All Hat (21 page)

“Why don't I go with you, Jackson?” Dean asked when Paulie came out of the barn. “You'll need a hand.”

“I was gonna take anybody, I'd take Paulie. He pulls his weight. But I'm not taking anybody.”

“Shit,” Dean said. “Well, I'm not building fucking stalls for Sonny.”

“I guess you will if I tell you to,” he heard Sonny say.

They turned to see him coming across the yard, leaning on his cane. His eyes were puffy slits, and his hair was flying every which way.

“What're you doing up so early, Sonny? You shit the bed?” Dean asked.

“You're a funny guy, Dean,” Sonny said. “So what's your problem today?”

“My problem is I thought I'd be taking this horse to New York,” Dean said.

“You thought I was gonna let you take my ten-million-dollar racehorse on a road trip to New York City,” Sonny said. “That's a hoot. You oughta be on the comedy circuit. How about you grab your retarded cousin over there and get to building stalls, like Jackson told you.”

“I didn't hire on to build stalls,” Dean said.

“No, you hired on to piss and moan,” Sonny said.

“Would you two stop this crap?” Jackson suggested.

Paulie was standing by the trailer, looking at the ground. Dean hesitated, glanced at Jackson, then looked back at Sonny and smiled.

“Shoulda been at the Slamdance last night, Jackson,” he said. “Sonny boy was telling my girl Misty how he fucked up his knee riding this mean old Brahma bull at the Calgary Stampede. What was the name of that bull, Sonny? Oh, that's right—that mean old bull was named Ray Dokes, wasn't it?”

Sonny was turning away, and now he spun back. “You're done, Dean. Write him a check, Jackson. One more fucking word, Dean, and you won't even get that. Write them both a check, Jackson, and then get him and that other fucking moron off the property.”

Sonny stood his ground a moment longer, and Jackson thought he might reconsider.

“Do it now, Jackson,” Sonny said, and he turned and got into his car and drove off.

Jackson looked at Dean in disgust. “You dumb sonofabitch,” he said.

He went into the office and came back with the ledger that contained the checkbook. He opened the ledger on the hood of the truck.

“I'll talk to him about you, Paulie,” he said. “But you brought this on yourself, Dean. You had to go out of your way to aggravate him.” Jackson was angry now. “What the hell did you expect? You never did a lick of work around here anyway. You're always whining about wanting respect. Well, you gotta show it to get it.”

As Jackson made to write the check, Dean walked over and picked up the garden shovel from the rose garden. When Jackson turned, Dean hit him above the ear with the shovel. Jackson hit the ground with a thud like a bag of grain makes when thrown from a wagon. Dean took a stance to deliver another blow, but the big man was motionless on the ground. His scalp was ripped open, and soon the blood was running in thin rivulets across the dirt on the ground.

“Jesus,” Paulie said.

“Come on,” Dean said, and he tossed the shovel aside. He opened the truck door.

“What are you doing?” Paulie asked.

“We've just been fired,” Dean said. “That suits me just fine. But I'm taking this horse for severance.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“What—you feeling loyal to Sonny all of a sudden? He holds you in such high regard.”

Paulie walked over and kneeled in the dirt beside Jackson. He was relieved to see that the big man was breathing. “We can't leave him like this,” he said. “He could be bad hurt.”

Dean thought about it. “He'll be all right. But you're right, we can't leave him here. Get that gelding out of the trailer, Paulie.”

With Paulie helping reluctantly, they put the dapple gelding back in the barn and then carried Jackson into the trailer. He was even heavier than he looked, and it was all they could do to lift him. Dean got a length of nylon rope from the tack room and bound Jackson's hands behind his back, tied the rope to the railing in the trailer. He found the stallion's papers in Jackson's coat pocket, and then he gagged Jackson with a rag. He and Paulie carried a dozen bales of hay into the trailer and stacked them around Jackson's prone form.

“He's bleeding pretty good still,” Paulie said.

“Fuck him,” Dean said. He walked over to the spot where Jackson had gone down and with his shoe covered the blood with dirt. “Let's get going.”

“Where?”

“I got a plan.”

*   *   *

Dean and Paulie took the highway north, sticking to the speed limit. Dean was quiet as he drove, his hands fidgeting on the steering wheel, his eyes constantly looking at the mirrors. Paulie watched him; he'd seen Dean nervous before, but he'd never known him to be quiet.

“I'm worried about Jackson,” Paulie said. They were in the village of Dundurn, idling at the lone traffic light.

“He's all right,” Dean said. “Black guys got harder heads than other people. It's been proved. That's why all the good boxers are black these days. You can't hurt 'em.”

“Why don't we drop him at a hospital?”

“No fucking way. The longer he's out, the better chance we got of getting away. Don't worry about Jackson being knocked out, Paulie. When he comes to—that's when you better start worryin'.”

After traveling north for maybe half an hour, Dean suddenly pulled over and then turned the rig around.

“What're we doing?” Paulie asked.

“I changed my mind,” Dean said. “I'm heading for the border.”

“Then what?”

“Don't you worry about it.”

“I thought you said you had a plan.”

“I do. I've got a beauty, Paulie.”

Paulie fell silent and leaned against the passenger door. He was troubled by the image of Jackson lying in the dirt, his head split open like a cantaloupe. He was troubled by the stolen horse in the trailer.

He was particularly troubled by the fact that Dean had a plan. In the years he'd known Dean, there had been a lot of brilliant plans. Try as he might, Paulie couldn't remember a single one working out.

They hit Highway 3 outside of Simcoe and headed east, reaching the border by midafternoon. They gassed up in Fort Erie. Dean got the key from the attendant and went to use the restroom. As soon as he was gone Paulie went into the trailer. Jackson was still unconscious, but his eyelids were fluttering and he seemed about to come around. Paulie removed the gag from his mouth. He wanted to give Jackson a drink of water, but he couldn't figure how to do that when Jackson was still out. He decided to wait until they stopped for gas again.

They crossed the Niagara River at the Peace Bridge on the outskirts of Buffalo. As they approached American customs Dean had the horse's papers ready. “Let's hope they don't check the trailer too close,” he said.

It was a slow day at customs. The border guard was eating a slice of pizza when they pulled up. He straightened in his chair and wiped his mouth when they stopped. “Citizenship?”

“Canadian,” Dean said.

The guard jerked his head toward Paulie.

“Him, too,” Dean said.

“Let him speak for himself,” the guard said.

“Canadian,” Paulie said. His voice was high, ready to break.

“What're you guys hauling?”

Dean handed the papers over. “We've got a thoroughbred we're taking to New York City. Belmont Race Track,” he added.

The guard looked at the papers and then got up reluctantly and put his coat on. He came out of the booth and gestured for Dean to get out of the truck. He was short, with a big gut and an untrimmed mustache. He carried a large-caliber pistol on his belt, slung low like a cowboy in a movie, and he had a walk that supported the image.

He and Dean moved around behind the trailer. Paulie got out too, holding his breath and wishing he'd walked away at the gas station in Fort Erie, but knowing that he couldn't have, not while Jackson was in the trailer.

“Open it,” the guard said.

Dean unlatched the trailer and swung the door open. The guard stepped forward to have a look. Jumping Jack Flash took exception to the invasion of his privacy and unleashed a kick that missed the guard's shaggy mustache by maybe a quarter inch. The fat guard hit the pavement and actually reached for his gun.

“You sonofabitch—” he said. He caught himself then, climbed quickly to his feet, and had a look around to see if anyone had seen him go down. Dean closed the gate at once.

“He's a little ornery,” Dean said.

“I see that,” the guard said, and he made a show of inspecting the horse's papers. “These look to be in order.”

“Oh, he's had all his shots and whatever,” Dean said, enjoying this now. “You wanna have another look?”

“No!” the guard said immediately. “You're holding the line up.”

Dean looked; there was no line to hold up. The guard handed the papers over and went back to his booth, his dignity and the nation's security intact.

They left customs and took the ramp to the thruway. Paulie saw a sign that read: 90 East New York City. Dean took the next ramp and headed west.

By dark they were clear of Cleveland and heading south on 71 across Ohio. They skirted around Columbus and then took 62 south. At nine o'clock they stopped at a fish-and-chips joint in Hillsboro and got takeout, ate in the truck as they drove. In spite of his anxiety, or maybe because of it, Paulie fell asleep against the passenger door. He dreamed he was on a train, traveling through a precarious mountain pass.

When he woke up they were stopped on a gravel road beside a running stream that glinted in the moonlight. Dean was sitting silently behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette. Paulie watched the running water, which looked cold and clear in the faint light.

“Where are we?” he asked after a while.

“Kentucky.”

“Kentucky,” Paulie repeated, and he took another look out the window. He'd never been to Kentucky before. “What are we doing here?”

“Getting rid of Jackson, for one thing.”

Jackson was conscious enough by now to describe in detail what Dean's future would hold. Dean stuck the rag back in his mouth, and then they dragged him out of the trailer and pushed him down the creek bank. He rolled along the grass and stopped a few feet from the running stream. He turned his head toward them, and in the moonlight Paulie could see his eyes, burning like they could set the truck afire.

They drove back out to the highway, and then they headed back north. Fired by cup after cup of take-out coffee, Dean drove all night. They reached Detroit as the sun was coming up. They crossed back into Canada—Dean showed the customs agent the horse's papers and told him that he'd raced the animal in Saginaw the day before—and headed back east.

They were at Jim Burnside's farm before noon. Jim was nowhere in sight. They put the stallion in the barn, gave him hay and water. Then they went into the house—the door was unlocked—and they both found old couches and lay down. Paulie was asleep at once. Dean was fatigued to the point that his vision was blurred, but he couldn't put his mind to rest.

In the past twenty-four hours he'd been fired from his job, stolen a champion racehorse, kidnaped the horse's trainer, driven all the way around Lake Erie, with detours across Ohio and into Kentucky, and ended up not all that far from where he'd started.

After a day like that, it was only natural for a man to toss and turn a little.

*   *   *

Chrissie's suspension was up on a Saturday. She procured four mounts over the phone for Sunday's card, and on Sunday morning she and Ray and Pete Culpepper headed for Fort Erie in Ray's Cadillac. It was clear and cold, and the day had arrived with a heavy frost on the grass, which didn't burn off until midmorning. Winter seemed close for the first time that fall.

“You gonna behave yourself today?” Pete asked on the drive down.

“Depends on everybody else,” Chrissie said. “I just go with the flow.”

“The hell you do,” Pete said.

When they got to the track Chrissie went to find the trainer for her first mount. Pete and Ray were lounging near the barns when one of the grooms came over and told them that Jumping Jack Flash was missing.

“What do you mean—missing?” Pete asked.

“Jackson Jones left yesterday with him, heading for Belmont. He never showed up, and nobody's heard from him.”

“Well, I'll be a sonofabitch,” Pete said.

“They're thinking maybe foul play.”

Chrissie won her first race but finished out of the money in the other three. Afterward she sat and had a beer with Pete and Ray in barn eleven.

“I got mounts the rest of the week, and I'll be working horses in the morning,” she said. “Guess I'll go see if my apartment's still there. My pickup's still over the border; my girlfriend's gonna take me to get it.”

She looked at Ray when she said this, and he drank his beer and looked back.

“All the jocks are talking about Jumping Jack Flash,” she went on. “They said Sonny Stanton pitched a fit when he heard the horse was missing. Got about half drunk and went down to the cop shop and started yelling for something to happen. One of the cops slapped him across the head, and now Sonny's talking about suing the police department. The riders are getting a big kick out of it.”

“I bet they are,” Pete said. “Wonder where that damn horse is.”

“One theory is the trainer kidnapped him,” Chrissie said.

“Jackson Jones never kidnapped that horse,” Ray said. “But I don't know what Sonny's going on about. They'll have him insured from here to next Sunday.”

He finished his beer and stood up. It was dark outside now and darker yet in the stall where they sat. Ray took his ball cap off and adjusted the crease in the bill. He put it back on, and then he put his collar up. Finally, he looked at Chrissie. After a moment she got up and walked over to him.