Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth



  Don’t Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

  by John Paul Wohlscheid

  Copyright 2016 John Paul Wohlscheid

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  Trouble is My Client

  Church Triumphant: 25 Men and Women Who Gave Their :Lives to Christ

  A Battle for the Faith (with Therese Linden)

  Don’t Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

  I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve seen my share of trouble and, because I’m a private cop, I’ve seen plenty of other people’s troubles. I’ve seen the same mistakes made over and over. Most people never learn.

  Unfortunately, most of my clients are little guys with big plans, with delusions of grandeur, to use a $50 phrase. These guys see what seems like a sure thing and try to get in on it. Many times this involves cheating a cheater. Contrary to what some people think, cheating cheaters never turns out to be a good idea. The problem is most guys have to learn that lesson the hard way.

  This particular trouble all started last Friday morning. I was sitting in a diner on Farrell Street drinking the crankcase fluid they laughingly called coffee. I was struggling through my second cup when a small, greasy character perched himself on the stool next to mine.

  When he spoke, he had a voice like the hinges on a haunted house. “You Cahill?”

  “Depends on who's asking.”

  “I am.”

  “That’s good. Now I know more than I did ten minutes ago. Beat it, I was happier then.”

  “Would you be happier if I offered you $50 to do a job for me?”

  Under normal circumstances, I would have told him to go bother someone else, but the rent was three weeks past due and I was running out of places to hide from the landlord.

  “What’s the job?”

  “It’s real simple.” He pushed a thick envelope across the counter towards me. “Bet this roll on Heavy Storm in the third race today.”

  I looked inside. I guessed there was at least $500 in twenties and fives. “If this is so easy, why don’t you do it yourself?”

  “Because I got inside dope and certain people would be upset if they saw me anywhere near the betting window.”

  “What about my fee? I don’t like doing jobs without payment up front. It makes me nervous and I don’t do a good job when I’m nervous.”

  “There’s an extra fifty in there for you. Don’t worry. After the race, bring the money to the Stockdale Hotel. I’ll be in room 298.” He turned and disappeared out the door.

  As I scooped up the envelope and put it in my pocket, I looked around to see if anyone had been watching the exchange. Everyone seemed to be staring into their food or reading the paper, but I couldn’t be sure. You can never be too careful in this town.

  Once I got into the office, I placed a call to a bookie I know named Saul Lane. Saul had been a jockey once upon a time, until he found he could make better money from a softer seat.

  He sounded half asleep when I finally got a hold of him. “What can I do for you, Cahill?”

  “What odds can you give me on Heavy Storm?”

  “To win, place or show?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Any way you bet, you’ll get 50 to 1 odds. Because you’re a friend, I’ll give you 55 to 1.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse, the Storm slowed down to a drizzle a long time ago. They’re only running her to keep up appearances. Now, if you’re interested in a good thing, I’ve got a horse in the sixth race that’s a sure bet. Name is Fleet Lady.”

  “Maybe some other time when I’ve got some money of my own.”

  Well, the little guy’s job seemed easy and straightforward enough, but that can be said about a lot of things, like Custer’s last stand.

  I worked my way through the mail until 12:30 pm. I took the back stairs to avoid my landlord and made it safely to my car.

  I arrived at the track just as the second race was finishing. I strolled up to the betting window and handed over the contents of the envelope, minus my fifty bucks. The guy at the window asked if I was crazy, but I told him to let it ride. I noticed a big boy with well built shoulders watching the booth, but took him for a guard.

  When I found a seat in the bleachers, the horses were lining up for my race. I took a closer look at number 45, Heavy Storm. Her jockey had a familiar outline. It was the little guy who’d hired me.

  The crack of the starter’s pistol cut through the thundering noise of the throng and signaled the start of the race. The gates banged open and the race began. The horses hadn’t taken half a dozen steps before everyone and their uncle was on their feet. Something was not going according to the script. Heavy Storm struck out in front and stayed there through the whole race.

  After the race, I made my way to the betting window and was handed a tall pile of C-notes. The guy behind the window gave me a look like I was taking his favorite girl.

  I made it out to the parking lot, but that’s where I ran into trouble. A girl with a red dress stood next to my car, leaning on my door with a foot on the running board.

  She was well put together. She had a face that most men dream about and a mane of natural, blonde hair other women wish they had. When she spoke, it sounded like silk rubbing together.

  “What’s your hurry? Someone like you shouldn’t be in a hurry.”

  “I’ve got a date with a guy.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a date with me? It would be more fun.” she said with a sly smile.

  “Sorry, but he’s paying for it. Business comes before pleasure.”

  “He may be paying for it, but I’ll take the money.” She had a sliver plated .22 pointed at me before I could twitch a muscle.

  “With that gun pointed at me, you’re irresistible.”

  “Just put the money in the bag.” She tossed me her purse. Once I finished, she said, “Put it on the ground.”

  As I bent over, she brought the gun down on my head and I went out like a candle in a heavy windstorm. When I woke up both she and the money were gone. I headed over to the Stockdale Hotel to tell my client what happened to his money, rubbing the back of my noggin as I went.

  I found room 298 at the rear of the second floor. When I knocked on the door, I got nothing for my troubles except sore knuckles. The door was open, so I went in to wait. That was a mistake.

  The big guy who’d been guarding the betting window was sitting on the bed and he had a friend. Both looked like they lifted weights for kicks and smashed bricks with their bare fists just to prove they could do it.

  The first guy had a face like a wet mackerel. When he talked it sounded like two blocks of granite rubbing together.

  “Nice place you have here, pilgrim,” said the first guy.

  “It’s not mine,” I replied looking around. “I’m looking for a guy. Since he’s not here, I’ll blow.”

  “Hang around, pilgrim. We can wait for him together.”

  “No thanks. It’s too crowded in here for me. Especially with you two in here.”

  Then, the second mug spoke. “You’d better do what Donny says and wait awhile, chum.”

  “Well, what will we do to pass the time?” I asked.

  “Talk,” said Donny. “Ralph likes to talk,
so we’ll talk, Cahill.”

  “You know my name,” I said. “That’s a start. Where will we go from there?”

  “You’ll tell us where the dough is,” said Donny.

  “What dough?”

  “The pile I saw the cashier count out for you. Where is it?” asked Ralph.

  “You’re too late. A girl with a small gun took it away and gave me a big bump for a receipt.”

  “Do you believe him, Ralph? I don’t. I think he’s trying to hold out for Charlie. Hold ‘em down while I search him.”

  Ralph came for me. I met him halfway with a poke to the jaw. We grappled. The next thing I knew, the lights exploded and went out.

  When I came to again, my two playmates were gone, but they’d left something behind. The little, greasy guy, he must have been Charlie, was lying on the floor next to me. He wasn’t going to do anymore riding in his condition. He was dead.

  I was just about to leave, when the door opened and the room got crowded all over again. Lt. Crowley stepped into the room. He looked at me and then at poor Charlie.

  “What’s the rush, Cahill? Is it past checkout time?” he asked as his monkeys filled the room.

  “It is for him,” I said.

  He looked down at Charlie, but he stayed in the doorway. “What happened? He refuse to pay his bill, so you beat him to death for a few lousy bucks?”

  “That’s not my style, you know that. Check out a couple of thugs named Donny and Ralph. They’ll fit the bill better.”

  “I got you handy. Why don’t I take you down and book you? It’ll be easier on both of us.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll turn red when you find out you’re wrong. You don’t look good in red.”

  “I could make it stick.”

  “You can try all you want, flatfoot, but you couldn’t make wallpaper stick no matter what you used.”

  “I’ll give you 24 hours, Cahill. Then, I’m coming for you. I’ll enjoy locking you up and throwing the keys away.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you locked up an innocent man, Crowley.”

  I needed help and I needed it in a bad way. I looked up one of the best guys I know, an ex-reporter named Mickey Jakes. Jakes had been a high-powered investigative reporter until the Mob broke him. Since then he had stumbled from one bottle to another.

  I found him in a bar on Sicily nursing a warm beer. He was staring hard at a dime-store edition of The Man in the Iron Mask.

  He saw me approach and said, “Ah, Benny, I was just enjoying a classic. A story of the trials of friendship. Have you ever read it? It’s a good book.”

  Ignoring the question, I said, “Mickey, I need some help. I’m in trouble.”

  His face clouded and he said, “That’s the problem with you, Benny, you’re always in trouble. Somehow, whenever there’s trouble, you find it and stick your nose right in the middle of it.”

  “But, Mickey...”

  “You’d be better off if you stopped looking for trouble and take up reading instead. Start with the classics. They won’t fail you. But if you find that they’re too deep for you, you can try out some of the more shallow modern stories. Whatever you do, Benny, you’ve got to get out of your rut. If you don’t, someone is liable to bury you in that rut.” He paused for a breath and a sip.

  “Are you finished, Mickey?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “What sort of trouble?”

  “I was paid 50 bucks by a jockey to bet $500 on a long-shot. The long-shot paid out at 50 to 1.”

  Mickey whistled and the air filled with the smell of booze. “So give him his winnings or are you having second thoughts? You could buy a whole library with that much cash. Or a distillery.”

  “I’d like to do that, but a dame traded me a bump on the head for the cash before I even got it to the car. When I got to the hotel, where I was supposed to meet the jockey, I ran into two gorillas named Donny and Ralph. After they bounced me around, I woke up with a dead jockey occupying the same room with me and Crowley coming in the door. He wants me for the murder.”

  “Knowing Crowley, he will do the best he can with what he’s got and that’s usually not much. What do you want me to do, Benny?”

  “Check and see if you can find who the two gorillas belong to. They’re not the kind of guys to be without a keeper. I’m going over to see Saul Lane about the jockey and the horses. You can contact me there.”

  “Okay, Benny, I’ll do it. Just promise me that after this is over, you’ll give the classics a chance.”

  “If I get time, Mickey. If I get time.”

  “That’s the most I can expect, I suppose.”

  When I got to Saul’s at the corner of Blakely and Bridger, he was gone and his office was locked. The janitor told me I could find Saul at the Horse and Dog on Caepon.

  In the Horse and Dog, Saul was surrounded by a large group at the bar. Catching sight of me, Saul smiled and waved me over.

  “Benny, I’m buying the drinks tonight. Order whatever you want.”

  “What’s the celebration for, Saul? One of your favorites break a leg?”

  “I figured that you wouldn’t be asking about a horse without a good reason. So I put some of my own money on Heavy Storm and now I’m buying drinks,” he said as he threw back a drink of his own.

  “Saul, right now information is more important to me than a drink. Can we talk?”

  He nodded and snagged another drink before leading the way to a booth in the back. “What do you want to know?” asked Saul.

  “Who owns Heavy Storm?”

  “You don’t start with easy questions, do you? To tell the truth, not many people know who owns Heavy Storm. Some think that Col. Cavanaugh owns her, but he’s just a front for someone else.”

  “I guess I’ll have to go see Cavanaugh and persuade him to tell me.”

  “Why would you go doing that when I already know?” I turned to leave.

  I turned back to Saul. “Then, who is it?”

  “Frank Cassidy. Owns a nightclub down on the waterfront called Nero’s.”

  “From what I hear, he runs it like his own little kingdom,” I said. “One other thing, what is the name of Heavy Storm’s jockey?”

  “Charles Prentice.”

  I nodded my head slightly. Just what I’d expected. I left Saul drinking to his good fortune. I was met at the door by Mickey.

  “When you weren’t at Saul’s office, the janitor told me to come here. Sounds like a lot of fun in there.”

  “Who owns the two apes?”

  “It took some looking, but I finally got an answer. His name is Frank Cassidy. He owns a place on the waterfront named...”

  “Nero’s,” I finished.

  Mickey sighed. “I suppose we’re going to Nero’s then.”

  I nodded. “Nero’s.”

  We drove in silence. I gripped the steering wheel for dear life. Mickey looked as though he was walking the last mile.

  Mickey sighed weakly. “I guess it can’t be helped. Once you’ve been busted over the head, you don’t stop until the other guy gets what’s coming to him. You’ll probably need a witness. I’ll come along and bring the first-aid kit.”

  I looked at him and said, “Good. We’ll need it.”

  Nero’s had once been the biggest hangout on the waterfront. But that had been fifteen years ago. Cassidy still did a decent amount of business, but it was nothing compared to what it had been in the glory days.

  Mickey and I had no trouble getting in, considering the condition we were in. Nero’s had it all: a bar, tables, a dance floor, bandstand and booths along the wall.

  Sitting at the bar with her back to me was a familiar face or I should say dress. I motioned for Mickey to have a seat, while I walked over to her.

  “Did you get tired of carrying that heavy gun, sister? It looked like it was weighing you down earlier.” She made a face like someone had punched her in the gut. While she was recovering, I took a look in the purse sitting next to her on the bar. The gun was t
here and I pocketed it. The money wasn’t inside. I didn’t expect it to be, this particular bag wasn’t big enough. She’d switched bags, but kept the gun.

  By the time I was done, she had recovered her composure. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” she hissed.

  “It was easy. When I showed up at my date with the guy, two no-necks were waiting for me. When they found out that I didn't have the money, they bounced me off the wall. After I woke up, I found my client lying on the floor next to me. That’s one jockey who switched professions. He’s traded his riding outfit and crop for a white robe and harp. The trail the no-necks left led here.”

  Her eyes filled up with tears and she started to cry. "I only wanted to protect him. I only wanted him to be safe so we could be together."

  “Who did you want to protect?”

  “Charlie. He and I were going to get married, but he hardly made anything as a jockey. I didn’t make much money either singing in this dump. He had a plan to make enough money to let us get away from all this. I knew that they would find out and kill him. When I couldn’t talk him out of it, I tried to prevent that by taking the money from you.”

  “Well, it didn’t work. And I got a second bump on top of it. Charlie should have known better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. The two monkeys that killed Charlie belong to the guy who owns this place: Cassidy. Do you have any idea where I can find his office?”

  “It’s back behind the bandstand.”

  "Isn't it always."

  I motioned for Mickey to come over. “Take care of her. I’m going to talk to the zoo keeper around here. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call Lt. Brady Summers of Homicide and tell him to drag the river. Tell them to use long chains, to reach the bottom where the cement blocks end up.” I turned and headed towards the bandstand.

  Behind the bandstand was a door marked “Private”. It led to a short hallway with another door at the end. This door had a thick, imposing look to it. I decided to be cautious. I put my ear to the door.

  “Did anyone besides the jockey make a substantial bet on Heavy Storm today?” It was the voice of the man himself, Frank Cassidy.

  “Yeah, boss. There was a bookie named Saul Lane on Blakely and Bridger. He put a sizable chunk down. I don’t know who would have told him?” This was Donny. I could tell from the way his voice put my teeth on edge.