Shadow Roll: A Sam Russo Mystery by Ki Longfellow

Author:Ki Longfellow [Longfellow, Ki]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eio Books
Published: 2013-03-14T11:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

I had something else to borrow—well, OK, steal—before I followed through with my big idea. This item wouldn’t be so easy to clip as the first one was, but it wouldn’t be that hard.

I hoped.

I was back from the track and in the Grand Union Bar on Broadway. This time, I was in luck. Mrs. Willingford wasn’t posing anywhere—I really didn’t want Mrs. Willingford watching me work—but Hollie Hayes was.

Hollie was propped on the same bar stool at the same bar doing exactly what he’d been doing the last time I saw him: drinking out of a coffee cup like it was still Prohibition. He was drinking heavily. A winning ticket. All I had to do was get close enough to get my hands on anything he’d touched. Bookended by fellow drunks, neither of which looked like a pal, I waited in a huge green chair half hidden by one of those potted palms that only lived in hotel lobbies. If I’d been a botanist instead of a PI, I’d study those things. Make a career out of ‘em. Plants that only lived in lobbies and bathrooms. I was sure to fascinate dozens in the field of indoor plant life.

It took half an hour of plant watching until one of the drunks paid his bill, tipped his hat to the bartender but gave the guy no actual tip—that earned him a well deserved sneer—and wove his way to the men’s room. I was on his empty stool faster than Eddie Arcaro on a stakes winning horse.

Hollie Hayes hadn’t lost his dress sense just because he’d lost his two best jockeys. He remained as colorful as a kid’s birthday party. His nose hadn’t grown any longer but it was some nose. Jimmy Durante should of sued.

I’d decided to try for a conversation. What could he do? Shoot me? I’d had enough of that to last this entire case.

I ordered the usual, and while waiting, pretended I suddenly recognized him. I was trying for that whole wow, gee whizz, well I’ll be darned, bobby sox fan thing, without being obnoxious about it—which was harder than I thought it would be. Turns out, it was impossible. Fans are obnoxious. That’s who they are. I should of tried being just another drunk, but it was too late because I’d already practically sung out as I sat: “Hollie Hayes!”

Hollie swung that face with its award winning nose round, focused on my nose (pathetic by comparison), and said, “Who wants to know?”

“Name’s Sam Russo. Big fan.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

“What the hell for? All I do is handle jockeys. Dead jockeys.”

“Uh. Right.”

My prize for this embarrassing exchange lay on the bar in front of both of us. A pair of Hollie’s gloves, which only Hollie would wear on a hot summer’s day in Saratoga Springs. They were a light weight cotton, colored robin’s egg blue, which clashed well with the lime green of his shirt and the orange and yellow checks of his jacket.

I wanted one of those blue gloves.

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