Tomboy Taylor removed the stogie and said evenly, "Barcelona wants to
see it Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace next month."
When I got done gulping I said, "You mean Barcelona wants me to fix the
Kentucky Derby?"
"Oh no," she replied in a very throaty contralto that went with her
figure and her thousand dollars worth of simple skirt and blouse. "You
needn't 'Fix' anything. Just be sure that it's Flying Heels, Moonbeam,
and Lady Grace in that order. One, two, three. Do I make Barcelona quite
clear?"
I said, "Look, Tomboy, neither of them platers can even _run_ that far,
let alone running ahead."
"Barcelona says they can. And will." She leaned forward and stubbed out
the Pittsburgh stogie and in the gesture she became wholly beautiful as
well as beautifully wholesome. As she leaned toward me she unfogged the
lighter surface of her mind and let me dig the faintly-leaking concept
that she considered me physically attractive. This did not offend me. To
the contrary it pleased my ego mightily until Tomboy Taylor deliberately
let the barrier down to let me read the visual impression--which
included all of the implications contained in the old cliché: "... And
don't he look nacheral?"
"How," I asked on the recoil, "can I fix the Derby?"
"Barcelona says you know more about the horse racing business than any
other big time operator in Chicago," she said smoothly. "Barcelona says
that he doesn't know anything about horse racing at all, but he has
great faith in your ability. Barcelona says that if anybody can make it
Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace, one, two, and three, Wally
Wilson is the man who can do it. In fact, Barcelona will be terribly
disappointed if you can't."
I eyed her carefully. She was a composed and poised beauty who looked
entirely incapable of uttering such words. I tried to peer into her
mind but it was like trying to read the fine print of a telephone
directory through a knitted woolen shawl. She smiled at me, her shapely
lips curving graciously.
I said, "Barcelona seems to have a lot of confidence in my ability to
arrange things."
With those delicate lips still curved sweetly, she said, "Barcelona is
willing to bet money on your ability as a manager."
At this point Tomboy Taylor fished another Pittsburgh stogie out of her
hundred dollar handbag, bit off the end with a quick nibble of even,
pearly-white teeth, and stuffed the cigar in between the arched lips.
She scratched a big kitchen match on the seat of her skirt after raising
one shapely thigh to stretch the cloth. She puffed the stogie into light
and became transformed from a beauty into a hag. My mind swore; it was
like painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa.
Out of the corner of her mouth she replied to my unspoken question: "It
helps to keep grippers like you at mind's length."
Then she left me alone with my littered card table and the eight
thousand buck final pot--_and_ the unhappy recollection that Barcelona
had gotten upset at something Harold Grimmer had done, and he'd gone
into Grimmer's place and busted Grimmer flat by starting with one lousy
buck and letting it ride through eighteen straight passes. This feat of
skill was performed under the mental noses of about eight operators
trained to exert their extrasensory talents toward the defeat of
sharpshooters who tried to add paraphysics to the laws of chance.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Delancey of the Chicago police came in an hour later. He
refused my offer of a drink, and a smoke, and then because I didn't wave
him to a chair he crossed my living room briskly and eased himself into
my favorite chair. I think I could have won the waiting game but the
prize wasn't good enough to interest me in playing. So I said, "O.K.,
lieutenant, what am I supposed to be guilty of?"