The Bookwoman's Last Fling Read Free

the horse was being led back through the gap. The groom held him while the hooded man stood apart, and the boy sat straight in the saddle. On the road he hopped off and they all walked down to the barn where a black man stood waiting with a hot bucket of water. They were a hundred yards away but my eyes were good. The ginney washed the mud off his horse and then skimmed off the water with a scraper. Steam floated off the horse like the bubbling ponds around Old Faithful, but I still couldn’t see anything of the hooded man’s face. His hood kept him dark and mysterious.
    I heard Willis cough behind me. He said, “You comin’?” and I said yeah sure. His tone remained surly while I tried to keep mine evenly pleasant. I followed him into the house through a side door. He said, “Wait here,” and for once I did as I was told. He disappeared along a totally black corridor. A moment later a light came on, far down at the end of the hallway on the other side of the house. He motioned me with his hand and turned into the room. Almost at once I was aware of another light beaming out into the hall, and when I reached it I saw Willis sitting behind an enormous desk. My eyes also took in two dozen horse pictures on the far wall, winner’s circle pictures with an oil painting in the center. The centerpiece was a great painting of a magnificent red stallion. The caption said, Man o’ War, 1921.
    â€œI’ve got a few chores to do before we talk,” Willis said. This was okay. For the moment I was at the man’s beck and call; if I computed what he was paying me on a per-hour basis, I would be way ahead of the game for the seeable future. I had never made anything close to this kind of money when I was a cop, so if he wanted me to sit I could sit here all week. At some point I would hear his story, I’d tell him what if anything I could do or try to do for him, and maybe, if the answer was nothing and his demeanor was civilized, I’d consider giving him a chunk of his money back. For the moment I didn’t want to drop even a hint of that possibility. Willis asked if I wanted coffee. I didn’t; I had had my quota in the restaurant but I said sure, I’d take a cup, I’d be sociable. Who knows, it might help us break some ice, I thought. Willis disappeared and I was left to give the room another inspection alone.
    The first thing I noticed was, there were no books anywhere.
    The second thing, which took me slightly longer to determine, was that Geiger himself appeared in none of the winner’s circle pictures. I got up and walked along the wall looking at them.
    A winner’s circle picture, in addition to being a quality professional photograph, gives some good information in three or four lines. First there is the name of the winning horse. Then it tells the racetrack where the win occurred; then the date, the name of the winning jockey, the horses that ran second and third, the distance, the winner’s time, and the names of the owner and trainer. In all of these, H. R. Geiger was named as the owner and trainer, but the only men who had come down to stand with the winning horse and jockey were Willis and the groom. There was no gang of celebrants in any of them and this, maybe, told me a little more about Geiger. Even in cheap claiming races a crowd often assembles around the winning horse. The groom must be there to hold the horse; the jockey, still seated in the saddle, and a whole bunch of people dressed in suits and ties, flowery dresses or plain shirts and jeans, all friends of the winning owner. I had seen winner’s circle pictures that had twenty grinning people crowded together as if they personally had pushed the hapless nag the entire six furlongs. But here was a whole wall showing only four faces in each: Willis and the groom, the jockey, and the horse. Willis wore his western attire, boots, the hat, and a string tie tight at his neck. The pictures