Full Mortality

by Sasscer Hill

  I sped up next to the woman. “Excuse me. If you’re looking for a horse, there’s a nice one here. He’s quiet, kind, got an injury that’ll heal, but probably keep his price down.”

  The woman looked a me suspiciously. “Are you selling him?”

  Mistrustful of horse traders. Who could blame her? “No. I’m an exercise rider, seen him at the racetrack. Hope he’ll find a good home.” I threw a glance at the girls. “His name’s Silver Box, he’s real handsome.”

  Their eyes lit up and the mother sighed, “We’ll look at him.”

  We moved into the barn. I spotted Silver Box right off. He poked his head into the aisle from his wooden stall, his rakish forelock partially hiding one mischievous eye. “That’s him,” I said.

  One of the girls squealed, “Oh, he’s so cute!”

  I left them to it and searched for Hellish.

  I passed some old scarecrows with hip bones and ribs sticking out, their eyes dull and patient. They’d reached the end of their story. I cringed at the thought of what awaited them. I couldn’t save them all, but I could find Hellish, keep her from the butcher’s knife.

  I pushed on past stalls with ponies and dappled Percherons, rounded a corner and moved down a new aisle. A kind-eyed young man, tall and slender, paced before a group of about six stalls. He’d nailed up a placard that read, “Sensible, sound racehorses looking for a good home.”

  I hurried over to him. “I like your sign. Why are they for sale?”

  He pushed some brown hair out of his eyes. “They’ve got a bad case of the ‘slows,’ but any of ’em would make a good riding horse. You interested?” He looked hopeful.

  “Sorry, I’m here to save a rogue.”

  “Good for you,” he said. “But if you change your mind . . .” He waved a hand at the horses.

  I gave them a brief glance. They looked pretty good, mostly nondescript bays without much presence. A brief appraisal showed clean legs and healthy eyes. I wished them well and hurried on.

  Ahead,a man shouted and yanked a small girl to safety as gleaming bared teeth threatened over a stall door. I caught a glimpse of a lightening-bolt blaze. Had to be Hellish. I reached her stall, found her glowering in the back. She had a white piece of paper glued to her hip with a big number 13 on it. Perfect. At least I knew where she fit into the schedule.

  I needed to find a seat on the bleachers, get ready to bid. Slipping into the tent, I scanned the area for Dennis but didn’t see him. They should be racing at Shepherds Town and Dennis usually scored a fair number of rides. His presence at a dog-and-pony-show auction made no sense. He didn’t figure for a bunny-buyer.

  I picked a spot up front near the auctioneer’s stand, my fingers tap-dancing on my thigh, keeping time to a tune of anxiety emanating from my core. What if someone fell for Hellish’s beauty and had real money to burn? The French consider horsemeat a delicacy. Who knew how much they’d pay? Did I really think I could train such a hellion?

  I longed to get this over with and squirmed on my seat. A familiar prickle crawled down my back, that creepy feeling of someone watching.

  Chapter 12

  Near the top of the bleachers someone wearing a blue baseball cap lurked behind a newspaper. A head edged over the top of the paper, and a pair of dark glasses studied me. Not a bad disguise, but the prick of this particular man’s stare, the sharp cheekbones, and dark hair were all too familiar. Farino. I threw him a big smile and waved. He withdrew behind the news.

  Both Dennis and Jack Farino? Too weird for me. I almost wished I’d worn a disguise. The loudspeaker crackled, and a man led a cream-colored pony through the side door.

  “Folks, welcome to Dark Mountain Sales. Time for the horses and ponies, and we’re starting with a real pretty one. And who’ll give me one hundred dollars . . .” The voice took off in the almost unintelligible singsong I’d heard by the chicken cages.

  Feeling like a sitting duck on the open riser, I drifted toward the side door to find a less vulnerable position. A small group of buyers and browsers stood outside the tent inspecting the line of horses parading from the barn toward us.

  A young man and a girl, both in cowboy boots and western hats, strapped a saddle onto a sturdy bay horse. The cowboy swung aboard. He rode the horse into the tent as the cream pony came out. The cowboy jogged and cantered the bay for the crowd, then two guys in auction caps set up a rail, and the rider booted the bay on over the jump. The auctioneer dropped his hammer on a price of $950, and a starry-eyed boy watched his dad sign the ticket.

  Someone had told me the slaughter price for a horse ran about $600 and I hoped they were right. I only had $785 in cash. I’d cleaned out my bank account before leaving Laurel and wished I’d thought it through, been less impetuous, and grabbed Jim’s offer for money. Watching more horses sell, I realized the two men in auction caps were spotters, constantly watching the crowd for live bidders.

  A man about 30-something hung in the doorway. He’d buzzed his blond hair into a severe cut, and wore overalls and heavy boots. The spotters’ eyes constantly swept his way, as if he were a major player. I got a bad feeling about him. The fifth horse to emerge from the barn shambled by, old and thin, and buzz-cut locked right on him. The horse was barely in the ring thirty seconds before the blond bought him for $750. Guy had to be a killer.

  Panic surged through my gut. Hellish weighed more and stood over 16 hands tall. My cash wouldn’t cover her. I looked in my purse at the rubber-banded bills. Shit! Lying useless in the bottom of my bag were the “essential” makeup items Carla insisted I carry. “You never know when you’ll need them,” she’d said.

  Yeah right. If I hadn’t spent all that money at the mall . . .

  Horse number six plodded by about the time my brain rocked with a go-for-broke idea. I zipped into the tent, not caring who saw me. Dashing into the double-wide office, I halted before Bertha. She was fighting with the plastic wrap on a bag of cashews.

  “Do you take . . . I think they call it an absentee bid? You know, leave money with you and somebody with the auction bids on the horse for me so I don’t have to?”

  Her plump hand, finally filled with cashews, paused, then rushed for her mouth. She held up a finger in a just-a-moment sign, and I felt like slapping her around.

  She swallowed.

  “Yes, ma’am. You fill out a form earlier?”

  “Yes. Latrelle,” I said, spelling it out.

  “We need the highest price you’re willing to pay in cash money, but my boys are fair. They won’t bid the horse up. I’ll phone your limit over, and you pay what the market bears.”

  I dug out my money roll and thrust it at her.

  She took her time pulling off the rubber band and counting the bills. A frown produced a small canyon between her brows. “Miss, this won’t pay for much more than a small pony. Is that what you’re gettin?”

  “Whatever, but she’s coming up soon. Could you call that bid over?”

  She drew back, gave me her hard stare. “Don’t get your panties all bunched up. I’ll take care of it.” She reached for the phone with one hand, digging for cashews with the other.

  I left Bertha, found a ladies room, dashed in and stood before a small mirror, cracked and scored with grime. I pulled out Carla’s essentials, swiped mascara onto my lashes, dabbed concealer under my eyes and gel rouge onto my cheeks. I lined my eyes in black. Lipstick. Much better, but something was missing.

  What would Carla do? I’d never tried this before, but when the going gets tough . . .

  I grabbed toilet paper, wadded it into balls, lowered the half-zip on my cotton top, and stuffed my bra. The top’s heavy fabric hid any lumpiness, and in the mirror cleavage erupted. Time to zip up and head out.

  I jogged through the tent, heading for the meat buyer’s hangout spot. He’d held his position, bidding now on a large palomino with a slow, crippled walk. Made me sick. I inhaled a quantity of air, slid the zipper back down, and eased over. “Feats Don’t Fail Me Now,” o
ne of Mom’s favorite songs, played in my head. I fixed a stare on the horse stumbling by and bumped into the man, dropping my bag at his feet.

  He had plain, blue eyes, thin lips and a three-day-old stubble. His sleeveless tank displayed muscular arms, but his belly suggested a strong inclination to beer.

  I tried to gaze at him like he was a rock star. “Hi,” I said, drawing the word out, making my voice a little husky. “Sorry I bumped you.” I got no reaction. Suppose he had no use for women?

  Time to lean over and retrieve the bag. I pressed my arms against the sides of my breasts, and they obliged nicely, enhancing by at least a cup size. I rose slowly, to find the man’s eyes locked on my chest. He ripped his gaze away and finished bidding on the palomino.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked with a slow smile.

  If ever a woman felt like a piece of meat. “Dusty,” I said. Hoping to beguile with a mask of lust, I sent him my best grin. In my peripheral vision, Silver Box ambled past us into the circus tent.

  “Here’s a good one,” said Buzzcut.

  My stomach clenched. Then I saw the mom in riding clothes, sitting in the front row of the bleachers. Her body line tense, she raised her hand and began bidding with determination. Relief flooded me when the family bought the horse for $800, outbidding Buzzcut. But he didn’t drop out until $775, way too near my limit.

  I moved closer to him, praying I could keep up my lecherous performance, amazed by my talent for deceit. My stepfather had jammed up my sexual flow years ago, and now this sudden capacity for acting lecherous, along with Clay Reed’s ability to suffuse me with desire, surprised me. Then Hellish appeared, leaping and plunging as they tried to drag her to the tent.

  Buzzcut examined the filly, then me. “Got two wild ones here today, and both just my type. Dusty, let me bid on this horse, then buy you a drink.”

  I struggled to appear relaxed and thirsty for sex. Hellish reared up, scattering shrieking children right and left. Fuck! What was I supposed to do?

  Buzzcut put his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze, his eyes glued to the area below my collarbones.

  I pulled back. “That horse scares me. Couldn’t we get that drink now?”

  “Got a job to do, darlin’, but I surely do love an anxious woman. Just give me a minute and I’ll be done here.”

  And so would Hellish. I rose on tiptoes, leaning into the guy, brushing my breasts against his chest.

  “Please.”

  “Oh, hell,” he groaned. “Whatever you want.” He forgot about Hellish and steered me in a lover’s lockstep toward the beer stand.

  Behind us I heard an announcement. “Folks, this filly doesn’t wanna come into the tent, so were just gonna leave her outside for the bidding. Who’ll give me one hundred dollars?”

  I could use a beer.

  Chapter 13

  A knot of people milled around the red Budweiser wagon. Fancy gold lettering decorated its wooden sides and the interior held squat, metal kegs that spouted foaming brew, permeating the air with the smell of beer. Buzzcut released me and ordered two tall ones from a man with a handlebar mustache and a yellow straw hat.

  “I’m Butch,” he said, handing me a plastic cup.

  Maybe he should consider a name change, although butcher certainly fit his line of work. I couldn’t think of anything to say, my brain too busy with escape plans. Like throwing myself on Hellish, bareback, and racing for the mountains. My ears strained to hear the auctioneer’s hammer price on the filly.

  Butch pulled me to the side and then behind the beer stand, leaning forward, tracing two fingers down my neck. He’d already downed half his beer, and I worried how much the full cup would accelerate this behavior. In the distance, barely audible, the auctioneer chanted for Hellish.

  “You must really like horses,” I said.

  He blinked, then laughed. “Sure thing, darlin’. Horses are my business, got a whole trailer load of ’em. Got a nice little camper over there too. Wanna see?”

  The alcohol on his breath, the escalating sense of being trapped, echoed a past I wanted to forget. The warm breeze shifted, carrying the auctioneer’s voice our way. The bidding stalled a moment, then I clearly heard him: “I’ve got $500 who’ll give me $550?” He repeated himself three times. An endless pause followed, then his hammer dropped on $500.00

  “Yes!” My fist pumped in the air and I could feel the grin stretching my face.

  “Baby, are you cute when you get excited or what?” Butch stared at me like I was a slice of birthday cake with his name on it. He grasped my wrist. “Are you excited?”

  I snatched my hand away. “Not about you.” I took two steps back. “Hey, thanks for the beer.”

  “Wait a minute.” Dried foam clung to Butch’s stubble, making him look foolish, but there was nothing comical about his narrowed eyes or the big hand that reached for me. “You’re not leavin’. We’ve got some business to take care of.” He grabbed my wrist again, only this time it hurt.

  “No . . . we don’t.” I threw my drink in his face, jerked loose, and made a run for it.

  “You cock-teasing bitch.” His sharp words stung my back like darts.

  My beer may have doused his fire, or perhaps the two bodybuilder types throttled his anger. They’d been watching from the beer wagon, and a last look back found them marching toward him, frowns darkening their faces. Whatever the reason, Butch didn’t come after me.

  I ran past a pen crammed with bleating sheep, startled to see Jack Farino lounging against its wooden rail, watching me, shaking his head. Could that be a grin tugging his lips? I moved too fast to tell and felt an odd regret that he might have seen me playing the tart. Why would I care? I sped even faster.

  Back in the office Bertha sat behind the counter savoring a candied apple. She gave me another just-a-minute sign, wiping her mouth with a paper towel, laying the partially eaten apple on a paper plate. The tart smell of fresh apple and caramel made me realize I hadn’t eaten since the chocolate bar at the gas station earlier. Some diet — coffee, chocolate, and beer. I was starving for something healthy, but first I had to settle up.

  “Did I get number 13?”

  “You sure do rush. Boys just brought a sheet over. Lemme take a look-see.” She stared at the paper while I fidgeted from one foot to the other. She gave the apple a longing glance but restrained herself. “You’re Latrelle, right?”

  I nodded.

  “You got her for $500.” She paused, a puzzled frown flitting over her face. “Huh, wonder where Butch was?” she said mostly to herself.

  You don’t want to know. I felt a grin tugging my lips and inside my head I was dancing.

  Bertha signed a release for Hellish and gave me my change, minus the auction company’s 10 percent commission. I’d use the $265 to buy feed for Hellish.

  I thanked the woman, headed for the barn, and ran smack into Dennis coming out the entrance.

  “I know what you did,” he said without animosity.

  I tried to sidestep around him.

  “I saw you up there with Butch. Girl, you know how to operate.” He looked impressed.

  How typical of Dennis that deceit earned his respect.

  “You wanna watch out for Butch. He can be a nasty shit.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said, surprised to get any support from Dennis. I moved around him and headed for Hellish.

  “Liked you better with your top undone.” His laughter chased me down the aisle.

  A hot shower, lots of soap. Couldn’t get home and cleaned up fast enough. Had to get Hellish first. I rounded the corner into the next barn aisle. The tall brown-haired guy stood next to his placards and equine sale prospects. I slowed and moved toward him.

  “Any luck?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Sold these three to one guy.” He had a bag of apples and offered one to a fine-boned mare. “Said he’s gonna turn ’em into show horses.”

  “Great.” I moved closer, inspecting the three
animals in question. Bays with no white markings, they wouldn’t catch a judge’s eye. They were quite plain, except for one fellow who sported a peculiar whorl down the left side of his neck. The hairs grew in opposite directions from the cowlick. The top hairs pointed to his mane, the ones on the bottom toward his legs.

  I hurried on and found Hellish standing with her face in the stall’s far corner. Her formidable hindquarters barred my way. I returned to the brown-haired guy and asked if I could borrow a lead shank and buy an apple.

  He handed over a shank and the sack of apples. “Take the bag,” he said. “I’m done with ’em.”

  “Thanks,” I said, looking inside. Two shiny apples lay in the bottom. I bit right into one, double-timed it back to Hellish, and stood outside her stall, munching on the apple and ignoring her. I let the tart scent drift to her nostrils. She did a slow about-face, and pushed her head toward me, ears pricked, nostrils slightly flared. I held out the remaining half, and it disappeared into her mouth. While she snuffled at the remaining apple, I snapped the lead shank to her halter. Using the fruit as bait, I led her to Ravinsky’s trailer, hoping we wouldn’t run into Butch. She balked at the trailer ramp, and before she worked herself into a rage, I bit into the second apple, releasing more fragrance. She changed her mind and followed me into the rig. When I had her all fastened up, I fed her the remaining fruit as a reward. Time to crank up the Ford engine.

  Threading Jim’s rig carefully through the crowded parking lot, I drew alongside a big stock trailer. Someone had jammed horses and ponies inside without thought to safety or comfort. The bony horses with the old patient eyes I’d seen earlier stared at me through the open bars. The crippled palomino. Silently, I blessed the charities out there, like Rollin’ On Racehorse Rescue and CANTER. They did what they could to save horses from slaughter.