Death By Bridle Page 6

  “That’s great,” I said, before excusing myself. I went to telephone June to see if she had any pictures of Arthur and Aspen when younger. She did and we were to pick them up as we left for Nicholasville, where the interviewee lived. Happily I put down the phone and checked the clock. I had just enough time to take a nap before we left.

  12

  Several hours later Mrs. Todd and I arrived at the home of her husband’s cousin, Jimmy. He met us at the door with keys in hand and escorted us several doors down. Using a spare key, he ushered us to a small one-level house. “Hey Leon, we’re here,” he called, showing us into a cozy living room lit with a gas log fire even though it was warm outside.

  Sitting in a worn green recliner was Leon Short, an ancient grizzled man attached to an oxygen tank. He waved us to sit down on a worn corduroy couch while Jimmy helped him sit up and take off his mask.

  “Jimmy, get these fine women some Coca-Cola,” rasped Leon. He waved away our collective no’s. “Get me one too. Lots of ice.” He rearranged a crocheted afghan around his legs, looking at us expectantly. “It’s been a long time since I had lady visitors. Very nice. Very nice. Jimmy says you want to talk to me about some white men I worked for in the early sixties. That was a long time ago. What do you want to know?”

  I leaned forward to accept a glass from Jimmy. “I want to ask about some rumors I’ve heard. About two men who came into town and were interested in male athletes.”

  Leon smiled. “The Lord says that the truth can never be hidden. I guess he’s right. You’re talking about two men who came to our fair city in the late fifties – Mr. Lonnie and Mr. Jim. They were wrestling promoters and came with buckets full of money to spread around.”

  “To spread around for what purpose?” I asked.

  “Allegedly for some tender southern white-meat chicken,” Leon chuckled.

  I looked at Mrs. Todd, bewildered.

  She just shook her head.

  Jimmy twittered nervously and interceded on our behalf. “Behave now, Leon. Mrs. Todd is a regular church-going woman and I don’t think Mrs. Reynolds is used to rough talk either.”

  “My apologies, ladies. Like I said, I’m not used to female companionship, at least, in a long time.” Leon coughed into a handkerchief. “You ever heard rumors about Rock Hudson coming to Lexington?”

  “Yes, when I first came here, people would say that Rock Hudson was in town,” I responded.

  “He came here to visit Elizabeth Taylor when she was filming Raintree County and liked it so much that he came often. Now why would a big star like that come to our little country town so often? Don’t know? Let me explain it to y’all. Lexington in those days was filthy rich; horses and tobacco was king. But Lexington was also a little cosmopolitan island in a redneck southern world. There were a lot of smart people in Lexington those days due to IBM, Transylvania, and UK, who believed in minding their own business. Where else could Henry Faulkner and Sweet Evening Breeze go prancing around without gettin’ beat up all the time? There were some altercations, but for the most part Lexington was a very tolerant place for its “eccentrics.” As long as people didn’t come right out and talk about certain things, nothing was said. You might say Lexington was protective.”

  I took a sip of my drink, not taking my eyes off Leon, who was enjoying being the center of attention.

  “Now I am setting up what Lexington was like. Famous people like Tennessee Williams and big movie stars flying in all the time to go to parties. Those were the days when people socialized more. Everyone was having picnics, throwing parties, giving barbeques. People spent the evenings on their porches, going to other people’s houses for dinner or out to dance all the time. Even on weeknights, downtown was packed with folks. People got out. They didn’t stay home watching their TV like they do now. Lexington was a very social town.

  “It was in this atmosphere that I went to work for two men who lived on Lakewood Drive. It wasn’t long before I knew what they were.”

  “Hustlers?”

  “Much, much more.” Leon paused for dramatic effect. “Mrs. Reynolds, they were predators, sure and simple. They preyed on young men. They liked them fresh off the farm and Lexington was their hunting ground.”

  “How would they prey on them?” asked Mrs. Todd, alarmed.

  “I can only tell you what I saw. They’d throw these lavish parties with starlets from Hollywood, using them as bait. There was always lots of food washed down with liquor and they showed dirty movies in the basement. Then they’d get these boys drunk and take advantage of them. If that didn’t work, they used money to coax the boys or gave them expensive gifts.”

  “I don’t understand how you can make a heterosexual man do homosexual acts if he’s not,” said Mrs. Todd.

  “If you’re poor or young, you can be coaxed to do anything. Besides, at their age of 18, 19, 20, you can manipulate young’uns to do lots of stuff they wouldn’t do when older and more mature. These guys were promoters and good at getting people to do what they wanted.”

  “You actually saw them have sex with these boys?”

  “No ma’am, but what could they have been doing behind locked doors and those boys comin’ out looking all embarrassed and sheepish.”

  “How does that play into the Thin Thirty?”

  “Their specialty was the very young football players, but the sex was a sideline. I think the gambling was more important.”

  “Gambling?” I echoed.

  “Like I said, my bosses were wrestling promoters, so they had strong connections in big cities like Chicago and Atlanta. There were rumors in the black community that they had started taking orders to rig college games.”

  I held my breath.

  Leon wheezed, “They get players to really bump up the point spread and then get them to lose a important game.” He took a sip of his Coca-Cola and closed his eyes.

  “UK has been investigated in the past for gambling in basketball, but I’ve never heard of this,” I replied.

  “Like I said, no investigation was done,” Leon mumbled, slowing down like a worn-out record.

  A sound escaped from my nose that sounded like snorting, a noise of disbelief.

  Leon sat with his eyes closed.

  I wondered if he had fallen asleep and glanced at Mrs. Todd. She shook his knee.

  Stirring, Leon almost dropped his glass. “Sorry. Just taking a little rest.” He rubbed his grizzled cheek.

  “So what happened?”

  “Some of the older players squealed to Coach Bradshaw about what was going on. Coach Bradshaw was not going to let his boys be taken advantage of like that. Supposedly the boys in black and white paid my employers a visit. Feeling the chill, my bosses left town within a week.”

  “Cops?”

  “You bet.”

  “What did you think of these men?”

  “They paid me good money, way above the pay grade at that time. I guess it was hush money but they never bothered me. I was the wrong color,” chuckled Leon. “You’ve got to understand how things were in 1962. There was white man’s business and black man’s business. This was white man’s doings. I just kept my mouth shut and cashed my paycheck.”

  “What about Rock Hudson?”

  “Rock Hudson was Rock Hudson. I heard he liked going to the Gilded Cage. I never saw him do nothing but drink and talk to the boys. If he did more, I never saw it, but I heard stories, especially of one local boy he helped become a TV star in Hollywood.”

  I handed him pictures that June had given to me of Arthur Greene and Aspen Lancaster. “Do you recognize these men being at the house on Lakewood Drive? Of course, they’re years older in these pictures.”

  Leon got out his reading glasses and carefully perused the photographs. “Sure, I recognize ’em.” He pointed to one of the men, “This here is Arthur Greene.” He pointed to the other person. “That boy is Mr. Arthur’s best friend, Aspen Lancaster. They were regulars at the house.”

  “No doubt?”
<
br />   “I’ll swear on the Bible.”

  “Would you be willing to make a legal affidavit?”

  “Everyone involved is dead or near-dead. Whatcha want with this information?”

  “I want to right a wrong and help a young boy.”

  “Save a boy from being wronged?”

  “Yes. Her grandson,” I replied, pointing to Mrs. Todd.

  Leon studied Mrs. Todd and then said, “I’ll be here when you need me. I might even have some old pictures in boxes somewhere. I’ll have my daughter look.”

  I turned to Mrs. Todd. “I think we just found our connection to Lincoln.”

  13

  I gave Shaneika several family albums with photographs of Arthur Greene at different ages inserted throughout. She was casually going to go through them with Lincoln and see if he recognized anyone.

  Since I didn’t need to be there, I drove to Frankfort to see a good buddy of mine, Clay, who owned a bee supply business. I needed some wax inserts for super frames and replacement hive bodies. The place was packed with other beekeepers wanting their orders filled, so Clay waved me into his office to wait.

  I limped into his office and hung my cane up on the coat rack. I was still not used to driving long distances and my left leg was beginning to throb and my hearing aid was about to slip off. After adjusting the hearing aid, I put my feet up on some boxes to rest. Leaning back in the plump office chair, I spied Clay and his staff busily satisfying customers. Knowing this was going to take a long time, I settled into my seat and began nosing around Clay’s desk.

  I know this is a bad habit. I know it’s rude, but it’s amazing what you can find out about people just by poking around their desk or bathroom cabinet. Yes, I’m that kind of person who would read an unlocked diary, which is why I don’t keep one. And I had nothing else to do but snoop.

  After going through his mail, which consisted of business matters – no juicy love letters – I studied the pictures on his walls. It seemed that Clay was a softball player in his younger days. I noticed several other beekeepers I knew including my friend, Larry Bingham. The date on the last picture of Clay and Larry together was ten years ago. Hmmm.

  I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew Clay was pulling on my shoe. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”

  “I’ve loaded everything up for you,” announced Clay, who obviously wanted his comfy chair, but I was not ready to give it up yet. He handed me an invoice.

  “Busy day, huh?” I asked.

  “Been running my tail off,” he said, “but that’s a good problem to have.”

  “Yeah,” I said, reluctantly motioning to Clay to help me up. I got up on my two legs and Clay handed me my cane. He looked worn out and seemed relieved that he could sit in his own chair.

  “Hey, Clay?”

  “Hey what,” he returned, giving me a series of quick looks. “Josiah, did you go though my mail? Everything is out of order.”

  “Of course not,” I pouted, acting put out. Wanting to change the subject, I said, “I didn’t know that you played softball.”

  Clay glanced at the pictures. “Yeah, we had a great team. I played shortstop.”

  “I noticed Larry played too.”

  “He played left field, but then he got too old to play. Anyway that’s what he said. Stopped playing after our last big Bluegrass Stakes game. Aw, that was some game.”

  “You still play?”

  Clay gave me a big grin. “Naw, got too many things going on now. Don’t have the time, but wish I did. Lots of fun.”

  He walked me out to the car, holding my cane while I struggled to get in. Clay tossed the cane in the back seat. “Bees doing OK?”

  “The best I can tell, but I am going to need help this next harvest, which is coming up very soon. Know anybody that can help?”

  “If you can’t find anyone, give me a call. I’ll help you,” replied Clay.

  “Maybe I’ll ask Larry again,” I said. “I just hate to bother him all the time.”

  “He doesn’t mind. But seriously, call me if you can’t find anyone.”

  “Thanks, Clay.”

  He patted the roof of my car before saying, “Be careful, Josiah.”

  I waved goodbye.

  Since I would pass Larry’s house on the way home, I decided to drop by and see if he was available for the summer’s honey harvest. Within twenty-five minutes I was pulling up into his driveway. At the front of the driveway was Larry’s honey stand where jars of golden honey were stacked alongside a cigar box. People paid on the honor system and it was amazing that honey or money were rarely stolen. Perhaps it was because everyone knew that Larry was a retired G-man.

  Underneath his love of classic rock ’n’ roll, puzzles, and 1940’s era slang was someone who was not to be trifled with. Maybe it was his eyes. They seemed to tear a person up.

  I pulled up next to his fancy honey house and honked my horn. Larry shambled out. I smiled and called his name, but I swear for the briefest of seconds a shadow pass over his face. His eyes narrowed. It startled me, but then he smiled.

  “Hey, Toots. Whatcha doing?” he inquired in a friendly voice.

  I must have been imagining his dismay upon seeing me. I shook it off.

  “Came for a quick chin wag. Just got back from Clay’s. Clay said if you can’t help me with the next harvest, he would do it.”

  “And get some of the best honey in the area as a reward! I should say not. Deal as before. I get a fourth of the harvest.”

  “That takes a load off my mind.”

  “Now, I’m just going to harvest the hives. I’m not going to work the bees for you.”

  “Okay. That’s my problem. I’ll sort it out.”

  “Why don’t you go into my office and cool your heels. There are some drinks in a cooler. I’m going get you some fresh tomatoes and squash from my garden. Only be a minute.”

  “That sounds great, Larry. Thanks.”

  I hobbled into the honey house and sat at Larry’s desk, as there wasn’t another suitable chair.

  Uh oh. It wasn’t two seconds before I was lifting up old bee magazines and playing with broken bee equipment thrown on the top of his old desk. I moved some letters so I could glance at his desk calendar. My, oh my, he was a very busy guy. Gave talks at a lot of bee clubs. Various doctor appointments.

  While perusing, I knocked over some broken frames Larry had been repairing. Bending down, my elbow pushed the desk calendar out of place. Stuck in between paper folds of the calendar were several postcards.

  Pulling one out, I wondered whom it was from. On the front was a picture of the southwest desert. I flipped it over, though feeling a wee bit guilty. On the back was a short note from a friend saying that the hunting was great and wished Larry would join him. Signed Tom.

  I caught my breath as I studied the word Tom. A distinctive hook on the bottom of the T rang a bell, and I realized that this was the handwriting of Tellie Pidgeon.

  Tellie Pidgeon tried to frame me for murdering her husband, Richard Pidgeon, and she almost succeeded. She left Kentucky with my blessing, but not before I got her confession on tape and blackmailed her into giving me her Prius and money.

  I know. I know. I’m bad sometimes.

  There was no return address, but the card had been mailed to Larry at a private post office box.

  Hearing Larry round the corner, I pushed the postcard into my pocket and straightened the desk.

  “Hey, no drinks yet?”

  “Waiting for you, good buddy,” I said, trying to keep my face from sinking. “Oh by the way, where’s the noble consort Brenda?”

  Larry hesitated for a split second. “Went to see her mother. She’s getting up there you know.”

  “No, I didn’t, but send Brenda my regards when you talk to her.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I’ve got to be going. Thanks for the vegetables, Larry. I’m going to slice them up tonight.”

  “Anything for
you.”

  He walked out with me to the Prius. I couldn’t wait to get away, but took my time chatting about people we both knew. Finally I started the car and turned around.

  Looking in the mirror, I caught him staring at the honey house and then at me.

  I got the hell out of there.

  Flying home like my Prius had wings, I was thankful to see that Goetz still had a cop car at the entrance to my driveway. I waved to the guy, pulling up alongside him.

  “Anything unusual?” I asked.

  “Very quiet, ma’am.”

  “That’s good,” I said, handing him Larry’s vegetables.

  “Gee, thanks,” he cooed happily, putting them down on the seat beside him.

  “Do me a favor, will ya?” I asked.

  The policeman nodded.

  “Let me know if you see a midnight blue Ford Explorer cruising by. In it will be a white male in his late sixties with frosty blue eyes. Sorta like Paul Newman’s eyes. Jessamine County license plates. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Something I should know about?”

  “Too soon to tell. Just a hunch.”

  “Okay. I’ll be on the lookout.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremy Snow.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. Much obliged.”

  “Just one thing,” requested the young policeman. “Who’s Paul Newman?”

  I groaned and started down the gravel driveway, thinking I had to be wrong. But if I was right, I had to move fast. Stopping the car by the front gate, I punched in the code to the bamboo door, hurried past the waterfall and punched in another code to the steel front doors. Hearing the beep, I threw one of the double doors open and ran to my room as fast as my limp would allow me. Once inside I locked the bedroom door and dragged a chair over by the floor safe in the dressing area. Leaning over from the seat, I unlocked the safe and pulled out a copy of Tellie’s signed confession in which she stated that she had killed her husband, Richard. I compared it to the T on Larry’s postcard.