Chapter Nine
Marsha Blackwell relaxed with her crutches next to her in the section of seats reserved for the Sentinel employees. Anxiety gripped her, but most of the Sentinel staff that noticed assumed her concern was excitement for her brother. Casey knew better. She had met Marsha and Dusty at the entrance, explaining to Marsha that she was instructed by Britt Reid to escort Marsha to the prime seats reserved for the paper and the DSTV staff as his guest. Since the track's seating for the families and friends of jockeys was adequate but less than desirable, she gladly opted to accept the gesture from the publisher. The ulterior motive was that Britt wanted Marsha close to Casey in case Sid Scott made another attempt to interfere with Dusty's desire to shed his association with crime.
Mike made his way to Casey's seat amid the crowd of Sentinel and DSTV staffers. Casey had the second seat from the aisle, allowing Marsha to have the extra legroom the aisle seat offered. Casey smiled when she saw Mike. "Enjoying yourself?" she asked.
"No," Mike replied with a frown. "Britt told me to bring a big notepad today." He showed his reporter's notebook, spiral bound at the top with a black cover, to Casey. "I'm a crime reporter! Why do I need this to cover a horse race?"
"I'm sure Mr. Reid had a reason for telling you that, Mike," Casey replied.
Mike grunted a skeptical reply, then extended his index finger toward Casey. "We need to talk. You're not going to try to convince me that the Green Hornet was 'gentlemanly' to you last night, are you?"
"But he WAS, Mike."
"Yes, Mr. Axford," Marsha agreed, "he certainly was very polite."
"Bah!" Mike threw his hands in the air and stormed up the steps. Casey struggled to suppress her laugh until the reporter was gone.
A trumpet blared through the racetrack. A cheer from the crowd answered the call to the post. Some people scrambled for their seats or standing position along the rails, while others made the dash to the betting windows to donate money to the dream of winning big on a long shot.
Sid Scott and his three henchmen entered suite 10. Each man wore a black business suit and carried a black briefcase. The rooms were designed for privacy, with no windows in the walls along the corridor. A large plate glass window overlooked the track, two stories above the grandstand. A row of cushioned seats lined the room in front of the window for watching the races, and tables with a wet bar, sink, and closet provided comforts for businessmen to work between races.
Once behind the locked door of the suite the men sat their briefcases on the two tables and opened them simultaneously as if choreographed. Each briefcase contained a portion of a high-powered rifle. Scott and the Haley brothers passed their pieces to Bill White, who expertly assembled the gun. He peered through the telescopic lens after he screwed it into place. The last addition to the weapon was the bullets. Scott watched White load the gun. "If you see the Green Hornet," Scott said, "You can kill him, too. That'll be his 'half' from me."
Gene Haley frowned at the mention of the Hornet. His encounter the previous evening left him with a painful, ugly souvenir on his cheek, and the sound of the name made the wound throb. "Why do you think that tip you called in to the Sentinel wasn't in the paper?" he asked.
"He probably called too late for the story to make the morning paper," his brother Pete replied. "You watch, it'll be in the evening edition."
Scott smiled. "Yes, and by then Dusty Blackwell will be dead. They'll assume he escaped from the Green Hornet, and he tracked him down and killed him." The call to the post blaring through the suite's speaker system took Scott's mind off the Hornet. He handed an envelope to Pete Haley. "Go make the bet," he ordered. "Salt Shaker is the horse we've arranged to win." Pete took the envelope filled with cash and left the suite. Scott gestured to White. "Get up on the roof," he said.
The thought of the task of putting a man in the crosshairs and cutting him down appeared to bring White pleasure. "Sure thing, Mr. Scott," he said with a sadistic smile.
Away from the racetrack the sound of the bugle echoed across the abandoned portion of the track property. Without a word the two masked men left the concealed car and made their way toward the track.
Dusty Blackwell closed his locker in the jockeys' changing room. He wore purple and red silks for his mount in the Sentinel Stakes, a lightning bolt of a horse named North Barber's Pole. The other jockeys in the room were slapping one another on the back and exchanging wishes of luck in preparation for the race. When a fellow jockey would walk by him and offer a greeting, Dusty would respond after a delay as though their voices were bringing him out of a trance. In many regards he was in a trance of sorts. Dusty could not stop thinking about his encounter with the Green Hornet. He knew of the Green Hornet's reputation, but his experience with Scott as well as the Hornet put him squarely in the trust of the man with the mask. He heaved a deep sigh, grateful that, whatever the outcome of the race, his race in crime was nearing the finish line. "Don't let yourself down," the words of the Hornet echoed in the jockey's mind. He smiled, picked up his riding crop and goggles, and left the room.
The announcer's voice echoed on the public address system, which was piped into the private suites. "Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon, and welcome to Motor City Downs."
Pete Haley returned to the suite, locking the door behind him. He said nothing to the men inside, merely joining them at the window to watch the race.
Bill White took his rifle to the roof via an 2-foot wide ladder that led the entire height of the grandstands backside. The ladder was primarily for maintenance men to climb to the roof, to fix burned out light bulbs, or to hang signs on the outside of the building. The black metal rungs ended about two feet from the ground. Five such ladders were positioned evenly across the back of the grandstands, one positioned outside the first suite, and every third suite thereafter. The ladders were accessible from the open air corridor that led to and from the private suites and served as emergency exits as a last resort if people could not reach the two stairwells at either end of the corridor.
"Today's first race is the mile and a half Sentinel Stakes, sponsored by the Daily Sentinel," the man's voice said.
At the foot of the ladder outside of the grandstands the Hornet and Kato could hear the echoing announcement. The Hornet went first, reaching up to grab a rung on the ladder and pulling himself up so he could climb the ladder. Kato followed, looking in all directions before starting his ascent. There was no need to worry about witnesses, however, as the population of the track focused their attention on the impending race.
"Here are your horses and post positions for today's Sentinel Stakes. From the pole position, Ice Storm, at 5-1 odds. From the number two position, Pizza With Anchovies, at 10-1 odds. Salt Shaker starts from the third position, at 80-1 odds. "
The Hornet reached the corridor with the private booths. He climbed over the concrete barricade and quickly looked down the hallway for anyone who might sound the alarm as to his presence. He leaned over the barricade and nodded to Kato that things were clear. Kato joined his partner in the hallway, still keeping a watchful eye in all directions for any sign of anyone.
"From the fourth position, Wild About Saffron at 3-1 odds."
The Hornet tried the door to suite 12 on which hung a lettered sign, "Reserved for Daily Sentinel." The door was unlocked. The Hornet cracked the door open and saw the bag with Britt Reid's suit jacket and tie inside. Casey had dropped the bag off before joining her co-workers in the grandstand seats. The Hornet nodded when he saw the bag before closing the door.
"North Barber's Pole starts from the fifth position, at 30-1 odds."
The Hornet paused long enough to shake his head upon hearing how relatively high the odds on a one-time almost automatically victorious jockey and his mount had gone. Trust, he thought. It's a hard thing to regain.
"Cajun Spice is in the sixth position, at 40-1 odds. In the number seven position, Don't Bite Your Nails, at 10-1 odds."
The Hornet and Kato moved past the door with an 11 on door above a lettered sign that simply said "Private."
"And finally, Prop Jet, at 30-1 odds."
The Hornet's hand was on the door to suite 10. He gently attempted to turn the knob, but the doorknob refused to move. He took two steps backward, reached into his inner pocket, and produced the Hornet Sting. Kato stood to his right, still watching for witnesses.
A shot was fired and the gates flew open. "And they're off!"
The Hornet aimed the Hornet Sting at the doorknob and activated it. After a few seconds the door had all it could stand of the bombardment of sonar and the locking mechanism blew apart. The Hornet kicked the door open, the Hornet Sting still open and ready. Kato barged in behind him, shutting the door so no one who might happen to pass by would see the confrontation.
"Time to pay up, Scott."
Scott and his men turned from the window. The Haley brothers attacked, knocking the chairs they had been sitting in over as they stood to rush the intruders. This time Pete took the kick to the face from Kato. Gene was no more successful with the Hornet, who blocked his swing with the Hornet Sting before punching him in the stomach. Gene doubled over but managed to wrap his arms around the Hornet's waist and push toward the door. Kato went to the Hornet's assistance, providing a blow to Gene's neck. Gene promptly released his grip around the Hornet's waist and collapsed.
Pete charged from behind, thinking he might catch Kato off guard. He charged directly into the right foot Kato thrust out behind him. With three more blows Pete sank to the floor.
"North Barber's Pole gets a good start out of the gate and breaks to an early lead, with Wild About Saffron a close second."
Scott picked a chair up to throw. The Hornet and Kato split up, each going at Scott from opposite sides. Scott could not decide which way to hurl the chair. The Hornet pointed the Hornet Sting in Scott's direction, causing him to momentarily flinch. The split second was all that Kato needed. He took two large steps forward. On the second step he spun on his left foot and extended his right leg into the air. The foot scored a bull's eye on Scott's chest. Scott grunted as he dropped the chair. Kato finished him off with three blows.
"As they make the first turn it's Dusty Blackwell on North Barber's Pole, with Wild About Saffron just behind. Ice Storm is a strong third."
The two men surveyed the room as the Hornet folded the Sting back to its original configuration. All three men were out. The Hornet picked up Scott's notebook. He took a quick glance inside. "We'll make sure Scanlon gets this 'anonymously'," he said, tucking the book inside his coat pocket.
Kato took inventory of the human occupants. "Scott has three men," he said. "There's only two here."
Casey was paying scant attention to the race. She kept looking over her shoulder in the direction of the private suite. As she turned around she saw the reflection of the sun off the telescopic lens on Bill White's rifle. Panicked, she looked around. Her co-workers were preoccupied with the race, their collective gazes on the drama on the track in front of them. Casey reached into her purse and pulled out the compact.
"North Barber's Pole still in front at the quarter pole, with Wild About Saffron, Ice Storm, and Prop Jet coming on strong."
The alarm went off on the Hornet's watch. He pulled the watch out of his pocket and turned the stem. Instead of winding the watch, the stem activated the two-way radio. "Yes?"
Casey gave the appearance of powdering her nose. "There's a man on the roof with a gun," she whispered into the compact.
"Got it." The Hornet turned the radio off and turned to Kato. "The roof. Scott's other man is up there with a gun."
The two men bolted out of the room. The Hornet turned left and Kato went right, each taking a maintenance ladder up to the roof.
"As we near the half-mile pole it's North Barber's Pole opening up a four length lead over Wild About Saffron."
The two men reached the roof simultaneously. Bill White lay on the roof with the rifle, watching the race through the telescopic lens. His position was closer to Kato than to the Hornet. White's attention was solely on the race; and, since he had no reason to think anyone would join him on the roof, he took no thought to distract himself from the horses below to see if he was still the only person on the roof.
"And they turn down the back stretch, with North Barber's Pole opening a commanding lead. Prop Jet and Ice Storm are challenging for second against Wild About Saffron."
Kato snaked toward the man, while the Hornet stood stationary near the ladder. As Kato got within ten feet the Hornet called, "Okay, this race is over!"
White was visibly startled by the sound of a voice that was not emanating from the PA system with an echo. He jerked his head to the left to see the Green Hornet. He rose to his knees and turned his body to face the Hornet, pulling the gun to his eye as he did. Kato moved in, applying a kick to White's neck. White lunged forward and landed face first on the roof, the rifle's telescope jabbing him in the chest.
After a moment White rolled over onto his back, attempting to kick Kato's feet out from under him. Kato was too well versed in martial arts to allow such a thing from an amateur to happen. He jumped over White's flailing feet. White continued to roll onto his right side, jumping to his feet as he did. Kato applied a kick to the rifle, sending it out of White's hands.
"At the three-quarter pole, it's North Barber's Pole running away with the race! Wild About Saffron is struggling to maintain second."
White backed up while reaching down for the gun. His peripheral vision caught sight of the Hornet moving toward him. White's hand caught the barrel of the rifle. He picked it up and swung wildly in the direction of the Hornet. Kato took an attack position, but it was unnecessary. White's swing caught nothing but air, sending him off balance. He fell toward the edge of the roof. There was not enough space left on the roof for him to stop. His momentum took him over the edge toward the outside of the grandstand.
The two men ran to the ladder that ran outside of the Sentinel's suite. Neither man looked down until they reached the corridor outside of the bank of suites. Once safely inside the corridor, they peered over the concrete wall to see White's body on the grass below. The rifle lay next to his hand, jarred free with the fatal impact.
"Just a quarter mile to go in the Sentinel Stakes, and it's North Barber's Pole's race to lose!"
The Hornet ran inside suite 12, removing the hat from his head as he did. Kato ran in behind him, holding the door shut. The Hornet took the notebook out of his pocket and laid it on the table. Off came the mask, gloves, and overcoat. He quickly unzipped the bag Casey had left in the suite and removed a black suit jacket. He stuffed the Green Hornet's clothes into the bag then laid the notebook obtained from the raid on Sid Scott's suite on top. He zipped the bag quickly then tossed it to Kato.
"Two furlongs to go, and North Barber's Pole will win easily!"
Both men went to the picture window. They arrived in time to see North Barber's Pole cross the finish line with no other horse in the vicinity. Dusty Blackwell waved his riding crop in the air in celebration of his victory and his liberation.
Britt smiled before turning back to Kato. He pulled his watch out. "I'm going to call Scanlon," he said. "I'll give you a 15 second head start."
"Make it ten," Kato grinned. He darted out the door with the bag in his hand.
"Dusty Blackwell aboard North Barber's Pole wins the Sentinel Stakes by 12 lengths!"