EIGHTEEN
A SHORT FLIGHT of stairs led up to the second-floor landing of the Inside Track. Corman paused at the bottom of them, slapped some of the rain from his hat, then headed up.
There was a small counter just inside the door. The man behind it nodded politely as Corman walked in. Corman nodded back and began to make his way to the right toward a room filled with small tables and chairs.
“That’ll be five dollars,” the man behind the counter said.
Corman turned to him. “Five dollars?”
“Entrance charge,” the man explained.
Corman hesitated for an instant, then reluctantly reached for his wallet and counted out the money.
The man took the money and handed Corman a small booklet.
“What’s this?” Corman asked.
“The racing program,” the man told him matter-of-factly. “Good luck, sir.”
Corman walked toward the room to the right, searching through the crowd for Willie Scarelli. He found him near the front windows, sitting with another man, both of them going over the same racing program Corman had been handed at the door.
“Who do you like in the first?” Scarelli asked. He was dressed in dark navy-blue pants and a red blazer. A cigarello hung from the corner of his mouth, and while he went over the program, he chewed its white plastic tip determinedly.
The other man frowned. “Where’d they get these wheezers?” he said. “Off a truck to the glue factory?” He shook his head despairingly. “Every year, more of these cheap claimers in New York.”
“Yeah,” Scarelli moaned. “Shit.” He circled something in the program, then thought better of it, crossed it out, put another one around something else.
Corman touched his shoulder. “How you doing, Willie?”
Scarelli looked up. “Corman?” he said, obviously surprised to see him. “I didn’t know you followed the ponies.”
“I don’t,” Corman told him. “I was looking for you.”
“Well, pull up a chair,” Scarelli said. He nodded toward the other man. “This old fart is Darby McMillan. He pretends inside knowledge.”
Darby continued to stare at the racing program. “Glad to meet you,” he muttered. He puffed irritably at a white meershaum pipe, grunting under his breath from time to time, as his eyes went down the program.
Corman took a seat.
“Be right with you,” Scarelli said. “Soon as I decide what to play.” He glanced toward Darby. “What about Forest Drive,” he said. “What do you think?”
Darby’s eyes swept the form. “I think he’s being ridden by a douchebag,” he said.
Scarelli’s face tightened as his eyes returned to the program. “Eddie Sheen. Yeah, not the go-jockey for that fucking stable.”
“Look at the guy on Ginger Snap,” Darby said. “Another douchebag apprentice.” He shook his head. “With these old nags, you got to have a rider with some balls.”
Scarelli considered it for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Fuck the first,” Darby said. “I’ll just place some recreational doubles. We can still play Ginger Snap in the fourth.”
“You gonna play any exactas in the first?” Scarelli asked.
Darby laughed. “Exactas?” he said. “Fuck. I’d be more willing to bet that two of these old whores won’t make it to the eighth pole.”
The two men laughed together, then went on to the fifth race, comparing jockeys, horses, trainers, stables.
They were still doing it when a voice suddenly sounded across the room: “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our National Anthem.”
Chairs scraped loudly across the floor as the people in the room got to their feet, then stood silently as the anthem swept over them. Darby placed his hand over his heart, while his eyes roamed about the room, catching for a moment on a tall young woman who chewed the end of a swizzle stick while she stood in place. “Oh, Sweet Jesus,” he moaned under his breath.
“Well, let’s do it,” Scarelli said when it was over. He sat down quickly, glanced at one of the television sets that hung from the paneled walls, then handed a roll of bills to Darby. “Just spread it around on some doubles,” he said. “And include that fucking apprentice in some of them. Who’s to say, lightning might strike.”
“Okay,” Darby said. He reached for his wallet with one hand and thrust his other one palm up toward Scarelli. “I’ll always put myself out for a two-dollar bettor.”
Scarelli nodded. “Don’t forget my change,” he said with a wink.
Darby turned and walked toward the betting booths at the back of the room.
Scarelli took a sip of ale then wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“So, what’d you want to see me about?” he asked, as he glanced toward Corman.
“A story,” Corman said. “At least, a possible story. A guy I know—in publishing—he thought you might be interested.”
Scarelli leaned back in his seat. “Well, absolutely,” he said. “You know me, I’m always looking for a story. What’s yours?”
Corman dug into his camera bag and came out with the picture. “Take a look at this,” he said as he handed it to Scarelli.
Scarelli eyed the photograph casually. “Looks like somebody gave her a good beating,” he said.
“She jumped out of a window.” Corman pointed to the small mound of cloth that could be seen near her outstretched hand. “Threw a doll out with her.”
Scarelli continued to stare at the picture. “Is this that jumper from Hell’s Kitchen?”
Corman nodded.
“I heard a little something about that,” Scarelli said. His eyes drifted over to Corman. “Saw some video on it, too.”
“They were there.”
“Network?”
“Local.”
Scarelli’s eyes settled on the picture again. “What do you know about her?” he asked.
“I’ve found out a few things.”
“Like what?”
Corman labored to put everything in order, arrange the facts so Scarelli would be drawn in by them. He decided to start small, build toward a big conclusion.
“Well, first of all, she’s white,” he said.
Scarelli laughed. “Like everybody else who has a say in anything.”
“It turns out she graduated from Columbia,” Corman added.
“When was this?”
“Eighty-eight.”
“So she was young when she took the leap.”
“Yeah.”
“Twenty-three, four, something like that,” Scarelli said. “Can’t tell much from the picture.” He grimaced as he looked at it again. “Jesus, it did a job on her nose.” He looked back up, as Corman fingered the edge of the photograph. “Is this a drug thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Bright, promising youth tragically destroyed by drugs, that sort of thing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I got to know so,” Scarelli said. “Because if it is, it’s dead in the water. Shit, man, you got Broadway heavies iced by that stuff, big-time basketball players. Ivy League’s small potatoes compared to that.”
“She wasn’t a junkie,” Corman assured him.
“Okay,” Scarelli said. “Shoot. What else you got?”
