All Hat

by Brad Smith

  “Yup. Cost me a hundred bucks, but it’s done.”

  “Good,” Ray said. He stood in the corral, thinking. “This deck could use another joker. Paulie, any chance to get a message to Dean?”

  Paulie squinted across the corral, his tongue between his teeth as he considered the question. “He doesn’t like me to say it, but he calls his mom a lot.”

  “Why don’t we give that a try?” Ray said.

  “Sure.”

  Ray turned back to Chrissie, who was still sulking.

  “What the hell does she figure on doing?” she demanded. “She thinks she’s pretty goddamn smart.”

  She turned to glare at Pete Culpepper. Pete looked at her and then at the mare with the twelve or thirteen splotches of different shades of brown on her flanks and at the packages of ladies’ hair coloring on the ground. He got to his feet and put the cloth on the saddle he’d been oiling.

  “I’ll fetch a bottle,” he said.

  The bottle was half empty by the time Etta came back, and they would open a second before she was through. She backed the Taurus up near the corral fence and unlocked the trunk, and they all watched as she took out various powders and water bottles and misters. Then she crawled through the rails into the corral and had a hard look at the gelding, who looked back at her like he was the only one there who knew what she was about to do. Turning to Ray now, she said, “I’m gonna need a table of some sort out here, and some warm water.”

  Ray hauled an old harvest table out of the shed while Paulie went to the house for the water. Etta set everything up on the table and then walked to the mare and ran her hand over the horse’s hide.

  “Just what’re you fixin’ to do, ma’am?” Pete asked the question, but it could have come from any of them.

  “Well, first I’m gonna mist the animal,” Etta said, her hand still on the mare. “Then I’ll combine some burnt sienna, some alizarin crimson, maybe a touch of umber. Mix it good and then just sift it over the horse.”

  “Speak English,” Chrissie said.

  Etta looked over, and she smiled. “I’m gonna paint him.”

  It was nearly dark by the time Etta got the color close to what she wanted. Chrissie pulled her horns in a little and helped out, mainly with keeping the mare still, allowing Etta to experiment. Paulie pulled another chair out of the barn, and he and Pete sat side by side in the sun along the barn wall. Ray knelt in the dirt along the wall beside them, drawing pictures in the dust with a stick.

  “Why did you ask about the weather?” he asked at one point.

  “I was worried it might rain. This is water-based paint,” Etta said. “I just thought you’d want your horse to finish the race the same color that he started.”

  “That would be nice,” Ray agreed.

  She went back to her mixing. “How you gonna make the switch?” she asked.

  “Well, we got a plan,” Ray said.

  “Is it gonna work?”

  “Ask me Monday.”

  Pete poured himself another drink and began to mutter into his glass.

  “What is it?” Ray asked after a while.

  “I’m still worried about Sonny.”

  “Sonny’ll be in the bar.”

  “Maybe he will, and maybe he won’t,” Pete said. “He could damn well show up at the paddock. He likes to make a show. And even Sonny’s gonna recognize his own horse.”

  Ray fell silent. Etta, mixing powders together, looked over at him. Then she glanced at Paulie, his battered face beneath the hat. She thought about Sonny’s hand on her throat, Elizabeth’s sad and resigned face.

  “I’ll take care of Sonny,” she said.

  Pete looked at her. “How do you figure to do that?”

  Etta stood up from her work and looked at him. “I’ll take care of him, Pete.”

  When she got the color close Ray walked over and untied the gelding and led him next to the mare for a closer comparison. Etta stood back and had a look, then shook her head and went back to the mix. While she was working she gave the gathering in the corral the once-over.

  “Quite a gang you’ve assembled, Mr. Culpepper,” she said.

  “You betcha,” Pete said. “Old Jesse James himself would cut a wide swath around this bunch.”

  About the time Etta was finishing up, the stallion in the barn began to snort and whinny and soon after that kick the walls of his stall. Paulie went in and fed him some grain and watered him, and he settled for a bit but started up again. Etta got the mix the way she wanted it, and then she packed up her paints and put them in the barn.

  “I’ll do the racehorse in the morning,” she said. “I’ll have to go into town for more paint. This is a bigger canvas than I’m used to.”

  The mare was getting antsy now, sidestepping around the enclosure, bumping into Etta, nearly knocking her down. Then the horse in the barn started up again. Pete got to his feet and took the mare by the halter and then called Paulie over to hold her quiet while he walked around behind her. After a moment he looked at Ray.

  Ray watched him, and then he looked over to Chrissie, and she smiled. Ray turned back to Pete, and after a moment Pete shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head.

  “Well, Paulie,” Ray said then. “Tell that stud of yours to splash on a little Old Spice. Looks like he’s got himself a date.”

  21

  Saturday afternoon, Sonny caught the last two races at Woodbine and picked up a form for Sunday’s card. He had the winner in the last race—a five-furlong sprint for untried two-year-olds—and he won eight hundred dollars on a hundred-dollar bet. He cashed and then walked down to the barns.

  Jackson was there. He’d run a little charcoal filly in the last race, and now he was checking in on Rather Rambunctious before he headed for home. Sonny walked into the barn as Jackson was having a look at the horse’s feet. His jacket was hanging on the stall door.

  “Hope you didn’t blow your allowance on that filly,” Sonny said.

  “I don’t bet,” Jackson said. He didn’t bother to look up. If he was surprised at Sonny’s presence, he didn’t let on.

  “I had the winner,” Sonny said then. “A little seven-to-one action. I had him two hundred to win.” Sonny couldn’t help lying even when he didn’t need to.

  Jackson straightened up and walked out of the stall. Sonny showed him Sunday’s racing form. “See this?”

  “No.”

  “They got him at three to two, the fuckers. Hard to make money at three to two.”

  “That’s what you get when you drop him down,” Jackson said.

  Sonny was still looking at the form. “You got Juan Romano on him? What happened to Danny Hartsell?”

  “Gone to California for the winter.”

  “So much for loyalty.”

  Sonny recognized all the horses in the race except for the gelding out of the three hole. The horse was listed at ninety-nine to one, off the board.

  “What’s this?” he said, reading. “This number three horse, it says he’s nine years old. Fast Market, by some outfit called Pecos River. This a misprint?”

  “It’s not a misprint,” Jackson said, putting his coat on.

  “What the fuck is this?” Sonny said.

  “Some horse, been running at Fort Erie. I don’t know what they’re thinking, but the race is open.”

  “The horse is nine years old.”

  “Not against the law to dream, Sonny,” Jackson said, and he left.

  Sonny looked at his watch and then walked outside and got into his car and drove to the golf course. He parked at the far end of the lot and waited. If she showed with muscle, he would hightail it to the highway.

  Misty came alone, driving a newer-model Jag convertible. She parked by the restaurant and got out; she was wearing jeans and a heavy sweater, sunglasses. She looked around and then walked inside. Sonny waited a few minutes to see if anybody else would show; then he walked over and followed her inside.

  She was sitting at a table in the corner, a
cup of coffee before her. When he approached she took her glasses off to reveal the bruises on her face, the cut above her eye.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  Sonny looked around nervously before he sat. The waiter approached, and Sonny waved him off. He looked at Misty, and she looked back at him.

  “You want to talk—then talk,” she said.

  “I just think we can work this out without involving the cops.”

  “I’ve already involved the cops.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I coulda handled this differently. Believe me, if I wanted your fucking legs broken, you’d be in a cast by now. But from what I hear, you’ve been beat up before for being an asshole, and it didn’t do any good.”

  “Listen, I am genuinely sorry—”

  “No, you’re not, and I don’t give a fuck either way. I can’t dance with my face like this. And guess what? There’s no workman’s comp for getting smacked around by some fucking moron in a hotel room. So you’re costing me money.”

  “What do you want?”

  “First of all, you’re gonna pay me five grand for lost wages. Yes or no?”

  Sonny shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Leave it at the bar at the Slamdance, and I mean today. Secondly, you’re gonna make a bet for me.”

  “What?”

  “I hear the odds are locked at Billy Coon’s casino, some backroom deal. That right?”

  “Could be.”

  “I want to bet a horse at Woodbine tomorrow. A horse called Fast Market.”

  Sonny looked at her for a moment. “You’re outa your mind,” he decided. “What’s going on here? Why that horse?”

  “The jockey is an old friend of mine. She says they been exercising this nag in some swimming pool and it’s worked miracles. She says it’s gonna win.”

  “What’s the jock’s name?”

  “Chrissie Nugent. I knew her in New Orleans.”

  Sonny was trying not to smile. “Never heard of her. And she’s telling you this horse is gonna win.”

  “A thousand on the nose.”

  “What?” Sonny eyes registered his surprise. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “I got no reason to kid you. I don’t even wanna be in your presence, you fucking creep. It’s a thousand—that’s why I don’t wanna bet it at the track; it’d knock the odds to shit. Now, you gonna make the bet, or do I go back to Plan A?”

  Sonny raised his hands in surrender. “Where’s the grand?”

  “In your pocket, asshole,” she said. “And don’t think about not making the bet ’cause you think the horse can’t win. I want the ticket from Billy Coon’s in my hand before the race goes off. I’ll meet you at Woodbine, tomorrow afternoon. In the clubhouse lounge.”

  “Wait a fucking minute. What about the cops?”

  “You hold up your end, and you won’t hear from the cops.” Misty smiled. “I guarantee it.”

  Sonny watched her leave, and after a minute he gestured for the waiter to bring him a vodka and tonic.

  “Do you know what’s dumber than a stripper?” he asked the man when he brought the drink.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  When Sonny left he went directly to the bank, and then he drove out to the casino. He wasn’t comfortable walking into Big Billy Coon’s back room. He hadn’t been back since the day of the Breeders’, and he knew that he’d escaped that day by a whisker. He was encouraged at once, though, to see that Billy wasn’t there. One of the cousins, Leon, was behind the bar, and he was talking to a pretty native girl in a cowboy hat and tight black jeans. Sonny approached the bar.

  “Billy around?”

  “No.”

  The girl turned to Sonny, and he gave her a smile, which she returned. She had a small silver stud in her nose.

  Sonny looked at Leon and asked, “You got the line for Woodbine?”

  “On the board,” Leon said. “I don’t know if I can take a bet from you. I’d hafta call Billy and ask.”

  Sonny had a look at the board while Leon went to the phone. Fast Market was listed at a hundred to one. Sonny had never so willingly thrown away a thousand dollars in his life. He had no choice, though; he’d pay the piper and wait to hear from the cop that the complaint had been withdrawn.

  Leon put the phone down and came back. “Billy says your credit’s no good. Cash or nothing.”

  Sonny counted the money out on the bar. “The three horse in the seventh race. A thousand to win.”

  He saw Leon look to the board and saw his eyebrows arch.

  “By the way, you can tell Billy that my gray’s gonna win the race,” Sonny said. “It’s a lock. I’ll pay him off out of the purse.”

  “Why you betting this horse if the gray’s gonna win?” Leon asked.

  “There’s a woman involved.”

  “Oh.”

  Leon took the bet. Sonny looked at the woman in the cowboy hat. When he asked if he could buy her a drink, she said okay.

  * * *

  Pete made up a batch of his renowned chili, and after they watched the big bay stallion breed the multicolored mare, they went into the house to eat. Etta had left earlier, and there was just the four of them again.

  They washed the hot chili down with cold beer, and then they played a few games of euchre. It was a down-home Saturday night, with nobody talking about what Sunday might bring.

  Chrissie and Paulie partnered up, and they were the champions, winning four games out of seven. Chrissie played cards like she did everything else: she came out swinging with her trump and tried to hold on at the end. Paulie, in contrast, was patient and deliberate, Pete noticed. It seemed that the kid had a lot more going for him than he’d been led to believe.

  Pete turned in shortly after eleven, and Paulie headed to the couch a few minutes later. Ray smoked a cigarette and finished his beer and then got to his feet and said he would take a look at the horses.

  “That stud’s got a bad habit of getting stolen,” he said by way of explanation.

  Chrissie went along with him. The temperature had dropped sharply after the sun had set, and the night was clear and cold. The moon was up, and they could see the oak trees silhouetted against the sky, lined up along the lane like scarecrows in a corn patch.

  There was a whole barn full of horses now, what with the new foal and the bay stallion. All were quiet, even the rambunctious filly. The air was cold enough that the horses’ breath could be seen trailing from their nostrils.

  The stallion whinnied when he saw them, and Chrissie walked over to his stall. “Feel like a cigarette, fella?”

  Ray went into the stall with the gelding and walked him around a bit. The horse was limping still but didn’t seem to be in any real discomfort. Ray hoped that the limp wouldn’t disappear altogether overnight. He had brought a carrot from the house, and he broke it in half and fed half to the gelding, holding the horse by the halter while he did, leaning into him. “Don’t tell fancy Dan over there,” he said to the horse, indicating the bay. “He thinks he’s something.” Then he gave him the other half and left the stall.

  Chrissie was still looking at the stallion, and she seemed to be deep in thought when Ray walked over.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “Getting cold feet?”

  “Nope. You get me in the starting gate with this fucker underneath me, and I’ll do the rest.”

  They stood there silently in the dim light for a time. There was a swallow swooping from beam to beam, its shadow casting a strobe across the single bulb above.

  Ray had a sudden thought, and he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a package of bubblegum and a small ball bearing. “I almost forgot,” he said, and he handed them over.

  Chrissie took the gum and put it in her pocket, and she had a good look at the ball bearing and then put it with the gum. She didn’t say anything.

  “Looks like Pete and I might be heading out to Texas when this
is over,” Ray said after a while.

  “He told me.”

  “That okay with you?”

  “Come on, Ray.” She smiled. “My daddy’s not gonna come after you with the shotgun.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, looking at her.

  “You and I are all right,” she said. “Did you think I was in love? It’s not always about love, Ray. Sometimes it’s just about finding a little comfort. And sometimes it’s just plain fun.”

  He nodded and looked at the big bay horse.

  “Sometimes it’s a combination of all three,” she continued. She looked away, then added, “I admire you, Ray. I think you’re an honest man.”

  “Well, this honest man is about to fix a horse race.”

  “So’s this honest jock.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing here.”

  “I have my own reasons for that. But forget about me—you better worry about what you’re gonna do with whatsher-name—the horse painter.”

  “Her name’s Etta.”

  “I know what it is.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of the gelding’s snoring. Chrissie pushed away from the rail and walked over to the horse. Ray watched her, in her jeans and her boots and Pete Culpepper’s wool coat. She reached into the stall and ran her hand softly over the sleeping horse’s forehead.

  “You know what I was thinking earlier today?” Chrissie said. “This gelding’s never been worth any more than what—ten grand—in his life. And he’s the sweetest old boy I ever been around.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Now this bonehead,” she said, walking back and leaning on the stall door and indicating the stallion. “He’s worth—I don’t know—five or ten million. And he’s nothing but a spoiled, arrogant prick.”

  The stallion chose that moment to try to nip her with his teeth. Chrissie rapped the horse sharply on the nose with her fist, and he threw his head in the air and turned away.

  “What’s your point?” Ray asked. “That horses are no better than people?”

  “I guess. Kind of makes me sad, you know. I always figured they were.”

  * * *

  Paulie was already awake when Ray came down in the morning. It was barely dawn. Paulie had the coffee perking, and they each poured a cup and then headed out. A considerable frost had accumulated overnight, and Ray had to scrape the windshield of the Caddy before they left.