All Hat (25 page)

“What's up?” he said, approaching the car.

“I'm just headed to the casino to watch the Breeders' on the simulcast,” Sonny said. “Get in a minute, will ya?”

Jackson hesitated, then walked around and got in the passenger side.

“How'd he look today?” Sonny asked.

“The gray? He's ready.”

“We need that race, Jackson. For more reasons than just the purse. We gotta show the world that Stanton Stables is still in the game, whatever happens to the Flash. This race is important.”

“So you don't care about the purse?”

“Oh, I'll cash the check, don't get me wrong. I got irons in the fire you don't even know about. Heard anything from Kentucky?”

“Yeah, I think they got Barney Fife on the case. I doubt they're even in Kentucky. Dean isn't the smartest guy in the world, but he's not the dumbest, either. Why would he dump me in Kentucky if that's where he figured to take the horse? He was just fooling the hounds, if you ask me.”

“So where are they?”

“Who knows? Maybe they headed for Florida. Or California. If we knew what they were up to, we might make a better guess where they went. They haven't asked for ransom—why the hell not?”

“Maybe they're not after ransom.”

“What else is there?” Jackson asked. “It's not like you could sell the animal. Be like selling the
Mona Lisa.
”

Sonny took a drink from the glass on the console. “What's the insurance company saying?”

“Nothing,” Jackson said. “And that's all they're gonna say for now. They're not about to pay off a claim on a horse that's just missing. If the animal turns up dead, then they'll pay. Otherwise, they could make us wait a long time.”

Sonny set the drink down carelessly, spilled the juice over the seat. He removed his sunglasses and looked at Jackson. “We paid the fucking premiums,” he said angrily. “They owe us twelve million dollars, and they'll fucking well pay or I'll drag them into court and sue their asses for twice that.”

“The insurance company isn't afraid of you, Sonny. And don't be so quick after the twelve million. We want the horse back. He turns out to be a good stud, he'll be worth ten times that before he's done. That's always been your problem, Sonny. Everything with you is short term.”

“Don't tell me what my problem is, Jackson. It was your job to get the horse to New York City, where he was gonna win the Classic this afternoon. How'd you make out? Hey, maybe that's where the nag is. Maybe Dean and Paulie hauled him down to the Belmont; Paulie's gonna ride him in the Classic. Watch for him on the TV; Paulie'll be wearing that stupid hat.”

Jackson opened the car door and then looked back at Sonny. “You get enough booze and painkillers in you, and you get awful stupid, Sonny. You have fun with Big Billy Coon and the boys. I'm sure there's nothing they like better than to see a stupid rich boy walk through the door.”

He walked to his pickup and drove away without looking back. Sonny sat nursing his Bloody Mary as he watched Jackson pull out onto the highway and head south.

“Just keep pushing,” he said out loud.

*   *   *

Big Billy Coon was having a private party for the simulcast. There were maybe fifty people in the back room; there were three poker games in session, a blackjack table with a hundred-dollar minimum, and, of course, the totes. Billy had set the odds early in the week and was keeping with them. The wagers wouldn't alter the payoffs as they would at the track or the OTBs. But it worked both ways; a horse bet at even money stayed there even if the odds at the track went up. And there was no money returned on a scratch.

Sonny said hello to Billy and then proceeded immediately to one of the poker games and found himself a seat. They were playing Texas Hold 'Em. Sonny bought five hundred dollars' worth of chips and looked at the other players.

“Gents, you ain't gonna like this,” he said.

The races from Belmont started at one in the afternoon. Sonny played poker until then, but his confident mood fell as quickly as his bankroll. There was a bad vibe in the place, although he couldn't really pinpoint its origin. It had been his experience with natives that they were silent to the point of surliness when interacting with whites they didn't know. Sonny, with his mouth and his money and his pharmaceuticals, didn't help matters any. He was soon holding forth on his expertise in all matters regarding horse racing, while denigrating any opinion offered by the others. The quiet Indians grew quieter.

Sonny's superior understanding of the racing game was hardly in evidence once the card started. There were eight races, the Classic being the last, and Sonny had his picks for each race scribbled across the form he'd brought with him. He bet ten thousand a race for the first seven and lost them all. Then he bet twenty-five thousand in the Classic, on a horse from Ireland, a lanky standardbred-looking roan who had made considerable noise in Europe over the summer and who was off at seven to one. Sonny was betting on a marker, and he needed the last race to get even.

“This is the race Stanton Stables was gonna win,” Sonny announced to the room as the Classic was about to begin. “Motherfuckers hadn't stole my horse.”

The Irish horse finished tenth in a field of twelve. Sonny'd turned his attention back to the poker game before the race was even over. He was drinking Scotch now and growing resigned to the fact that it was not his lucky day. Losing ninety-five thousand dollars in four hours could have that effect on a man. Finally, he tossed his cards and got to his feet, looking at Billy Coon and smiling through his pain.

“Well, I got a hot date,” he said. “I'll be in next week.”

“You'll be in next week for what?” Billy asked.

“To settle up.”

Billy smiled. “I'd prefer you settle up right now.”

“Come on. It's close to a hundred large. I don't have it on me.”

“Wouldn't that be something to consider before you bet it?”

“You know who I am,” Sonny said sharply.

“What does that mean?” Billy asked. “That you want special consideration?”

The quiet Indians at the poker game saw Sonny swallow, saw his Adam's apple working as he dropped his tone, leaned into Billy, and asked, “Can we go outside and talk about this?”

“You gonna tell me a different story outside than you're telling me in here?” Billy wanted to know. “I'll tell you what, Sonny. Why don't you tell me the outside story in here?”

Now everybody was watching: the poker players and the blackjack players, the drinkers and the punters and the hangers-on. They were all watching Sonny, and Sonny was this close to crawling, and even though he'd crawled before—most notably at the golf course three years ago—he'd never crawled with this kind of hostile audience before.

He looked into Big Billy Coon's black eyes. “Billy,” he said.

“What?”

“Come on, Billy. Please.”

“What's that?” Billy asked, his voice rising.

It took Sonny a moment longer to get it. “Please, Billy.”

Billy Coon laughed and clapped Sonny on the shoulder, and then he took the remote from the bar and began scrolling through the channels on the big screen. Sonny hesitated, and then he turned and walked out.

Once outside, he moved across the parking lot as fast as he could without actually breaking into a run. He was still shaking when he got behind the wheel. He watched in the mirror as he started the BMW. Billy Coon might send the cousins after him even yet.

He finally began to relax when he reached the 401. When the concern for his personal safety passed, though, he remembered that he'd just lost a hundred grand—a hundred grand that he couldn't lay his hands on just now. It could be a problem; he doubted that Billy Coon was as forgiving as the bank. It seemed that everything was turning against him of late.

It was early evening, and the Slamdance was slow. Sonny ordered a Bloody Mary from the woman behind the bar, and she brought it. He put his Gold American Express card down in front of him. When he finished his second drink he ordered a third, and then Misty came out of the back room, wearing a tight navy-blue dress that barely covered her ass. She looked at Sonny, recognized him, and pointedly sat down at the far end of the bar.

“Ice water,” she said to the bartender.

Sonny tapped his credit card on the bar. “I'll buy you a drink.”

“Johnny Walker Blue,” she told the bartender.

She sat there and drank his Scotch, but she didn't talk to him and didn't even look at him. Sonny smiled to himself, and he worked on his vodka, and after a while he bought her another Scotch.

“Where you from?” Sonny asked at some point.

She looked at him, but she said nothing.

So they sat and they drank, and people came and went and Sonny bought more drinks on the credit card, and then finally he asked again where she was from. This time, she looked over.

“Two hundred for an hour,” she said. “Five for the night.”

Which sounded reasonable enough to Sonny, after the day he'd had.

*   *   *

Dean stood in the stall, hands deep in his pockets, and he looked at the thoroughbred Jumping Jack Flash in frustration. Paulie was holding on to the horse's halter, and the horse was leaning into Paulie but looking calmly at Dean. Jim Burnside was outside the stall, and he was looking at Dean too, but not all that calmly.

“I thought you said you studied up on this,” he said.

“I studied up about the part about seminating the mares,” Dean said. “I never read nothing about getting the stuff out of the stud. Goddamn book never said nothing about getting the stuff out of the stud.”

“What did you figure to do?” Jim said.

“I figured you just, you know—jack him off,” Dean said.

“Then get to jacking.”

“I
tried
that,” Dean said. “I can't even find it, for Christ's sake. How you gonna jack him off if he doesn't have a hard-on?”

Paulie stood scratching the horse's ears, and every now and then the horse chortled his appreciation. “Maybe we should forget about it, Dean,” Paulie said.

“We're not gonna fucking forget about it,” Dean said. “Give me that picture again.”

“The picture ain't gonna do anything,” Jim said.

“Give it to me.”

Jim handed the print over. It was a picture of a broodmare from a farm in Kentucky that Dean had cut out of a breeder's magazine and then taken into the Kinko's in town and had blown up. Sort of an equine Betty Grable.

Dean showed the print to the stallion, who looked at the picture then dropped his head to pick at the bedding beneath his feet. Dean looked underneath the horse to see if anything was happening there, and when there wasn't he tried to show the animal the picture again. This time, the horse swung his head toward Dean and showed his teeth. Dean scrambled for the gate and let himself out.

“Jesus, Paulie!” he said. “Hang on to him.”

The horse settled at once, and Paulie took him by the halter and ran his hand down his withers. Dean watched the bay in stony silence for a moment, then turned to Jim and said, “We're gonna need a mare.”

*   *   *

Jim was gone all morning. Dean smoked cigarettes and watched as Paulie cleaned out the stallion's stall and threw in fresh bedding and brushed the horse down and combed the tangles out of his mane and tail. The stallion stood stock-still while Paulie worked on him.

“How come that fucking horse likes you so much?” Dean asked.

“I don't know,” Paulie said. “I guess he knows I like him.”

“He's a fucking horse, Paulie.”

“Yup.”

“He's a dumb animal. How can he know anything?”

“I think he knows he doesn't like you.”

“Well, fuck him. People like him are always looking down their nose at people like me.”

Paulie turned away from his brushing. “What?”

“Forget it.”

Paulie finished his grooming; then he found a hoof pick and cleaned the stallion's feet out. He had an apple in his pocket, and he broke it in half and gave the horse one piece and bit into the other himself.

“We done here?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, we're done,” Paulie said, and he looked at the horse, and the horse looked back at Paulie as if he knew what Paulie was thinking.

“Then let's go in the house and have a coffee,” Dean said. “I thought Jim'd be back by now.”

They sat in the dirty kitchen and waited for the water to boil. Jim had a woodstove in the living room. It had been stoked earlier in the morning, but now it was all but out. Paulie carried in some wood from the back porch and got the fire going again while Dean sat at the kitchen table and smoked. Then they made instant coffee.

“He brings me a mare in season, and we'll be all right,” Dean said.

“I don't know.”

“What don't you know?” Dean demanded.

Paulie sipped tentatively at the hot coffee. “I think maybe we should quit this, Dean. If we took the Flash back now, they might go easy on us. We haven't really done anything wrong. Well, except for you hitting Jackson with the shovel like you did.”

“Yeah, you think Jackson's gonna go easy on me? We'll let the horse go when we've done what we set out to do.”

“I don't think he's gonna let you do it.”

“He'll let me. First thing he's gotta learn is that I'm a lot smarter than him. The sooner he figures that out, the better. I thought he'd of come to it by now, but he's a dumb motherfucker. I don't care what his bloodlines are—that horse is dumb.”

“I don't know that he's all that dumb.”

“You think he's smarter than me?”

Paulie tried the coffee again, and then he looked at Dean. “I think the best you could hope for would be a tie.”