Mike. I mean it. It would have to be at least half sherry, camouflaged in a sherry bottle. That means that whoever gave it to him knew his habits.”
Shayne said, “Maybe he stuck to sherry when you were around, but you know drunks as well as I do. You’ve got a rosy-tinted picture of the life this guy led-no office hours, no rent to pay, no butt-kissing, hundreds of friends. But be realistic, Tim. The happy-go-lucky bum is a myth.”
“I liked him, goddamn it.”
“Sure. Just don’t turn him into a hero or a saint. Even if you’re right about what happened, you know you’ll have a hell of a time proving anything, don’t you? I’ve got to go now, Tim. I have a date with a guy who’s going to put me in touch with somebody who knows what the boys are asking for the diamonds. If I don’t show up, he’s going to look for some other go-between. I don’t feel like throwing away fifteen thousand bucks because you’ve been kidding yourself about some picturesque rummy.”
Trying to keep his temper, Rourke commented that Shayne would have taken a different attitude when he was starting out in business. In those days he hadn’t looked for easy jobs, and the wealthier his clients were, the less time he had for them. Shayne answered sharply and the reporter blew up. Ever since he had heard about Dolan’s death, he had been spoiling for trouble.
“If that’s the way you want it, Mike,” he said. “From now on let’s assume we don’t know each other.”
He slammed down the phone and felt for cigarettes. He didn’t need any help from Mike Shayne. He could get along perfectly well by himself.
CHAPTER 4
Only one of the horses Paul Thorne owned was in its stall, and Thorne himself, Rourke was told, was rarely around at this time of day. All the stablemen had different ideas of where to start looking for him. Maybe the racing secretary’s office.
Thorne wasn’t there. A driver who was waiting in the anteroom thought he might be at the smithy. The blacksmith reported to Rourke that Thorne had been there and gone. If he wasn’t at the vet’s or in the driver’s shed or out timing a horse on one of the training tracks, Rourke had better ask his wife. If he left the track on a day when he was scheduled to race, he usually told her where he could be reached.
Rourke was given directions to the Thornes’ trailer, in a large, disorderly trailer park beyond the double- decked bunkhouses. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again, and was about to give up when the door opened and a pretty young woman looked out. Her hair was in curlers, and Rourke’s first impression was that she was naked. With a spurt of relief, he saw that she was wearing a bikini. Without 20/20 vision he might not have been able to find it.
“Looking for somebody?” she said in a high voice.
Rourke pulled himself together. “You must be Mrs. Thorne. My name’s Tim Rourke, and I’m from the Miami News. We want to do a picture story on one of the two or three top drivers here, to give the public an idea of what goes on behind the scenes. Your husband’s the obvious choice, but I’ve got to clear up a few things before I can give it the go-ahead. I’m supposed to phone the paper and let them know right away.”
“Golly,” she said, impressed. “He had to go downtown and I don’t expect him back before like five. If there’s anything I could do?”
She let the door swing open a little more. She was holding a martini. All in all, she was one of the most pleasant sights Rourke had seen in weeks. Probably he wasn’t in as much of a hurry as he had supposed. He quieted his conscience by telling it that she would undoubtedly allow herself to be pumped about her husband. She might even tell him more than Thorne would himself.
“Maybe you could give me some background, at that.”
She gave a little giggle as he stepped into the darkened interior of the trailer. It seemed very crowded. Every flat surface had something on it-pots of African violets, copies of Better Homes and Gardens, china dogs. Rourke told himself to be careful not to make any sudden moves or he would be sure to break something.
“You’ll have to excuse the way the place looks,” she said. “On a hot day I just let the dirt collect. Why not start right off by calling me Win, Mr. O’Rourke?”
“Rourke, without the O,” he said. “My friends call me Tim, and I know we’re going to be friends. You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?”
“What’s there to interrupt? This is the quiet time of the day, not that the joint ever really swings, and I was sitting around doing my nails and relaxing with a weak martini. I think there’s one more in the pitcher if you’re interested. What the hell? Live dangerously. I get more compliments on my martinis.”
Rourke told her he never turned down an offer of a martini, and watched her pour. She was in her middle twenties, with slanting blue eyes and a mouth that had been made up recently, probably while she was deciding whether to let him in. She was a little plump, but Rourke, still dazzled by all the pink and brown flesh-tones, didn’t feel critical. She had a mole on one side of her navel, a surgical scar on the other; both, he thought, were equally attractive.
“Isn’t it hot?” she said.
She waved him to a couch. As he sat down it moved unsteadily beneath him. Probably it changed into a double bed at night. She had tilted the slats of the Venetian blinds to keep out the sun. A small refrigerator purred quietly in one corner. She gave him a martini and frowned down at herself.
“Gee, on second thoughts, I get so used to padding around with next to nothing on I forget how it looks. I’ve got a terrible reputation with the neighbors already, but what I tell Paul is, if a bikini’s OK on the beach with thousands and thousands of people, what’s wrong with it at home? But I mean, I don’t know you, do I? I think I better put something else on. You know, I stood there at the window for the longest time? I couldn’t decide to go to the door or not. Paul has these rules about letting in salesmen when I’m alone in the house, but I didn’t think you looked like a salesman. It’s all right to let reporters in. What the sports pages say about a driver is important, money-wise. You can’t stay in the business and not cooperate with the press. Right at this point Paul’s career could use a good write-up, believe me.”
She opened a narrow metal closet, still talking, took out a flowered dressing gown and shrugged it on, belting it in tightly at the waist. “And these things in my hair. Ghastly. That was the real reason I didn’t let you in right away, after I decided you weren’t peddling vacuum cleaners, probably.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rourke said. “I’ve seen women in curlers before.”
“I bet you have. You’re not married, are you?”
“No.”
“I can almost always tell.” She drained her martini, crunching a piece of ice between her strong white teeth. “People think eating ice cubes is a disgusting habit, but I like to. They have that nice potent flavor.”
Unfastening the scarf around her head, she began to strip out pins and rollers. “Finish your drink, it’s mainly ice water. I’ll make us another batch as soon as I get myself looking human.”
The ice-cold martini got to Rourke very fast. One of the things that made him a good reporter was an ability to listen while people talked, and with Win Thorne he could see that all he had to do was hope that the gin held out.
She was humming the title of a popular song while she brushed her shoulder-length black hair.
“Now I feel better,” she said, turning. “I’m going to take the bull by the horns. Paul’s just right for this story. He looks great in photographs. I don’t want to tell you your business or anything, this is only a suggestion, but what you could do is go to the film patrol-they take movies of every race-and look at some of the highlights of his best drives. Even when you know they turned out OK, they can still make the hair stand up on your head. He’s a lunatic sometimes! I think I know what’s bothering you, though. That last suspension.”
“It’s been bothering me a little,” Rourke said.
“I knew it! Paul doesn’t mind all the trouble he gets into for rough driving. The slobs who bet on the driver and not the horse, they like to think he’s going to break his neck, if he has to, to get home in the money. Horserace bettors as a class, Tim, you can have them. He gets suspended for bumping and fighting in the paddock or interference, and it’s all to the good. But this fifteen-day rap was for betting against himself. That harms him with the fans, and I hope you won’t have to mention it in the story. You understand that everybody does it, because why
