none of his business, Young smoothed the man’s feathers by explaining his personal interest in the situation and by giving him a rundown on everything he knew. Mollified, the man, whose name was Keogh, invited him to lunch, but Young begged off. “Got a lead to run down,” he said, and Keogh said, “Another time, maybe.”

      At eleven-thirty Young parked his minivan outside JJ Muggs. Inside, he had to wait until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. And there was Percy Ball, just as Tom Wright had predicted, sitting at the bar, his back turned, but the unmistakable blond mop fully in evidence.

      Young walked towards him. Percy was wearing cowboy boots, black jeans, and a black vinyl jacket that was supposed to look like leather. When Young was two feet behind him, he said, “Percy Ball?”

      Percy hopped off his stool like a man in trouble. He stood there with his chest stuck out, and his head would-n’t stay still, poking this way and that like a pigeon’s.

      “Are you Percy Ball?” Young said.

      “Who wants to know?”

      Young had his badge in his hand. “Police. Used to ride, didn’t you?”

      Percy stuck his chest out even further. “Yeah, some. Here and there. Greenwood, the Fort. Out west mostly.”

      “Did you ride for Shorty Rogers?”

      Percy hesitated. “Some.”

      “What’s that mean, some? Did you ride for him or not?”

      “I worked horses for him.”

      “Ah, you were his exercise boy.”

      “That’s right, but he put me on all the best ones. He wouldn’t let nobody else get on the good ones.”

      “What good ones? Shorty was fresh out of good ones.”

      “He let me ride Too Many Men.”

      “Sure, that was his money horse for awhile, but you know what, Percy, that’s old news.”

      “Yeah, well, I was the only one Shorty’d let on him.”

      “In the mornings.”

      “Yeah, in the mornings. That horse was a mean motherfucker. Liked to snap his head back.”

      Young looked closely at Percy’s face, the eyes too close together, the broken nose. “The reason I’m here, Percy, is I need to know where Shorty was last night.”

      “What’re you askin’ me for?”

      “Because Shorty’s dead, that’s why.” He waited, but Percy didn’t react. “You knew he was dead, didn’t you?”

      Percy lifted his chin as if his collar were too tight. “Yeah, I knew.”

      “You seem real broke up about it.”

      Percy shrugged.

      “And,” Young went on, “the reason I’m asking you is because you were with him.”

      Percy’s bird eyes looked left and right.

      “You didn’t just work for him, you were his drinking buddy, right?”

      Percy scratched his dirty hair. “We was here.”

      “What time?”

      “I got here about one or so. I don’t know what time he got here. An hour later, maybe. We was here all afternoon, had a few beers, something to eat. He musta left around seven-thirty. Had to go back to the barn and bed down his horses. I never seen him after that.”

      Young waved to the bartender. “Couple of beers here,” he said. Then, to Percy, “Do you think his death was an accident?”

      Percy picked at a scab on his knuckle. He didn’t look up. “Shorty knew his way around horses, and besides, that old Bing Crosby wouldn’t hurt a flea. It wasn’t no accident.”

      “Who should I talk to?”

      “Whoever he owed money to, I guess.”

      “Who might that be?”

      “Hey, what do I know? Maybe he was in trouble with a bookie.” The bartender placed two bottles on the bar. Percy took one and drank deeply from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Maybe one of his owners got fed up with him not winnin’ any races.”

      “Who were his owners?”

      “Old lady he’d been trainin’ for for years. She owns Bing Crosby.” He paused, as if unsure whether to continue. “And some guy who owns a computer store or something. Calls himself the Internet King. He owns the other horses. Shorty only had the two owners.”

      “Who owned the colt that died?”

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