Saratoga Headhunter

Book 3: Charlie Bradshaw

by Stephen Dobyns

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Charlie Bradshaw, an ex-cop, now private detective, returns home one afternoon to discover his houseguest brutally murdered and is determined to find the killer

Release date: April 26, 1985

Publisher: Viking

Print pages: 256

Sample

BLACK JACK KETCHUM, the member of the Wild Bunch who turned train robber out of unrequited love, used to hammer himself on the head with a gun
butt whenever he made a serious mistake. When Black Jack attempted to stop the train near Folsom, New Mexico, and had his
arm shot up by the express agent, what he seemed to regret most was that the subsequent amputation robbed him of the power
to punish himself for getting caught.

All through one October, Charlie Bradshaw felt he had Black Jack Ketchum’s example of self-abuse ever before his eyes. “I
could have kicked myself,” he would tell his friend Victor Plotz, “or worse.”

Charlie’s problems began on a rainy Sunday evening at the beginning of the month. It was the sort of autumn rain that makes
the leaves turn color, and even tastes of winter though the days remain warm. So far, the leaves around Saratoga Springs had
only begun to turn, but Charlie knew that in the morning bright scarlet patches would show in the maples around his small
house on the lake.

Charlie had spent the early part of the evening attempting to fix the stopper on the toilet, with the result that he now had
to wiggle the handle for five minutes instead of one in order to make the water stop running. He had just decided to give
up and go to bed when there was a knock at the door. This too was an irritation. He had to be up at four thirty and it was
already approaching ten. On the other hand, he had heard no car and so was curious.

The man at the door was several inches shorter than Charlie, about five feet five or six, and at first Charlie didn’t recognize
him because he was fat.

“Hey, Bradshaw,” said the man, “how you been?”

Charlie stood back to let him enter. He was wearing a tan raincoat and rain hat and when he took off the hat, Charlie realized
that the man was the suspended jockey Jimmy McClatchy. In his left hand was a blue canvas suitcase.

McClatchy was so much the last person that Charlie expected to see that he looked at him dumbly as if the jockey were some
creature just sprung from a rock.

McClatchy seemed to enjoy Charlie’s surprise. “Long time no see,” he said, grinning.

“I thought you were hiding out,” said Charlie.

McClatchy tossed his wet hat and coat onto a chair. “I am. You got anything to drink?” McClatchy had short mahogany-colored
hair, a flabby, moon-shaped face and lips as thin as a pair of fifty-cent pieces. He wore a blue blazer and a blue-and-white
polka-dot bow tie. The blazer had shiny gold buttons embossed with good-luck horseshoes.

“A few bottles of beer,” said Charlie.

“Beer’s fine. And bring some crackers if you have any.”

Charlie went into the kitchen to look. He hadn’t seen McClatchy since he had last raced in Saratoga over a year ago. During
that time, McClatchy had gained about forty pounds. He was tall for a jockey and was known as a puker—that is, a jockey who
ate a lot, then threw it up afterward. But since he had stopped racing, he clearly had been keeping his food in his stomach.

Charlie got a bottle of Pabst from the refrigerator, then located a chunk of cheddar cheese. From the cupboard over the sink
he took down a box of Ritz crackers.

All he knew about McClatchy during the past year had come from newspapers. But this was quite a lot. McClatchy was something
of a celebrity, if that was the right word for a man who had become famous by testifying against old friends and associates.

McClatchy’s notoriety had begun a year ago September when he had been subpoenaed by a New Jersey grand jury and later indicted
for race fixing in Atlantic City. The indictment was subsequently dropped and during the trial McClatchy had appeared as an unindicted co-conspirator testifying for the prosecution. His testimony helped send a dozen men to jail.

The race-fixing charges had concerned themselves with about fifteen races over a two-year period—all were exacta and trifecta
races, where people wager on the first two or three horses to cross the finish line. By slowing certain horses it was possible
to greatly increase the odds as to which two or three horses would finish first, while the money to be won in such a fix could
be in the hundreds of thousands.

But the more people who got involved, the greater was the chance of discovery. The New Jersey investigation had begun in response
to a drunken groom’s accusations in a bar. McClatchy, to his credit or discredit, had been able to exchange his prison cell
for a secret address and salary paid for by the Federal Witness Program. Nor did his testimony stop with Atlantic City. The
grand jury in New Jersey led to a grand jury in Delaware, and again McClatchy was the star witness. This time ten people had
gone to jail. Now there was talk of additional grand juries in Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, while a New York grand jury
was just beginning to hear testimony in Brooklyn. Only that afternoon Charlie had read that McClatchy was scheduled to appear
before the Brooklyn grand jury, again as an unindicted co-conspirator.

Charlie returned to the living room with the beer, crackers and cheese and set them on the coffee table. “Aren’t you supposed
to be testifying in Brooklyn?” he asked.

McClatchy lay stretched out on the couch in front of the fireplace where a couple of birch logs were burning. “Yeah,” he said,
“I gotta be there in a week or so.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Charlie sat down on the rocker next to the couch.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t feel safe.”

McClatchy sat up, drank several mouthfuls of beer, then methodically began cutting small squares of cheese and putting them
on crackers. Charlie thought that McClatchy’s fingers looked like little cocktail sausages.

“The Feds were keeping me hidden in Allentown. All day I was cooped up in a tiny apartment with nothin’ to do except watch the TV or play gin rummy with a coupla assholes. Anyway, there’s lots of guys who’d like to make sure I don’t show up
in Brooklyn and I couldn’t trust some cop not to talk, so I lit out.”

McClatchy’s mouth was full and as he spoke he spat tiny bits of crackers onto the rug. He sat forward with his elbows on his
knees, drank some more beer and belched.

“You got any salami or anything like that?”

“No,” said Charlie. “How’d you get up here anyway? I didn’t hear a car.”

“First, I took a bus, then I hitched rides. How about another beer?”

Charlie went back to the kitchen. He had no doubt there were people who wanted McClatchy dead. He had told the papers that
he had helped fix races in more than a dozen states and all those states had begun to investigate his charges. In many cases,
McClatchy had been the moneyman, paying off jockeys to slow their horses. The payoffs had ranged from five hundred to a thousand
dollars. Charlie had been surprised that jockeys would risk their careers for so little.

Charlie returned from the kitchen, handed McClatchy the beer and sat down. It was still raining and he could hear the drops
hitting the roof. “But what I don’t understand,” said Charlie, “is what you are doing in Saratoga.”

McClatchy drank some more beer, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I needed a place to hole up for a week. Saratoga
seemed the best bet. I mean, I can shoot right down to New York with no trouble.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Charlie. He thought it would be difficult for McClatchy to find a place. The jockey had always
been a loner and now that he had been testifying to various grand juries, it would be hard to find people to help him. In
fact, Charlie doubted there was anyone who would stick out his neck for someone as questionable as Jimmy McClatchy.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said McClatchy.

Charlie experienced a substantial attack of dismay. “You mean you want to stay here, with me?”

“That’s about it,” said McClatchy.

“But there isn’t room.”

McClatchy glanced around the cottage, which consisted of three rooms, including the kitchen. “It’s pretty small but what choice
do I have? Maybe you could sleep on the couch and I could have the bedroom.”

“Why can’t you go to a motel?”

“Think about it, Charlie. Think about what would happen if I showed my face in Saratoga. If you kick me outta here, I’ll be
a dead man for sure.”

“But why me?”

“You always treated me right. Anyway, who else could I ask? Some trainer or jock? The way things are going I wouldn’t trust
my own mother. Some guys would pay a lotta money to know where I am. Okay, so we were never what you’d call pals but I figured
I could trust you and besides, this is the last place anyone would look.”

“So you picked me as your sucker.” Charlie began to feel angry.

“Not sucker, Charlie, don’t say that. I needed a place to stay and you were the only person I could think of. All right, I
took a chance, but right now it’s either you or nothing.”

Charlie got up and put another birch log on the fire. The loose white bark caught right away, sending a rush of flame up the
chimney.

For several years, Charlie had been head of security for Lew Ackerman’s Lorelei Stables just outside Saratoga. Then, fifteen
months ago, Ackerman had been shot dead in the swimming pool of the Saratoga YMCA. Not long afterward his partner had sold
the stable. McClatchy had ridden for him perhaps twenty times, but Ackerman had often accused McClatchy of laziness and stopped
using him about two months before the murder.

Charlie himself had never liked McClatchy, primarily because he once heard the jockey making fun of Ackerman for being too
scrupulous. Charlie, however, was one of those unfortunate human beings who try to be particularly nice to people they dislike,
and so, besides being friendly with McClatchy, he had occasionally lent him cab fare from the stables into Saratoga—money that McClatchy had never returned.

McClatchy finished his beer and set the bottle back on the table. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll give you fifty bucks
a night to let me stay here.”

For some reason it seemed worse to have McClatchy pay. Although it was October and the racing season was long past, Charlie
guessed there were hundreds of people who would recognize the jockey, even with all that extra weight. And Charlie felt certain
that if it became known that McClatchy was in Saratoga, then someone would try to make sure that this particular federal witness
kept his lip buttoned forever. Presumably, McClatchy found this distressing, for despite his apparent calm he appeared wary
and seemed to be listening for far-off noises. Charlie knew that if he were in McClatchy’s shoes, he would have already moved
to Zanzibar or Nepal.

“That’s all right,” said Charlie, “maybe you can help with the food. You think it will be for a week?”

“That’s okay. The grand jury begins tomorrow and I’m supposed to show up on Monday.”

Charlie stood in front of the fireplace. He had been poking the fire with a pair of metal tongs and now he put them back in
the rack. It had just occurred to him that while McClatchy was using his house as a hideout, he couldn’t let anyone else pay
a visit. Unfortunately, Charlie had the sort of friends who never called before they came over. Apart from his friends, however,
he was also half-expecting a visit from his mother. At the moment she was in Atlantic City gambling with money she had made
from the sale of her half of a racehorse. Possibly she could stay with one of his cousins, but that would mean disappointment
and harsh words.

But the worst thing about McClatchy’s visit was that it meant he would have to break a date with Doris Bailes, whom he had
invited to dinner for tomorrow night. Mentally, he kicked himself even as he thought about it. Charlie had planned an elaborate
meal. He knew that Doris sometimes went out with other men and he had hoped to show her the seriousness of his intentions.
In his random imaginings, he had even seen himself proposing. Now he would have to give her some excuse and he wasn’t sure how to do it since his face always turned
dull pink when he lied.

“You got any more beer?” asked McClatchy.

Charlie started to move toward the kitchen. “I think so.”

McClatchy waved him back and got to his feet. “I can get it all right.” The jockey walked with a sort of rolling waddle. He
paused at the bedroom door and looked in. “That bed pretty comfortable? The couch feels hard.”

“Forget it,” said Charlie, “if you’re going to stay here, you’ll sleep on the couch. Not only that but you’ll wash your own
dishes and keep your muddy feet off the furniture. How’d you manage to hitch a ride right to my front door?”

McClatchy returned to the living room with a beer and a piece of cold chicken. “Guess I was lucky,” he said. “You still working
for Lorelei Stables?” When McClatchy asked a question, he tended to leave his mouth open as if waiting for the answer to fill
it.

“No, Lew’s partner sold it. The land was bought by developers. They were planning a subdivision called Lorelei Acres but ran
out of money.”

Actually, a model home had been completed and ten other houses begun before the company went bankrupt. Charlie often drove
by it. Where there were once wineglass elms and neat green and white shed rows, there was now an expanse of mud, the skeletons
of houses and one ugly yellow bungalow.

“So how d’you make your money?”

“I do this and that.” The idea of putting up with McClatchy for a week was hardly tolerable. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got
a small private detective agency.” Charlie wondered if it was too late to tell McClatchy to leave. Yet he knew that to order
him out would be almost like putting a bullet in his head.

“You’re pulling my leg,” said McClatchy.

“No, I started it almost a year ago.” It occurred to Charlie that perhaps he could check into a motel and let McClatchy have
the cottage to himself.

“You do a lotta divorce work?”

“I stay away from that if I can. It gets a little shady.”

“Isn’t that where the money is?” McClatchy had unclipped his bow tie and it lay among the remnants of cheese, crackers and
chicken bones like a polka-dot butterfly.

“Sure, I’d probably make more that way.” Charlie started to continue, then stopped. Why tell McClatchy that the agency hardly
paid the rent for the downtown office? Now and then he’d look for someone’s missing husband or wife, maybe a runaway teenager.
Occasionally, he would get a shoplifting job. “To tell the truth,” he said, “I’ve applied for a job with the Pinkertons.”

McClatchy laughed. “I can just see you out there directing traffic at the track. Why bother? I mean, if I needed the money
I’d line up some cute girls and make them work for me. Just bust some college girl for coke, do something to give you a little
leverage, then you got it made.”

Charlie thought again about checking into a motel. “I’m not too keen on the Pinkertons, but I need a job.”

The real reason Charlie didn’t like the Pinkertons was that they had been responsible for the infamous Night of Blood when
their operators had attempted to trap Frank and Jesse James in the Jameses’ house in Clay County, Missouri. An explosion had
killed Frank and Jesse’s eight-year-old half-brother, Archie, and their mother had had her right arm blown off. Frank and
Jesse had been miles away at the time.

“Why don’t you become a cop again?” asked McClatchy.

“Because I don’t want to be a cop.”

“How long you do it, twenty-five years? You should have hung in there for your retirement.”

“I worked for twenty years, that was all I wanted.” Charlie glanced at his watch. It was past eleven. “This is enough talk
for tonight. I’ve got to be up at four-thirty.”

“You goin’ fishing?”

Charlie had not wanted to explain. “I’ve got to be over in Schuylerville at five thirty to deliver milk.”

McClatchy gave Charlie an uncomprehending stare. “You’re a milkman?”

“No, no, nothing like that. You remember John Wanamaker? He was one of my guards out at Lorelei. Well, he’s the milkman. But his mother’s sick. She lives in Santa Fe and he flew out to be with her. I guess she’s dying. He asked me to
take over his milk route until he got back.”

McClatchy had begun to grin. Far back in his mouth Charlie could see gold teeth. “Why’n’t you just tell him to shove it?”

“John’s got a pretty long record. If he lost his job, it’d be hard to get another.” Listening to himself, Charlie thought
how reasonable it sounded. As a matter of fact, he was furious with Wanamaker.

“So how long you been peddling milk?”

“Three weeks.”

McClatchy laughed. It seemed to Charlie that he never laughed at anything funny. “Hey, Charlie,” said McClatchy, “that’s a
pretty long time.”

Charlie poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “He was supposed to be back in a week, but then his mother got worse.
I don’t mind telling you I don’t like it much. It’s six hours a day, six days a week. That’s why I want to get to bed. Wanamaker
says his mother could die anytime, that the doctors are amazed she’s lived so long. I mean, I’d be perfectly happy if she
recovered. What can I say, ‘Die, die, so I don’t have to get up at four thirty anymore?’ That’s pretty hard.”

McClatchy yawned, then bent over and began to untie his shoes. “Tell him to get lost,” he said. “So what if he can’t get a
job?”

“That’s all right. I talked to Wanamaker this morning. He figures he’ll be back in a couple of days one way or the other.”

“Least delivering milk is pretty safe,” said McClatchy.

Charlie stretched, then rubbed the back of his neck. He could hear nothing from outside and guessed it had stopped raining.
“Not as safe as you might think. One day I was bit by a dog.”

“So who’s running the detective agency while you’re driving the milk truck?”

“An old friend of mine, Victor Plotz.”

WHEN CHARLIE WAS A KID in Saratoga before the war, there used to be a dairy that delivered milk by horse-drawn wagon. Charlie remembered many Saturday
mornings when he would hitch a ride on the back, sitting on a shelf where metal racks were stored. Sometimes he’d get a wedge
of clear ice from inside and, as the wagon clip-clopped its way through Saratoga, Charlie would suck on the ice and look at
the houses and wonder who lived in them. At that time, Saratoga was full of huge elms and the hotels were still turning a
profit.

As he drove John Wanamaker’s milk truck through Schuylerville that Monday morning, Charlie tried to recapture the sense of
peacefulness he had experienced forty years before. But even though he liked riding on milk trucks, he had never wanted to
be a milkman. The idea would have struck him as preposterous. His plan was to be a major-league third baseman.

Charlie had left McClatchy snoring on the couch at five o’clock that morning. McClatchy had snored all night. Charlie knew
this for certain because he had spent most of the night telling himself: You must go to sleep. When he left, Charlie had been surprised by how peaceful McClatchy looked, as if his dreaming mind was completely
untroubled by the prospect of testifying against his former friends.

Charlie drew up in front of a two-. . .