Free Shedrow by Dean DeLuke Page A

the cigar with a gold butane lighter, first heating the end with the flame, then twirling the cigar and drawing hard through tightly pursed lips. The flame grew several inches high around the end of the cigar. When the end was red with hot ash, he shut down the lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke in Gianni’s direction.
    Gianni said, “I thought about keeping more of my stake than I did. But I’m really more interested in the racing end of things. I like the excitement of racing, and the peace and quiet of the mornings at the training track. I’m happy with my breeding rights for two seasons.”
    “We had a good run with him, huh?” Chet said, drinking the second brandy at a slightly slower pace. His large, bulbous noseseemed to grow redder with each swallow.
    Gianni said, “That we did. Stakes winner on grass and dirt. The Florida Derby and the Preakness, for God’s sake. Too bad we had to retire him as early as we did. I’d have loved to see him race another year.”
    “I’m happy just the way things are,” Chet said, taking another generous drag on his cigar and holding the smoke in his mouth.
    “I know you are, but the sport needs more horses that race longer. It needs to bring in more fans, and that requires star horses with some soundness, horses that can race for a few good years.”
    “Maybe so. But it’s hard to pass up that big price for a move to the breeding shed,” Chet said, turning his head away from Gianni and releasing the smoke from his mouth.
    “Well, in the Chief’s case there was no good alternative. I love that damn horse, Chet, and I’ve always wanted to do what was best for him. I don’t think his suspensory ligaments would have held up. Still, I’ll miss seeing him on the track. I’ll miss my early morning visits. And I wish to God he could be running in the Travers this month, like we originally planned. I saw him just yesterday morning and he looks fantastic. Mean as hell, but fantastic.”
    “Did he try to bite you again, Anthony? You really ought to be careful, you might l-l-lose a goddamn finger or something.”
    “No, he’s all right. You just can’t turn your back on him.”
    “I know a lot of p-p-people like that,” Chet said.
    Gianni watched his boorish companion down the rest of the brandy and the beer and thought,
I imagine you do.

Chapter 14
    Newark, NJ
    When a man is hunted, simple freedoms are lost until the hunt has ended and a victor declared. With many in the mob, the hunt becomes a way of life, and to function as good gangsters, they become oblivious to the constant threats to self and to family.
    But Chester Pawlek had always been different. As a Polish American, he considered himself an outsider. He was drawn into the mob life in his later years, and he never got over the loss of freedom and the perpetual fear. He would hesitate momentarily when he started his car. Would this be the morning it exploded and burned? He worried walking into a restaurant, always seeking a table near the corner where he could have his back to a wall. He never liked to have his back to any open doorway, and he had developed the nervous habit of constantly looking over his shoulder, even as he spoke to a friend or a business associate in an office building.
    Chet often recalled with great nostalgia the train rides from New York to Florida in his youth—the sense of relaxation andfreedom, watching the scenery change, counting the station stops and the states traversed. Now he imagined he would never again set foot on a passenger train, fearing he might be followed into a sleeper car and terminated, right there, in the berth of his once cozy retreat. He could still count the station stops, but now in every station he would be forced to view the new passengers, and regard each one as an imminent foe.
    He thought of those earlier train rides as he drove under the freight tracks in a remote area of Newark. He had driven there alone, just as he had been instructed, and he circled