All Hat (26 page)

They heard Jim pull in as they were finishing their coffee. The truck shut off, and a moment later Jim walked in the door. Paulie was rinsing the cups in the sink.

“Well?” Dean asked.

“I got you a mare. Buddy of mine races standardbreds at Flamboro. He's got this older mare just come in heat. I got her in the trailer.”

“Should do the trick,” Dean said.

“I had to promise him a thousand bucks,” Jim said. “He was pretty suspicious.”

He stumbled over the amount, and Dean knew he was lying but he let it go.

“He'll get it,” Dean said, “when we do.”

The mare did the trick all right. Jumping Jack Flash had only to sniff her presence in the yard, and he was fully and quite visibly prepared. They'd tied him to the stall before bringing the mare in; he snapped the nylon lead like it was a piece of licorice and began to batter the stall boards with wild kicks, first with the front feet and then the back. Paulie managed to get hold of the halter and hooked a length of steel chain from a support post to the horse. As soon as he stepped back the stallion jerked his head back and ripped the hitching ring out of the wood.

Jim walked the mare all the way around to the other side of the house, out of range of the stallion's nose, he hoped. With the horse settled somewhat, Dean climbed into the stall, a bucket in his hand.

“Get hold of the sonofabitch,” he said to Paulie.

Paulie took the bay by the halter and managed to control the horse's head, at least to a point.

“Jesus, look at the cock on him,” Dean said.

He knelt down carefully. Paulie talked softly to the horse and stroked his nose. When Dean tried to do the same underneath, the stallion exploded; he was so fired up that he ejaculated immediately and then broke free from Paulie, kicking and bucking madly, lashing out at Dean.

Dean scrambled on his hands and knees out of the stall. The horse's ejaculate was pretty much everywhere but in the bucket: on the bedding, on the stall boards, on Dean's jacket, and in his hair.

With Dean out of reach, Paulie grabbed hold of the halter once again. Jim walked in and took in the scene.

“Holy shit,” he said.

Dean looked down at himself. He took a glob of semen from his coat and flicked it into the bucket. In the stall the horse was shaking from his effort. Paulie was talking to him softly and checking his legs for damage.

“Well,” Dean said uncertainly. “At least we know we can do it.”

“Yeah?” Jim asked.

“I think maybe we should take a break,” Dean said. “Give the animal some time to recover, you know what I mean.”

“Maybe I should put the mare back in the trailer,” Jim said. “For the time being.”

“I'll give you a hand,” Dean said. He was anxious to be away from the horse. “I could use a drink,” he mentioned as he followed Jim out of the barn.

Paulie stayed in the stall with the horse. After a while the animal quieted enough that Paulie let him go, and he walked over to sit on the edge of the manger. He sat looking at the big horse and thought about what they were doing. It wasn't right; he knew that. And even if it wasn't Paulie's idea, it might as well be, because without Paulie they'd never get close enough to the animal to do anything.

“I'm sorry about all this,” he said.

The stallion watched him, his legs still trembling slightly. Then he came over and pushed the water bucket with his nose. The bucket had spilled in the commotion. Paulie took it to the tap along the front wall of the barn and filled it and then put it in the stall with the horse.

The horse was drinking from the pail when Paulie walked out of the barn and across the field to the road. He put his collar up and started walking, heading east. When a station wagon approached, Paulie stuck out his thumb.

17

Chrissie won the last race of the season at Fort Erie, aboard an aging mare named Along the Vale, a three-length victory over a less than stellar field of horses. The mare was owned by a dentist from St. Catharines and her husband, and it was the animal's first win of the year after a dozen tries. Chrissie had a drink with the couple afterward in the clubhouse, and they were thrilled with the victory and her riding of the mare, even though the purse of six grand was probably a quarter of what they'd spent in maintenance over the season.

“Where do you go now?” the dentist asked. She was drinking gin and tonic, and her husband—an affable, compliant type who wore a toupee and such a consistent look of bliss that Chrissie was convinced he was perpetually stoned—had a light beer. Chrissie had a rye and water.

“Try to pick up some mounts at Woodbine,” Chrissie said. “They run another month.”

“Then what?”

“Christ, I don't know.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“I don't know that either.”

She went to the Eddy with some of the riders and had a couple beers, but she was feeling restless and out of place. She'd never really fit in with the other jocks, and they were even more wary of her since the day in September when she'd slugged Juan Romano, even though deep down they would probably all agree that the sonofabitch had deserved it.

The season was over, and all the jocks were talking about what had happened throughout the year. Chrissie had never been as interested in what had happened as she was in what might happen next.

She left a full glass of beer on the table and walked out the door and got into her truck and headed for Holden County, pushing eighty miles an hour on the QEW and singing along with Janis Joplin on the radio. When she got to Pete Culpepper's place, Pete was standing in the kitchen, putting his coat on.

“Hey,” Pete said when he saw her. “How you doin'?”

“Feelin' nearly faded as my jeans,” she said.

“What?”

“Aw, just a song in my head.”

Chrissie was looking around the house, even though she'd seen that Ray's car was gone. “I just stopped by to have a look at the gelding.”

Pete smiled. “He's out to the barn; that's where we been keepin' him.”

“I know where he is, smart ass.”

Pete walked out with her, and they looked in on the horse. Pete had been spoiling him since the injury, and he was looking fat and happy, with his hide grown fuzzy with the cold weather. He came over to Chrissie at once and pushed his nose over the stall to sniff her. She took him by the hackamore and bit his ear lightly, then she looked at Pete.

“You goin' somewhere?” Chrissie asked.

“I gotta meet this real estate guy at the Tap.”

“What do you need him for?”

“I'm selling out,” he told her. “Headin' back to Texas.”

“Yeah?” Chrissie looked around the barn. “What're you asking?”

“You interested?”

She thought about it. “Nah, I can't get tied down.”

She picked a bundle of hay from the manger and offered it to the gelding, but he wasn't interested in foliage. He had his mind on carrots or sugar cubes. He'd been spoiled for sure.

“Ray around?”

“I haven't seen him all day. I don't know where he's at.”

She rubbed the horse's cheek with the palm of her hand. “So what's his story anyway?”

“You better ask him that.”

“He doesn't say a hell of a lot.”

“Look who's talking,” Pete said, smiling. “Ray's just wound a little tight right now. Trying to figure out his place in the world, maybe. He has to get used to being out.”

“Out?” She turned to him. “He was in jail?”

“Aw, shit. I figured he told you that much. Goddamn, I got a big mouth.” He hesitated, looking at her. “Well, I better tell you the story now, or you'll think he robbed the bank at Winnemucca.”

“You better.”

Pete looked at his watch. “Come on, let's have a drink. That realtor can wait. He's working for me; I ain't working for him.”

They sat at the kitchen table, and Pete poured bourbon and water for them both. Pete's old hound came over and placed his head in Chrissie's lap, and she scratched him beneath the chin while Pete told the story.

“Ray's got a sister, Elizabeth,” Pete began, “and she's got some problems. Mental problems, I guess you'd say. She's kinda withdrawn. But she's real smart at some things, and she's pretty as a day-old foal. She's a painter and a good one, or so I heard. She was taking a class that Etta was teaching—did you meet Etta?”

“I met her. She's not real big on me.”

“I bet she ain't,” Pete said, smiling. “Well, Elizabeth was taking this painting class at this gallery where Etta worked. Which is how Etta and Ray met up, if you wanna know.” Pete paused and took a drink. “Now, you know Sonny Stanton?”

“Just by name. I've never laid eyes on the man.”

“Well, by chance Sonny stumbles into the gallery one day, and he meets Elizabeth. There's a couple things you need to know about Sonny Stanton: One, he's got a bad reputation with women. And two, his whole life, he ain't ever really heard the word no. He starts dropping in on Elizabeth, and he starts hearing it. One day he shows up, and I guess he's drunk and maybe drugged up, and the woman who runs the gallery isn't there. Sonny puts a move on Elizabeth, and she tells him no. And then … well, it was a bad situation.”

Chrissie looked at him a long moment. “He raped her,” she said flatly.

“That's what he did. And he beat her up. Pretty bad.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“That's right. The cops don't even charge Sonny, 'cause the only witness is Elizabeth and she can't testify. She had her problems before this happened, but after this there's just not much left of her, not enough to put on a witness stand anyway.”

“So Sonny gets away with it?”

“I wouldn't say that. Ray caught up with Sonny the next day at the country club. Sonny was out on the course. Ray gave him a beating like you never seen. He beat Sonny with his own golf clubs; every time he'd break a club, he'd start in with another. He punctured one of Sonny's lungs; he broke a vertebra in Sonny's neck; he pretty much demolished Sonny's knees, the one in particular. He beat him all the way from the course to the parking lot. The only reason Sonny's alive today is that about a half dozen of them boys in polyester pants got hold of Ray and wrestled him down.”

“You don't have to tell me the rest. Ray goes to jail, and Sonny doesn't.”

“When was the last time you saw a billionaire's kid go to jail? Sonny's gang kicked up a fuss with the authorities and told a bunch of damn lies, and Ray gets convicted of attempted murder. He had a record—he was a bit of a hothead when he was younger—and they give him five years in the pen. He did two and then got parole.”

“Wow,” Chrissie said when Pete had finished. “How long's he been out?”

“Just a few weeks.”

“So that means I was probably … the first woman he was with?”

“I expect that's true, yeah.”

She grinned. “Well, that explains a few things.”

“I don't need to hear any more about that.” Pete finished his drink and got to his feet. “So there you are. I expect you have a right to know. Another thing: it may seem like it's over, but I'm not too sure. Ray carries things around like a damn packrat. Half the time I don't know what he's thinking.”

“Well, neither do I.”

“I gotta go meet this man. You can hang around here if you like.”

Pete left, and Chrissie sat at the table and finished her drink and scratched the old hound's nose. From time to time the dog would release an involuntary moan of pleasure.

“God, you're easy,” Chrissie said.

She drove into town. Aimlessly, not knowing where she would find Ray or if she wanted to right now. She needed some time to digest what Pete had just told her.

A few miles down the road, though, she spotted the Caddy at a bar called the Slamdance. She knew it wasn't her kind of place, but she parked and went in anyway. He was sitting at the corner of the bar with a full beer in front of him. When he saw her he smiled, and she knew it was all right, her being there. She walked over and leaned into him and bit his ear, the same as she'd bit Pete's gelding, then she sat down. The bartender was big and burly; she asked him for a beer.

“I'm not staying long,” she said, looking at the dancer on the stage. “I didn't figure you for a gawker, anyway.”

Ray indicated the bartender. “Tiny's an old buddy. I'm here for the conversation.”

“Sure, sure. I just stopped to say hello. I was out at the farm, looking at the horse.”

Tiny brought the beer, and Ray paid for it.

“Pete's talking about selling out,” she said, the glass to her lips.

“I know.”

“What do you think about that?”

“I don't know. He's talked about it before. And it's usually this time of year. He's got a thing about snow.”

“Well, he's off to meet the real estate man today.”

“He is?”

The door opened, and the room flooded with sunlight, and out of the sunlight walked an attractive blond woman. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a ball cap, a leather coat, and jeans. She stood at the end of the bar and gestured to Tiny, who stopped at the cash register and took out an envelope before he walked over.

She moved under the dim light, and then Chrissie saw that her upper lip was swollen and she had a bruise on her cheek that she'd tried to cover with makeup. Tiny handed her the envelope, and then he gave Ray a look as he moved away. The blonde tried to read the numbers on the check but had to finally remove the shades. Her right eye was purple-black and swollen almost shut.

“What happened to you?” Ray asked.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing to me.”

“Why don't you mind your own fucking business,” she suggested, and then she saw Chrissie watching her. “What's that bitch's problem?”