The waitress, a sweet kid named Annie, was rotating a frayed rag aimlessly on the counter-top.  I sat with a cup of muddy coffee at my elbow, scouring the World-Telegram for yesterday’s pony results. It looked like I won enough to blow two bits on Woolworth’s meatloaf special. After living on coffee and Danish for a couple of days, the brown meat lying on the steam tray behind Annie smelled damn good, until it was challenged by a suggestion of perfume that was more Bergdorf’s than five and dime.

I spun my seat a half turn.

The cut of her beige cashmere suit screamed money, but not as loud as the fox stole draped around her neck. A deep brown fox with gold highlights. The exact color of her eyes.

“Mr.Hartly? My name is Gloria Damont.”

She stretched her hand toward me. I stood, reaching for a handshake; instead, she touched my wrist and inched her way up my forearm until her fingers rested in the crook of my elbow.

“I’m in need of assistance. Is there some place we could speak privately?”

I sure couldn’t invite her up to my room in the Sunshine Hotel, where for a monthly double sawbuck, they threw in a hotplate and all the roaches you could fry.

I feinted.

“What’s this about?”

 “Horses.” She nodded toward the Telly spread on the counter. “I see you’ve kept your interest. Perhaps you’d join me for dinner.”

The invitation didn’t figure. Mr. Hoover’s Depression wasn’t the reason I was broke and jobless. When Roosevelt’s New Deal finally got around to the Sunshine Hotel, it would scamper right past my bed and on to the next guy.

“Lady, whoever you’re looking for, it ain’t me.”

“On the contrary, I’ve done my research. I’m confident you’re the man I need.”

Her tone spread plenty of heat.  I willed myself not to respond.

She fluttered a piece of cream vellum onto the counter next to my coffee cup.

“Shall we say eight-thirty? Informal dress.” And she slid her hand down my forearm and across my palm.

I picked up the Telegram and started to read about this kid, Eddie Arcaro, who everybody’s been watching since he took the gelding, No More, to the winners circle in Chicago a few weeks back. But she was already in my head. What could this Gloria Damont want with a killer like me? I picked up my hat, left a nickel for Annie and headed for the Forty-Second Street library to see where her name popped up in back issues of the Telegram.

***

When Gloria Damont answered the door, the first thing I noticed was that her mid-calf satin gown clung exactly where it should, its silvery color pulling her hair from blonde to platinum.

“May I take your hat? My guests are eager to meet you.”

If this was a set-up with me as clown for the night, I was going to take a quick powder. I’d seen how far these society broads would go to entertain their friends. Picking up a guy, one rung above a hobo, in Woolworth’s wasn’t even a stretch.

She casually looped her hand through my arm and steered me into a living room so large it had a grand piano tucked in one corner.  Two men stood when we entered the room.

The guy with the Don Ameche mustache spoke first.

“Hartly, Marsh Dyson. So good to meet you. I’ve heard so much . . .”

He flustered and looked around uncertainly.

The tweed suit had too much pomade in his hair and spoke as if I wasn’t in the room.

“Come now, Doctor Dyson, Mr. Hartly knows exactly why he’s here. Clearly, we know about his indiscretion. As Gloria’s attorney, her affairs are my affairs. ”

Doctor? Lawyer? I sure wasn’t the Indian Chief. Not the rich man either. I figure they pegged me as the poor man, the beggar man, or, more likely, the thief.

I turned to Gloria Damont. “My hat, please.”  

She ignored me and drew a cigarette from a crystal dish on the coffee table. The three of us watched as she wrapped her lips around it and handed me a gold table lighter. She put her hand on mine to steady the light, and held for an extra moment, then took a step back and exhaled a long insolent twist of smoke. Plucking an imaginary piece of tobacco from her lower lip, she pouted.

“Walter, apologize at once. Marsh was discomforted. You were rude.”

The lawyer crimsoned.

“Sorry, Hartly. I jumped the gun. I suppose we should talk this out, cover objections and so on. As usual, Gloria is determined to have her way.”

Mrs. Damont waved her cigarette at me and pointed to a brocade couch next to the doctor’s chair.

“Please, Mr. Hartly, ignore Walter. He knows full well that my decisions are my own. As are my affairs. Would you care for bourbon?”

She shared the couch with me, sitting closer than I would have expected.

She leaned toward me, placing her hand on my knee. The lawyer twitched in his chair.

“I’m afraid I owe you an explanation, Mr. Hartly. May I call you Jake?”

I smiled assent but slid my knee from under her hand.

She merely switched her cigarette from right hand to left and leaned back against the arm rest.

“Charles, my husband, is in New Mexico on what he likes to call a round-up.  He’s gathering horses to fulfill a dream.”

She looked at me for a comment, so I gave one.

“From what I’ve read, he has plenty of horses.”

She smiled.

“Inquisitive. I like that. And I quite agree. Charles has more than enough racing and breeding horses. But his dream is to build a horse riding camp for underprivileged children. He thinks horses and fresh air will cure poverty.”

“He thinks he’s Roosevelt.” Harrumphed the lawyer.

Gloria Damont stabbed a disapproving look, then she turned back to me.

“That’s how I thought you could be of assistance. The property Charles wants to use for the camp is presently a large training and breeding farm we own on Long Island. Tip Braskey, our head trainer, suggested that we hire someone to ease the western horses into their new home. Your name came up.”

She paused for a response but this time I waited her out. I guess she didn’t like it because she sprang like a rattlesnake that’d been coiled too long.

“Since your difficulty at Hialeah, I imagine this is the best offer you’re likely to receive. After dinner Walter will discuss terms of employment.”

Mrs. Damont stood and invited us to the dining room, dismissing any further conversation.

Why didn’t I grab my hat and run? Was it the horses? Was it the dame?

***

I walked home, a long, wet walk.

My “difficulty” she’d called it.  A stinkeroo that blazed through the racing world. Three years later, I still reeked. Bright Star was a tan filly with a lightning streak of fawn just above her eyes. She was fast, she was smart and she was a winner. But the sharks had me in their teeth. For just one race, I needed to keep Bright Star out of the winner’s circle. Cancel my debt before the shylocks cancelled me. I kept the safest dope the vet could supply in my tack box. Whenever Bright Star got nervous in her trailer on the long trips from racetrack to racetrack, I’d stick a drop in her neck to calm her. Never thought what a drop on race day might do, other than slow her down. In a sequence of tumbles, in the middle of the third lap, she dropped to the track floor.

Bright Star never stood again.

Night after night, tossing and turning, I’d hear her whinny and feel her nuzzle my shoulder. Around then I always wished it’d been me that dropped instead.

***

I was overdressed in my suit and sweating besides, when I hopped off the train at the Lake Ronkonkoma station. Tip Braskey was a tall, solid cowboy in faded dungarees and a plaid shirt rolled up to biceps that said he could give as well as he could take, maybe better. We threw my gear into the truck bed of a rusty Ford and drove in silence for a few miles. When Braskey finally talked, he had a message to deliver.

“Mr. Charles is a fine man. His plan to help the city kids, well, I’m guessing they could use some help.

“Only thing, he spoils Mrs. Damont. Gives whatever she asks for. That’s how we got you. I know your history. Nix on fooling with my horses. I’ll give you a few old timers to work with ‘til Mr. Charles comes home with the western horses. You stay away from the rest of the stables.”

I swallowed the insult, figuring I’d earned it and asked the question most on my mind.

“Is Mr. Damont bringing home bangtails?”

“That what you think and you took the job anyway. Says something about you. Nope, nothing feral. Mr. Charles is just looking to pick up whatever ranchers out in the dustbowl are selling before they git. Okies are picked clean so he went further west. Be home soon.”

The new job went okay. I cleaned stalls and tended horses. I took a particular liking to a sorrel gelding named Warrior Two. He was second to his grandfather, a well-know stallion, who regularly took home a purse for second or third place. Warrior Two was the first offspring to show signs of winning more than his grandsire, but he was aggressive and had a bad habit of keeping his nose above the bit, interfering with his rider’s control. By the time gelding brought him into the money, he was too old to collect much. I had to admire Mr. Damont for letting him live out his years. Most geldings don’t survive past their racing days.

On slow afternoons I’d saddle Warrior Two. We might be discards to the rest of the world but together we could fly, sometimes hitting more than one border of the surrounding potato farms in a single hour.

I shared a bunk house with two other handlers, country yokels, but friendly enough, and a brawny German farrier named Theodore, who spent most of his bunk time writing letters to different refugee groups trying to get his wife and kids out of Germany before it was too late. From what we were hearing about this Hitler and his cronies, too late might come real soon.

I was well settled by the time Mrs. Damont came out to the farm with her society friends, including Walter the lawyer and a couple of other dandies in tweed. Every afternoon the grounds were littered with sleek-haired women wearing trousers and carrying long cigarette holders. There was this one redhead, a real looker, but even I could see the gold-digger simmering under her expensive clothes. The veterinarian, Marsh Dyson, who barely blew through once a week to check the stock, started showing up morning, noon and night.

Dust storms out west slowed the return of Mr. Damont and his new horses, but, in time, they came home. The eight horses were jumpy from traveling thousands of miles in two private railroad cars. While we were struggling to unload a palomino, Braskey opined how some of my horse dope would’ve come in real handy. I knew better than to call him out on it.

I liked Mr. Damont right off. He may have been a rich old man, but he was a square guy who knew his horses. He got my respect that first day when he quieted the palomino with a light touch and soft words. When we finally got the horses into their trailers, Mr. Damont gave me a firm handshake and said he was sorry he hadn’t been home to welcome me.

My first pitch that something hinky was going on came when I noticed that Mrs. Damont was spending too much time with the mustachioed veterinarian. Long morning rides, Walks after dinner. Started before her husband came home. After, they got careful, but they didn’t stop.

A day or so after Mr. Damont got home, Mrs. Damont and the redhead came to the stables.

“Jake, saddle up Rosy Smile for me. And Sylvia will need a horse. What about Warrior?”

Before I could ask the gold-digger about her riding skills, she pulled a long cigarette holder from her pocket and pushed a cigarette into the round end.

“Miss, please, no smoking here. The stalls are filled with hay.”

The redhead held a bead on me, eye to eye, then she flounced off to the house, but not before shouting, “Nuts to you.”

Mrs. Damont glared at me for a few seconds and then shrugged.

 “I suppose you’re right. Still, she’ll be in a snit all day and I detest riding alone. I want to go out to the ridge and back.” She tapped my shoulder with her riding crop. “You may take Warrior.”

Mrs. Damont and I were cantering back toward the corral when Braskey screeched the truck to a halt a few feet away.

“I been looking for you. You take time to go riding when there’s work to be done with the new horses. I’ve a mind to kick you out on your keister.”

“Tip, please. I insisted that Jake accompany me. You know I prefer riding with a companion.”

Years of trying must have made her realize not to waste that cute little pout on Braskey, so she turned it on me instead and then switched to a beguiling smile.

“Jake was a charming escort. I’m sure I’ll want his company in the future.”

She clicked Rosy Smile forward, knowing full well that she’d dug me in a deeper hole.

That night we found out that one of the refugee groups came up with a way to get Theodore’s wife and kids to New York. He just needed to go to Manhattan and sign papers. Braskey showed heart and told me to drive Theodore to the station for the next day’s early train.

I had a bad night wrestling with the Bright Star dream. I woke up before first light, sweating like I was climbing a mountain in full summer. There was no point in trying for more sleep. I showered, dressed, and moseyed to the stables to see if any of the new horses had a restless night. I walked from stall to stall, petting when I could, cooing when I couldn’t.

The kid who does the feed came in, buckets in hand.

“Jake, Mr. Braskey says for you to take a look at Warrior. He’s off his feed.”

Warrior looked fine to me when I stopped by his stall. Theodore found me there and we headed to the kitchen for breakfast.

“Jake, we eat quick, ya. Then hurry to train. Okay?”

It’s been a long time since I was that happy myself or even seen someone that happy anywhere near me. I grabbed a piece of toast and said, “I’ll get the truck and meet you out front.”

That’s when all the shrieking started. High pitched and mournful, like a woman found her lover dead. I ran toward the sound. The feed boy was kneeling at the end of a row of horse stalls. His shriek turned to sobs.

“I can’t wake him up. I can’t.”

Braskey, Theodore and a couple of other hands were right behind me. I couldn’t afford to lose another horse. I turned toward Warrior’s stall but Braskey grabbed my arm.

“Drive Theodore to the train. We’ll handle whatever happened here.”

We had plenty of time for Theodore to catch his train but I lead-footed it anyway. I told Theodore I needed to get back and find out about Warrior.

“Jake, don’t worry. All is fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Theodore couldn’t know how wrong he was.

***

I barreled through the gate, but hit the brake when I saw police cars parked near the stable and by the house. Whatever it is, when it comes to the coppers, I’d be a natural suspect.

When I got out of the truck, there wasn’t a soul in the yard. I turned the corner of the main stable and saw Braskey, Dyson, and four coppers standing in the alleyway between two rows of horse stalls. On the ground I could see a man’s boots lying perfectly still. Looked like they were full.

Braskey saw me and lashed, “Jake, go up to the house. Mrs. Damont will be needing comfort. Reckon that means she’ll be needing you.”

His sarcastic spew got the coppers attention. Every one of them gave me the up and down. No good could come of this. I turned and walked.

I figured it had to be Mr. Damont lying in those boots.

I felt sorry for him and sorry for me. No Mr. Damont might mean no horse riding camp. No job for me.

Another car pulled up. A guy with a bowler hat said he was the coroner and asked where the body was. I pointed to the horse stalls and kept walking toward the house.

The redhead opened the front door.

I told her Braskey said Mrs. Damont might want me for chores.

She had a sour, high-pitched laugh, like an opera singer who just missed the note.

“My, you do take on airs. Gloria’s barely a widow and here you come trying to stake a claim. For a grifter, you’re not too smooth. Can’t you wait until the body’s buried?”

She closed the door in my face, but not before the copper standing in the foyer asked my name. I gave it.

I went to the bunk house and sat on my bed trying to stay out of trouble’s way, but it found me soon enough.

The copper didn’t knock, just flung the door open. He was a thick blend of muscle and authority.

“You Jake Hartly?”

I nodded.

“Thought you faded on me. Better for you that you didn’t.”

“Why would I run?

“Most killers do. Stand up.”

He belted me right in the jaw. I fell backward hitting my head on the hard edge of the upper bunk. The room spun. Copper pulled me up and slapped on the cuffs, then he pushed and jabbed me with his gun like he was wielding a cattle prod on a tired old bull.

It was a long day and a longer night. A half dozen coppers took turns on me. In between the screaming and threatening, I’d get the sap across my face or shoulders. They kept hammering. Why did I kill Mr. Damont?

No one wanted to hear that I didn’t, and no one wanted to say why the coppers decided to pin the murder on me.

Walter the lawyer showed up. Said he came to help, but he was just one more voice pushing me to own up.

“Listen Chappie, they know everything. Might as well confess. Then they’ll feed you, let you clean up. And they’ll stop hitting you.”

He was having trouble with my swollen eye. Couldn’t stand to look at the blood oozing from a brow-line cut.

“Why does everyone think I killed Mr. Damont. I had a job, a chance . . .”

Just like the coppers, he wasn’t listening.

He put his briefcase on the table and sat opposite me.

“At first everyone presumed that Charles had a stroke or a heart attack, but the coroner found a broken needle sticking in his neck. That eliminated natural causes. The police searched the area and found the rest of the syringe in the stall of a horse named Warrior Two. A stall you visited that morning, I’m told. Doctor Dyson felt honor bound to mention your previous mishap, so the police looked through your tack box and found three vials of horse dope. You’d already used it to kill a horse; no one doubts you’d know how to use it to kill a man.”

“I didn’t have any dope in my tack box. I got rid of it years ago. Bright Star was an accident. I would never . . .”

He held up a hand.

“Lastly, there’s your obvious interest in Mrs. Damont. Apparently, you’ve not always presented yourself as a gentleman. She allowed you to remain at the farm out of pity and this is how you repay her.”

“I have no interest in Mrs. Damont. Dyson, it was Dyson. Him and Mrs. Damont were cozy. I’m taking the fall.”

“As much as I hate to besmirch a young woman’s reputation, Marsh Dyson and Sylvia Manning were in bed together from shortly before midnight until the screaming started. You’ll have to find another scapegoat.”

“Again, as your attorney, I implore you to confess.”

Then I got it.

“It was you. You’re the guy she planned this with. I’ve seen how you jump when she snaps her fingers.”

He laughed long and loud.

“Handling the Damont’s legal affairs brings in half my yearly income. Their friends and connections bring in the rest.  Of course I toady, but as to Mrs. Damont . . . I’m a confirmed bachelor. Confirmed. Forever.”

He gave me a daisy-boy wink and was gone.

***

The trial was a joke.

I rode the prison bus up to Sing Sing knowing I’d spend the rest of my days trying to figure out why Gloria Damont needed her husband dead, and who she partnered up with to make it happen.  There had to be a guy. Her kind of dame always has a guy on the string to do her dirty work. Not knowing who made me the patsy was eating my guts out.

But time has its way of adjusting your take on things. After a couple of years inside, I picked up a routine. Wormed my way into an easy job in the prison library. I put books on the shelves, did a little cleaning and had plenty of time to study the race results in the World-Telegram. I gave up looking for why or who. I’d almost convinced myself it didn’t matter. Then one day I opened the Telly and there was my answer, complete with pictures.

Countrywide Aeronautics was buying a Long Island site for a new airplane construction plant and testing facility. In the picture, company officials surrounded Mrs. Thomas Braskey, who smiled directly at her husband while she signed a contract to sell the Damont breeding and training farm for a cool half million dollars.

Do you think any of the poor city kids Mr. Damont wanted to help will ever see a dime of that half million?

Me neither.

The End