All Hat (37 page)

A hot walker approached with the gray. Jackson looked the horse over, occasionally throwing dark glances over to the track where Chrissie and Pete were tending to the gelding, who was just now getting his picture taken for winning a race he never ran.

When Jackson finally walked away he came upon Ray Dokes, leaning against the corner of one of the barns, a rolled-up racing form in his hand and a strangely contented look on his face.

“Hey, Jackson.”

“Ray,” Jackson said, and he stopped, his eyes at once suspicious. “What're you doing here?”

“Trying to make a dollar at the wickets, like everybody else. I actually had a few bucks on that old chestnut over there. Talk about a Cinderella story.”

Jackson turned back to the gelding, more puzzled than ever now.

“You train that big gray, don't you?” Ray asked him. “What's he called—Rather Rambunctious?”

Pete was walking the limping horse back to the barn now, taking it slow. Chrissie was striding off in the other direction, her saddle in her hands. She had a mount in the last race.

“That's right,” Jackson said.

Ray watched as Pete Culpepper and his horse disappeared into the barn; then he turned back to Jackson and he smiled. “Finished second, didn't he?”

22

When Ray woke up it was full light. He lay in bed for a time, trying to gauge his hangover, and when he realized that it was not particularly debilitating he got up and went downstairs. Pete was still in bed, indicating that his condition was somewhat more critical than Ray's.

By the clock over the fridge it was nine-thirty. Ray put coffee on and then stuck his head in the living room. Chrissie was sleeping in her clothes on the couch, and the kid Paulie was on the carpet beside her, the Hudson Bay blanket across him. The Walker hound was alongside Paulie; he looked up at Ray and gave his tail a single thump and then lowered his head. Sleeping in seemed to be the order of the day.

The kitchen table was covered with bottles—beer, rum, whiskey, dead soldiers all. The ashtrays were full, and apparently someone had scrambled up a mess of eggs at one point. Ray cleaned up, and then he got the phone book from the drawer by the fridge and found the number for Stanton Stables. He wasn't sure how to get in touch with Jackson Jones. The phone rang three times, and then Jackson himself answered.

“Jackson, it's Ray Dokes.”

“Oh,” Jackson said, his voice unsure.

“I've got your horse.”

The line was silent for a few seconds. Ray could imagine Jackson on the other end, digesting this piece of information.

“How would you happen to have my horse?”

“That's the wrong question, Jackson. You should be asking me how you go about getting him back.”

“How do I go about getting him back?”

“I'll bring him over this morning. There's just one condition.”

“What's the condition?”

“No questions asked. And no charges against anybody. Is that a problem?”

“Not if the horse is healthy. Is he healthy?”

“Hell, yeah. He ran a mile and a quarter yesterday in two minutes flat.”

Ray hung up the phone and then grabbed his jean jacket and went outside. It was cold and gray, and there were snow clouds building to the west. The horse trailer was still hitched up to Pete's pickup. Ray got in and backed it around to the double doors of the barn.

Inside the barn it was warm from the heat of the animals. The stallion was standing in the corner of the stall, his eyes blinking at the daylight. As he looked for a lead rope, Ray's eyes fell on Pete Culpepper's old western saddle in the corner. Ray looked at the saddle for a moment and then looked at the big bay stallion, and the horse looked back haughtily, and then Ray nodded, and damned if it didn't appear that the horse nodded back.

Snow was beginning to fall when he came out of the barn. He led the horse to the house and tied the reins to the railing of the front porch. Then he went inside to get a heavier jacket and his ball cap. He pulled on a wool coat and searched the house in vain for his Tigers' cap before settling for Pete's Stetson.

It had been a few years since Ray had ridden a horse, but he hadn't forgotten much. There wasn't a hell of a lot to forget, the only important rule being don't fall off. The big saddle was custom-built and generous, and sitting it was like sitting in an easy chair. The stallion was his usual contentious self at first, chomping the bit and twisting his head around to try to bite Ray's leg. Reaching the side road, Ray galloped him out for a mile or so, and after that he settled down.

It was maybe fifteen or sixteen miles to the Stanton farm, Ray figured. Except for the last couple miles, he could keep to the side roads all the way. He kept the horse on the grassy shoulder, holding him alternately to a walk or an easy lope. The snow fell steadily, but Ray was comfortable in the heavy coat and the hat.

They passed, horse and rider, through farm country where family farms still existed, although many of the owners were specializing these days, cash croppers and dairy farmers, fallow hog operators and turkey ranchers. But it was farm country and always had been. Many of the families had been here for more than a hundred years, and although they'd had to change with the times, they were still on the land.

“Maybe do you some good to see a little bit of how real people live,” he said to the horse. “Life ain't all rolled oats and horny mares, you know.”

The animal offered no response, just kept the pace, his ears up and forward at every little thing, acutely aware of his surroundings. Whatever his personality defects, the horse was an intelligent animal.

“You and Sonny probably deserve each other,” Ray continued. “You were both born to it. Neither one of you ever did a lick of work in your life and probably never will. I got half a mind to take you up to Kitchener and sell you to the Mennonites. They'd teach you something about honest work. A few days in a hay field, and you wouldn't be so quick to kick and bite at people.”

They were passing a brick ranch house near the town line when a German shepherd came bounding down the drive, all bared teeth and loud bark. Ray touched the horse with his heel, and the animal jumped beneath his hand; he seemed to go from a walk to a gallop in a single stride. Ray had to grab the saddle horn to stay aboard. The dog was left in the jet stream.

Ray gave the animal his head then and let him run. He put his weight in the stirrups and leaned forward over the horse's neck, and he felt the sheer explosion of power beneath him, the horse's head reaching out, ears flattened, the huge leg muscles eating up the ground underneath. He let the horse run until he ran himself out and finally chose to stop on his own, pulling up finally into a trot, his head high, snorting loudly and proudly, sidestepping a little as if he was on parade.

“Well, all right,” Ray said then. “All right.”

*   *   *

Jackson sat in his office, watching periodically out the window where the snow continued to fall heavily. After two hours he began to think that Ray Dokes wasn't going to show. He'd been under the impression that the horse wasn't that far away. He'd received a call an hour earlier saying that the old man had regained consciousness in the Bahamas and that they were shipping him home later in the week. Jackson had no way of predicting the old man's mental capacity, but chances were he'd at least be ahead of Sonny.

Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looked out to see a strange sight coming down the lane. A snow-covered man on a snow-covered horse.

Jackson grabbed a hackamore from the tack room and met them at the corner of the barn. Ray reined the horse to a stop there, and he looked down at the big man, pushing the Stetson's brim back with his thumb.

“Howdy,” he said.

Jackson brushed the melting snow from the horse's neck to get a better look at the chestnut brown of the coat. Some of the color came off on his hand.

“Sonofabitch,” he said.

“Yup,” Ray said, sitting the big horse like he'd just come off the Chisholm Trail.

“Sonofabitch,” Jackson said again, like there was nothing else he could think to say. And then, with something close to appreciation: “You beat him with his own horse.”

“We still got a deal?”

“I gave you my word, Ray. You better hope the racing commission doesn't find out.”

“I figure if Stanton Stables doesn't complain, then nobody else will. Nobody else has reason to.”

“Sonny might, if he figures things out.”

“I doubt it.”

Ray got down off the horse. He unfastened the cinch and pulled the saddle off and set it on the top rail of the fence. Jackson pulled the bridle from the horse and slipped on the hackamore.

“He's a hell of a horse,” Ray said.

“I know it.”

“He's a bit of a peckerhead.”

“I know that too.”

Ray took the bridle from Jackson and looped it over the horn of the saddle. When he turned he noticed that Jackson had a cell phone clipped to his belt. Ray pointed with his chin to the house and asked, “Sonny here?”

“He'll be sleeping,” Jackson said.

“Lend me your phone, will you?”

Jackson gave him a look and then handed the phone over.

“What's Sonny's number?”

Jackson told him, and Ray started for the house. Climbing up the front steps, he punched in the number and then sat down in one of the big wicker chairs while it rang. After five rings Sonny's voice message came on and Ray hung up and dialed again. He did this four times, and then he heard Sonny's aggravated voice: “What?”

“It's Ray Dokes.”

There was a long silence. “What do you want?” Sonny demanded at last.

“There's a couple things we have to talk about,” Ray said. “I understand you've been harassing Etta Parr.”

“I hold a note on her farm. I wouldn't call it harassment.”

“I would. Well, she's got the money to pay you off. And then you'll have no reason to go near her again.”

“If I get my money. I doubt she's got it.”

Ray stretched his boots out and looked over as Jackson, who had been watching Ray in wonder, now turned and led the big horse into the barn.

“Sonny, I want you to think back three years,” Ray said then. “Remember that meeting we had at the golf course? After you raped my sister? Remember that, Sonny? Well, I have to believe that was maybe the worst day of your life. But I'll tell you what—if you go near Etta again—I mean, if you even so much as drive by her house—then I'm gonna find you and give you a brand-new worst day of your life. Understand?”

Sonny was silent on the other end.

“I'm gonna have to hear you say you understand, Sonny.”

“So long as I get my money,” Sonny said, trying to maintain an attitude.

“You'll get it. Now the second thing. Remember that big bay you had stolen? The one you were gonna electrocute up at Burnside's place? Remember that horse, Sonny?”

“What about him?” Sonny asked after another long pause.

“Well, I painted him brown and won the Stanton Stakes with him yesterday.”

Ray could hear Sonny's breathing change on the line.

“Well, I guess you'll be going back to jail then,” Sonny said.

“I don't think so. You see—nobody knows it was me who put in the fix. And I have it on pretty good authority that you collected a large sum of money from Billy Coon on the race. And I also heard that other people bet the horse with Billy, on a hot tip from you. Now what do you think Billy Coon's gonna do when he finds out it was your stallion that won the race under a phony name? I figure Billy and the cousins might take you out to the rez and make beef jerky out of you, Sonny.”

“You think you're pretty fucking smart.”

“Tell you the truth, I don't. But then everything is relative. Anyway, I want you to remember what we talked about here today, Sonny. I really think you should take it to heart.”

Sonny realized that the conversation was about to end and he got brave. “I'll catch up with you one day, Dokes,” he said. “You're having fun today, but you're fucking with the wrong man here. Eventually I'll find you, asshole.”

“I'm sitting on your front porch, Sonny. Come on down.”

Ray hung the phone up and reached out to place it on the railing. The snow was tapering off now, and he could see a sliver of blue sky on the horizon. He lit a cigarette and propped his boots up on the railing.

*   *   *

Sonny hung the phone up, and after a moment he got out of bed quietly and walked carefully to the window, the pain shooting through his knee as it did every morning. By moving to the right edge of the window and sliding the blind back with his fingertips, he could just see the end of the porch below. A pair of boots were propped on the railing there. The man wearing the boots, Sonny knew, was the architect of the pain in his knee. Sonny stood anxiously watching the boots, and after a moment he began to wonder whether he'd locked the front door when coming in last night. He considered for a moment going down to check it, but he knew that the action would put him within six feet of the man wearing the boots, and Sonny just didn't have the parts to make such a move.

So he watched and he waited, and after about twenty minutes he saw Ray Dokes walk down off the porch and start across the yard. When Ray got to the fence he lifted the saddle from the top rail and then he cast one last glance at the house. Then he threw the saddle over his shoulder and started down the lane.

Sonny got dressed and went downstairs and ate a bowl of cereal. After a time his nervousness passed, and he began, as was his way, to focus on the positive aspects of the past twenty-four hours. For one thing, he'd gotten himself straight with Billy Coon, and it hadn't cost him a dime. He had that crazy fucking stripper to thank for that; Sonny still couldn't figure that one out, but he didn't really care one way or the other. So long as he made out on top.