All Hat (29 page)

He came down off the porch and walked through the darkness to the barn. Inside, the bay was sleeping on her feet, but the other mare was restless, circling in her stall. The gelding was awake, and he came to Ray when he walked over to the stall.

Ray looked at the horse, and he thought of all the times he'd spent here, and of the conversations he'd had here with Pete Culpepper, and of how all that would be ending in a few more days. And he thought of how this gelding and the two mares would be sold off and he wouldn't see them anymore, but that it didn't matter because they were just horses anyway. And things like horses and this farm and Etta's farm didn't matter because they were just things, and you could get on fine without them.

The gelding took a half step forward and pushed his velvet nose against Ray's cheek, and Ray breathed in the sweet horse smell of him.

“Hey buddy,” he said, and then he heard the pregnant mare in the next stall grunt heavily and begin to stomp. When Ray looked, she began to circle once more; then she made to lie down but at the last second got back to her feet.

“Shit,” Ray said, wondering why he hadn't picked up on the signs earlier.

He went into the stall, and by the time he got the mare on her side he knew she was in trouble. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and she was struggling mightily with the contractions. Ray found a roll of friction tape on a shelf and gave the mare's tail a few quick wraps to keep it out of the way. Then he knelt in the straw and had a look. The baby's nose was visible so he knew it wasn't a breach, but the foal wasn't moving at all and appeared to be stalled in the birth canal. Ray thought for a moment to run for Pete, but he knew there was no time. After all, it had been Pete who had taught him that a foal locked in the uterus could be lost in a matter of minutes.

Ray rolled up his sleeves and reached into the uterus, clearing the placenta as best he could from the foal's nose. He couldn't determine if it was breathing or not.

The mare's left hind leg was in the air, and she was in a constant state of push, but nothing was happening. Ray reached in farther and found one front leg and straightened it out along the foal's nose. The other seemed to be twisted sideways and pushed out at an angle from the foal's body. It wouldn't move, and after a moment he felt the cord wrapped around it. The mare was crying out in pain now, and her leg was kicking dangerously near Ray's head. The foal's nostrils were still and its eyes closed, and Ray feared it was already dead. He pulled his jackknife from his pocket and unclasped the smaller of the blades, then went up into the birth canal again. Working blindly, he fumbled with the cord, unable to pull it loose enough to cut it.

There was no movement from the foal, and the mare's kicking grew less fervent. Ray was suddenly afraid he would lose them both. He turned the blade of the knife sideways and slid it along the foal's leg, felt it cut the skin there, but pushed it farther until he felt it under the cord; then he twisted the blade upward and felt the cord separate as the leg came free. Grabbing both legs now, he dug his heels in on either side of the mare and began to pull. Sweat was running down his forehead and into his eyes, and the mare kicked wildly. Ray continued to pull, his shoulders strained, his boots digging for traction in the straw. His eyes were on the foal's shoulders, where they were stalled in the uterus, and he pulled and he cursed and he hoped and he yelled and then he prayed.

And finally, the foal came, moving just a fraction at first and then sliding along steadily until it was completely out. Ray lay the newborn in the straw and knelt over it and cleared its mouth and nose, and as he did the foal suddenly snorted to life, shaking its small head and sucking at the air, kicking out wildly with its small, soft hooves. Ray felt the tension go out of the mare, and he sat back in the straw and ran his sleeve across his forehead. The foal was a filly, he saw now, dark brown and nearly black. The cut on her foreleg was bleeding but minor.

A moment later the mare, in spite of her exhaustion, began craning her neck. Ray slid his arms beneath the new filly and moved her up onto the straw where the mare could nuzzle her.

Ray's breath was coming in gasps, and he had placenta and blood on his clothes. He sat back in the straw, trying to catch his breath, and watched the two. As he watched, the filly decided she would stand. She got halfway up on wobbly knees, and then she fell, but she tried again immediately.

“Whoa now,” Ray said. “You're in an awful hurry.”

But she kept at it. Finally, Ray got on his knees and took her in his arms and stood her up, held her there until she got her feet underneath her and could manage on her own. When he moved back she stayed on her feet, knees knocking, legs trembling, looking at him with eyes that were seeing everything for the first time.

And Ray sat in the straw, and he looked back at her in the faint light.

After a while he got up and walked out of the barn and hooked Pete's truck up to the trailer, and then he went into the house and shook the kid Paulie awake.

“Wake up,” he said. “We're going for a drive.”

18

“And that's your story,” Jackson said, and it wasn't a question.

They were in Jackson's kitchen, the three of them. Jackson at the table, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers bridged in front of his face. Sonny sitting across from him, indignant and defiant. The Rock standing just inside the door, his face all lumpy and his nose pushed to one side like somebody who had just had the shit kicked out of him.

“That's it,” Sonny said, maintaining his pose.

There were apples in a bowl on the table. Jackson picked one up and cut a wedge out of it with a paring knife. He chewed carefully on the fruit, all the while watching the two men across the room. Then he cut another wedge.

“Paulie shows up, and instead of calling me or calling the cops, you decide to handle it yourself,” he said to Sonny.

“Why not? It was Paulie. I was just asking him a few questions, and I would've got some answers too if that fucking Dokes hadn't shown up.”

“Why would Ray concern himself with it?” Jackson asked. “He wouldn't even know Paulie.” Jackson cut another wedge. “Unless you guys were doing more than asking questions.”

“Well, you weren't there, Jackson. Were you?”

“If I was, then we might know where the horse is by now. But I can probably guess what happened. I know what Ray's like. And you know it better than anybody, Sonny.” He glanced over at the bald man. “By the looks of your face, you're in on the secret too now.”

“I got sucker punched,” the Rock said.

“You tough guys are always getting sucker punched,” Jackson said. He put the last piece of apple in his mouth. “Well, Sonny—now what?”

“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.