The Stars Shine Bright by Sibella Giorello Read Free Book Online Page B

bundle would also go to the bookie—as the horse’s owner.
    It was an ingenious setup, and from what the Bureau could fathom, Sal Gag was offering three percentage points more than the track. Betting on a winner with the bookie meant potentially more money. Of course, losing meant you owed him more, but gamblers always thought of themselves as lucky—that’s why they kept gambling. But Sal Gag was smart enough to hire a numbers runner to handle his illegal operation.
    The runner’s name was Anthony Pilato. Otherwise known as Tony Not Tony.
    On this wet morning, Tony Not Tony was standing on the second tier of the grandstands. A former jockey, he had narrow shoulders that drew forward and a tendency to walk on his toes, making him look like a mouse on its hind legs. The tassels of his oxblood loafers touched the floor, his navy slacks were pressed, and his silk shirt was the color of the silver rain. His small hands, veined with strength, held betting receipts in some attempt to appear legitimate.
    â€œThank you for the flowers,” I said.
    He looked over. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œMuch better, thank you.” I made a mental note: He never acknowledged sending flowers . I wondered if he suspected my identity or if he habitually worried about surveillance wires.
    â€œI heard the horse kicked you,” he said. “Or maybe not. And something about arson, but is that possible?”
    Eleanor had told me Tony got his nickname for hearing and yet not hearing things. Perfect for a Mob guy. But even if I was wearing a wire, our whiz kids would have a tough time picking up the voice. Rather than speaking, he aspirated his words. And here among the concrete floor and metal ceiling, with a crowd murmuring around us like a busy river, his words barely registered.
    â€œYes, arson,” I said. “Somebody also closed the stall’s door. And locked it.”
    â€œFrightening,” he breathed.
    I nodded. “But I know what would make me feel better. Making some money.” I smiled. “Some serious money.”
    He glanced away. For several moments we stared over the seats. Down below the light board sparkled with illuminated greed, and the air smelled of hot dogs and morning beer and some kind of human-generated electricity.
    â€œI enjoy wagering,” I said in a low voice. “But Aunt Eleanor doesn’t approve, so I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”
    â€œMe?” The narrow shoulders came forward. “What would I know? I’m a simple jockey’s agent.”
    Yes, that was the cover. Tony Not Tony worked as a jockey’s agent, matching horses to riders and collecting a percentage of the winnings. Just like he collected a percentage on the bets that went through Sal Gag.
    â€œTwo grand,” I said. “Cash on the spot.”
    â€œCuppa Joe.” The words floated from his mouth. “To win. He’s a mudder.”
    â€œMudder?”
    â€œHe likes to run in the mud. Doesn’t mind the rain.”
    I reached into my purse. Tony Not Tony turned to face the track. His left hand dangled at his side. If the race-fixing pattern held, Cuppa Joe would lose. These guys would take home a bundle. I leaned toward him, as though speaking over the noise of the crowd, and surreptitiously laid twenty $100 bills in his open palm. Almost imperceptibly the money moved to his pocket.
    â€œFerragamos?” he said.
    I stepped back. “Pardon?”
    â€œYour sandals. Ferragamos?”
    I looked down. The brown leather sandals were purchased for Raleigh David by Lucia Lutini, our profiler. But when I looked up, Tony Not Tony was smiling at me like we shared a family bond.
    I smiled back. “How nice that someone recognizes true quality.”
    â€œWhat size?”
    I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “Nine . . .”
    The smile stretched to the finish and revealed the former jockey’s bridgework. “You know where