The Last Private Eye by John Birkett Page B

Sometime Wednesday afternoon. I popped by the barn. Walsh was in the tack room with a couple of the other lads. I think they were playing cards.”
    â€œHe seem any different than usual?”
    â€œNot that I can recall.”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about Walsh?”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œI’m trying,” Rhineheart said, “to get an idea of what kind of person he was.”
    Hughes took another swallow of his drink. His voice took on a light slur. Walsh, he said, was a pleasant enough chap. Did what he was told. Came to work on time usually. Hughes understood that Walsh liked his drink and liked to chase the ladies, but who didn’t?
    â€œDid he gamble?” Rhineheart asked.
    â€œI really don’t know.”
    â€œWalsh get along with his fellow employees?”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œLast week,” Rhineheart said, “you and Walsh had an argument behind the barn. What was it about?”
    Hughes flashed a stiff smile at Rhineheart. “To tell you the truth, old man, I don’t really remember what it concerned. I probably had to dress him down for something he did—or more likely, something he didn’t do. Walsh is not the only lad I’ve ever had to tongue lash. It’s something that comes with the head trainer’s job, I’m afraid.”
    â€œYou think of any reason why Walsh’d leave so abruptly?” Rhineheart asked.
    â€œObviously, you’re not very well acquainted with race-trackers, Mr. Rhineheart. They’re gypsies. They come and go as they please. At the drop of a hat.” Hughes drained his drink.
    Rhineheart looked around the room. People stood around in little groups, drinks in hand. They were partying hard, as if it were a job. The music—some heavy-metal shit—had been turned up a couple of decibels and someone had laid out a line of coke on the coffee table. The spiky-haired blonde was bent over the table.
    It was time to split, Rhineheart decided. He wasn’t getting anywhere with Hughes anyway. He made it a point to thank Hughes courteously, excused himself, and made his way out of the place. None of the partygoers seemed to notice his departure.
    On the way home he stopped at O’Brien’s. The place was almost empty. It was Wanda Jean’s night off. McGraw was out on her date, having a good time, no doubt. For a moment he considered calling Kate Sullivan. Then he realized she was probably spending the night with her husband and her kids. He ordered a drink and sat on a stool at the bar.
    He had a couple of doubles and Sam, the bartender, came over and leaned on the bar top and asked Rhineheart how he was doing. Sam was in his sixties and had been around the block a time or two. Rhineheart tried to get him to talk about the old days before TV, when everything, life itself, seemed to have more meaning than it did now and everyone was nicer and money wasn’t everything and the Kentucky Derby was the only horse race in the world and people from all over came to Louisville to see it.
    But all Sam wanted to talk about was basketball. He asked Rhineheart who was going to have the best team. U. of K.? U. of L.? Indiana?
    Rhineheart shrugged. He couldn’t get interested in roundball until December. He wanted Sam to tell him about the Brown Hotel and the celebrities who stayed there back in the forties and about all the great races, but he just sat there and listened to the old man talk about seven footers and power forwards until closing time.
    Just before Rhineheart got up to leave, a dumpy woman in a print dress who had been sitting at one of the tables walked over to him. She put her hand on his arm, and in a voice full of sympathy, said, “You had a bad day at the track, didn’t you, son?”
    â€œActually,” Rhineheart said, “I won.”
    â€œDon’t kid me,” the woman said. “I can always tell a loser when I see one.” She patted him