It had been nearly two months since the death of the Willowdale stallion Wilton Lad when Jud Repke picked up his phone one afternoon and heard the cold, calm voice of Ronald Mortvedt.
“Got us another job. I’ll pick you up Friday morning,” Mortvedt said curtly.
“You in Louisville?”
“Never mind where I am,” Mortvedt answered. “Just be ready Friday morning. You’ll be back home in a couple of days.”
Home for Jud Repke was an aging apartment complex on the north side of Louisville, Kentucky. Repke had lived there for seven years, rent free, serving as the building’s superintendent. He’d gotten the job through his brother, a friend of the building’s owner. Jud set his own hours, working as few of them as he could get away with, so he had no trouble fitting a Mortvedt-procured job into his schedule.
Like Mortvedt, Jud Repke was an ex-convict who had never been married, having settled instead for a succession of live-in women friends over the years. Jud had met Mortvedt in the federal correctional center at Oakdale, in the southwestern portion of Louisiana. Repke was serving a three-to-five year term for transporting stolen goods, luxury automobiles, across state lines, a trade he had successfully practiced for much of his adult life before slipping up when a deal went bad with a New Orleans Mafia bigshot named Joe Angelici. The Mafia guy walked, but Repke was convicted and sentenced. Mortvedt was already in Oakdale doing his race-fixing time when Repke arrived.
At a well-worn thirty-eight, Jud Repke was a year younger than the ex-jockey who, he realized after they had known each other for less than a week, was both much smarter and tougher than he was. A natural follower, Repke gratefully buddied with Mortvedt for eighteen months in Oakdale before the ex-jockey was released. Repke was granted parole a year later.
When, two years ago, Mortvedt had tracked Repke down at a grandstand bar at Churchill Downs late one blustery fall afternoon, Repke was not only delighted to see his old jailmate but to hear his plans for work. It didn’t take Repke long to agree to go into business with Mortvedt. As Jud later would gratefully say during some of their late-night bar visits, “Ronnie, you been a regular money machine for me, and I thank you for it.”
Repke was also unaware of what had gone on in Mortvedt’s life after the two of them left prison, unaware that Mortvedt had joined a burglary ring that operated in the New Orleans area. Repke was unaware that, one winter night, Mortvedt had killed a home owner who discovered him, beating him to death with the crowbar he had used to gain entrance to the house.
It was at that point in his life that Mortvedt confirmed for himself, once and for all, that killing didn’t bother him in the least. Had Repke known that, he would still have been eager to go into business with the little man.
Harvey Rexroth had also been eager to go into business with Ronald Mortvedt-or at least someone like him. Their unlikely alliance dated from a horse sale four years earlier, one of the major Kentucky auctions. It was a hot, humid July night, and bidding for the best stock was equally torrid throughout the premier portion of the sale. That session concluded with the offering of a mare named Donna Diane.
A champion runner, Donna Diane was now retired from racing, had been bred, and was carrying a foal sired by a famed male champion. This mix of blue chip past performances and golden-hued promise combined to make for an extremely attractive prospect. Donna Diane was valuable in her own right, and the anticipated foal could correctly be expected to have tremendous value as a runner, then a breeding prospect, no matter what its sex. “By a champion, out of a champion” began the auctioneer’s sales spiel. All these factors added up the expectation that Donna Diane would attract the highest price at the sale. She did not disappoint.
In the weeks leading up to the auction, Harvey Rexroth had boasted to several industry people that he was determined to buy Donna Diane. He saw her as the potential leading light of his growing broodmare band, a name acquisition that would further underline his stated desire to become a major player in horse racing.
As Donna Diane was led into the crescent-shaped sales ring that night, Rexroth mopped his face. Despite the air-conditioning inside the pavilion, he was sweating heavily. Seated next to him, Byron Stoner had never before observed his boss at anything approaching this level of anxiety.
When the bidding began on Donna Diane, the first shouted offer was a whopping one million-unheard of for an opening bid. The crowd buzzed. The price rose rapidly after that, shedding bidders along the way. Finally, it became clear that there were really only two serious factions remaining: Rexroth and a partnership made up of wealthy Irish breeders and English bookmakers. This partnership had dominated the sale in recent years, spending millions on horses that it shipped back for eventual racing in Europe.
The bidding on Donna Diane climbed to four million, then five million. When the man representing what Rexroth resentfully termed the “foreign conglomerate” coolly indicated that six million dollars was fine with him, Rexroth realized he was not going to outbid these rivals.
Without even a glance at the expectant auctioneer, Rexroth suddenly rose from his seat and stormed out of the pavilion into the steamy night, Stoner and Kauffman struggling to keep up with him. Approached by reporters as he awaited the arrival of his limousine, Rexroth rebuffed them all, including Ira Meyer, who worked for Rexroth’s own Horse Racing Journal.
For days after the sale, Rexroth fumed over his failure to purchase Donna Diane. Stoner had never seen him so bitterly distraught. Stoner attempted to counsel Rexroth to look beyond it, but his advice earned him only a tirade of curses. Finally, one night, Rexroth summoned Stoner to join him poolside. His massive jaws grinding with intensity, Rexroth said, “I am going to have Donna Diane. That mare should belong to me, and she will.”
“That partnership will never sell you the horse,” Stoner cautioned. Rexroth just looked at him. “I’m well aware of that,” he replied. Then he described what he wanted done, emphasizing to Stoner that “they’re due to ship her abroad at the end of the month. That’s how much time we have.”
The next morning, Byron Stoner flew to New Orleans. There, through the expensive offices of Daniel Delacroix, a powerfully connected attorney employed by RexCom to represent its interests in that section of the South, Stoner was introduced to Lou Tenuta, a high-ranking member of the Tornabene crime family. Over dinner that night in a private room of one of the city’s legendary restaurants, Stoner explained the purpose of his visit.
Lou Tenuta listened impassively for several minutes, his thick hands folded before him on the linen tablecloth. He wore an expensive light blue suit, a dark blue custom-made shirt, and a white tie. With his black pompadour and narrow black mustache, he looked to Stoner like a prototypical French Quarter pimp.
Tenuta beckoned to the waiter watching from across the room. The waiter snapped his fingers to a busboy. The ripple of command reached the kitchen, from which plates of food quickly emerged, drawing Tenuta’s rapt attention. Stoner, always a light eater, paid as little attention to this food as he did to most.
Several minutes elapsed before Tenuta momentarily halted his attack on a platter of barbequed shrimp and said, “I got the guy for you. But it’ll cost you-not just for him, for us. A finder’s fee.”
“We have no problem with that,” replied Stoner, feeling relieved. This had not been as difficult as he’d feared. He was anxious to phone Rexroth and report mission accomplished.
Stoner slid an envelope across the white linen surface of the table. “That’s a down payment, plus expense money for this man to come to Kentucky and meet my employer. The man is to call me first, at the number on that piece of paper. His meeting with my employer will have to be carefully arranged and completely secret from all but a few of our people. We’ll wire your people the remainder of their fee tomorrow, to the usual account.”
Tenuta nodded as he reached for the just-delivered plate of steaming crawdads.
“What is the name of your man?”
Between bites, Tenuta said, “His name is Mortvedt. They call him the Sandman.”
“Why?” Stoner asked.
Tenuta methodically worked his way through the mound of crawdads, keeping Stoner waiting for an answer. Stoner knew this game. Tenuta, after all, was playing on his home court. Like most of the lowlifes Stoner had had to deal with over the years, Tenuta was intent on displaying his power in his town. Finally, Tenuta mopped the last of the sauce remaining on the platter with a slice of French bread, which he chewed and swallowed before speaking. Then he said, “Because he puts horses to sleep. Maybe people, too. The Sandman. That’s what they call him.
“They tell me he’ll do the kind of work you’ve got in mind,” Tenuta continued. “Here’s how you get to him.” He flipped a small piece of paper onto the tablecloth between them, making Stoner reach to retrieve it. “You call him, tell him what you want. We don’t have no contact with him on this, capice? And I got no interest in whatever you want him for either.
“Don’t have time for coffee,” Tenuta said as he rose from his chair. He nodded in the direction of the wait staff. “You want some, or some dessert, go ahead.” He left without saying another word.
As always, Mortvedt arrived in Louisville right when he said he would. He and Repke walked down the street from the apartment complex to a nearby chain restaurant advertising Breakfast All Day, Every Day, $1.99. They made an odd-looking pair, Repke towering over the ex-jockey, yet bending deferentially to listen to him. It was funny, Repke sometimes thought to himself, that he was always talking down to this man that he looked up to like no one else he’d ever known.
Seated in the restaurant, Mortvedt described the upcoming job as they ate.
“How much is this job worth?” Jud asked.
“Your cut is three grand,” Mortvedt answered, looking hard at Repke, his eyes cold. Mortvedt’s longish black hair was combed straight back, without a part. There was a bluish cast to his white cheeks even this early in the day, evidence of the heavy beard he shaved off each morning. This was a face that would never play host to any laugh lines near eyes or mouth. Not for the first time, Repke found Mortvedt’s look to be unsettling.
Jud let his glance shift to the clock above the deserted salad bar, then rubbed a large hand through his lank, brown hair. No question about it, the little man could make him nervous in a way that those dago gangsters in New Orleans never had during his car-stealing years with them.
Mortvedt had never revealed to Repke what the total take was from any of their jobs. And Repke never could quite get up the courage to press him about it. He didn’t want to anger Mortvedt-not since the day he’d seen the smaller man pull a concealed shiv and open a series of slices in a big black iron-pumper called Gator Man one afternoon at Oakdale. The dispute was over the delegation of duties in the prison laundry. It was over so quick hardly anyone had to lie to the guards when they said they hadn’t seen anything. Gator Man healed up and kept quiet, too, swearing he never got a good look at his attacker.
Jud had concealed Mortvedt’s weapon after this flash fight. “Be first. You always got to jump the bastards first,” was the little man’s practiced theory.
Despite the fear that he often felt in Mortvedt’s presence, Jud counted himself fortunate to be involved in these remunerative and relatively risk-free jobs. He wasn’t making as much money as when he drove the stolen Mercedes and Jaguars from Cincinnati and Chicago to points south and west, but he was getting by nicely, and sleeping better, too. Unlike Mortvedt, who in Oakdale had seemed to regard his surroundings stoically, just another place to be as his life played itself out, Jud had hated prison from the bottom of his Kentucky hillbilly heart.
Mortvedt stirred his coffee. Then he said, “We’ll do it Sunday night. I got to talk to a man later today, see about some details.”
He got to his feet and laid a ten on the place mat in front of Repke. “Breakfast’s on me. You don’t have to leave no tip in a dump like this. I’ll meet you after nine tonight over to that titty joint you like.”
Mortvedt arrived on time at the Red Velvet Swing, a gentleman’s club that Repke patronized whenever he had enough money to pay $7 per beer. Its marquee advertised body painting, a deep soak room, stripper slaves and “much more.”
Jud had already “established a beachhead,” as he drunkenly put it to Mortvedt, with a couple of the establishment’s lap dancers who had worked the noon to eight shift and were eager for some off-the-premises action.
The women regarded Mortvedt somewhat warily as he jerked a chair over from a nearby table and sat down, appraising them silently.
“This here is LeeAnne,” Repke said, one arm around a tired-looking woman in her late twenties with long, straight black hair and a pouty mouth, lavishly over-lipsticked. Mortvedt looked at LeeAnne and said, “I guess you’re not the one that’s the life of the party.” She glared back at him as Jud continued to massage the back of her neck.
Jud said, “Betty Lou’s her name,” nodding at a small woman with tight-curled, dark blond hair that glistened beneath the revolving strobe light over their table. She looked to be about the same age and just as battle-fatigued as LeeAnne, but she mustered a welcoming look, and Mortvedt nodded in approval. He was partial to the ones with big breasts and big, sloppy smiles.
“You like being a dancer here?” Mortvedt asked.
“Oh, yessir,” Betty Lou said, brightening at the question. “My body interprets rhythm in a personal way,” she added softly, as if she were repeating something she’d first thought of long, long ago.
There were a pair of empty margarita pitchers on the table, and a third one about a quarter full. Mortvedt said, “Let’s get out of here and get us a real drink.” He got to his feet, placed a $50 bill beneath one of the coasters.
When LeeAnne made a quick and clever move toward the $50 as she scooped up her purse and started to leave, Mortvedt suddenly turned back and looked at her. She quickly withdrew her hand. Bastard must have eyes in the back of his head, LeeAnne thought. She put her arm around Jud Repke’s waist as the four of them exited the Red Velvet Swing. Mortvedt opened the door for Betty Lou.
They rode in Repke’s red Chevrolet across town to the interstate and checked into the first cheap motel Mortvedt spotted. He paid for two adjacent rooms and tossed the key to one of them to Jud. “Later, man,” he said. “I’ll come get you when the fun’s done.”
As soon as he and Betty Lou had entered their room, Mortvedt crossed the worn blue carpet to the battered television set. He flicked it on, then turned up the volume. A famous big-jawed comedian was just starting his ego-stroking stroll down the front-row line of studio fans who reached eagerly to shake his hand, like supplicants trying to touch the hem of a holy man’s robe.
Taking a bottle of Wild Turkey out of the paper bag he’d brought in, Mortvedt ripped the cellophane off two of the plastic motel-issue “glasses,” then filled both of them with the amber whiskey. After handing one glass across the bed to Betty Lou, Mortvedt drank his straight down, his throat contracting effortlessly. Betty Lou said, “Can I have some sweet soda to go with this?” He ignored her request and moved around the double bed, with its faded, flower pattern spread and cigarette burn dots, to face her.
“Get your clothes off,” Mortvedt commanded. He had already shed his shirt and shoes and was working on his slacks before she finished slowly pulling off her T-shirt with its drawing of a near-naked woman poised in mid-air in a red velvet swing. Betty Lou was proud of her large breasts. She took her time, giving Mortvedt a good long look at them.
When she’d stripped off her panties, Betty Lou smiled coyly at Mortvedt, her eyes roaming his muscled body until they fell on his emerging erection. She smiled admiringly, her plucked eyebrows raised. “Well now, honey, I guess you ain’t such a little man after all. Whoeee! Look at that big thing standing up to look at me.”
Mortvedt said nothing. He motioned for Betty Lou to lie down atop the worn coverlet. She extended her arms behind her and arched her back slightly as Mortvedt roughly fondled her breasts. He increased the pressure, then began squeezing her nipples. “Hey, baby,” Betty Lou said, “not that hard, okay?”
Mortvedt ignored her pleading. When Betty Lou sharply complained again, he suddenly slapped her across the face with his right hand. “Goddam you,” she cried, face flushed with anger, the imprint of his hand visible on her left cheek. “What’d you think your doin’?”
Mortvedt dismounted momentarily. With a quick move, he flipped Betty Lou over on her stomach, then thrust his knees up between her legs. “I don’t like it there, not back there,” Betty Lou screeched. As she continued to protest, Mortvedt took her T-shirt and wound it roughly around her face so that it covered her mouth, muffling her cries.
Betty Lou tossed her head from side to side, her body squirming, but she could not get out from underneath Mortvedt, who was far too strong for her. As she tried to pull her knees up under her, he hit her a cracking punch on her right cheek. Betty Lou fell forward onto a pillow, tears of pain and anger beginning to pour down her rapidly swelling face. The laughter from the audience on the television drowned out the rest of the noises she made.
“Little man, eh?” said Mortvedt, thrusting his penis into Betty Lou’s anus. He pistoned into her, grinning at her whimpered sounds of pain that stretched over the minutes.
Mortvedt watched his face in the pock-marked mirror that stretched the length of the bed’s headboard. The louder Betty Lou wailed, the wider his smile became.