The Last Private Eye (15 page)

Rhineheart sat still, said nothing, waited.

Clark cleared his throat. “We may as well get down to business. At Thoroughbred Security we're always head hunting, so to speak, for a few good men. For the past several years we've been following your career, Mr. Rhineheart.”

My
career?
Rhineheart thought. Was the man serious?

“Some of the publicity you've received hasn't been altogether favorable, but all in all we think you're an impressive man, Mr. Rhineheart. We like your style. I've been authorized by the board to offer you a position with the firm.”

“A position?” Rhineheart repeated. “You mean a job?”

“If you prefer.”

“What kind of a job?”

“Vice president of our Field Operations Branch.”

“Vice president?”

“It's an executive level position.”

“What does a vice president of a Field Operations Branch do?” Rhineheart asked.

“Well, for one thing, he oversees and supervises our guard unit personnel, three shifts, one hundred and fifty men who patrol the farms serviced by our company. And let me say this, Mr. Rhineheart, almost every large well-known thoroughbred horse farm is protected by Thoroughbred Security.”

Rhineheart wondered if that included Cresthill Farms and River City Stud, but decided not to ask. Instead, he asked Clark what other responsibilities the vice president had.

“Among other things,” Clark replied, “he would supervise and train the personal security consultants that travel with the owners and protect them during public appearances.”

Like Borchek.

“The new field operations VP,” Clark went on, “would also develop and plan additional security for the stabling areas at various racetracks. In this connection the position would, naturally, entail some travel.”

“What's a job like that pay?”

Clark couldn't hold back a grin. “It has a starting salary of $65,000 a year, plus, of course, a generous expense account, the full package, naturally, of health and medical benefits, a stock-option plan, a company car of your choice and yearly bonuses that are substantial.”

Substantial. If he accepted, would that make him a person of substance? Sixty-five thousand was a pretty good-sized bribe. Someone wanted him in their pocket, out of the way. Who? Kingston? Taggert? Gilmore? Clark? What were they afraid he was going to stumble across?

“What do you think, Mr. Rhineheart?”

“It sounds pretty good,” Rhineheart said.

“Frankly, in my opinion it's the kind of position a man could hardly afford to pass up.” He cleared his throat again. He looked at his watch. “I hope you'll let me have the pleasure of telling my people that you've accepted our offer.”

“I don't think so.”

Mr. Clark looked disappointed. “I'd hate to see you let this opportunity go by, Mr. Rhineheart. It's not the kind of job that's going to stay available for very long. Already we're looking at some other applicants. If you turn it down someone else will snap it up.”

“I understand.”

Clark cleared his throat again. “I have something here,” he said, “that might help you clarify your thoughts on the matter.” He leaned across the desk and handed Rhineheart a check. It was a certified cashier's check for $25,000 and was drawn on the First National Bank of Kentucky. “The sum you see there represents an incentive bonus should you decide to sign a contract to work for Thoroughbred Security before Derby Day.”

“Derby Day?”

“We need to fill the position immediately.”

“And, of course,” Rhineheart said, “if I take your job, I'd have to close my agency.”

“You simply wouldn't have the time for a private practice, Mr. Rhineheart.”

“What about the cases I'm working on?”

“I'm sure you could make some arrangements with another agency to take them over.”

Rhineheart held the check in his hands. He could keep it as a souvenir, show it to McGraw, frame it on the wall. My Biggest Bribe. On the other hand, maybe he'd cash it and take the fucking job. After all, $65,000 wasn't bad money. And the job sounded pretty nice. You probably had to take some shit. But for $65,000 . . .

He put the check on Clark's desk. “I don't know who you represent, Counselor,” Rhineheart said, “but tell them I can't take your job.”

“Why not?”

“Simple. I already got one.”

It was late in the afternoon when Rhineheart pulled into an empty parking space in front of his apartment building. He let himself in, got a can of beer from the refrigerator, switched on the TV, and stretched out on the couch to see if he could catch Kate Sullivan on the early news.

She appeared on the newscast a couple of minutes after it started in a taped segment that dealt with the board of aldermen's attempt to annex an unincorporated city that adjoined Louisville. It was a boring, colorless story but Kate delivered it with style. She seemed to be pretty good at her job. Rhineheart watched the program a few minutes longer. When they switched away to live coverage of one of the Derby Festival events, a steamboat race between
The Belle of Louisville
and
The Delta Queen
, he lost interest and turned off the set.

He went into the kitchen and threw some ham and some cheese between two slices of bread. He spread some Mr. Mustard over the ham. The Gourmet Dick. He ate the sandwich and drank another beer and thought about the $65,000 a year. It was a lot of money. It took character to turn it down. Character or ignorance. He wasn't sure which.

He finished off the sandwich and was washing out the coffee cup in the sink when the phone began to ring. He walked into the front room and picked it up.

“Rhineheart.”

“It's me.” McGraw.

“How's it going, babe?”

“Okay. Listen, I got Gilmore's address for you.” She read it aloud. Rhineheart wrote it down.

“Babe, I appreciate it.”

“What are you going to do tonight?”

“I got to meet Farnsworth. Then I'm going over and talk to a cabdriver.”

“Want some company?”

“Not this evening,” he said. “I want you to save yourself for rougher times—like tomorrow night.”

“What's tomorrow night?”

“What do you mean, what's tomorrow night? The big Derby party at Cresthill Farms.”

“Oh my God. Are we going to that?”

“Me and you, babe.”

“Oh God, I don't have anything to wear.”

“Don't worry about it,” Rhineheart said. “I don't either.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Look at it this way, McGraw, it doesn't make any difference if we dress wrong. Neither one of us knows how to act properly at one of these things, anyway.”

McGraw hung up on him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rhineheart walked into O'Brien's a few minutes after seven. Farnsworth was sitting on a stool at the bar. He was drinking a beer and talking Derby statistics with Sam. “Decidedly win the '62 Derby. Roman Line was second. Ridan run third.”

“I thought Chateaugay won in '62.”

Farnsworth shook his head. “Chateaugay was '63. Never Bend run second. Candy Spots was third.”

“Who won it in '64?”

“Northern Dancer. Beat Hill Rise by a long neck. The Scoundrel got third.”

“You know your shit.”

Farnsworth nodded proudly.

Sam looked at Rhineheart. “The usual?”

Rhineheart nodded. “And give my friend here another beer.”

“Your friend knows his shit,” Sam said, and walked down to the end of the bar.

“You still follow the ponies?” Rhineheart asked Farnsworth. In the old days Farnsworth took two vacations a year. The spring meet and the fall meet.

Farnsworth nodded.

“You do any good?”

“You kidding? I'm lucky if I cash three tickets a year. Horses I bet to win run second, horses I bet to place show, horses I bet to show run out. But I ain't crying. You get used to losing. All I ask is that they don't ban me from the place. Let me sit out there with a couple of bucks in my pocket and a racing form waiting for the next race to come up.” Farnsworth took a small sip of beer. “You go see Clark?”

Rhineheart nodded. “He offered me a job.”

“You already got a job.”

“That's what I told him.”

“What kind of money did he talk?”

“Sixty-five thousand a year.”

Farnsworth let out a whistle. “Jesus, what are they hiding kid?”

“Good question. Another good question is who are ‘they'?”

“It's a case full of good questions,” said Farnsworth. “Beginning with who killed Walsh, and Sanchez, and the girl? And why?”

“You got any ideas?”

Farnsworth nodded. In his humble opinion, he said, there were a half a dozen suspects: Corrati; John Hughes; Howard Taggert; Duke Kingston; Walsh's wife; Gilmore. He wasn't ruling anybody out. All of them had motive and opportunity.

And it seemed to him that the question of who killed who was only a part of the puzzle. There was the syringe found in Walsh's bag in the airport locker. What was that all about? And now these missing foal papers. How did they fit in? For that matter, how did Sanchez fit in? Was he a friend of Walsh's? What about the money Walsh owed Marvin, who worked for Corrati? Did it have anything to do with Carl Walsh's disappearance and subsequent death? It looked as if everything was somehow tied in with Churchill Downs and the Derby. But maybe, Farnsworth said, that was because just about everyone involved in the case worked at the track.

“What do you think, Rhineheart?”

Rhineheart shrugged. Thinking about the case made him dizzy. “I think,” he said, “that I'm going out to the airport and see this cabbie who picked up Walsh last Wednesday. What are you going to do?”

“If it's okay with you, I'm going to keep looking for Walsh's wife. If she's not dead somewhere, she's on the run for some reason and scared. She may be the key to this thing. Also, I'm checking out a couple of other things. Nothing worth mentioning as yet.”

“You always were a closemouthed old bastard, you know that?”

Farnsworth shrugged. “Loose lips sink ships.”

“You need any money,” Rhineheart said, “stop by the office and see McGraw. She'll take care of you.”

“She the girlie who answers the phone for you?”

Rhineheart nodded. “She's good people.”

“I used to have a dame answer the phone for me.” Farnsworth's tone was wistful. “Back in the old days.”

“This one doesn't want to answer the phone all her life. She'd like to be a private eye.”

“No shit? You're kidding me.”

“The world's changing, old man.”

Farnsworth nodded glumly. “Yeah, I know.”

At eight o'clock Rhineheart was standing in front of the Eastern Airlines exit at the airport when Independent cab 41, a green Dodge, pulled up to the curb. He walked over, opened the door, and got in the backseat. A black guy with sad droopy eyes turned around and said, “Where to, mister?”

“You J. T. Smith?”

“Who's asking?”

Rhineheart handed him a twenty.

The cabby smiled. “J. T. Smith, at your service.”

“Last Wednesday night,” Rhineheart said, “you picked up a fare at the Parkland Arms.”

Smith nodded. “Blond-haired guy. Sharp features. Middle thirties.”

“You remember where you took him?”

Smith nodded. “Sure do.” He smiled.

Rhineheart took out another twenty.

“Took him over to Preston Street.”

Preston Street? What the hell was on Preston street?

“Whereabouts on Preston Street?”

“The 2800-hundred block.”

“A residence?”

J. T. Smith shook his head. “A shopping center. He had me drop him in the middle of this little shopping strip. Called the Midtown Shopping Village, something like that. I thought it was funny 'cause it was after nine and all the stores was closed.”

“Did you see anyone waiting for him, anything like that?”

Smith shook his head. “Man just got out of the car and walked over toward some closed stores. I got another call about that time so I just took off, you understan'.”

Rhineheart handed him another twenty. “Thanks for the help.”

“Don't mention it,” Smith said. “Anytime.”

Rhineheart started to get out of the cab.

Smith said, “Hey, mister, you a shamus, or something?”

Shamus. It was a word Farnsworth might have used.

“Yeah,” Rhineheart said. “I'm a shamus, all right.”

“I thought so,” Smith said. “You act like one. You don't hardly see no private eyes around anymore. Not like you used to.”

That's because we're disappearing, Rhineheart thought. Like dinosaurs. Pretty soon the species would be extinct. Maybe it already was. Maybe he and Farnsworth were the last of the breed. When Farnsworth was gone Rhineheart would be the last one.

The last private eye.

The Midtown Shopping Village consisted of a dozen retail stores, a health spa, a grocery, and a storefront real estate office. Rhineheart sat in the Maverick for twenty minutes, smoking and thinking and watching cars pull in and out of the parking lot. Then he got out and strolled over to the real estate office. The front door was locked and had a
CLOSED
sign on it. The window was lettered S
OUTH
E
ND
R
EAL
E
STATE
C
ORP
. He pressed his face up to the glass, but there wasn't much to see. A desk with a typewriter and a telephone on it near the door. A couple of filing cabinets against the side wall. A carpeted floor. Another desk farther back. Behind that, a wall that faced the front window. A door in the wall. Who, he wondered, owned South End Real Estate? It looked as if tomorrow he was going to have to make another stop at the County Tax Assessor's office.