Under these circumstances we cannot be sure of foul play. The twenty-six year old woman was found naked, lying on the floor next to her cot. She was on her stomach and an electric vibrator was operating. Attached to and compressing the right breast was a spring-type clothespin. Around the victim's neck was a hand towel, and a nylon stocking placed over the towel, loop fashion. The stocking and towel loop was fastened to the cot above her head. The lower part of the victim's body was supported by a foot stool and her upper body rested on her arms. The clothespin acted as a ligature to reduce oxygen flow. The victim lost consciousness. The weight of her body hanging from the nylon stocking caused her to asphyxiate. Connie Mai White died from asphyxiation, autoerotic asphyxia, a more likely cause.
Hippie Mark read the stolen police report slowly. He formed the words picking the vowels and syllables carefully. Asphyxiation was a difficult word to pronounce. He wasn’t sure what this all meant anyway. He looked up from the photo-copied police report, wringing his thick brows over his beak of a nose. “What the fuck? Autoerotic asphyxiation?”
Race track maintenance, the combing and grooming of sand at 8:15 am was complete. The second round of two-year olds trotted past the track gap. Men and women riders, whistled and chatted to each other, their horses were as wired as their riders. The race track back stretch hummed with the news of Connie’s death. The excitement connected with the horses. Everyone was restless with doubt and unease.
Fat Ed eyed Hippie Mark. The two men, an old mobster, the other an old jockey, leaned on the race track fence rail. Ed held a coffee and a bagel bag, wearing the worry of a person more than casually interested in Connie’s death.
“Ed, what the fuck are the cops saying? She killed herself cumming? This much I know--she could have any fucking guy she wanted! This is nuts! Why would she want to do that? Is this fucking crazy shit? She wouldn’t do this!” Hippie Mark, a sixty-something long haired jockey wannabe-writer broke down and cried. His thin pony tail popped with the sudden twists of his head. His hands jerked about in disbelief holding the report of Connie’s death.
Tears were in Ed’s eyes too. He gazed at Mark’s faded face. Ed couldn’t tell him that he was one of the guys Connie slept with.
Ed, an old fat Brooklyn Sicilian man. He was like a father lover to Connie. He never would have asked her to do it, but God did he hope she would wrap her legs around him. Connie loved him, so he thought and believed.
Many times she confessed she would marry him if only he would have her. Connie was the finest and craziest girl he ever knew. The sexiest girl he had seen since childhood during World War II. He thought Betty Grable was the hottest then. If only he wasn’t afraid of his nut-cutting Kraut wife... Ed would have married Connie and gotten her out of trouble long before today.
So many brave words to confess after Connie’s death. Ed concentrated on the thought of Connie’s love.
Ed’s gaze across the infield where the jump horses galloped was too wistful. Ed was not a deep thinker, Mark knew this. Ed was thinking something bad for sure.
There was a strange bond between Ed and Mark. Friends for forty years. Ever since the days of hot, drugged horses and fast money. Their friendship meant there wasn’t much the other could hide. They knew each other in a friendly, black-mailed sort of way. Ed dolled cash to Mark. He believed Mark would write the novel that would put the horse racing world to shame.
Mark believed some day he would do that. Write it all down, and make Ed the Righteous Mobster happy. But when it came to condemning his friends, it all seemed hypocritical. So, the book remained unwritten.
Ed willing to pitch-in to the cause of the dream come true, never nagged Mark about the book or the money. Ed also knew Mark knew, many decades ago, Ed slept around. Ed couldn’t afford to have his wife Margo angry with him over indiscretions that meant nothing to him now or then.
Ed and Mark, two sixty-something year olds knew where the boundaries were.
Now Mark knew Ed was hiding something new from him. “You fucked her didn’t you?” Mark asked. “Ed you fuckin’ fucked her! I don’t believe this! What’s going on! I thought we were friends, I thought I knew you. Why didn’t you tell me?” Mark stomped his booted heels into the rolled turf.
There were some things guys couldn’t hide from each other.
"We made love, we didn’t fuck." Ed dropped the bagel bag and wagged a finger at Mark. "You listen to me, listen to me good, we made love, we didn’t fuck-- and don’t you ever say that ugly word again! She was the kindest, smartest and the most hurt girl in the world. She-- I am telling you this-- she didn’t do this to herself, she wouldn’t do this awful thing to herself-- I don’t care what the police says. We were going to work it all out. She had hopes and we were going to make it all better. She believed me and we were planning a life together!"
"You and Connie? The two of you? What? You were going to marry her? What about Margo?"
"Yeah, what about her?" When Ed lied to Mark, his face flushed.
Ed could never lie to Connie either. She caught him in lies as Mark did now. Ed wanted to believe he could change channels. He wanted to be Connie’s husband and forget his other life. He wanted it so much he believed himself when he proclaimed his intentions to save Connie.
"Yeah it’s the truth." Ed lied to Mark again. "Connie, she knew I was gonna leave Margo. Connie, she was so happy, she was gonna stop all of this race track shit. She wanted to be an artist! Did you know that? She was a real talented painter. I was showing her art work to the galleries in the City."
"What? You, the garbage man, was running around with her art portfolio? Give me a break. I’m sorry but I don’t buy it. You were fucking her. It’s okay. She always considered me as her friend, that’s why she wouldn’t let me get near her. But you! Hey congratulations!" Mark sneered at Ed. Mark kicked his boots in the sand and rested his head on the track rail. "You know what! I feel like fuckin’ killing myself on a fuckin’ nut job horse today. What do you think?"
Mark wanted to choke Ed. He wanted to push his fat body into the dirt and kick his heels into his fleshy face. He, a skinny, nothing of a jock, wanted to dance up and down on Ed’s fat stomach and rip his crotch open with a pitch fork and pull his entrails out with a rake.
Mark stuffed the stolen police report into Ed’s chest. "Here I don’t believe this shit, get it away from me!"