Hopscotch by Brian Garfield

dimension of the half-drawn curtains on either side of the orchestra indicated that the stage could be opened out for floor shows. Three sides of the room were paneled in pane glass for floor shows. Three sides of the room were paneled in pane glass with a southward view of the city’s lamplit mountainsides. Beyond the doors on the fourth wall would be the bar, the kitchen, the managerial offices and a few smaller rooms for banquets and proms and lead-outs. Southerners were early diners and it was only nine o’clock but few of the patrons were eating; it was a place for convivial drinking more than dining out. And for a few people, the insiders who ran the faster tracks, it was something else entirely: a place where if you knew the right names and had the right amount of money you could buy anything at all.
    The tables at the windows had been claimed and that was fine; he took a table close to the door marked Private and when the miniskirted waitress came he ordered bourbon in a hoarse prairie twang. “The best you got, honey.” He gave the girl a wink.
    When she brought the drink he touched his lips to it and said, “Now that’s sippin’ whisky. HoneyI wonder if you’d do me the kindness to ask Mr. Maddox to drop by my table here? Just tell him it’s old Jim Murdison, he’ll most likely remember me.”
    â€œI’m not sure whether Mr. Maddox is in tonight, sir. I didn’t see him come in. But I’ll check for you.”
    â€œThank you kindly.”
    She had other tables to serve and it was five minutes before he saw her slip through the Private door. He glimpsed a blonde girl behind a desk inside; then the door slid shut on a silent pneumatic closer.
    After a while the waitress came out. “I’m sorry sir, Mr. Maddox hasn’t come in yet.”
    â€œHe likely to be in later on tonight?”
    â€œI’m sure I couldn’t tell you, sir. I’m terribly sorry.” She gave a synthetic smile and glided away, hips oscillating.
    But she’d been in the outer office too long; they’d had a little discussion and Mr. Maddox had decided he’d never heard of old Jim Murdison and maybe he’d had a peek out through a Judas-hole and hadn’t been impressed by the look of Kendig. So Kendig had to force the impasse. There might be other ways to obtain what he wanted—even legitimate ways—but it was best to deal with an underworld type like Maddox because he wouldn’t have any ties with the Bureau or with Cutter and because the Maddoxes were in it for profit, they were businessmen, you knew just where you stood with them: they weren’t going to slit your throat or ask the wrong questions. With an ordinary good-citizen amateur running a legit charter business you wouldn’t have that assurance.
    A little while later the waitress went into thekitchen and that was when Kendig stood up and walked to the Private door.
    The blonde girl looked up from her typing. “Yes sir? May I help you?”
    â€œIt’s all right, I know the way.” He went straight across to the door of the private office. When the blonde made to get up he turned. “What’s your name? Are you new? You don’t know me, do you.”
    It flustered the girl; she was very young, hired for her ornamental excellences, not her mind. “I—I’m very sorry, sir.”
    Kendig went in.
    Maddox looked up, burly and muscular, thighs bulging against his trousers, a ledger in his lap. He was tough enough not to look alarmed. The tentative beginnings of a polite smile: “May I help you, friend?”
    â€œName of Jim Murdison, out of Topeka. Expect you don’t remember me but I was up here a few times seven, eight years back with old Jim-Bob Fredericks from Dallas?” He went booming right across the carpet and pumped Maddox’s hand.
    Maddox suddenly beamed. “Why of course I remember. Now I’m real sorry about all that