“Where did you get that information?”
“The jock, Impastato. But he didn‟t have anything to do with this I don‟t think. He quit Thibideau
Sunday because he‟d been made to break the horse out at the five-eighths and the horse was strictly a
stretch runner, which is another reason he lost Sunday.”
“The trainer‟s Smokey Barton, right?”
Callahan nodded.
“He‟ll go to the wall for this.”
“It‟s done a lot,” Callahan said.
“Not at this track,” Raines growled. “Not anymore.”
Shuster went back to work and Callahan nodded for me to follow him out of the room. We went
outside and leaned against the side of the building in the hot afternoon sun. Callahan didn‟t say
anything. A few moments later Raines came out.
Callahan said, “Mr. Raines, I think we need to talk.”
Raines cocked his head to one side for a beat or two and then said, “Here?”
“Preferably not.”
“My office then. We‟ll go in my car.”
He drove around the track without saying a word and parked in his marked stall. We took the elevator
to the top floor of the stadium, then headed down a broad, cool hallway to his office.
It was a large room, dark-panelled and decorated completely in antiques, down to the leather-bound
volumes in its recessed bookcases. Ordinarily the room would have been dark and rather oppressive,
except that the entire wall facing us as we walked in was of tinted glass and overlooked the track. The
effect was both startling and elegant.
His desk was genuine something-or-other and was big enough to play basketball on. Executives in
Doomstown seemed to have a penchant for big desks. This one was covered with memorabilia. It sat
to one side and was angled so that Raines could see the track and conduct business at the same time.
The view was breathtaking.
There were three paintings on the walls, two Remingtons and a Degas, all originals. There were only
two photographs in the room, both on his desk. One was a black-and-white snapshot of an older
couple I guessed were his mother and father. The other one was a colour photograph of Doe, cheek to
cheek with a black horse who must have been Firefoot.
I had a hard time keeping my eyes off her.
“Is this going to call for a drink?” Raines asked.
Callahan hesitated for a moment or two and then said, “I could do with a bit of brandy, thanks”
“Khmer?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
The wet bar was hidden behind mahogany shutters that swung away with a touch. Raines took down
three snifters that looked as fragile as dewdrops and poured generous shots from a bottle that was old
enough to have served the czar. The brandy burned the toes off my socks.
“Have a seat and tell me what‟s on your mind,” he said in a flat, no-nonsense voice.
The leather sofa was softer than any bed I‟d been in lately. He sat behind his desk with a sigh and
rubbed his eyes.
I was beginning to like him in spite of myself. I had remembered him as just another football jock, but
Raines had about him the charisma of authority, even as weary as he seemed to be. He dominated the
office, not an easy thing to do considering the view.
“This thing with Disaway,” said Callahan, “it goes a little deeper than splitting a foreleg because of
Butes.”
Raines swirled his brandy around, took a whiff, then a sip, and waited.
“Disaway was favoured to win a race this past Sunday—”
“He dragged in eighth,” Raines said, cutting him off.
“Yeah, right, well, we have what I would call very reliable information that the race was fixed for
Disaway to lose. Would you say the information is good, Jake?”
“I‟d say it‟s irrefutable,” I said.
The muscles in Raines‟ jaws got the jitters.
“I can‟t tell you exactly how it was done,” Callahan went on. “Probably cut back his feed for a couple
of days and overworked him a little, raced him a little too much, then probably gave him a bag of oats
and a bucket of water a couple of hours before the race and he was lucky to make the finish line. But
there‟s no doubt that he was meant to lose. Money was made on it,”
“By who?” Raines demanded.
Callahan hesitated for several moments. He was in a tight spot. To tell Raines about the recording was
to admit that there was an illegal tape in Tagliani‟s house.
“I‟m sorry, sir,” Callahan said, firmly but pleasantly, “1 can‟t tell you that. Not right now. The thing
is, it worked as a double. He lost so big Sunday, his odds were way up for today‟s race.”
“He went off at about fifteen to one,” Raines said. He took another sip of brandy but his dark eyes
never left Callahan‟s face.
“That‟s right, but he was posting $33.05 until a few minutes before post time. According to your man
at the hundred-dollar window, a bundle was laid off on him just before the bell and his odds dipped to
$26.00 and change.”
“Do you know who placed the bundle?” Raines asked.
Callahan shook his head. “It was several people, spread across both windows.”
“Who was responsible?”
“Could‟ve been anybody from the groom to the owner. Thing is, sir, we can‟t prove any of this.
Except we know the loss on Sunday was fixed.”
“We can prove the horse was dosed with Butes,” Raines said angrily.
“Yeah,” said Callahan, “except it isn‟t against the law in this state.”
“Well, it‟s going to be,” stormed Raines. “I‟ve always been against the use of Butazolidin on any
horse up to forty-eight hours before a race. I know horses, Callahan.”
“I know that,” the big man answered.
“But I don‟t know the kind of people that fix horse races and you do. I need some proof to use on
Thibideau so this won‟t happen again.”
I decided to break in at this point. Callahan was playing it too close to the vest.
“Mr. Raines, Pancho here‟s reluctant to discuss this because it involves some illegal evidencegathering. I trust you‟ll keep this confidential, but the fact is, we know the race was fixed, but we are
powerless to say anything about it. The proof is on a tape which is non-admissible.”
He stared at both of us for a few moments, toyed with a pipe on his desk, finally scratched his chin
with the stem.
“Can you tell me who was involved?”
“A man named Tagliani,” I said. If he knew the name, he had either forgotten it or was one of the
better actors I had ever seen in action. There was not a hint of recognition.
“I don‟t think I‟m familiar with—”
“How about Frank Turner?” I said. “That‟s the name he was using here.”
I could see Callahan‟s startled look from the side of my eye but I ignored it.
The question brought a verbal response from Raines.
“Good God!” he said. “Is this fix tied up in some way with the homicides in town?”
It was obvious that he had bought the soft-pedal from the press just as everyone else in town had. Just
as obviously, he was totally in the dark about who Tagliani really was and the ramifications of the
assassinations.
“Not exactly,” Callahan answered, still trying to be cautious.
I decided it was time to let the skeleton out of the closet. I told him the whole Tagliani story, starting
in Ohio and ending in the Dunetown morgue. I told him about Chevos, the friendly dope runner, his
assassin, Nance, and their front man, Bronicata. I told him about the Cherry McGee—Longnose
Graves war, a harbinger of what was to come. The more I talked, the more surprised Callahan looked.