die, but he wouldn’t change the law just for her.”
Attaboy, Phil, I thought. “Reckon she deserved it, then.”
“But get this,” Leonard continued. “She’s not in prison, or even in that big tower. She’s locked up in a public cell, right at the main city gate. Every day she has to sit outside and let people call her names, spit on her, anything as long as they don’t hurt her. She’s like an animal in a cage.” He shook his head. “Can you beat that?”
“They say revenge is the sport of kings,” I said with a blase shrug. Inside, though, I was both glad and apprehensive. He’d done what I wanted-punished the queen publicly, so that word would get back to whomever had framed her-but I also knew he must be in agony, losing both his wife and child while simultaneously knowing she was innocent and his son might be alive.
One of my most vivid memories of Phil was of the time when he was nine years old and had to put down his favorite old hunting dog, Rosie. As the crown prince, he knew all the other kids would be watching, so Phil put on the bravest face possible. He said a properly dignified goodbye to the crippled old girl before he dispatched her with one quick, lethal arrow. Later, though, he cried privately for hours. He told me that if he’d just been able to explain to Rosie what was about to happen, he would’ve been fine. But seeing the love and trust in the dog’s eyes, and that instant of betrayal when the arrow hit home, was too much. What he endured now must make that childhood trauma feel like a mosquito bite.
“What can I do for you?” Saye asked, bringing me back to the moment.
“Ever heard of Andrew Reese?” I asked. Inwardly I gritted my teeth against that damned rhyme.
Saye thought for a moment. “No. Who is he?”
“I have no idea. Thirteen years ago he was rich enough to hire a real top-of-the-line sword jockey to kill someone.”
“Who? The killer, I mean.”
“Stan Carnahan.”
Saye’s eyes widened and he let out a long, low whistle. “Wow. That name takes me back.”
“Told you he’d know,” Bernie said.
“Stan was the top dog in hired swords before he disappeared. In his own way, he was the most honest guy I ever met. We used to swap shots between drinks or drinks between shots, whichever you like.” Saye shook his head in admiration. “Always wondered what happened to him.”
“He was a pro to the end,” I said, all the explanation Saye needed. “Who would’ve hired him back then?”
Saye thought for a moment. “Big Joe Vincenzo was around. The Soberlin brothers. Kee Kee Vantassel was on the rise. Nobody else could’ve afforded him.”
“Any of them deformed?”
Saye frowned in surprise. “Deformed how?”
I wondered how to paraphrase Epona’s words so they didn’t sound goofy. “His arms and legs would’ve been kind of… pushed up into his body. It would make him short, and it’d be hard for him to move around, I’m guessing.”
“Oh, hell,” Bernie muttered, the way you do when you know a tiresome story is coming. At almost the same instant Saye exclaimed, “The Dwarf? ”
“Who’s the Dwarf?” I asked, looking from one to the other.
Before Saye could reply Bernie said disdainfully, “He’s this guy who supposedly runs the whole ‘criminal underworld’ here in C.Q. Except nobody’s ever actually seen him. It’s always a friend who met him, or an old acquaintance or somebody’s brother. They’ve talked about him since I was a kid. The ‘Big Little Man.’ ”
“So he doesn’t exist?” I asked.
“I think somebody made him up hoping we’d waste all our time looking for him instead of chasing the real crooks,” Bernie said. Then he looked at Saye, as if daring the older man to contradict him.
“I used to believe the same thing,” Saye said carefully. “But I have to tell you, over the years I’ve reconsidered. I won’t bore you with local politics, but it seems whenever someone looks likely to make a real difference cleaning up organized crime in the waterfront area, something happens. A hit, a timely accident, a fire with no apparent cause. All different except in timing. After a while, you see the pattern.”
“ You see the pattern,” Bernie said. “There’s plenty of people who want to keep the docks dirty without resorting to phantom midget masterminds.”
Saye shrugged. “And you’re probably right. The stories have been around for so long, he’d have to be an old man by now. But I can’t think of anyone else who fits your description. Not now, and not back then.”
“Yeah, the trail is pretty cold,” I agreed. “Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
They’d mentioned the docks; Andrew Reese had been a sailor. What was one more razor-thin clue, after all? After Saye left, I asked Bernie, “So your docks have a lot of rackets going?”
“The usual. Girls, drugs, illegal booze. Gambling if you know the right people.”
Gambling. People gambled on horses; Epona was the Queen of Horses. Was that a clue, too? Hell, what wasn’t? As if it were the least important thing in the world, I asked, “How dirty is the horse racing here?”
The day at the races, in Cape Querna or anywhere else, was a collection of the saddest, most pathetic people you’d ever see. At night the place was all torch-lit glamour, but the harsh sun revealed all the manure piles, equine and symbolic, hidden by the evening’s forgiving shadows.
Drink could get a strong hold on its victims, but a drunk had no delusions that the next bottle would be the one to set him up for life. Gamblers-the ones who were terrible at it but just couldn’t stop-believed that the Big Score was always one roll of the dice, deal of the cards or run of the horses away. These were the poor bastards who lurked at the track during the day, betting on the training races to raise stakes for the evening’s real thing, hoping for that gambling alchemy that turned dreams into gold.
I wandered around the track area, pretended to inspect the animals and their riders while I really evaluated the rest of the sparse crowd. Trainers lined up the horses at the starting line, their jockeys sharing gossip and pipe puffs over to one side. There was none of the prestigious pre-race ceremony preferred by royals and the moneyed folk; this was a business, and these guys knew there’d be another ride in an hour.
I was working off a chain of “ifs.” If Andrew Reese was this Dwarf, and if he really was a criminal kingpin with a hand in every pie, and if he really was behind the slaughter thirteen years earlier, then perhaps he would have a perverse interest in horses, therefore the local horse racing scene might be a place to find a lead. It was such a small hunch it could hide beneath a good-sized flake of dandruff, but it was all I had.
I sought a certain kind of racetrack regular. I wanted a guy who’d once been wealthy and successful, but who had, for whatever reason, fallen on hard times. He’d wear tattered finery, place small bets with all the ceremony of a major player, and lose with a tinny, pathetic equanimity. He would also always be on the lookout for more money, and thus could be bribed to sell his left nut for gambling funds.
I spotted my guy after the first two races. He looked about sixty, with unwashed hair stuffed beneath a cap that was trendy ten years ago. Judging from his expression he wasn’t having a good day, and as he shuffled back to the concourse I fell into step behind him.
“How they running for you?” I asked.
He snorted without looking at me. “As they always do, sir. My bets must weigh a hundred pounds, because whichever horse I place them on runs like he’s carrying a whole extra person.”
I stepped in front of him and offered my hand. “Eddie Johnson, sir. What’s your name?”
“Lonnie Ratchett,” he said with great dignity, accenting the second syllable of his surname. He tilted his head back so he could actually look down his nose at me. “Of the LeBatre Ratchetts.”
“Well, Lonnie-do you mind if I call you Lonnie? — I need some help, and I’m willing to pay for it.” I put my hand on his shoulder and steered him into the shadow of an empty pavilion. In the evening this would be the candlelit wonderland of Cape Querna’s society, but now the chairs had been upended onto tables, the bar was un- tended and its liquor bottles removed to a safer place. I picked a table in the middle, so the stacked chairs would shield us from view. I figured a guy like Lonnie would appreciate the discretion.
I took down two chairs and gestured for Mr. Ratchett to have a seat. He inspected the cushion minutely before deigning to grace it with his posterior. I turned mine around and straddled it, all nonchalance.
“There’s somebody in town I’d like very much to meet,” I said. “Now, I know you’re probably not directly
