+J.M.J.+

Photo Finish, or They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

By "Matrix Refugee"

Writing as Miss Holly Maguire (I wanted to post this under a penname I use on fictionpress.net, but the site won't let me!

Author's Note:

Don't ask me where this one came from…All right, all right, I'll 'fess up…The kid my mother and I babysit is plain CRAZY about horses, since her mother keeps horses (or do the horses keep her mother? Dichotomies…). So naturally, the kid is as flipped over another DreamWorks movie, Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, as YT is over RtP. She has at least count 'um three tee shirts with the Spirit movie logo on 'em, and she was the first kid in town to own the VHS of Spirit when it came out, which she promptly inflicted on us. Now, mind you, I have nothing against Spirit, which I honestly think is one of the most original treatments of the "boy and his horse" story ever made. But when you've heard about horses-horses-horses-horses for the past seven years, you almost want to scream. I mean, this kid's first words were "horsy" (pronounced "hossy" since I'm New England), "pony", and "wanna ride". So…in order to relieve my pent-up annoyance with equines, I thought I'd do a different take on the usual semi-splatter-punk "Maguire on assignment…with his OTHER job" kind of RtP fic. Only there was one small problem…

Disclaimer:

I do not own Road to Perdition, its characters (certainly not "the Reporter"), concepts, or other indicia, which are the property of Max Allen Collins, Sam Mendes, David Self, DreamWorks, 20th Century Fox, etc. etc. etc. Oh, and I'm not related to "the Reporter", either (if he'd really existed, who'd want that creep on their family tree?! Although he's a great character to have dispose of people/critters you can't STAND ).

Dedication:

Much as I don't like horses, that doesn't bar me from dedicating this fic to Zippy Chippy, a racehorse which holds the world record for losing races…because he never finishes 'em!

Springtime in Chicago. The gutters ran with water from the melting snow and the April showers that would bring the May flowers (in the parks and flowerpots on people's windowsills at least). And it also meant the return of the horseracing season. The sports pages of the Herald-American would be jammed with accounts of the horse races at Burlington Park outside the city, and just about everyone at the offices of the Herald would be trading tips on which horse to bet on.

Everyone that is, except Maguire, who studiously avoided these discussions when he encountered knots of men in the hallways and on the stairs of the Herald building. He certainly didn't need the extra cash the way his legitimate associates did. He already had something much dodgier to supplement his income, but that was nobody's business except his own.

But the other reporters kidded him mercilessly about it.

"Hey, Maguire," Jake McGwin, the sportswriter, called to him on the stairs one afternoon, as Maguire was heading out after delivering a day's work to the photo editor. McGwin was one of these small, dark, rat-faced guys with a skinny, spidery build, usually found in pool halls and divier places, but it was common knowledge he just looked sinister.

"Hey, what?" Maguire asked, pausing on a landing, annoyed. This had better not have anything to do with the damn ponies.

McGwin came down a few steps and joined him. "The boys 'n me got a pool going on this new hoss, Tawny Lightning. Y' wanna add a finnif?"

"Thanks, but I'll take a raincheck, Maguire said, turning away.

McGwin caught his shoulder. "Hey, not so fast. Odds are going five to twelve on this bit of horseflesh. He's a feisty colt, a lotta life. He's showing a good deal a' promise, might make it to Belmont or the Kentucky Derby."

"Thanks for the tip, but I'll pass."

"Why? Bad times like this, y' might want the extra cash."

Maguire shrugged. "I do all right. I just got myself to support, so I don't need much." He eyed McGwin's wedding ring. "Besides, what would yer missis say if she knew what you were up to?"

McGwin smiled. "She don't notice: she plays the Irish Lotto, so she's not about to throw bricks. You can afford it better 'n I can."

"No thanks."

McGwin stepped up one step and looked him in the eye "Give me one good reason why you'd pass up an offer like this."

Maguire returned the look squarely. "I'll give you one good reason in three words: I hate horses." Saying that, he continued downstairs.

"Well, y' might find one good reason to like 'em when y' get yer payback," McGwin called after him. Maguire pretended not to hear this and kept walking quickly for the lobby.

By the time he reached the street, the spring rain had stopped falling and the clouds had started to break overhead, turning the puddles in the potholes and gutters to patches of blue and white. He was in such a hurry to put as much distance between himself and the office, that he hardly noticed the innocent-looking group of kids hanging about one particularly large puddle. Or, at least he noticed them when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw them jump feet first, as one boy, into the puddle feet first. A cascade of water broke over Maguire, drenching him and his camera case, as the kids yelled "Splash 'um!"

The kids clearly expected him to get steaming mad, but despite the cold fury boiling under his hat, Maguire turned to the kids with a disarming smile. The kids giggled, but he detected something nervous in their tone.

He shrugged. "I needed a bath any way," he said, only half nonchalant and went away.

Damn kids, he thought, wondering if his camera case had stood up to the assault. At least the air had warmed, so he wouldn't get chilled on the walk home.

First thing when he got in the door of his apartment, he dried off the outside of his case and opened it. Thank God it hadn't sprung a leak or those kids would have had hell to pay.

No sense wasting time and energy grumbling over things that hadn't happened; save that for when it actually happened, he thought, going for a dry shirt. Then the phone started ringing. Half into his second shirt of the day, he went to answer the phone.

"Harlen Maguire."

"This is Frank Nitti," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Campanini has a job for you. I better warn you: it's a rather unusual one."

Maguire slid his free arm into the other sleeve. "Why, what's the deal?"

"First tell me this: do you follow horseracing at all?"

"'Fraid not, except what I overhear at the office." What was this with horseracing all of a sudden?

"Are you familiar at all with a horse called Tawny Lightning?"

"Name rings a bell…yeah, one of the sportswriters was gabbing about it, something about how this pony won every race this season.

"And that's the problem. Campanini's horse Flying Cap is racing against Tawny Lightning this Saturday. So far, Tawny Lightning has beaten Flying Cap at every single race. So Campanini, amongst others who have much less to lose, has started to wonder if there's something…devious going on."

"I think I know where you're going on this, and I'm not sure if I'm really the guy for this job," Maguire said, trying to ignore the dryness encroaching on the back of his tongue.

"Why? You're not afraid of getting caught, are you? You're a master at covering your tracks. You have the perfect cover: You could get into the stable as a photographer for one of the papers."

The dryness in Maguire's throat had spread well into his mouth. He held the receiver away from his face, breathing hard, slow, counting to ten and ignoring the prickling on the back of his neck and the small of his back.

"Maguire, you still there?"

"Yeah, it's just…I don't know if I can take this one."

"Why, you hiding a soft spot under your stony-faced exterior?"

"No." He paused. "I'm afraid of horses."

"Say that again?"

"I said, I'm afraid of horses…I got trampled by one when I was a kid. I can't hardly go near one of the iron-shod beasts without breaking out in a cold sweat."

"Well, in that case, look at it this way: after you've finished, there'll be one less of the thick-skulled creatures in this world," Nitti said, with something bordering on reassurance.

"Yeah, but trying to get to that point, that's the hard part, that gives me the cold creeps. My hand would be shaking too hard for me to shoot straight. I mean, they shoot horses, don't they?"

"Only if they break a leg, and I doubt you want to try that kind of stunt. Perhaps you could find a less dramatic way to dispose of the animal. With your photo lab, you must have something poisonous enough to slip into the water bucket without too much trouble. Who'd suspect a newspaperman?"

"That's just the point, I'm not a sports photographer, that line belongs to a kid named Cunningham."

"In that case, perhaps you could trade places with him for an evening. It's true, isn't it that you publish human interest shots once in a while?"

"Yeah, it's true, but I'm smart enough to use a John Doe for those," he admitted.

"You have till tomorrow evening to figure out what you're going to use on the beast, you worry about that. I think I know someone who could handle this Cunningham, get him out of your way. The horse gets shipped in to the stables at Burlington Park tomorrow morning first thing, and the race is Saturday, which leaves you thirty-six hours to get your act together."

"I'll see what I can do," Maguire said

"Do you have any idea what the horse looks like?"

Maguire reached for a pad of paper on the telephone table, pulled the pad toward him, found a pencil and licked the point. "No, unless someone points out something distinctive about a particular nag, all horses look alike to me: big."

"It's a tawny stallion, black mane and tail. Owner is Fleming Hauser, big guy, ruddy-faced, dishwater blonde hair. He'd be proud to show off his nag for you."

"Play on his vanity a little, eh?" Maguire said, jotting down the information. Below it, he doodled a stick-figure horse lying on its back, legs sticking up stiffly.

"Exactly," Nitti said. "There's three-fifty for you if the horse ends up unfit to race on Saturday, five-hundred if the horse never races again."

"That's a little low. There's an element of risk."

"What are you getting at?"

The prickling on the back of his neck and the small of his back felt like someone pounding his skin with a rubber mallet stuck full of needles. "I could be injured."

"Any one of the jobs I've had you do were just as risky."

"It's not quite the same: I'll be dealing with an animal about ten times my weight."

"All right, I'll make it an even seven hundred, but not a penny higher."

"Fair enough."

"Don't tell me you'll be photographing the end result."

"I won't be around for that. It would draw too much attention."

"Good. I don't want you to do anything to compromise this at all. Hauser loves that horse like his own flesh and blood. Some say he loves it better. And if he caught you slinking around, there'd be hell to pay for us all."

Maguire added an X for an eye to the doodle. "Don't worry. A shot like that wouldn't sell."

A pause. "It wouldn't?"

"No. I made a similar blunder when I was still green at the tabloid trade. The star of a troupe of trained poodles was found dead, poisoned or something. I got a shot of it, but none of the rags would buy it. People, especially the ones who 're loopy over animals, don't want to hear about one of the little darlings getting killed. They'd rather see shots of one of the fellow man done in. Why? Because every one of us, even the so-called best of us, has someone they'd secretly like to see croak off, whether they're aware of it or not."

"Interesting philosophy, but I'm afraid I have to cut this conversation short."

"Understood. I'd be the first to say I talk too much."

Once they exchanged goodbyes, and Maguire had hung up the phone, he stared at the note on his pad. Now what did I just get myself into now…?

TO BE CONTINUED