“He may be too scared.”
“Try him. One other thing. The beating that put Geary in the hospital. I can’t ignore that. The nurse sounded a little too goddamn believable. Check the dates. Anything you can give me about what was going on at the time, so I can have at least a half-assed alternative.”
Liebler was nodding. “I’ll get on it. I wouldn’t be feeling this pressure if I didn’t have a horrible hunch that the track’s going to be sold out from under us any minute. Mike-the daughter, Linda. She’s the one who’s been pushing the sale. Charlotte, the widow, I get the impression she’ll go with the strongest wind. Here’s what I was thinking. Strictly from the point of view of a return on invested capital, keeping the track open doesn’t make sense. But if you went to Linda and said, ‘Look, there’s more money here than shows on the books, and it’s the best kind, the kind you don’t pay taxes on.’ I couldn’t do it, but maybe you could, you don’t have that much to lose. And if you want to get started right away, you’ll find her in the clubhouse bar, unless I’m mistaken. She wouldn’t take part in the ceremony, but she wouldn’t stay home and miss it. She’s a character. Doesn’t have many dates, if you know what I mean.”
Shayne looked at him, and he said hurriedly, “Don’t get sore. Just trying to contribute. All I’m saying, she might listen to you. I didn’t say you had to go to bed with her. When she starts talking about money, which she’s sure to, tell her there are other kinds of money besides Harry Zell’s. Those big sums in her Daddy’s book-where did they come from? Not out of general admissions, that’s for damn sure.”
On the TV monitor, the speakers were changing. Liebler kept touching his empty glass, then quickly withdrawing his hand, as though it had burned him. He had apparently decided not to allow himself any more whiskey.
Chapter 6
It cost more to get into the clubhouse than the grandstand, but compared to competing forms of entertainment, the price was still low. Drinks were a dime more, and the seats were more comfortable. There was a window selling $100 wheels and boxes.
When the bartender brought Shayne the drink he had ordered, Shayne said, “Linda Geary. Can you point her out to me?”
“Bound to be here somewhere.” He looked around. “Down there in the corner box. Aren’t you Mike Shayne?”
“I’ll have a statement on that after I talk to my lawyer.”
“Smart man. You got the only way to beat the house odds, that’s own a piece of the wheel.”
The speakers eulogizing Max Geary were running out of things to say, and the bettors were getting restless. Taking his drink, Shayne moved through the crowd to get a better look at Geary’s daughter. A man was beside her. He stood up, and Shayne saw that it was Harry Zell.
Shayne circled, intercepting Zell at the top of the aisle. He looked as though he was mourning something, but probably not the dead race-track owner. As soon as he saw Shayne his expression brightened drastically, going all the way back to normal without passing through any intermediate stages. Then he remembered the context, and he looked sharper and slightly hostile.
“We’ve been hearing about you.”
“Let’s not talk about it, O.K.?” Shayne said. “I’ve been standing here thinking what a great spot for a hotel.”
Zell looked at him suspiciously. “You’re touching a nerve, you know that? I’m trying to figure out how that payoff book fits in with the way Max always refused to listen to my presentation. No track, no payoffs. Look at all the money he’d save.”
“That’s true, Harry, but if he sold out to you, what would he do with his evenings? It’s funny, I don’t think I ever saw Mrs. Geary here before tonight. Have you got her signature yet?”
“We’re negotiating,” Zell said abruptly. “Excuse me, I’m getting a lady a drink.”
“I’ll take it down to her. What’s she drinking?”
“Scotch. But I’m the one she sent for it.”
“We’re all supposed to be grieving for a dead benefactor, not talking real estate with the benefactor’s daughter. For the first few days, the survivors should be thinking about higher things, and I don’t mean a high-rise hotel. Bow out, Harry. I’ll take it to her.”
“God knows I can’t stop talking about it. It’s been dragging on so goddamn long.” He came up to Shayne’s level, and said in a lowered voice, “How do you stand on the question, dog track or hotel?”
“I can’t get excited about it. Harry, you’re in the business, you ought to know. Who put up the money to rebuild? Was it Tony Castle?”
Zell stepped back, to bring Shayne’s face into better focus. “Max hated those people, with a passion. Castle? What is this?”
“To be honest with you, I’m feeling my way. I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes. With Max dead, the situation is going to be different.”
“Is it? I hope so. This is definitely the queerest deal I was ever involved in. Tell Linda I had to make some phone calls.” He smiled suddenly, with what seemed to be real warmth, going back to his usual business manner. “Friend or foe, Mike? I wish I knew.”
He moved off at an angle, his big head down. Shayne worked his way back to the crowded bar and ordered a Scotch and water, which he took to Linda Geary’s box. The infield ceremony was ending, ahead of schedule because of the missing speakers. The crowd came to its feet for the final prayer, led by the rosy-faced monsignor.
Linda accepted the glass without looking at Shayne. Shayne studied her while the benediction echoed out of the PA outlets. Her cheeks were wet. She was a tall girl with long straight hair to her shoulders. She had her father’s nose and slightly protuberant eyes. She would have been handsomer weighing twenty pounds less. Her clothing was disarranged in various small ways, as though to show that she knew she was plain and too heavy, and there was no point in bothering. Her blouse was partly out of her skirt, and a button was missing.
Her lips were trembling when the prayer ended. “I think I’m sorry the bastard’s dead.”
She turned. Seeing Shayne instead of Harry Zell, she reared back, her face darkening.
“You killed him, you bloodsucker,” she cried, and threw the drink at Shayne.
One of the ice cubes caught him under an eye. “What did I do, get the wrong brand of Scotch?”
They had the full attention of the nearby box-holders. Shayne saw a waiter looking their way, and he signaled for another drink. She tried to get past him into the aisle, but he blocked her.
“Harry gave me a message for you.”
“All right, what?”
He sat down, his knees high. The mourners were beginning to file off the stand. One of the politicians helped Charlotte Geary down the steep stairs. Shayne said nothing, and after a moment’s puffing and flouncing, Linda sat down beside him.
“Well, damn it, what’s the message?”
“I only said that to get you to stop blocking the sightlines. He has to make some calls, and he asked me to carry your drink. What makes you think I had anything to do with killing your father? I thought the idea was that he took care of that himself.”
“You’re enormously sure of yourself, aren’t you?” The waiter handed in the new drink. She seized it and drank. “You and the rest. Hasn’t it struck you that maybe you overdid it a little? You killed the goose. Now no more of those golden eggs.”
“I’d say there are still a few money-making possibilities. Even if Harry’s deal goes through, and it seemed to me he was looking a little pessimistic. How much do you know about the way your father did business?”
“Me?” she said bitterly. “His only child? I’m the PR girl. I handle the press passes and get the puffs in the papers. Of course I’m also a minority stockholder, so what aspect of the business did you have in mind?”
“Were you surprised to hear he was paying off that many people?”