All Hat (35 page)

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.

Paulie had left a message for Dean to meet them at the Four by Four restaurant at the intersection of the highway and Crooked Creek Road. There was no sign of Dean when they got there, so they went in and ordered breakfast.

The waitress was bringing their food when Dean walked in, wearing a ratty green parka and work boots with no laces, a ball cap pulled down low. Incognito, Ray guessed. Dean saw them and then threw a cautious glance around the restaurant before he walked over and sat down. He appeared to be in possession of some attitude.

“Well, here I am,” he announced.

“Did you talk to your mom?” Paulie asked.

“How else would I know to come here?” Dean asked. “Idiot.”

Ray reached over the table and slapped Dean hard across the side of the head. The smack resounded around the little restaurant, drawing stares. Dean put his hand to his head and looked angrily at Ray.