he did another fast change-up. “Anything else for now?”
“Did you hear the tape of the Tagliani chill?” I said.
He nodded.
“Did you catch that, about a fix at the track?”
He gave me one of those “what do you think I am, stupid?” looks.
“So?” he said.
“So, if Tagliani knew about it, maybe the track‟s dirty too.”
Cisco‟s dark brown eyes bored into rue. “It‟s an illegal tape,” he said. “Anyway, it‟s probably just
some owner building up odds on one of his ponies. On the other hand He paused for a few moments
and stared off into space.
“On the other hand what?” I asked.
“On the other hand, this commissioner, Harry Raines? He might be worth looking into. He‟s got more
muscle than anyone else in the town.”
Bingo, there it was. I felt a twinge of vindication.
“He controls gambling in the whole state,” Cisco went on. “The racetrack commission is also the state
gaming commission. It‟s the way the law was written.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Yeah. If they want anything, Harry Raines is the man they need to deal with—or bypass.”
“Maybe they bought him,” I suggested.
“From what I hear, not likely, although always a possibility,” said Cisco. “I‟ll give you some logic.
Whether they bought him or not, the last thing anybody wants right now is a gang war. if Raines is in
their pocket, it puts him on the dime and destroys his effectiveness. if they haven‟t bought him, this
melee still hurts everybody, the Triad included. The bottom line is that Raines needs this kind of
trouble like he needs a foot growing out of his forehead. He and his partner, Sam Donleavy, are both
up the proverbial creek right now.”
“Donleavy was in here last night,” I said. “I saw Titan talking to him, and the old man didn‟t look like
he was giving away any merit badges.”
“They‟re all edgy,” he said, sliding the bill across the table to me. “Here, put this on your tab. I‟ve got
to catch a plane.”
He stood up and threw his napkin n the table. “It‟s time somebody put a turd in the Dunetown punch
bowl,” he said. “Glad you‟re here—I can‟t think of a better person to do it. Finish your breakfast and
get to work. See you in about a week.”
And with that he left.
I didn‟t have to leave the restaurant to get to work. Babs Thomas walked in as Cisco walked out. I
decided it was time to find out whose shoes were under whose bed in Doomstown.
18
CHEAP TALK, RICH PEOPLE
The Thomas woman was tallish, honey blond, coiffured and manicured, dressed in printed silk, with a
single strand of black pearls draped around a neck that looked like it had been made for them. Her
sunglasses were rimmed in twenty-four-karat gold. An elegant lady, as chic as a pink poodle in a
diamond collar.
I scratched out a note on my menu: “A gangster from Toronto would love to buy you breakfast,” and
sent it to her table by waiter. She read it, said something to the waiter, who pointed across the room at
me; she lowered her glasses an inch or two, and peered over them. I gave her my fifty-dollar, Torontogangster smile. The waiter returned.
“Ms. Thomas said she‟d be delighted if you‟d join her,” he said. I gave him a fin, dug through my
wallet and found a card that identified me as a reporter for a fictional West Coast newspaper, and
went to her table.
She looked me up and down. I was wearing unpressed corduroy jeans, a blue Oxford shirt, open at the
collar, and an old, scarred Windbreaker. Definitely not the latest mobster look.
“If you‟re a gangster from Toronto, I‟m Lady Di,” she said, in a crisp voice laced with magnolias,
“and I‟ve got a good ten years on her.”
Closer to fifteen, I thought, but a very well-disguised fifteen.
“You don‟t look a day over twenty-six,” I lied.
“Oh, I think we‟re going to get along,” she said, pointing to a chair. “Sit.”
I sat and slid the card across the table to her. It identified me as Wilbur Rasmussen from the Las
Andreas Gazette in San Francisco. She looked at it, snorted, looked at the back, and slid it back across
the table.
“Phooey, a visiting fireman,” she said. “And here I thought I was going to be wooed by some dashing
Mafioso.”
“Do I look like a dashing Mafioso?”
“You look like an English professor with a hangover.”
“You‟re half right.”
“Try a screwdriver. At least the orange juice makes you feel like you‟re doing something decent for
your body.”
“1 couldn‟t stand the vodka.”
“It‟ll get your heart beating again. What can I do for you? I‟ll bet you‟re here about that mess last
night.” She leaned over the table and said quietly, “Everybody in town‟s talking about it,” flagging
down a waiter as she spoke and ordering me a screwdriver.
“No kidding?” I said, trying to act surprised.
“It was ghastly. I had calls before the maid even opened my drapes this morning. I hardly knew this
Turner man, but he seemed like a charming old gentleman.”
“Charming?” I said. Uncle Franco was probably smiling in his grave.
“Well, you know. He contributed to the ballet and the symphony. He was on the board of the
children‟s hospital. And he was quite modest about it all.”
“No pictures, no publicity, that sort of thing?”
“Mm-hmm. Why?”
“Just wondering. I always suspect modesty. It‟s unnatural.”
“You‟re a cynic.”
“Very possibly.”
“I always suspect cynics,” she said.
“Why‟s that?” I asked.
“There‟s security in cynicism,” she said. “Usually it covers up a lot of loneliness.”
“You the town philosopher?” I asked, although I had to agree with her thesis.
“Nope,” she said rather sadly. “I‟m the town cynic, so I know one when I see one.”
“So what‟s the pipeline saying about all this?” I asked, changing the subject.
She lowered the glasses again, peering over them at me. “That he‟s a gangster from Toronto,” she said
with a smirk.
“Couldn‟t be, I never heard of him,” I said.
“Just what is your angle?”
“1 do travel pieces.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
“And lie a lot?”
“That too.”
“To gossip columnists?” she said.
“1 don‟t discriminate.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe 1 ought to try and get a job on the Ledger,” I said, changing the subject.
“Why, for God‟s sake?”
“1 don‟t know much about women‟s clothes but 1 can tell a silk designer dress when I see one. They
must pay-wel4-over there.”
She threw back her head and laughed hard. “Now that is a joke,” she said. “Did you ever know any
newspaper that paid well?”
„The waiter brought my screwdriver. I took a swallow or two and it definitely got the blood flowing
again.
“Actually my husband died young, the poor dear, and left me wonderfully provided for,” Babs said.
“You don‟t sound real upset over losing him.”
“He was a delight, but he drank himself to death.”
“What did he do?” I asked, sipping at the screwdriver.
“Owned the hotel,” she said casually, but with a glint in her eyes.
“What hotel?”
“This hotel.”
“You own the Ponce?” I said.
“Every creaky inch of it. Actually I hired a very good man from California to run it before Logan
died. I love owning it but I dread the thought of having to run it.”
“You live here?”