High Stakes

by Marian Allen

So, one night last October I am hanging around The Retro Fit, which is the alternative clothing-and-stuff shop I own in Ithaca, New York, when who should walk in but Vlad the Roumanian? Vlad is not a guy who digs shopping, and he is not much for dolls, except as blood donors. In fact, he does not go around and about much in society at all, alive or undead, yet here he is. I will expect him to join a singles club next.

He comes over to the counter, where I am lighting candles to create a point of client interest. His plug-uglies anchor themselves behind him and he says, in that deep voice and that accent which I am willing to believe is Roumanian, "Miss Garnet Satin, 'The Satin Doll.' I wish to talk to you. Alone."

About ten years ago, a couple of kids doing graduate work in film-making at Cornell make a short feature for their class and cast me in it. Since then, I am in several other class-room and independent flics; "The Satin Doll" is the nickname I am given, on account of the smoothness of my voice.

Very loud, one of Vlad the Roumanian's thugs says, "He says he wants to talk to this doll alone."

My customers put down whatever they are thinking of purchasing and ease past Vlad and his guys.

Vlad the Roumanian has a reputation in our town--which can be a very useful thing to have, indeed.

He leans forward and motions for me to lean forward as well. Getting closer to Vlad the Roumanian is not a thing I would wish to do, if I were given three wishes by the Blue Fairy, but I am not such a chump as to say no to anything Vlad the Roumanian proposes, and I lean forward as invited.

"I wish to impart a secret," he says, very low. "This secret is not to leave this shop except inside your head. If this secret ever gets out of your head and into somebody else's ears, then I will know that your head does not work properly, and it will be no loss to you if I remove it. Understood?"

I nod the object under discussion.

"Very well," he says. "The secret is this: Somebody is cheating me. When a guy has been in action as many long years as I have, some people think he may be starting to miss a few marbles, maybe that he is beginning to lose his grip."

Vlad the Roumanian wraps one of his hands, which are more like talons, around a heavy glass candle holder with the crescent moon etched on it ($9.95 plus tax), which happens to be lit, and crushes it into shards and powder and wax. The candle flame burns for a few seconds, poking up from his fist, with melted wax running over his knuckles, then the flame flickers and dies.

"Such people," he continues, picking splinters of glass out of his hand and using them to scrape off the cooling wax, "are mistaken."

"Such people are very foolish people, indeed," I agree.

"Some people of this foolish opinion," he says, "are interfering with a venture in capital speculation I am running, down in the state of Kentucky. This is a state with many fine horses, and many fine race-tracks. People go there with the intention of increasing their dough by hazarding the dough they have on the speed of one or another of these horses, running on one or another of these tracks.

"I do not bet," he goes on to say. "I own some horses. They are very good horses, indeed, but they lose the last few races in which they run. I protest, and the stewards check all the horses for drugs and nose-plugs, and such illegal paraphernalia as this, but there is no apparent reason for these horses to lose. And yet they do."

The obvious explanation is that these horses are up against better horses, but this is not something I wish to say to Vlad the Roumanian.

"I am sending a guy down to look into this matter," he says. "A regular guy. Not One of Us."

"Human?" I see a look on Vlad the Roumanian's face, such as to say he thinks I may be questioning his judgement, so I hasten to add, "Good idea."

"I need a guy who can go around and about at all hours; a guy who is known in gambling circles and will not be noticed. So I hire a private investigator named Jasper Caufmann. He is from around that area--Florida, or Oklahoma, or some such state as this."

"I wish him the very best of luck," I say, hoping this will be the end of the conversation. Naturally, it is not.

"This Jasper Caufmann will help get you in with the players down there, and your letter of introduction from me will get the two of you cooperation from the race-track officials."

"Me?"

"Do you think I give my letter of introduction to a regular guy?" Vlad the Roumanian spreads his hands. "Naturally, I trust this detective. If I do not, he is no longer a detective, but the soft creamy filling in a cement Twinkie. He knows what I am, and he is smart enough to be generally scared, but dumb enough not to feel personally threatened. Still, I will be easier in my mind if One of Us goes with him."

"I do not know the first thing about horses," I say.

"This ignorance will put whoever is interfering with my business off guard. And you can go where this mortal cannot, and will see and understand things he will miss." He snaps his fingers, and one of his bodyguards pulls a paper folder, a little larger than a checkbook, out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Vlad the Roumanian takes the folder and slides it across the counter to me. Pieces of broken glass tinkle on the floor as they are pushed off the edge.

I open the folder and find a round-trip plane ticket to Lafayetteville, Kentucky, the date on them being two days away, and the return date being one week after.

"The Fall Meet--" he says, "--the set of races in which my horses are now running--is over in a week and two days. If you finish sooner than this,enjoy a little vacation at my expense."

"And if this Jasper Caufmann and I cannot solve the problem?"

"Cash in the ticket and consider it a small start on a new life--a new and very brief life. But this is speculation." Vlad the Roumanian puts one of his claw-like hands over my wrist. He does not tighten his grip. He does not need to; I cannot move. "I have great faith in you, Garnet. I see you in that film about the Wiccan that figures out who offs the nun. I know you cannot play this part so well if you do not really have the know-how to detect." I try to explain about the acting process, but he says, very firmly, "Do not disappoint me."

He snaps his fingers again, and his other bodyguard hands me an envelope containing a hotel confirmation and five thousand dollars in cash.

"Buy some nice clothes," says Vlad the Roumanian, with a scornful look at my bell-bottom blue-jeans and tie-died tank top. (I become One of Us in 1935, and keep up with the fashions until the sixties, when I get tired of it and stop where I am.) "Remember," says my new employer, "you may have to go out during the day, and the sun is supposed to shine bright down there."

"I will go up like a strip of magnesium in a cheesy magician's act!" I protest.

"Take care." He turns and walks out.

#

So, two nights later, I step off a red-eye flight at Lafayetteville International and catch a cab to the General Marquis de Lafayette Inn, where my room is reserved.

Not a bad room, for a two-star hotel in a one-horse town. I flop my suitcases onto the bed and pull the drapes tight. Then I find an extra blanket and pillow in the walk-in closet, make a pallet on the closet floor, and close the door behind me. Very cozy.

#

I do not know if Jasper Caufmann is a natural-born night-owl, or if he waits until late afternoon to call as a matter of courtesy. At any rate, by the time he phones, I already take a bath, dress, and doll myself up, putting my long chestnut hair into a French braid, painting color on my pale skin and lips, and on the lids of my green eyes. (Yes, I can see myself in the mirror--if I cannot do this, how will I ever be able to remove spinach from my teeth, on the off chance there should be spinach on the neck of somebody I bite?) I wear some of my new clothes, this particular outfit being a pink and green flowered pants suit made of UV-resistant material. I cover my face, neck and hands with high-SPF sunscreen and put sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat on the bed next to my purse.

When Jasper Caufmann calls from the lobby, to say he is ready to take me to the track, I am reluctant but ready. I am lucky, at that: Not only does the sun not shine bright as advertised, it can hardly be said to shine at all, the sky being seriously overcast the entire time I am in the sunny south.

I tell Jasper over the phone how to recognize me, so he comes across the lobby when I step off the elevator. He is a head taller than I am, and at least two bodies wider, and his looks are nothing to write home about, unless the folks at home are starved for reading material. His pallor is so unhealthy it makes mine look wholesome, and I am dead for sixty years. His brown hair is very thin and he grows some of it long and brushes it pathetically across the bald places. His eyes are watery and somewhat patriotic, being blue with bloodshot whites. His teeth are as false as the smile which displays them.

"Well, well, well," he says, very hearty. He takes my hand and we each flinch; he, at the dry coldness of mine and me, at the limpness and clamminess of his. "Vlad the Roumanian tells me to expect a doll," Jasper says, "but he does not tell me to expect such a lovely doll as this. I am indeed a fortunate man."

"Are you?" I say.

Jasper loosens his collar. "Possibly not," he says.

"What is the plan?" I ask, deciding to make it clear that he is the working part of the team and I am the observing part.

As we walk down the hotel corridor toward the exit, Jasper says, "I am nosing around ever since Vlad the Roumanian calls me, and I find out some very interesting things."

"Such as...?"

"Such as the fact that the winners of the races which Vlad the Roumanian's horses lose are all owned by the same stable, namely SeaStar Farms. I am trying to learn who owns SeaStar Farms but, so far, all the people I speak to are very close-mouthed on this subject."

"Point out the likeliest possessor of this information," I tell him, "and I will ask him, myself. I am good at opening people's mouths. Also closing them."

By this, I do not mean to imply that kids would beg for an action figure of me, but neither am I a doll to be trifled with.

"That will be Silkie, a crocked-up ex-jockey who feeds and waters the horses. He does not go on duty until after the races are over, being much too crocked-up and slow to be of use during the hurly-burly of the day. So, from the time the gates open until they close for the night, Silkie is watching races, betting on races, and--almost invariably--losing on races. Lately, though, he wins a few. Guess which ones."

"The ones Vlad the Roumanian's horses lose," I guess, and I am not surprised when I turn out to be correct.

We reach the hotel door by this time. Jasper plucks a green umbrella from a nearby stand and foomphs it open, holding it over my head to shade me from the theoretical sun.

"This is very thoughtful of you," I tell him. "Not many regular guys would think of bringing an umbrella."

"I do not think of bringing one," says Jasper. "I think of taking one when I see it."

This is not only thoughtful, it is thrifty. I begin to concede that Jasper, despite his looks, may be an acceptable co-worker. Then he says as follows:

"I always try to cater to dolls. They are so helpless and fragile. So soft and sweet. So warm and..." As he says this, he puts a hand on my back and moves it from my shoulder to my waist. With my right hand, I take the umbrella; with my left, I reach up and grasp his neck.

"The catering part, I like," I say, "but is this hand helpless, fragile, soft, and sweet?"

"No," says Jasper, "and it is not warm, either."

On this note of mutual understanding, we get into Jasper's old blue Ford Fairlane and drive to the track.

#

Jasper introduces me to a guy he calls a steward, and has me hand over my letter of introduction from Vlad the Roumanian. The steward fills out a couple of passes, one for me and one for Jasper. We go downstairs and through a comfortably lightless corridor, and suddenly we are backstage, or whatever they call it at a race-track. Horses are being brushed, fed, and walked, saddles are being polished, small men are changing into tight pants and silk shirts. It is a very exciting place, indeed.

"These are Vlad the Roumanian's horses," says Jasper, leading me to a stall, "in this and the next two boxes."

Tophet and Avernus are black, with flecks of white in one place or another. The one farthest from me, named Stygian Gloom, is totally black and nothing but. He is also apparently well-named: I never see such a droopy horse. Not that I am any expert on horses, come to that, but this is a very droopy horse, indeed.

"Is this Stygian Gloom scheduled to race today?"

Jasper nods with a look that echoes the one on the horse. "This horse's race is coming up," he says.

"Then let us hurry upstairs and put our money on the horse from SeaStar Farms, before it is too late."

We do this and, sure enough, we each win a nice pile of lettuce, which is to say, money. It will do my heart good to think of this money as a small compensation for being pried away from my shop, but I am afraid Vlad the Roumanian will not approve of my making a profit on his loss. When I point this out to Jasper, he more-or-less willingly hands over his winnings to me, and we go looking for Silkie.

Silkie is not difficult to find: He is sitting at the club-room bar, soaking up the bourbon. He is small, plump, and saggy, wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a loud polyester sport shirt.

Jasper sits on one side of Silkie, and I sit on the other.

Jasper speaks first: "Do you take care of the horses here last night?"

Silkie replies, in a raspy voice full of too many whiskeys and too many cigarettes, "Who wants to know?"

I say, "A friend of mine." I peel a yard off my roll--that is, I pull a one-hundred-dollar bill out of the stack of cash Jasper and I win on the last race. "This is my friend, Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin, meet Silkie. Silkie, would you like to shake hands with my friend, Mr. Franklin?"

The ex-jockey reaches for the bill, then draws back. "I got money," he says.

"This is rude," I say. I peel off two more bills and say, "Mr. Franklin has brothers. They like for people to be polite."

Silkie's eyes dart back and forth as if he is trying to see everywhere at once. I can smell his fear, and I start to get hungry. I smile lovingly at Silkie, and this seems to make him more nervous than ever.

"I take care of the horses last night," he says. "But I do not see anything suspicious."

Jasper says, "Who asks you if you do?"

Silkie grabs the three hundreds and squirms away from the bar. "I got nothing to say," he claims, "to you or to anybody!"

"He knows something," Jasper says.

"Do you really think so?" I ask, very sarcastic, which Jasper completely misses.

"I got P.I. instinct. He knows something, all right. Something goes down last night in that horse barn, and he sees it or suspects what it is. I think I will track him down and see if I can pry it out of him. You stay here. This will not be pretty."

I am quite willing to stay where I am, as I think Jasper has no more chance of tracking down Silkie than he has of becoming Mr. Universe. Besides, Silkie's reaction to our questioning and, more important, to me, tells me all I need to know from him: He is afraid of me because he recognizes something about me, something he knows from someone else he meets recently, and the someone else scares him even more than I do. Maybe because he sees this someone else in action.

Since he claims nothing happens in the barn, I assume that the barn is where Silkie gets his fright. And, because I wish to wrap this up and get back to The Retro Fit, I assume that this fright has something to do with Vlad the Roumanian's horses.

So, when Jasper Caufmann returns empty-handed, I say to him, "We need to get in here tonight."

"Stake-out, eh?"

"Would you care to rephrase that?"

Jasper blinks twice, realizes what he says, and replies, "I wish to pretend I say nothing in the first place."

#

We leave after the last race, which runs at 5:30 pm, with a beautiful sunset behind us. As the evening shadows lap across the road, I relax, but Jasper begins to fidget.

"We got some time to kill...," Jasper says, "...I mean pass...before we can get back into the track. I know this great little restaurant. Get your meat as rare as you like."

"Suit yourself," I say. "I will pick something up later."

Jasper takes me to an Italian restaurant, where I play with a salad and some breadsticks and Jasper orders everything with extra garlic.

After supper, we go to an all-night liquor store and I use some of our winnings to buy a couple of bottles of the most expensive bourbon in the place. We go back to the track; Jasper waits until he sees the security guard making his rounds. He greets him as an old chum and suggests they have a drink in the track office. The guard opens the gate, Jasper hands him a bottle, tells him to go set up the glasses, and offers to lock up behind himself. Then he lets me in.

He whispers, "You know how to get to the stables from here?"

I nod. "I will meet you back at the hotel tomorrow afternoon and tell you what I find out."

#

I hear Silkie rattling feed buckets and cursing gently at the horses as I slip into the barn. All the stable-hands are gone, and nobody is here except Silkie, me, and the animals. I tuck myself into a dark corner and wait. It is cold, this being October, and I can see Silkie's breath in the midnight air, also the horses'. Fortunately, they cannot see mine, as one of the benefits of being dead is that you do not have any breath to give you away in such circumstances.

This is why I know, at first glance, that the man who now comes into the stable is One of Us: No fog of breath accompanies him. He is tall and slender, but solid, not weedy-looking. He wears a thin wool turtleneck in a heather blend, and gray wool trousers--very expensive. His shoes look like the same brand Vlad the Roumanian wears, which means they are very expensive, indeed. He has yellow-blond hair and blue-black eyes. I never see him before, but I can guess who he is: the owner of SeaStar Farms.

"Evening, Silkie," the man says, and smiles the kind of smile I use to frighten the ex-jockey earlier. "I hear you make a couple of new friends this afternoon."

"No, sir, Mr. Star," Silkie bleats. "I do not tell them a thing."

"They give you money."

"I give them nothing for it. I swear! They do not even ask me any questions, except do I take care of the horses, and I tell them yes. Then I take their money and hide out. Ask Billy--he sees me in the tack room when I am usually in the bar."

"Maybe I believe you, Silkie," says Mr. Star. He puts a hand companionably on Silkie's shoulder and squeezes. Silkie tries to twist away, but cannot. His mouth opens to cry out, but Mr. Star goes, "Shhhhhhh..." like a father quieting a fretful child, and Silkie only whimpers deep down in his throat. "Do I believe you, Silkie?"

The ex-jockey nods convulsively, and Mr. Star lets him go. The old guy sinks to the floor.

"Let me see...Who is running tomorrow? Today, I should say, right, Silkie? It is past midnight. Am I right?"

"Right, Mr. Star," Silkie gasps. He sits up, rubbing his shoulder.

Star pulls a card out of his hip pocket. "Tophet." He puts the card away and walks up to the horse's stall. The horse tosses his head, but moves as far forward as he can, unable to resist Star's power. Star reaches out a hand, and Tophet stretches his neck as far as it will stretch, then holds stone still.

"I love this part," Star says, and lowers his face toward the horse's neck.

Now, I am as loyal to an employer as the next doll, but I cannot claim it is concern for the interests of Vlad the Roumanian which makes me do what I do next. It is not love for dumb animals, either. What happens is this: I am concentrating so hard on Star, to hear what he says half-way across the horse barn, I am almost part of him. I can feel the smooth skin of the horse beneath my hands, then I can feel my mouth on the vein pulsing in Tophet's neck, smell the fear and cold sweat, taste--

With a cry of disgust, I shake myself loose from the connection.

Star is fast. Before I can dodge into a better hiding place, he hauls me out of the shadows by the lapels of my pink and green pants suit.

"What have we here?" he asks. "A spy? Whose little lackey are you? You would not belong to Vlad the Roumanian, would you?"

"I belong to myself," I say, though we both know this is a lie.

"Vlad the Roumanian sends you to find out why his horses start to lose races, am I right?" Star laughs. "Well, I will tell you why: I do not like Vlad the Roumanian, this is why. I wish to make him lose, and lose so often that word will go around that his horses are not even good for breeding stock. I wish to humiliate him, on top of stiffing him out of quite a stack of lettuce."

"What does he ever do to you?" I ask, hoping he does not tell me. Vlad the Roumanian has a reputation, as I say before, and this reputation includes doing things to people that you do not really wish to hear about.

"It is Vlad the Roumanian who makes me One of Us, some years ago, at a Derby party near Lexington."

"Is this so bad? You do not seem to suffer by it."

Star pulls me into the light. "I know you," he says. "I see you in a couple of movies. You are Garnet Satin--they call you 'The Satin Doll.'"

"Do you have a pen?" I ask. "I will be happy to give you my autograph."

Star shakes me so hard my head flops. He laughs. "You will give me more than that." He whispers to me, "And I cannot leave a witness, so I will just have to take two lives tonight. Satin and Silkie. Cute, eh?"

Just then, I hear something I never think I will be glad to hear: Jasper Caufmann's voice coming closer.

"We do not need to check up--everything is okay. Silkie is on the job, right?"

Jasper is warning me at the same time he is trying to keep the security guard out of my hair. I have to give him marks for effort, although his powers of persuasion can obviously use some work.

"Silkie wan'sa drink, too," the guard says. "Hey! Silkie!"

Star tries to drag me back into the shadows, but I am not a doll who drags easily. So, when Jasper and the guard come into the stable, they see a delicate little doll being roughed around by a big man, and Silkie on the floor, clutching a hurt shoulder.

Jasper and the guard each draw a gun.

Star swings me between himself and my "rescuers," clutches my French braid and throws an arm around my waist. "Stay where you are, or I will break her in two," he says.

The men lower their guns. I am just as glad. I do not think he can really break me in two, but the attempt itself is bound to be painful.

"Put the guns on the floor," he says, "and step away from them." The guard does as he is told. When Jasper hesitates, Star digs his hand deeper into my hair and twists my head into a position which is more uncomfortable than not.

A hairpin slithers down my cheek and sticks on my lapel. I am beginning to suspect that, no matter what orders Jasper and the guard follow, I am a done duck, so I pluck up the hairpin. I jab it over my shoulder, hoping to hit Star's nearest eye. I catch his cheek instead, but he loosens his grip to shift position and I flop myself out of his arms and onto the floor.

Jasper dives for his gun and opens fire. Bullets fly everywhere. It is quite a relief when he runs out of ammunition, as I do not relish being tagged by my own co-worker. Even less do I relish the prospect of breaking a leg on one of Vlad the Roumanian's horses in order to explain why I let it get shot.

I grab the guard's gun and put a hole in Star's chest the size of Cincinnati. There is very little blood, of course, but a big hole in the chest does nobody any good, and Star is no exception to this rule. He staggers backward. I keep firing.

Star falls, groaning but grinning, already beginning to heal.

With a shriek of rage, Silkie grabs the nearest piece of wood--in this case, a triangular door-stop--and jams it into the largest hole, burying it in what remains of Star's heart. The stable-owner goes completely still.

"Die, you blood-sucking monster!" Silkie shouts into Star's immobile face.

I think for a minute the guard will faint, but he stumbles to a hay bale and sits. "What the hell is going on here?" he croaks.

"Nothing," says Jasper.

"Then," the guard says, pointing at Star, "what is that?"

All three men are radiating fear, and I can hear their hearts thundering in their chests. Tonight, I understand the saying, "I am so hungry I can eat a horse."

"They will fry me for this," Silkie says. "I will get the chair, but it is worth it."

"Nobody will get the chair," I say. "Nothing happens here tonight." I pull out the rest of our winnings and divide it into two equal amounts. I give one to Silkie, and the other to the guard. "Now," I say, "get me a roll of duct tape and a burlap bag, and forget tonight ever happens."

#

There are still several hours of darkness left when Jasper and I load the back seat of his old blue Fairlane with my luggage. Mixed in with the luggage is a burlap bag containing the owner of SeaStar Farms, an entire roll of duct tape wrapped around his chest to hold the paralyzing wood in place. I figure I will let Vlad the Roumanian decide what to do with the guy. I also figure I will not watch. Naturally, I cannot take Mr. Star on the plane with me, not even as a carry-on, so I draft Jasper to drive me back to Ithaca.

"You know," Jasper says, moving close to me in the dim parking lot, "when I first meet you, I do not think we will get along so well, but you are not such a bad little doll, at that."

I do not kill him, as I do not have permission from Vlad the Roumanian to off his personal regular-guy detective. In addition, I need him to drive during the daylight hours, while I have a nap in the Fairlane's roomy trunk. But, after I am through with him, I am no longer hungry; and Jasper revises his opinion, now thinking that I am, after all, a very bad little doll, indeed.