Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“Quantz is an okay guy, Frogman.” He glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, I think he shorted you on the deal, what with a hundred bucks. But he’s willing to front you, say four or five hundred, to get you started off on the right foot in Florida, to sort of make up for it. But,” he raised a cautionary finger, “you can’t come back here no more. What the hell, after a few days down there you won’t want to anyway. Now, here’s how it works.” He slipped two twenties into Kermit’s pocket. “You go on down to Mahoney’s, have a few pops. I got some details to work out. I’ll be by at closing time to pick you up, take you to the station. Look for the blue Caddy. That’ll be me.”

Kermit stepped out of Mahoney’s and heard the lock snap behind him.

One o’clock. Cold. No blue Caddy. No pedestrians. Nothing moving. The only sound the metronomic click of the traffic light flashing amber-amber-amber. He pulled on his new gloves and started across the street. Then he stopped.

There were three of them. The sodium lamps threw their shadows onto the fresh snow like oil slicks.

All four streets out of the intersection were blocked, three by the men now converging on him, the fourth by a construction barricade. Kermit cast a hopeful look back at Mahoney’s. There was still light showing inside. He ran to the door and began pounding.

“Leo, open up! For God’s sake, let me in!”

The bartender’s pale, neon-streaked face appeared at a window.

“Leo, it’s me, Froggie. Open up. I’m in trouble here.”

Leo’s impassive eyes swiveled left, then right, noting the three men, the desolate streets beyond, the snowy halos shrouding the street lamps.

With a quick motion, the shade was pulled down.

Kermit sagged, then turned, looking for a way out, finding none.

The last of the lights in the tavern went out. The snow was slanting down now, driven by a bitter east wind.

The three men closed in, faces eclipsed by hat brims and upturned collars.

Kermit put his back to the wall and waited.

Trumpeter Swan

by John F. Dobbyn

It’s post time.

Four years I’ve been a jockey, and it still rings my bell every time. Every nerve in my body sends its own wake-up call. I don’t think about it consciously, but my subconscious goes on full alert to the fact that one wrong shift of weight could put me under the cleats of every horse behind me. Consciously, I have just one thought. Win.

The clang of the doors of the starting gate behind me sent shivers through the body of the black three-year-old colt I was riding. I could feel him jackhammering the ground with his front feet. I grabbed a fistful of mane in case the noise of loading the horse beside me sent my colt exploding through the gate. The trainer, Marty Trait, warned me that it happened last time out. Forewarned is forearmed.

I wasn’t used to the quirks of this colt, Trumpeter Swan. I was usually up on Fair Dawn, the horse they were loading in number six. He’s another coal black three year old. The two could be brothers. They’re both owned by Mr. Fitzroy and trained by Marty. It’s what they call an “entry” when two horses of the same stable are entered in the same race.

I heard Marty tell Bobby Pastore, the other jockey, to take Fair Dawn to the lead before the first turn and set a blistering pace. He told me to hang about fifth until we reach the end of the backstretch, about three quarters of the way through the mile and an eighth course. Swan has late speed and staying power. I figured to breeze past the horses that wore themselves out trying to keep up with Dawn. It had rained the evening before, but by dawn the track had dried out and it was lightning fast.

When Marty gave me the instructions, I asked him why he switched me off of Fair Dawn and onto the Swan. He just said I have better hands than Bobby for the drive down the stretch. News to me, but I’m just the jock.

Just before I slipped the race goggles down over my eyes, I caught a look at Mr. Fitzroy holding the rail in the front of his owner’s box. Even from there, his face looked bloodless and strained. I knew how much this race meant to him and the whole stable. For one wrenching moment I let myself think of where I’d be if Mr. Fitzroy had never been born. I was determined to win that race for him if I had to carry the horse across the wire.

I heard the “All in.” Swan dropped his head. I pulled it up straight and braced. The bell screamed and sent nine horses strung tighter than piano wire firing out of the gate.

Bobby gave Dawn two quick slaps of the whip, and he catapulted with a speed that I always found miraculous to the front of the pack. He cleared the second horse by enough to rein Dawn in close to the inside rail. This is where the leader would usually settle down to a pace that kept him just ahead of the pack in a distance run, but I could see Bobby turning it on. One more smack of the whip and he hand-rode him into the first turn as if it were the home stretch.