Hugger Mugger

by Robert B. Parker

  "Let's talk a little," I said.

  She got cagey. "Only if you'll have little drink with me," she said.

  I wanted to hear what she had to say. I picked up my cup and took it to the bathroom and emptied the remaining champagne into the sink. Then I came back, put some ice in my plastic cup and poured some whiskey over it.

  "Now drink some," SueSue said.

  I felt like a freshman girl on her first date with a senior. We drank together in silence for a minute or so. I was betting that SueSue couldn't tolerate silence. I was right.

  "What was it you were asking me about, darlin'?"

  "You," I said. "Tell me about you."

  More than one way to ask a question.

  "I'm a Clive," she said.

  "Is that complicated?"

  She shook her head sadly.

  "I think one of our ancestors must have stolen something from a tomb," she said.

  "Family curse?"

  "We're all corrupt," she said. "Drunks, liars, fornicators."

  "You too?" I said.

  "Me especially," she said. "Hell, why do you think I'm married to Fred Flintstone?"

  "Love?" I said.

  She made a nasty sound, which might have been a contemptuous laugh.

  "There you go again," she said. "Daddy wanted his girls married. He wanted them out of the clubs and off their backs and in a marriage. He wanted sons-in-law to inherit the business. Pud was what there was."

  "Stonie too?"

  "Don't get me started on Stonie and Cord."

  "Why not?"

  "Don't get me started," she said.

  "Okay."

  SueSue had a drink of whiskey.

  "How about Penny?" I said. "She's not married."

  "Little Penelope," SueSue said. She struggled to say "Penelope." "Sometimes I think she was switched at birth."

  "She's different?"

  "She stands up to Daddy."

  "And?"

  "And he thinks it's cute. He trusts her with everything. Hell, she knows the business better than he does."

  "So she doesn't have to get married?"

  "Not now, but she better, she wants to inherit anything."

  "Really?"

  "Man's gotta be in charge," SueSue said. "Can't have a woman ruining the business."

  "Even though she halfway runs it now."

  "Daddy still in charge."

  Talking was getting harder for her as the Jack Daniel's went in. I needed to get what I could before talking became too hard.

  "What's wrong with Stonie and Cord?" I said.

  "Stonie so frustrated she rubbing up doorknobs," SueSue said.

  Her syntax was deteriorating fast.

  "How come?"

  Her smile was dreamy without ceasing to be nasty.

  "Little boys," she said.

  "Cord likes little boys?" I said.

  Her eyes closed and her head lolled back against the chair cushion.

  She said, "Un-huh."

  And then she fell asleep.

  NINE

  I WAS HAVING breakfast with Billy Rice off the back of a commissary truck parked under some high pines at the edge of the Three Fillies training track. "Donuts put a nice foundation under your morning," Rice said.

  "Go good with coffee too," I said.

  Across from us the track was empty, except for Hugger Mugger. We could hear him breathing in the short heavy way that horses breathe. His chest was huge. His legs were positively dainty, the odd, beautiful result of endless selectivity. A half-ton heart-lung machine on legs smaller than mine. His only function was to run a mile or so, in two minutes or so. Rice watched him all the time while we ate our donuts.

  "Great horse?" I said.

  "Be a great horse," Rice said.

  "Doesn't look that different."

  "Ain't what makes a great horse," Billy said. "Same as any athlete. He got to have the right body, and the right training. Then he got to have the heart. One with the heart be the great one."

  "And he's got it?"

  "Yes, he do."

  "How do you know?"

  Rice was too gentle a man to be scornful. But he came close.

  "I know him," Rice said.

  He was smallish. Not smallish like a jockey, just smallish compared to me. He wore jeans and sneakers and a polo shirt and a baseball cap that read THREE FILLIES across the front, over the bill. Martin, the trainer, leaned on the fence watching Hugger Mugger. And four Security South sentinels stood around the track.

  "Tell me about the prowler," I said.

  Rice sipped his coffee. His dark eyes were thoughtful and opaque, a little like the eyes of the racehorses.

  "Nothing much to tell. I sleeping with Hugger. I hear a noise, shine my flashlight, see a gun. When I shine my light, the gun goes away. I hear footsteps running. Then nothing."

  "You didn't follow?"

  "I don't have no gun. Am I going out in the dark, chase somebody got a gun?"

  "No," I said. "You're not."

  "How 'bout you?" Rice said.

  "I'm not either," I said. "Can you describe the gun?"

  "No. Don't know much 'bout guns."

  "Handgun or long gun?"

  "Long gun."

  "Shotgun or rifle?"

  "Don't know."

  "One barrel or two?"

  "One."

  "What kind of front sight?"

  "Don't know," Rice said. "Only saw it in the flashlight for a second."

  "Color?"

  "Color? What color is a gun barrel? It was iron-colored."

  "Bluish?"

  "Yes, I guess."

  "How about the footsteps? Heavy? Light? Fast? Slow?"

  "Just footsteps, sounded like running. It was on the dirt outside the stable. Didn't make a lot of noise."

  "Any smells?"

  "Smells?"

  "Hair tonic, shaving lotion, cologne, perfume, mouthwash, tobacco, booze, liniment."

  "Sleeping in the stable," Rice said, "mostly everything smells like horses."

  I nodded.

  "They going to bring Jimbo out," Rice said. "Time to get Hugger out the way."

  The exercise rider brought Hugger Mugger to the rail. Billy snapped the lead shank onto his bridle. The exercise rider climbed down, and Billy led Hugger Mugger back toward the stable area. As they walked their heads were very close together, as if they were exchanging confidences. The security guards moved in closer around Hugger Mugger as he walked, and by the time he'd reached the stable area they were around him like the Secret Service.

  I moved up beside Hale Martin. Coming from the stable area toward the track was an entourage of horses and horse keepers. There was a big chestnut horse with a rider up and a groom on either side holding a shank. With them were two other horsemen, one on each side. The chestnut was tossing his head and skittering sideways as he came.

  "Jimbo?" I said to Martin.

  "Jimbo," Martin said.

  The outriders gave with him as Jimbo skittered, and closed back in on him when he stopped. Riding him was a red-haired girl who might have been seventeen. The grooms and the outriders were men. One of the outriders had a cast on his right leg. He rode to the right, so that the injured leg was away from Jimbo.

  "What about the guy with the cast?" I said.

  Martin grinned.

  "Jimbo," he said.

  When Jimbo was on the track, the outriders peeled off and sat their horses in the shade near the track entrance. The grooms unsnapped their lead shanks at the same time and stepped quickly away. Jimbo reared and made horse noises. The red-haired girl held his head straight, sitting high up on his shoulders as if she were part of the horse. She gave him a light tap on the backside with her whip, and Jimbo tossed his head and began to move down the track.

  "Run him a lot," I said. "Get him tired."

  "Just makes him cranky," Martin said, his eyes following Jimbo. The redhead let him out and he began to sprint.

  "Has he killed anyone yet?" />
  "Nope."

  "But he might," I said.

  "He wants to," Martin said.

  "You have to handle him like this all the time?"

  "Yep."

  "Is it worth the bother?"

  "He can run," Martin said.

  "How about gelding?"

  "Somebody gelded John Henry," Martin said. "Do you know how much money that cost them?"

  "Stud fees?"

  "You bet."

  "You mean you'd let Jimbo loose with a mare?"

  "He's different around mares," Martin said.

  "Him too," I said.

  TEN

  MICKEY BLAIR WENT out of the track office with a springy walk that made her long blond braid bounce against the full length of her spine. She left the door open behind her. Through the open door, I could look straight along the stable row where the horses hung their heads out of their stalls and looked around. It reminded me of one of those streets in Amsterdam where the whores sat in windows. I had a yellow legal-size pad on the desk by my right hand, and a nice Bic pen lying on it at a rakish angle. The pad was blank. I had spent the day interviewing stable crew about the attempt on Hugger Mugger and had learned so little that I thought I might have crossed into deficit. I looked at my watch. Twenty to five. Penny Clive came in wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt and a black jacket. She went to the refrigerator, took out two Cokes, and handed me one. She sat down on the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table. I was able to observe that her jeans fit her very well. It was about the only thing I'd observed all day.

  "You got him in your sights?" she said.

  "I think I know somewhat less than I did this morning."

  "Oh dear," Penny said.

  We each drank some Coke.

  "I gather my sister came to visit," Penny said.

  "Where did you gather that?" I said.

  She smiled and shrugged.

  "Daddy likes to know what SueSue and Stonie are up to," she said.

  "So you keep an eye on them?"

  "It's a small community," Penny said. "I usually know what's going on in it."

  "Someone at the motel tipped you."

  She smiled.

  "Because you'd alerted them," I said.

  She continued to smile.

  "Because you figured she'd come to call," I said.

  "SueSue is predictable," Penny said.

  "Who keeps an eye on you?" I said.

  "I'm self-regulating," Penny said, and her smile increased so that the laugh parentheses at the corners of her mouth deepened. "I hope SueSue wasn't offensive."

  "Not at all," I said.

  "She has a problem with alcohol," Penny said.

  "I gathered that she might."

  "And men," Penny said.

  I was quiet. Penny was quiet.

  Finally Penny said, "Did she come on to you?"

  "I wondered how you were going to get to it. Straight on is good."

  "Thank you. Did she?"

  "I think that's between SueSue and me," I said.

  Penny nodded.

  "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry to be cross-examining you."

  "Just doing your job," I said.

  "It's not like it sounds," she said. "My sisters are both, what, wild? Daddy is just trying… He's being a daddy."

  "How are the marriages?" I said.

  "They don't work very well."

  "Children?"

  "No."

  "How's Daddy feel about that?"

  "He wants an heir."

  "Is it up to you?" I said.

  She almost blushed.

  "Not yet, not now," she said. "I've got too much to do here. Three Fillies is a huge operation, Daddy can't run it by himself anymore."

  "Gee, he looks fine," I said.

  "Oh, he is. But he's got too much money now. He's… too important. He travels a great deal now. He and Dolly. He just can't concentrate anymore on the day-to-day grind of it."

  "How about the sons-in-law?" I said.

  She shrugged. "They're married to his daughters," Penny said.

  "Isn't Cord the executive VP?"

  "Yes."

  "And Pud is…?"

  "VP for marketing."

  "Are they real jobs?" I said.

  "Well, you come straight at it too, don't you?"

  "Susan does subtle," I said. "I'm not smart enough."

  "Of course you're not," Penny said. "No, they aren't real jobs. I think Daddy hoped they would be. But Pud is… well, you saw Pud."

  "I saw him at his worst," I said.

  "True, and he's not always that bad. When he's sober he's kind of a good old boy."

  "When is he sober?"

  "Almost every day," Penny said, "until lunch."

  "And Stonie's husband?"

  "Cord."

  I nodded. She looked out at the line of stalls. Hugger Mugger, third from the end, was looking out of his stall past the Security South guard as if he were pondering eternity.

  "You think he's pondering eternity?" I said.

  "Hugger? He's pondering lunch," Penny said.

  "How about Cord?" I said. "Is he a good old boy, when he's sober?"

  She looked almost startled.

  "No, Cord isn't a drinker," she said. "A little white wine to be social, maybe."

  "And as an executive VP?"

  She shook her head. "Cord's very artistic."

  "So was Wallace Stevens," I said.

  "Isn't he some kind of poet?"

  "Yes. He was also vice president of an insurance company."

  "Isn't that odd," Penny said. "Cord isn't really interested in business, I'm afraid."

  "What's he interested in?"

  "Are you being a detective again?"

  "I'm always being a detective," I said.

  "Why do you want to know about Cord?"

  "Because I don't know. Part of what I do is collect information. When I have collected enough I sometimes know something."

  "Well, I think it's time to stop talking about my family."

  "Sure," I said.

  We were quiet for a while.

  "I know I introduced the topic," Penny said.

  I nodded. Penny smiled. Her teeth were very white against her honeyed tan.

  "So I guess I can unintroduce it," she said.

  "Sure," I said.

  "I don't want you to think ill of us," Penny said. "All families have their problems. But all in all, we're a pretty nice group."

  I didn't know what all this had to do with Hugger Mugger. But I was used to not knowing. I expected sooner or later that I would know. For now I simply registered that she hadn't wanted to talk about Cord and Stonie. I decided not to mention what SueSue had told me.

  "Of course you are," I said.

  ELEVEN

  I SAT WITH Walter Clive at the Three Fillies syndication office in downtown Lamarr. He wore some sort of beige woven-silk pullover, tan linen slacks, no socks, and burgundy loafers. His tan remained golden. His silver hair was brushed straight back. A thick gold chain showed at his neck. His nails were buffed. He was clean-shaven and smelled gently of cologne. "Penny tells me you're making progress," Clive said.

  He was leaning back in his high-backed red-leather swivel chair, with his fingers interlocked over his flat stomach. There was a wide gold wedding band on his left hand. Past the bay window behind him I could see the white flowers of some blossoming shrub.

  "Penny exaggerates," I said.

  "Really?" he said.

  "I have made no progress that I can tell."

  "Well, at least you're honest," Clive said.

  "At least that," I said.

  "Perhaps Penny simply meant that you had talked to a number of people."

  "That's probably it," I said. "I have managed to annoy Jon Delroy."

  "Penny mentioned that too."

  "Thanks for having her talk with him."

  "Actually that was Penny's doing."

  "Well, it was effective."

/>   "Jon's been with me a long time," Clive said. "He's probably feeling a little displaced."

  "How long?"

  "Oh, what, maybe ten years."

  "Really. What was he doing?"

  Clive paused, as if the conversation had gone off in a direction he hadn't foreseen.

  "I have a large enterprise here. There is need for security."

  "Sure. Well, he and I seem to be clear on our roles now."

  Clive nodded, and leaned forward and pushed the button on an intercom.

  "Marge," he said. "Could you bring us coffee."

  A voice said that it would, and Clive leaned back again and smiled at me. The window to my right was partially open and I could hear desultory birdsong in the flowering trees.

  "So," Clive said, "have you reached a conclusion of any sort?"

  "Other than I'm not making any progress?" I said.

  "Yes," Clive said. "Are you for instance formulating any theories?"

  "I've mostly observed that this thing doesn't make any sense," I said.

  "Well, it is, sort of by definition," Clive said, "a series of senseless crimes."

  "Seems so," I said.

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning it seems so senseless that maybe it isn't."

  Clive hadn't become a tycoon by nodding in agreement to everything said.

  "That sounds like one of those clever statements people make when they're trying to sell you something you don't need," Clive said. "Does it mean anything?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I can't say I know much about animal shootings. But for serial killers of people, you look for the logic that drives them. It's not necessarily other people's logic, but they are responding to some sort of interior pattern, and what you try to do is find it. The horse shootings are patternless."

  "Or you haven't found it," Clive said.

  "Or I haven't found it."

  "They are all Three Fillies horses," Clive said. "Isn't that a pattern?"

  "Maybe," I said. "But it is a pattern that leads us nowhere much. Why is someone shooting Three Fillies horses?"

  "You're not supposed to be asking me," Clive said.

  "I know," I said. "Is there anyone with a grudge against you?"

  "Oh certainly. I can't name anyone in particular. But I've been in a tough business for more than thirty years. I'm bound to have made someone angry."

  "Angry enough to shoot your horses?"