she'd sent five thousand dollars of her own money back to Baltimore-her pretended winnings on the horse. And apparently that had taken the heat off of her, for she'd had no word from Bobo. But days passed before she was resting easy.
For a while, she was even carrying a gun when she went to the bathroom.
She stood at the bar, sipping a rum and cola, looking at the milling crowd with something approaching disgust. Where did they come from? she thought wearily. Why did they buck a stupid racket like this? Many of them were downright shabby. Some of them even had children with them.
Mothers with kids… Men in cheap sport-shirts and baggy slacks… Grandmothers with cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
She turned away from them, shifting wearily from foot to foot. She was wearing a sports outfit; a simple but expensive ensemble of fawn-colored slacks, blouse, and jacket, with flat-heeled buckskin oxfords. Everything was cool and lightweight, the most comfortable things she could put on. But nothing could compensate for her hours of standing.
As the fifth and sixth races dragged by, as she moved back and forth from the betting and pay-off windows, the struggle between her growing tiredness and the never-ending need to be alert almost reached a stalemate. It was hard to think of anything but sitting down, of resting for at least a few minutes. It was impossible to think about it. Need and necessity fought with one another, pulling her this way and that, tugging her forward and holding her back; adding unbearably to the burden she already carried.
There were seats in the grandstand, of course, but those were for yokels. By the time she got into the stands, she would be due at the windows. The effort of going back and forth would take more from her than it gave. As for the clubhouse, with its comfortable chairs and pleasant cocktail lounge, well, naturally, that was out. There was too much money floating around, too much heavy betting. The treasury boys loved the place.
She set down her cup of coffee-her third in the last hour-and trudged away toward the mutuel windows. The seventh race, the next to the last, was coming up. It always drew some of the day's heaviest play, and the yokels were rushing to buy tickets. As Lilly pushed her way through them, a sardonic thought suddenly struck her. And despite her weariness, she almost laughed out loud.
She collected a couple of bets on the seventh, disposing of the money as she hurried toward the parking lot. There was nothing in the last race that couldn't be missed. By beating it out now, before the crowd swarmed down from the stands, she could avoid the last-minute traffic jam.
Her car was parked back near the gate, in a space as near to it as a big tip would buy. A convertible, it was a very good car but by no means the most expensive. Not even faintly flashy. Its one distinctive feature was something that couldn't be seen. A secret trunk compartment containing one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in cash.
As she approached the car now and saw the man standing beside it, Lilly wondered whether she'd ever live to spend the money.
9
Bobo Justus had wavy, iron-gray hair and a deeply tanned, chiseled-looking face. He was a small man, short that is, but he had the head and torso of a six-footer. Knowing his sensitivity about his height, Lilly was grateful for her flat-heeled shoes. That was one thing in her favor at least. But she doubted that it would count for much, judging by his expression.
He addressed her tonelessly, his lips barely moving.
'You goddamned silly-looking pig! Driving a goddamned circus wagon! Why don't you paint a bull'seye on it? Hang a couple of cowbells on the bumper?'
'Now, Bo. Convertibles are quite common in California.'
'Convertibles are quite common in California,' he mimicked her, weaving his shoulders prissily. 'Are they as common as two-timing, double-crossing whores? Hah? Are they, you sneaky little slut?'
'Bo'-she looked around quickly. 'Hadn't we better go some place private?'
He drew back a hand as though to slap her, then gave her a shove toward the car. 'Get with it,' he said. 'The Beverly Hills. I get you alone, and I'm going to pop every pimple on your pretty pink butt!'
She started the car and drove out through the gate. As they joined the stream of town-bound traffic, he resumed his tight-lipped abuse.
Lilly listened attentively, trying to decide whether he was building up steam or letting it off. Probably the last, she guessed, since it had been almost three weeks since her blunder. Murderously angry, he probably would have taken action before this.
Most of the time she was silent, making no response except when it was asked for or seemed urgently indicated.
'… told you to watch that fifth race, didn't I? And, by God, you really watched it, didn't you? I bet you stood there grinning clear to your ankles while the dog comes in at a hundred-and-forty per!'
'Bo, I-'
'How much did your pals cut you in for, huh? Or did they give you the same kind of screwing you gave me? What the hell are you, anyway-a stud-horse with tits?'
'I was down on the nag,' Lilly said quietly. 'You know I was, Bo. After all, you wouldn't have wanted me to bet it off the board.'
'You were down on it, huh? Now, I'll ask you just one question. Do you want to stick to that story, or do you want to keep your teeth?'
'I want to keep my teeth.'
'Now, I'll ask you one more question. Do you think I got no contacts out here? You think I couldn't get a report on the play on that horse?'
'No, I don't think that. I'm sure you could, Bo.'
'That nag paid off at just the opening price. There wasn't hardly a flutter on the tote board from the time the odds were posted.' He lit a cigarette, took a couple of quick angry puffs. 'What kind of crap you handing me anyway, Lilly? There ain't enough action to tickle the tote, but you claim a five-grand win! Now, how about it, huh? You ready to fly straight or not?'
She drew in a deep breath. Hesitated. Nodded. There was only one thing to do now, to tell the truth and hope for the best.
She did so. Justus sat turned in the seat; studying, analyzing her expression throughout the recital. When she had finished, he faced back around again, sat in deadpan silence for several minutes.
'So you were just stupid,' he said. 'Asleep at the switch. You think I'm going to buy that?'
Lilly nodded evenly. He'd already bought it, she said, three weeks ago; suspected the truth before he was told. 'You know you did, Bo. If you hadn't, I'd be dead by now.'
'Maybe you will be yet, sister! Maybe you'll wish you was dead.'
'Maybe.'
'I laid out better than a hundred yards for a screwing. Just about the highest-priced piece of tail in history. I figure on getting what I paid for.'
'Then you'd better do some more figuring,' Lilly said. 'I'm not that kind of punching bag.'
'Real sure about that, are you?'
'Positive. Give me a cigarette, please.'
He took a cigarette from his package, and tossed it across the seat. She picked it up, and tossed it back to him.
'Light it please, Bo? I need both hands in this traffic.'
