All Hat

by Brad Smith

  They were at Jim Burnside’s farm before noon. Jim was nowhere in sight. They put the stallion in the barn, gave him hay and water. Then they went into the house—the door was unlocked—and they both found old couches and lay down. Paulie was asleep at once. Dean was fatigued to the point that his vision was blurred, but he couldn’t put his mind to rest.

  In the past twenty-four hours he’d been fired from his job, stolen a champion racehorse, kidnaped the horse’s trainer, driven all the way around Lake Erie, with detours across Ohio and into Kentucky, and ended up not all that far from where he’d started.

  After a day like that, it was only natural for a man to toss and turn a little.

  * * *

  Chrissie’s suspension was up on a Saturday. She procured four mounts over the phone for Sunday’s card, and on Sunday morning she and Ray and Pete Culpepper headed for Fort Erie in Ray’s Cadillac. It was clear and cold, and the day had arrived with a heavy frost on the grass, which didn’t burn off until midmorning. Winter seemed close for the first time that fall.

  “You gonna behave yourself today?” Pete asked on the drive down.

  “Depends on everybody else,” Chrissie said. “I just go with the flow.”

  “The hell you do,” Pete said.

  When they got to the track Chrissie went to find the trainer for her first mount. Pete and Ray were lounging near the barns when one of the grooms came over and told them that Jumping Jack Flash was missing.

  “What do you mean—missing?” Pete asked.

  “Jackson Jones left yesterday with him, heading for Belmont. He never showed up, and nobody’s heard from him.”

  “Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Pete said.

  “They’re thinking maybe foul play.”

  Chrissie won her first race but finished out of the money in the other three. Afterward she sat and had a beer with Pete and Ray in barn eleven.

  “I got mounts the rest of the week, and I’ll be working horses in the morning,” she said. “Guess I’ll go see if my apartment’s still there. My pickup’s still over the border; my girlfriend’s gonna take me to get it.”

  She looked at Ray when she said this, and he drank his beer and looked back.

  “All the jocks are talking about Jumping Jack Flash,” she went on. “They said Sonny Stanton pitched a fit when he heard the horse was missing. Got about half drunk and went down to the cop shop and started yelling for something to happen. One of the cops slapped him across the head, and now Sonny’s talking about suing the police department. The riders are getting a big kick out of it.”

  “I bet they are,” Pete said. “Wonder where that damn horse is.”

  “One theory is the trainer kidnapped him,” Chrissie said.

  “Jackson Jones never kidnapped that horse,” Ray said. “But I don’t know what Sonny’s going on about. They’ll have him insured from here to next Sunday.”

  He finished his beer and stood up. It was dark outside now and darker yet in the stall where they sat. Ray took his ball cap off and adjusted the crease in the bill. He put it back on, and then he put his collar up. Finally, he looked at Chrissie. After a moment she got up and walked over to him.

  “I guess I’ll see you whenever,” Ray said.

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. “I guess so,” she said.

  Pete and Ray started out for home. Driving through Stevensville, they decided to stop at the hotel there for chicken wings and a game of eight ball. Ray went to the bar for a pitcher of beer, and Pete racked the balls.

  Ray won the first two games and then scratched on the eight ball in the third. Then Pete ran off three games in a row. The waitress came with their wings, and they left off the pool game and sat down to eat. They had a second pitcher of beer with their food.

  “So what the hell are you gonna do?” Pete asked.

  “About what?”

  “About your life. I was thinking maybe you should buy my farm.”

  “With what?”

  “You don’t need money to buy things nowadays,” Pete told him. “All you gotta do is sign your name.”

  “And what’re you gonna do?”

  “I told you. I’m fixin’ to head back to Texas. I don’t feel like starting up again with any young horses. Besides I got no money to breed those mares if I wanted to.”

  Ray took a wing from the basket and took a bite. He wished to hell that Pete Culpepper hadn’t brought up the subject of what he intended to do with his life. It was a subject he’d avoided quite nicely so far. In fact it was something he prided himself on.

  “So what do you think?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I figured maybe you and Chrissie could set up there.”

  “What the hell—how many beers have you had?”

  “Same as you.”

  “Then how come you’re the only one talking nonsense? What—you turning into Cupid in your old age?”

  “I ain’t no Cupid. I just thought … never mind. What the hell do you intend to do, then? Go back to pitching baseball?”

  “My baseball days are done. Doesn’t mean I’m looking to become Pa Kettle.”

  “It was just a thought. Forget I even mentioned it.”

  “I already have.”

  They finished their meal in silence. Ray paid the bill, and they started for home. It was raining lightly.

  “You like her, don’t you?” he said to Pete in the car.

  “Chrissie? If I was younger, I’d fight you for her,” Pete said, and in the light Ray couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  They reached the QEW and were heading west now. The rain continued, heavier now, and Ray had to turn his wipers up a notch.

  “Well, what is it about her that you like so much?”

  “For one, she don’t take any shit from anybody.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  Pete lit a cigarette and slipped the match out the vent. He was still smoking those nonfilters; Ray couldn’t figure how he did it.

  “But then, she’s not Etta.”

  “No, she’s not,” Ray said. “I don’t know, Pete. Sometimes I think that not even Etta is Etta.”

  Pete looked over. “You’re a mixed-up sonofabitch, aren’t you?”

  “I figured you knew that.”

  * * *

  After the incident at the police station Sonny spent the day at the golf course, boozing in the clubhouse. He went through a number of drinking companions, guys either waiting to tee off or having a drink after their rounds. The drunker Sonny got, the wilder his imagination grew with regard to the fate of his racehorse. And in every scenario Jackson was the villain.

  “He’s been planning this for a while,” Sonny told the bartender at one point. “Give me another beer here. That’s why he insisted on hauling the horse to New York himself.” This in spite of the fact that it had been Sonny’s idea.

  “I wouldn’t doubt he’s on his way to Europe right now,” he said to Dick Manwar. He had moved on to gin at this point.

  “I knew something was up all along,” he told the Hutchinsons as they had their dinner, seared halibut in a pear sauce. “But I couldn’t watch everybody at once. With my dad sick, I was running the whole operation.”

  By ten o’clock he was in the game room, drunk on brandy. When his cell phone rang it took him several seconds to remember how to turn it on.

  Jackson was on the other end. “That you, Sonny?”

  “Jackson!” Sonny shouted, and then he stalled, not knowing if he was angry, happy, or confused to hear the voice. Confusion seemed to be his strong suit, and he went with it. “Where are you?”

  “Maysville … Kentucky.”

  “I want you to bring my horse back, Jackson. No questions asked.”

  “I don’t have the horse, Sonny.”

  “I don’t care what … did you just say you were in Kentucky?”

  “That’s what I said. Listen to me, Sonny. Are you drunk?”


  “No. I’ve had maybe three beers.”

  “Dean and Paulie took the horse, Sonny.”

  “What? I fired them.”

  “Why do you think they took the horse? Jesus Christ. I’m heading to Louisville to catch a flight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The line went dead in Sonny’s ear. He looked vacantly around the room a moment. “Jackson. I knew he would never be involved in anything like this.”

  The bartender drove Sonny home, left him sitting on the front porch in the cold. Sonny’s eyes were glazed, and his tongue was thick in his mouth.

  “You want a drink?” Sonny asked.

  “No. Go to bed, Sonny.”

  “Fuck that. I’m going into town. Where’s my car keys?”

  “They’re in your pocket, Sonny. But they’re not gonna do you a lot of good—your car’s at the golf course.”

  * * *

  Jackson showed up at the home farm at eleven the next morning, having flown from Louisville to Buffalo to Toronto. Sonny was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and feeling sorry for himself. Jackson came right from the airport. His head was wrapped in a gauze bandage, and he had a headache that threatened to knock him off his feet.

  “You look like I feel,” he said to Sonny.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jackson sat down. “Well, I don’t know what the hell they’re up to. But I guess they’re in Kentucky somewhere. Thoroughbred country.”

  “Christ, do they think they can sell the horse?” Sonny asked.

  “First of all, it’s not they. Paulie’s just along for the ride. Probably because you treat him like shit. This is Dean all the way. I’ve been giving it some thought; I don’t figure he’s looking to sell the horse. Even Dean knows he could never pull it off. But he’s always been real interested in the breeding end of things. Always asking how much a certain stallion brings at stud. My guess is—if Dean’s got a plan at all—he’s looking to set up a stud service on wheels.”

  “Come on,” Sonny said. “No reputable breeder’s gonna touch that.”

  “I doubt Dean’s gonna set his sights on reputable breeders,” Jackson said.

  “I called the broker. The old man had him insured for twelve million. In case Dean panics and puts a bullet in him, leaves him in a ditch somewhere.”

  “Like he did me?”

  “That what happened to your head?”

  “Thanks for noticing, Sonny. I had some old sawbones in Kentucky stitch me together like he was fixing a football. What did the cops say?”

  “Fucking OPP. I’d have a lot more confidence in the cops finding Dean and Paulie if I thought for a moment that they were smarter than Dean and Paulie.”

  “Well, we’re gonna need more than the provincials in on this. Especially if the horse is in the States. We might need Dudley Do-right himself before this is done. I’m gonna go make some calls.”

  Jackson got to his feet. Sonny stood up hesitantly, not having a clue what to do.

  “How’d the chestnut do at Fort Erie?” Jackson asked.

  “We won. I deposited the check already.”

  “Did we lose the colt?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “That’s just fucking great, Sonny.”

  “Oh, and I entered Rather Rambunctious in the Stanton Stakes. He should romp.”

  Jackson looked at him, clearly angered. “Why would you do that? You know your father never ran a horse in that race.”

  “And why the fuck not?”

  “Because he figured it wouldn’t look good, winning his own race.” Jackson stood back and gave Sonny a long look. “You know, Sonny, it’s too bad the folks who say the acorn never falls too far from the tree never got a chance to meet you.”

  Jackson left, and Sonny sat back down. He poured more coffee and sat back and rubbed his temples with his palms. At least Jackson was back. For all his lip, he would take care of things. Sonny’d been in charge for exactly two days, and the pressure had been too much. For this, he blamed his father. The old man had never given him any responsibility, had never trusted him with anything. No wonder he wasn’t prepared when it all suddenly landed in his lap. It was his father’s fault he was the way he was. And Sonny was man enough to admit it.

  He started thinking about breakfast, and then he started thinking about a drink instead of breakfast. He was leaning toward the more liquid of the two options when the phone rang.

  It was Dan Rockwood. “You find your horse yet?”

  “No. Have you heard anything?”

  “Yeah. I heard he’s in Kentucky; I heard he’s in Europe; I heard he’s in five thousand cans of Alpo dog food.”

  “You’re a big fucking help.”

  “Maybe I am. I’m down at the clubhouse. You should get your ass down here.”

  “I got no time to fuck around today.”

  “You better make time for this.”

  Sonny got dressed and walked outside, only to remember that his car wasn’t there. He went into Jackson’s office to ask for a ride, but Jackson was waiting for the cops and he told Sonny to find his own ride. Jackson was sitting in his office with a garden shovel across his lap. Sonny didn’t ask why. He phoned for a cab.

  When Sonny got to the country club the Rock was on the putting green, a dozen balls at his feet. Sonny had taken some Percodan before leaving the house, and his head was beginning to clear now. He’d stopped at McDonald’s for a Happy Meal and a shake. He was feeling back on top when he got out of the taxi and walked over to the Rock, who knocked his last couple of putts past the hole and then looked up.

  “Guess who’s inside at the bar, hitting the sauce.”

  “Who?” Sonny asked.

  “Homer Parr.”

  15

  Jim Burnside stood in the walkway between the stalls and looked at the great bay stallion in front of him. The horse had his ears back and his nostrils wide and his head in the air, as if he was offended to be here in this dilapidated barn, with its broken windows and patched roofs and makeshift stalls. Jumping Jack Flash was accustomed to better digs than this.

  Dean stood to one side, his arms draped over the top stall rail, ready to jump back if the cantankerous stud decided to come after him. Paulie had found a litter of kittens, no more than a month old, and he was watching them as they played in the straw at the bottom of the mow chute, tumbling and falling over one another, attacking with mock ferociousness.

  Jim had been standing there for maybe five minutes without saying anything. And for about four and half minutes Dean had been antsy as hell. Finally, Jim walked over to the broken window beside the barnyard door, hacked, and spat out into the yard. Then he walked back, his eyes on Dean, and he asked, “What do you intend to do with him?”

  “Breed some mares, what do you think?”

  “How do you figure to pull that off?”

  “Hey, you’re the one told me if you had a top stud for a month you could make enough to retire. Didn’t I get you a top stud?”

  “Yeah, well that was late at night I told you that. Sometimes the rye gets the better of me.”

  “I thought you had the connections.”

  “Jesus Christ, man. You stoled one of the best and most famous thoroughbreds in the world. What do you think you’re gonna do? Put an ad in the paper? Jumping Jack Flash, standing stud at Jim Burnside’s truck farm? Bring your broodmares, one and all?”

  “No, that’s not what I figured.”

  “Then what?”

  Dean drew himself up. “We’re gonna use artificial semination,” he said. “We’re gonna collect his whatdya call it—sperm—and we’re gonna sell it that way.”

  “They don’t do that with thoroughbreds,” Jim explained.

  “They don’t, but they can. And you know what else? You can freeze it. I been reading up on it. You know, if you got a cow you want to breed to some champion bull who’s been dead for ten years, you can do it. ’Cause they got his stuff frozen, up in Guelph or someplace. And you just put in you
r order, and they unthaw it and there you go.”

  Paulie, on his knees in the straw, had his hat in his hand, and he was filling the hat with squirming kittens. Each time he put one in, another would climb out.

  “I still don’t see how you can work it,” Jim was saying.

  “Easy,” Dean said. “We collect the horse’s stuff every day for, say, a month. And we freeze it. Then we give the horse back, on the condition they don’t press charges. And they won’t. Jackson will be so happy to get the nag back, he’ll agree to anything.”

  “What’re you gonna do with all this frozen semen?”

  “That’s where you come in,” Dean said. “You know these small owners. What’s this horse gonna go for when he stands stud. A hundred grand a pop?”

  “At least,” Jim said.

  “Right. Now these little guys aren’t gonna be able to touch that. But what if we tell ’em they can breed their mares to this horse for say—five grand?” Dean paused, looked for some sign of recognition on Jim’s face. “They’re gonna be throwing money at us, Jim.”

  “How you gonna talk a vet into doing it?”

  “I don’t need a vet. I can do it. I told you, I been studying up on this. All you need is a big syringe and a rubber glove. And the beauty is, you only need a few drops of the stuff. One drop has got like millions of them little eggs swimming around in there. That means we could have enough of this stuff to keep us going for years. I figure a gallon will make us millionaires. And not just here. Think about Kentucky, California, Florida.”

  Jim walked over to a grain bin and scooped out a small measure of oats with a battered tin bucket. He came back to the stall and offered the grain to the horse, who cleaned it up in seconds, then pushed his nose roughly against Jim’s arm, demanding more.

  “I don’t know,” Jim said at last. “I’m taking an awful risk.”

  “A loser looks at the risk,” Dean said sagely. “A winner looks at the gain.”

  “How you gonna get that stuff out of the horse?” Paulie interjected. He stood up and put his hat back on.

  Dean shot him a look, and Paulie shrugged his innocence.

  “Well, I’m gonna fix some lunch,” Jim said. “I have to think about this.”