Two-Trick Pony (The Drifter Detective Book 8)

by Garnett Elliott

  People hooted. Cheered. The other two clowns danced jigs and played leapfrog with each other, but Cecil was clearly the favorite. Judging from events that morning, Jack wondered if he wasn't a favorite in the Adair household as well.

  The PA squawked again, announcing the first rider. Cecil and company took up positions near the chute.

  A gray Charbray burst out onto the sand. The rider atop, holding on by one hand to a braided rope, seemed like an afterthought. The bull jerked his head and leapt straight up. Muscles rippling, he arched his back and kicked all four hooves to one side. The rider went flying. He flailed his arms and managed to land in a roll. The Charbray lowered its head, horns ready to gore.

  Cecil leapt in from the bull's flank, waving a red scarf. The bull whirled, tried to butt him, but Cecil was already springing backwards. He slipped behind a plank shield. While the Charbray moved to menace him, the other two clowns closed from the side. With the help of a roper, they managed to wrestle the big animal back into the chute.

  Scattered applause. The rider stood, rubbing at his shoulder. He looked down when he received his score. He hadn't managed to stay on longer than two seconds.

  * * *

  After the riding events were over, Jack quit the bleachers to eyeball the rest of the grounds. Through discrete questions, furtive glances, and deductive reasoning, he managed to narrow down the location of Lubbock Red. So far, this investigation stuff wasn't proving too hard. Then he spotted the blonde.

  She was leaning against a paddock, watching a trainer put a colt through its paces. The blue jeans she wore fit tight enough for an indecency charge. Suddenly, all the months of deprivation he'd endured as a P.O.W. came back with pulsing urgency.

  He straightened his bolo tie. His hair could use some Vitalis, but what the hell. Whistling, he ambled up alongside. "Say there Miss, you wouldn't happen to know where a fellow could buy a thoroughbred around here, do you? I'm pretty flush at the moment." He flashed the wad of Adair's money.

  Her freckle-sprayed cheeks scowled. "What're you going on about? Thoroughbreds? You're not no cowboy."

  "How can you tell?"

  She pointed at his pants. "No chaps, for starters. No spurs, either."

  "Well, I could get those things."

  "Wouldn't make you a real cowboy, now would it?"

  She turned back around to the paddock. Her denim-clad posterior might as well be a hundred miles away. Probably one of those buckle bunnies Adair was going on about. "Cowboy or not, ma'am, I'm a huge fan of horses. A huge fan. Where do they keep the famous ones?"

  Without turning, she jerked her thumb left. "Those stables yonder. For the rich folks."

  "Obliged."

  She added: "You can practice your sweet-talking on the mares."

  He slunk away, his face hot. Dammit, he should've just told her he was a private eye. In the movies, troubled heiresses and hot-to-trot widows were always throwing themselves at detectives. The reality couldn't be too far off. Of course, he knew from experience all those war movies were bullshit, but that was just because Hollywood was trying to be patriotic.

  Wasn't it?

  * * *

  Evening turned the sky to Texas velvet. People began leaving the fairgrounds in greater numbers. As the crowds thinned, Jack figured he'd hang around and do the deed tonight. He'd nixed the idea of going back to Hobart's car and getting the ten gauge out of the trunk. Too hard to conceal. It felt a little sacrilegious, but his grandfather's Colt would have to send Lubbock Red on his way. Colored folks in overalls appeared, toting push brooms and dust bins. He found it harder and harder to stay inconspicuous. To kill time, he locked himself in a restroom stall and waited, crouched over a toilet.

  It was inevitable, listening to the grunts and splashes from neighboring stalls, that he would question his decision about Lubbock Red. He didn't consider himself any better than he ought to be, but his original resolve hadn't lasted long in the face of Hobart's logic. It didn't sit right, him conceding so easy. A P.O.W. should be tougher than that. His ma had taught him the more trouble you had heaped on your plate, the stronger it made your stomach.

  None of this changed his mind, though.

  He periodically checked his watch. At ten to eight someone came in and started swabbing toilets. A bucket clunked, and a voice respectfully announced: "You need to be finishing your business in there, mister, because I'm fixing to shut the lights off at eight sharp."

  The cleanup man left. Jack waited a couple minutes and slipped outside, to find the whole grounds had gone dark. Not a soul in sight.

  The blonde had pointed out a stable block with a tin roof and several entrance gates, designated as building 'A.' He made towards it, keeping to the moonlight shadows. A little closer and he saw all the gates had padlocks. But those were to prevent someone from taking a horse out, not getting inside.

  He grabbed the top of a gate and hauled himself up, before wriggling through the ample clearance. He dropped down into the smell of clean hay.

  After several seconds his eyes adjusted to the dimness. There were rows of closely-spaced stalls with equine-shaped silhouettes occupying them. Whickering sounds. The air felt much warmer here than outside, with each horse shedding heat like a radiator. It occurred to him as he crept down the rows he didn't know what Lubbock Red looked like, beyond the obvious color of his coat. He should've asked Adair for a picture. What if he found several red horses?

  But the question turned out moot. Someone had carved LUBBOCK RED in stylized letters on a varnished plaque, hanging outside a particularly large stall. And sure enough, a big copper-colored horse waited inside, a blanket across his wide shoulders.

  Jack's heart started thudding. He'd hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, it wouldn't be this easy to find the horse. Now he had no excuses. Leather creaked as he eased the pistol out of its shoulder holster. Presumably his grandfather, a U.S. Marshal, had put the gun to nobler uses. He tried not to think what Cash Laramie would say about his lapse of conscience.

  Lubbock Red snorted. He raised his head, eyes rolling a dull white. Something had robbed the bronc of his spirit. He sniffed the air the stranger had brought with him.

  "Sorry about this," Jack whispered. "I guess you threw your last rider, huh?"

  He leveled the gun with both hands. It seemed cold, letting Red have it from a distance instead of getting closer, maybe giving his mane a final pat. But he'd always been a little terrified of horses. Half a ton of muscle atop iron-shod hooves, and the beasts were never wholly predictable. Besides, he got too close, he'd get blood spattered on his clothes.

  He sighted down the barrel at Red's forehead. The shotgun would've been a better choice, no question. Minimal chance for suffering. Thumb trembling, he cocked back the hammer.

  Now or never.

  His trigger finger refused to budge.

  "Aw, goddamn it." Shooting German aces from a B-17 was one thing, but killing a horse who didn't have it coming was another. He lowered the gun.

  Maybe Grandpa Laramie was proud of him. He sure as hell wasn't.

  "The Governor just called, pal." Sliding the gun back into its holster, he noticed something odd about his would-be victim. The horse's blanket had slid to reveal a bandage just below the withers. An injury of some sort. Adair was a bareback champ; the bandage had been placed in the same spot where a surcingle—a big leather strap for riding—would go. Maybe Red had chafed himself, throwing Adair. The bandage looked a little big for that, though.

  Gingerly, Jack raised the latch on the stall gate. There was a battery-powered lantern hanging from a nail inside. He shimmied past the horse and clicked it on. Trying to sound soothing, he reached out to stroke Red's rough mane. The horse flipped his tail, snorted, but otherwise tolerated the gesture.

  Jack slid the blanket further back. Even with a light source, he couldn't tell much else about the wound. The bandage would have to come off. Speaking in gentle tones, he gave Red's head a tentative pat. His fingers moved slow as a s
afecracker's unwinding the linen wraps. Underneath lay a thick cotton pad, adhered to the horse's side.

  He nudged the pad. Red let out a whinny, his head craning to nip. Jack leapt back. Movement caused the dressing to fall away. The horse calmed after a moment; Jack approached again, holding the lantern high.

  Instead of a sore patch of skin he found a line of small holes, each glistening with pus. The tiny wounds were equidistant. Something about their pattern sparked his memory.

  He heard a faint noise over Red's breathing. The lantern's white light swiveled to catch a pair of eyes, peering above the stall gate. A woman's face, with high cheekbones and black bangs cut straight. He called out, but she was already moving. Wary of panicking Red, he dropped the lantern and pursued.

  "Wait," he called to her fleeing backside. She had a canvas bag slung over her shoulders.

  And she was running fast as an elk.

  He sprinted after. She must've unlocked the gate, because she burst through without slowing, into moonlight. On open ground, his longer legs closed the distance. She ran to the paddock fence and tried to climb over it. He grabbed her shoulder bag, pulled. Down she came. Instead of collapsing she bunched a fist and clipped him on the mouth. With his adrenalin up, he didn't feel it. He clinched her, hugging her fast against his chest. She tried to knee his groin and he twisted out of the way.

  "Calm down," he said, breathing hard. "I'm not going to hurt you."

  She didn't answer. Her body felt solid beneath the clinch, all lean muscle. Why didn't she scream, or at least cry out? He released his grip and stepped back. Showed her his empty hands. She obliged him by not trying to bolt. For the moment, anyway.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated.

  Her owl-bright eyes watched his mouth as he spoke. He wondered if he should try a few phrases in Spanish, though she looked more Indian than Mexican. Her fingers fluttered through a series of complicated gestures.

  "I'm sorry," Jack said. "I don't understand."

  With elaborate slowness, she pointed at herself, then the stables.

  "You need to go inside," he said.

  A nod. She showed him her bag's contents. Bandages and medicine bottles.

  "You're a horse doctor?"

  Another nod.

  "And you're … mute?"

  Her face said what her mouth couldn't: brilliant deduction, friend.

  "Ah. Sorry." Jack was at a loss. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed their little scrap. The grounds lay empty.

  She nudged him, pointed at his chest and tilted her head back as if asking a question.

  "Oh. I'm a detective." He had to repeat that last word. Her eyes bunched at the corners when she understood. Doubtful? He took his P.I. license out of his wallet. She tried to read the tiny lettering in the moonlight and shook her head.

  "Is it, ah, alright if I come in with you? I'd like to ask—"

  But she'd already hefted her bag and started marching back towards the stable gate. Jack watched her for a moment before tagging after. She glanced left and right as she walked. Furtive, just like him. Why was she making a doctor's call at this hour?

  His mouth began to sting, where she'd hit him. He followed her inside all the way to Red's stall. The horse whinnied when he saw her, but she calmed him with a single stroke of his muzzle. By the lantern's light, she removed a wad of cotton from her bag and pressed it against the wound. Pus drained away. She took out a tin of powdered sulfa and carefully applied it, before re-wrapping the whole works with a fresh bandage. Red paid less attention to her ministrations than a buzzing fly.

  Jack, meanwhile, drew closer to watch her work. She seemed annoyed he was still there. After she'd finished, he showed her his license again. She handed him a business card.

  "'Donna Purser,' huh?" There were no letters after her type-written name. "Are you a veterinarian?"

  She shook her head.

  "Just a good country horse doctor, then. I'm not much into formal education myself."

  She took a little flip notebook out of her pocket and scrawled: WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

  "I'm investigating the bucking accident, involving Red."

  Her mouth curled. She wrote: YOU'RE WORKING FOR ADAIR. Not a question.

  "Well, I'm not at liberty to say. But it's clear something's happened here. Can you tell me how Red got that wound?"

  The lantern's stark light made her face harsh. She started to write, but her hand wobbled across the notebook page. She made a strange grunt and threw the pencil down. Her eyes lowered.

  "Why can't you tell me?" he said, before realizing there was no point talking when she wasn't looking. He touched her on the shoulder and repeated the question.

  DON'T GET ME IN TROUBLE, she wrote.

  "Donna, is someone threatening you?"

  PLEASE.

  Emotion roiled just below her face. He knew desperation when he saw it. "Alright. I suppose you've had enough scares for one evening." He made to slip her business card into his wallet. She reached out and snatched it back, shaking her head. Without looking at him she replaced the contents of her canvas bag. Pretty easy for a deaf person to dismiss you, he thought. All she had to do was break eye contact.

  She gave Red's nose a final pat before unlatching the gate. Jack weighed the merits of shadowing her. It was getting late, and he hadn't caught much sleep the past couple nights. Hobart would be wondering about his car, too. Best to let her go.

  Besides, he'd already memorized the address on her card.

  * * *

  Hobart had booked a room at a seedy looking motor court just off the freeway. Despite the cold, he answered the door in shirt tails and underwear. "I loaned you my heap for the afternoon," he said, bleary-eyed. "For the afternoon. It's night already. I had to walk across the street to get dinner at a goddamn truck stop."

  From the reek coming off him, dinner must've included a bottle of Scotch. "Sorry about that," Jack said. "Can I come in? I could use a drink."

  "Huh-uh. No whiskey for you unless that horse's dead, and you've collected the other half of the money."

  "About that …"

  Hobart darkened. "You mean you haven't killed him yet?"

  "I was just about to, but someone happened along. Have you ever heard of a deaf-mute woman who works with—"

  "'Deaf-mute?' What's that got to do with dead horses and the price of tea in China?"

  "Someone wounded Lubbock Red, see—"

  Hobart's temples were turning purple. "The only wound I want to hear about is the hole you put in that animal's head. You kill him by tomorrow, Laramie, or we're through. Understand?"

  He slammed the door before Jack could answer. Lights came on in a couple nearby windows; silhouettes peered out. Jack shrugged at the night sky. He turned around and headed for the manager's office to see about a room.

  * * *

  Sleep didn't come. Ever since Germany, he seemed cursed most nights to lie awake atop the sheets, his eyelids snapping open every few minutes, expecting the sweep of searchlights outside. Tonight was no exception.

  Around three a.m. he gave up and rolled off the lumpy mattress to run a bath. The water coming out of the faucet was none too hot. He submerged himself to his chin and listened to the trucks roaring by on the freeway. Normally, on nights like this he'd set up chess puzzles. But his set with the Bakelite pieces was still in the DeSoto.

  No radio. No cigarettes … nothing to do but lie there in the cooling water. Eventually, he started to drift.

  A flak-burst exploded so bright it stung his retinas, hurling him from the bath to the balls of his feet. His dripping hands groped for a parachute harness that wasn't there.

  No chance for sleep now.

  He doused his face in the sink. Combed his hair and shaved. At six-thirty sharp he left the motel room. Hobart's car wasn't in the lot. Probably set out for breakfast already. Son of a bitch wasn't going to make it to forty, the way he kept stuffing himself.

  He pulled his flannel jacket
tight against the morning air and hoofed several blocks to the tow garage. It wasn't open yet. The mechanic came in at ten minutes to eight, unlocked the door, and announced he was still working on the coupe. Jack bummed a cup of coffee.

  "You don't mind, buddy," he said, "I need to get something out of the car."

  He rummaged through the DeSoto's glove compartment until he found what he was looking for: his Red Army seven-power rifle scope. Another memento from the war. He slipped it in his pocket and got directions to Donna's address.

  It took nearly an hour's walk—and nascent blisters on both feet—to reach the spot, an old neighborhood several blocks from downtown. Donna lived in an old frame house with a hand-lettered sign out front, proclaiming ANIMAL HUSBANDRY. The sign hung slightly askew from a crooked post. Peeling gray paint covered the picket fence and the roof needed new shingles. Donna either didn't have a man or had roped herself a lazy one.

  He walked straight past without glancing in the windows, making for an empty lot at the end of the street. It was overrun with bushes and skeletal trees. Perfect cover. Like a hobo about to relieve himself, he squatted down behind the brush and took out his seven-power. From his vantage he could surveil both the front and back yard of Donna's property. It was a longshot he'd catch anything, but someone had her frightened out of her wits. And that someone was tied to Red's strange wound, he felt certain.

  Returning to Adair now would just get him a tongue-lashing. But if he could convince his employer something sideways was going on, he might earn that three hundred bucks.

  * * *

  The sun climbed bright and cold as he squinted at the house. Forty minutes into the surveillance, an old woman with two mutts on a leash walked by. The dogs smelled him and growled, but their owner must've had a lot on her mind. She walked past without noticing, saving him the trouble of having to find a new spot.