All Hat

by Brad Smith

  “I guess we have to find Dokes.”

  “I don’t see Ray getting involved in this,” Jackson said. “He’s on parole, for one thing. I got a feeling he was just saving Paulie’s bacon. You say the old guy pulled a gun on you?”

  “Motherfucker’s gonna answer for that,” Sonny said.

  “Looking at the two of you, I wouldn’t have thought it necessary,” Jackson said. He gave Sonny a long look. “I just got this feeling you’re not telling me everything. Where’s your .38, Sonny? Still in the glove box?”

  “No,” Sonny said, but he hesitated. “I sold it.”

  “You sold it, did you?” Jackson said, and he got to his feet. “You just keep fucking up, see where it gets you. I gotta get some sleep, I have to work that gray in the morning; we got a race to win on Sunday. You happen to run across Paulie, or Dean, give me a call. Unless you and the punching bag here want to have another go at it yourselves.”

  Sonny fell quiet as they drove back north. The Rock, his battered face sullen, looked over at him in the dim light.

  “That’s a mouthy fucking nigger you got working for you,” the Rock said.

  “Think I don’t know it?” Sonny said. “Don’t worry, he’s on his way out.”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t knock him out.”

  “Don’t do that. He’s gotta get that horse ready to run. I’m gonna need that purse to get straight with Big Billy Coon and to pay that bitch over in Holden County. I need Jackson Jones—for the time being.”

  “What about the other?”

  “I gotta find Paulie again.” Sonny shrugged. “He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer; he’ll be around.”

  The Rock touched his fingertips tenderly to the lump above his eye. “I guess we shoulda called the cops.”

  “The law is the last fucking thing I want in on this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want the horse back. Not now. Think about it. He missed the Breeders’—that was the big one. Maybe he’ll win some races next year. Maybe he’ll be a successful stud. I got cash problems, I don’t need a bunch of maybes. And alive, that’s all that nag is—a big fucking maybe. But dead, he’s worth twelve million dollars, and I mean now.”

  “So what’re you gonna do?”

  “I find out where the animal’s stashed, and I send a guy in there at night to … initiate my insurance claim. It’s a huge racket in North America. Show horses, mostly. They take an extension cord with a couple of alligator clips. Hook one clip to the horse’s lip and the other to its asshole and plug it in. Looks like the horse dies of natural causes, so the insurance company has to pay.”

  “You’re gonna kill your own horse?”

  “I guess I’m gonna have to.” Sonny laughed. “I can’t depend on those fuckups to get it done.”

  * * *

  Sonny was tired as he drove home; twice he nodded off and woke up to find himself headed for the ditch. He’d dropped the Rock at the country club, which is where they’d started out.

  On the way up the driveway to the farmhouse, he saw a rusted half-ton parked by the front porch. There was a man standing by the tailgate. Sonny pulled the BMW alongside and got out warily.

  “Hey, Sonny,” the man said. He was older, and he had gray sideburns.

  “Who are you?”

  “Jim Burnside,” the man said. “We’ve met a couple times. I’m a stable hand for the Double B. I help out with the breeding and that.”

  “Fascinating,” Sonny said, and he walked past the man and started up the steps.

  “I know where your horse is, Sonny.”

  Inside the house Sonny sat the man at the kitchen table and brought out a bottle of rye. Sonny was no longer tired. Jim Burnside liked his whiskey with ice and not much water. Sonny could have sworn that he’d never seen the man before, but they could have met. Sonny met a lot of people.

  “You looking for ransom?” Sonny asked.

  “No, sir,” Jim said. “I’d just like to see you get your horse back.”

  Sonny nodded and pushed the bottle closer to Jim. And he waited.

  “Of course, I thought there might be some kind of appreciation,” Jim said.

  “How much appreciation?”

  “I don’t know—maybe ten thousand? The horse is worth a lot of money.”

  “You got it.” Sonny watched Jim’s reaction, and he knew the old man was cursing himself for not starting higher.

  Jim took a drink of rye. “All right,” he said softly.

  “Where’s the horse?” Sonny asked.

  “I got a little truck farm, this side of London. ’Bout an hour and a half from here. The horse is okay; they ain’t harmed him any.”

  Sonny stood and went into a drawer and brought out a sheet of paper and a pencil. “Draw me a map,” he ordered.

  Jim hesitated a moment.

  “You’ll get your money when I get my horse,” Sonny told him emphatically.

  Jim drew the map, including details such as oak trees and culverts and grain silos. Sonny watched impatiently.

  “Just give me the goddamn road and the number,” he said at last.

  Jim finished his masterpiece and then pushed it across the table to Sonny, who glanced at it and then put it in his shirt pocket.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Just me and Dean Caldwell.”

  “All right. I’m gonna get some sleep; I’ve had a long day. I’ll be there around noon tomorrow, me and Jackson Jones. I’ll have your ten grand, and you’ll get it when we get the horse. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Sonny said again, dismissing the man this time. “Take the bottle if you want.”

  Jim looked at the bottle, and then he looked at Sonny. After a moment he picked it up and put it in his coat pocket.

  Sonny stood in the front room and watched the battered pickup make its way down the driveway. He turned the possibilities over in his head and knew that he had no choice in the matter. He was going to have to move on this tonight, and that meant he was going to have to handle it himself. For someone who was bone-tired and who didn’t like to get his hands dirty even when rested, it was not a welcome consideration.

  He went into the upstairs bathroom and found a bottle of methamphetamines and took two with a glass of water. Then he went out to the main barn, where Jackson kept a workshop off the tack room. Sonny found a heavy extension cord and cut off the receptacle end. He dug through Jackson’s junk drawers until he found an electrical test lead. He cut the alligator clips from the lead and attached them to the extension by twisting the ends together and then wrapping them with tape. Sonny was not mechanically inclined; it was a clumsy job but would have to do.

  By the time he walked back to the house the speed was taking effect. He wasn’t a big fan of the stuff; he preferred the nod he got from Demerol or Percodan, but tonight he needed the up, not the down. He took a half bottle of orange juice from the fridge, filled it with vodka, and then walked out to his car. It was four in the morning.

  Whatever his feelings about the meth, there was nothing like it for driving. He sipped at the vodka mix and headed for the 401. He turned the radio up loud so he didn’t have to think about anything. Sonny found life a lot easier to handle when he didn’t have to think about anything.

  He burned the miles to London and found the farm without any problem. He drove by once, saw the rusted pickup in the driveway, then turned around and drove by again. The house was a white frame story and a half with a missing front porch, and it was dark. It was maybe a hundred yards from the barn. He parked a quarter mile down the road, killed the engine and the lights, and got out. He slung the extension cord over his shoulder and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. As he walked he began to hope that he would find the horse asleep. Given the animal’s temperament, it could be tough attaching the wires otherwise.

  He entered the barn on the east end, the door away from the farmhouse. Inside it was pitch-black, and he thou
ght too late that he should have brought a flashlight. He had no choice but to risk turning on a light. He pulled the gloves off and set them down along with the cord, and then he fumbled along the wall, the odor of hay and bedding and horse manure strong in his nostrils, until he found a switch. A single overhead bulb came on, and he turned.

  The barn was empty.

  He walked back outside. There was a machine shed off the north end of the barn, and he had a look inside and found it empty as well. There were no other outbuildings. He walked around the perimeter of the house in the darkness and discovered a lone horse in the pasture field at the west end of the farm. He had hope for a moment, but when he got closer to the animal he saw it was a scrawny standardbred. Sonny walked back to the barn and had another look inside. The one stall had fresh bedding in it, and a bucket of water in the manger. There was a pile of horseshit in the bedding.

  He walked back outside. If Jumping Jack Flash was on the premises, he must have been in the house, sleeping in one of the beds.

  19

  Ray woke up to the sound of Pete Culpepper banging around in the kitchen downstairs. It was dawn, but not a minute past. Ray had been in bed for maybe an hour, and he lay there in the gray light for a time. By the time he got downstairs, the coffee was made and the smell of sourdough was beginning to creep from the oven.

  Ray made it to the barn just a minute or so after Pete. When Pete looked at him, Ray offered a smile that was not returned.

  “Looks like we had a busy night,” Pete said. “I wasn’t aware I was running a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “I figured I’d better bring the kid back here. You know, for safekeeping.”

  “You know damn well I ain’t talking about the kid.”

  “Well, that little foal just showed up on her own. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “You know damn well I’m not talking about the filly, neither. I’m talking about that big bay stallion in the back stall. The one I expect you’re planning to return to Stanton straightaway.”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Good.”

  “But not straightaway.”

  Ray walked over to Fast Market’s stall and put his hand out. The gelding came over to see if there was something in the hand for him.

  “You know Sonny’s running that big gray of his in the Stanton Stakes on the weekend,” Ray said.

  “I heard.”

  “Well,” Ray said slowly, rubbing the gelding’s forehead. “I figure this old horse of yours has got one last race in him, Pete.”

  “You figure my old horse with the broken leg has got one last race in him?”

  Ray turned. “I’m gonna beat Sonny in that stakes race, Pete.”

  “How you figurin’ on doing that?”

  “I’m gonna beat him with his own horse.”

  Back at the house, they cooked up ham and eggs to go with the biscuits and coffee. Pete never said anything about Ray’s plan until they were done eating and having a second cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

  “We’ll load that stud in the trailer and run him on over to Stanton’s this morning,” Pete said then.

  “I’ll take him back on Monday.”

  “You listen to me. It ain’t ethical, it ain’t possible, and goddamnit, it ain’t right. That horse is stolen property, Ray.”

  Ray had anticipated this conversation but wished he was having it on more than an hour’s sleep. He had no choice in the matter.

  “First of all, I think we should forget about any ethical considerations where Sonny Stanton is involved,” he said. “You saw his ethics in action in the parking lot last night. If you want another look, then check out the kid’s face on the couch in there. Sonny’s horse is gonna win that race, Pete; everybody knows it. The old man would never even run his own horse in the race; you know that to be true too. But that horse we got in the barn will beat Sonny’s gray running backward. And the only person we’re hurting is Sonny. The purse is a quarter million; the winner gets what—$130,000 or $140,000. Pay off what you owe on this place, for one thing.”

  “I don’t care about this place. I’m headin’ to Texas, and I thought you were comin’ with me.”

  “Maybe I am. But I’m gonna do this first.”

  Pete butted his cigarette and raised his cup to his mouth. “This is all about you and Sonny,” he said after he drank. “You can pretend it’s about this farm or the kid in there, but it’s just you and Sonny. Jesus Christ, you already did two years in jail for him.”

  “Not for him. For Elizabeth.”

  “Two years is two years; don’t matter who it’s for. You get this out of your head. It’s a bad idea, Ray.”

  Ray got up and went to the counter for more coffee. His brain was fuzzy from lack of sleep, and he was beginning to worry that maybe Pete Culpepper was right, that maybe the whole thing had been a bad idea from the get-go. Another flash of midnight brilliance that didn’t play too well in the harsh morning light.

  “Sonny’s holding a note on Etta’s place,” Ray said, and he came back to the table and sat down. “He chiseled Homer in a poker game.”

  Pete stared at him. “How come I never knew this?”

  Ray shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I was afraid you’d go riding off like the Lone Ranger.”

  “That sounds familiar. How the hell did Sonny pull that?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. You know Sonny. Doesn’t matter how it happened, just that it did. Etta needs forty thousand dollars, and she needs it now.”

  He looked at Pete over the rim of his cup, and he thought he saw in the old man’s eyes a tiny shim of reconsideration. Ray lit a cigarette and watched as Pete turned in his chair to gaze out the kitchen window toward the barn. He shook his head and looked back at Ray.

  “How would you ever pull it off?”

  “That gelding of yours may not have world-class speed, but he’s a good-looking horse. He’s about the same size as the stud, and he’s jowly like a stallion. The only difference is the color; we gotta make that bay look like a chestnut. And we’ll have to be fast on our feet when it comes to the ID. Remember, it doesn’t have to be perfect; nobody at Woodbine knows what your horse looks like anyway.”

  Pete, thinking about it, shook his head again. “What about Etta? What makes you think she’s gonna take the money when she finds out where it came from?”

  “I’m hoping she’ll go us one better. I’m gonna ask her to help us.”

  “Good luck with that. I guess I don’t have to ask about a jockey.”

  “That one might take some convincing, too.”

  “Looks like you got your work cut out for you.”

  “Yeah, and right now I need some sleep. I’m a little lightheaded to be facing either of those women right now. I might forget which one is which.” He got to his feet. “That stallion still gonna be here when I get up?”

  Pete Culpepper glanced toward the barn again. Ray stood there waiting for him to say something, and when he didn’t Ray went back upstairs and went to bed.

  When he woke up it was midafternoon. He lay awake in bed for a time, leafing through the Bible he’d been given in prison, looking for something to bolster his case. When he got up he had a shower and put on clean jeans and a sweatshirt. He shaved and brushed his teeth, and then he went downstairs.

  Pete was at the kitchen table reading the paper, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigarette, or rather allowing a cigarette to burn in the ashtray by his elbow. Pete had a habit of lighting cigarettes and never smoking them.

  “Where’s Paulie?” Ray asked.

  “Out to the barn,” Pete said. He glanced up. “With your horse.”

  Ray nodded at the news. “How is the animal?”

  “About as affable as a damn scorpion. I went in the stall to spread some fresh straw, and the sumbitch took a kick at me, near took my head off. Funny thing is, the kid goes in, and the animal’s like a lapdog. I never seen anything like it.”

  �
�It was the same last night when we took him,” Ray said. “I think we better keep the kid around ’til this is done.”

  “I think we better keep him around anyway,” Pete said. “He runs into Sonny again, he might not get off so easy.”

  Ray drank a cup of coffee and drove over to Etta’s. She was in the kitchen, making dinner for Homer, who was sitting at the table, watching her prepare the macaroni and cheese. When Homer turned toward him, Ray braced himself, but the old man never said a word. It took Ray a moment to realize that Homer didn’t recognize him at all; his eyes were vacant.

  Etta took one look at Ray, and he could see that she knew something was up. But then she could always read him. She put a plate in front of Homer and made sure that he began to eat. Then she walked over to Ray and said, “Something on your mind?”

  “Can we go in the front room?”

  They sat by the bay window, Etta on the couch and Ray in the big overstuffed chair—Homer’s chair. Ray looked out the big window. The Ford tractor was still parked on the front yard, the For Sale sign propped against the wheel.

  “No bites on the tractor?” Ray said.

  “No,” she said. Then, remembering: “Oh, Mabel’s husband offered me five hundred dollars. But I’m not giving it away.”

  “I’ll give you forty grand for it.”

  “Sure.” She smiled and waited for him to smile back. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll give you forty grand for the tractor.”

  “You said that.”

  He told her his plan, or at least as much as he’d figured out so far. While he talked she sat and looked out the bay window. Occasionally, when the scheme grew a little too unlikely, she would glance over at him. At one point Homer began to ramble in the kitchen. She let him, and in a moment he stopped.

  When Ray finished, he waited for her to say something. She turned to look at him, and then she smiled in the manner of someone who’d just been told a joke. “I think you should go to Texas,” she said.

  “You been talking to Pete?”

  “No. But I can see him giving you the same advice. It’s the sensible thing.”