All Hat

by Brad Smith

  By the time she got downstairs Sonny was already in the house, standing in the doorway to the living room and looking at Homer.

  After a moment Homer turned toward him. “Sonny!” he shouted. “My old buddy—come on in!”

  “Homer, would you shut up,” Etta said sharply as she walked past him. “He’s not your old buddy.”

  Sonny looked wired and cocky, his eyes drooped with fatigue or booze or whatever. Etta was incensed that he would walk right in.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Etta, what’re you doing hiring a lawyer? You gotta be smarter than that.”

  “Sonny! Want a drink?” Homer was grinning.

  “Homer, would you stop,” Etta said. “You better leave,” she told Sonny.

  “Listen, I’ll tear up the note,” Sonny said, slurring the first word. “You’ll end up losing the place anyway. Sell it to me outright. I’ll forgive whatever’s owed, give you a good price.” He stumbled over the last word as well.

  “I’m not dealing with you,” Etta said. “I’ll take a bath on the place before I sell to you.”

  “I’d like to see you take a bath, Etta. When’s this gonna happen?”

  “You’ll be leaving now, Sonny.”

  She stepped past him, toward the door, hoping he would follow her lead. He stood his ground and looked again at Homer.

  “What do you need all this land for anyway?” he asked. “You’re no farmer, and that idiot over there can’t tie his shoes.”

  “You’re sick,” she said. “Are you even aware of that?”

  She saw him stiffen, but he turned and walked to the door. She followed, anxious to usher him out. He moved slowly, insolently, making a show of taking in the contents of the room. He turned back to her at the door and smiled, looking to see if he was out of Homer’s sight. Suddenly, his hand was on her throat.

  “Don’t ever talk to me like that,” he said, his voice cheery and light, as if he was imparting an amiable bit of advice. His breath was terrible.

  Etta gripped his wrist with her left hand and at the same time slipped her right hand onto the pistol in her pocket. “Get your hand off me,” she said, trying to control her tone, in spite of the fear.

  Sonny increased the pressure for a second, cutting off her wind. “Why don’t you call your boyfriend?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s Dokes? Come on, Etta. You think this is about you? I could care less about you and this shit-hole. But your man Ray is gonna answer for what he did.”

  “I don’t see him. I have no idea where he is.”

  “Now don’t you lie to me.” Sonny released his grip. His voice remained light. “You might piss me off, and I’m not a lot of fun when I’m pissed off. Ask Ray’s sister, although I think she kinda liked it. Hard to tell with a retard.”

  When he was gone she pulled the gun from her pocket and looked at it. She had no idea how to shoot the thing. But she was very curious about the fact that she had been willing to try.

  She had to work that night, another twelve-hour shift. She left Homer with Mabel and drove into town. She told Mabel to lock the doors and not open them to anyone. She was still shaking as she drove, nearly an hour after he’d left. What if he’d have shown up an hour later, with Etta gone? She doubted Mabel was a match for Sonny.

  It was a quiet night at the hospital. There was an emergency cesarean early on, and then nothing until eleven o’clock when two young hockey players came in, both bleeding freely from cuts on their faces. They’d duked it out on the ice and then been driven by their respective trainers to the hospital for repairs. They were loud and obnoxious, the pair of them, all testosterone boast and bad judgment. After Doctor Wan, who’d performed the cesarean, stitched up their wounds, they began to yap at each other in the reception area and then ended up in another fistfight in the parking lot. Both had their stitches ripped open. After the fight they traipsed back inside for more treatment. Doctor Wan went ballistic at the prospect; it took Etta and the reception nurse fifteen minutes to convince him to stitch them up again. By this time, both players were sitting side by side in the waiting room, looking sheepish and talking about going for a beer.

  When Etta got off in the morning, she drove over to the parish and was relieved to see Tim Regan’s car in the parking lot. She found him in the rectory, drinking coffee and poring over some papers, the nature of which appeared, to Etta’s eye, to be more financial than spiritual.

  “Well, Miss Nightingale,” Tim said when he saw her outfit.

  “Hi, Tim,” Etta said, and she sat down. She indicated the ledger. “Trying to figure out how the church can buy my farm?”

  “The church has more interest in your soul than your acreage, Etta.”

  “Then I’ll sell ’em both to you,” Etta said. “Give you a good deal, padre. Two for one. How can you say no?”

  Regan closed the ledger and leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his neck. He wore jeans and a ribbed sweater. He hadn’t shaved, and he looked more like a weekend sportsman than a priest.

  “How’s it going, Etta?”

  “Oh, you know,” she said easily. “Good days and bad. How about you?”

  “Life is good,” he said simply.

  “Oh, did I mention that I almost shot a man last night?”

  Regan came forward in his chair, bringing his hands down on the desk. He waited in vain for some indication of jocularity. “Maybe you’d better tell me about it.”

  “Sonny Stanton showed up on my doorstep, fired up on liquor and pharmaceuticals. Advising me that he was in the catbird’s seat and that I’d be wise to sell to him, rather than look for a buyer elsewhere. He called my father names, and then we ended up by the back door with his grimy hand around my throat. I had my hand on a gun in my pocket, and I was thinking real seriously about busting one of the commandments, Tim. The big one.”

  “Why do you have a gun?”

  “I’ve been dating Charlton Heston. Shouldn’t you be more concerned with the fact that I was thinking about using it?”

  “I am. I’m also concerned that he’s walking into your house like this. Did you call the police?”

  “No. What’re they gonna do—give him a stern talking-to like they did when he raped Elizabeth?”

  “There are laws to protect you, Etta.”

  “I don’t have a lot of faith in them.”

  “Lack of faith seems to be your problem these days.”

  “Lack of money is my problem these days. I don’t want him to end up with the place, Tim. Especially after last night. And if I sell it to somebody else, he’ll just step in and buy it from them. Plus, I’ll still have to pay him the forty thousand I owe. But if I sell it to the church, then you won’t sell to him. He’ll be screwed. Even Sonny Stanton has gotta back down from the Catholic Church.”

  He listened to her discourse, his eyes on the desktop. There was fatigue in her voice, and an urgency that she was trying hard to disguise. When he looked up she was watching him with feigned optimism.

  “Etta,” he said. “This just isn’t something the church is involved in. You must know that.”

  She brushed off his apology and got to her feet. “Well, I thought maybe you could have a chat with … the powers that be.”

  “I speak to Him every day.”

  “Yeah?” She got to her feet and pointed to the paperwork on the table. “What do you and the big guy do to pass the time these days—crunch a few numbers?”

  “That’s not fair, Etta.”

  “You let me know when you find something that is,” she said, and she left.

  20

  Paulie leaned against the section of rail fence that separated the bean field from the bush lot and watched Chrissie ride Jumping Jack Flash. The field belonged to Pete’s neighbor to the west, and it had been recently harvested; the leaves left behind provided a cushion underfoot, and while it wasn’t the ideal track for working a horse, it was the best they cou
ld do under the circumstances. It wasn’t like they could take the animal to Woodbine and run him for the whole world to see.

  The horse had been idle since the kidnaping, and he was revved up and ready to run. Chrissie had held him in at first, loping him around the perimeter of the field, and then finally ran him flat-out for a distance she guessed to be about six furlongs.

  Paulie stood along the fence and watched. He was wearing an old Stetson given to him by Pete Culpepper. The hat had seen many years, and there was a hole in the crease on the crown, and it was maybe half a size too big for Paulie’s head, coming to rest on his ears. Paulie had been real attached to the hat he’d lost in the parking lot, but he was already partial to the Stetson.

  After running the horse out, Chrissie cantered him back to the fencerow where Paulie stood. The horse was still full of energy, prancing sideways and snorting, fighting the bit. Paulie took him by the bridle and talked to him, and he settled. Chrissie crossed her leg over the saddle and patted the bay’s neck.

  “Oh, Paulie,” she said. “I never had a horse like this under me. This motherfucker can fly. I never even put the pedal down.”

  “We better walk him out,” Paulie said.

  She jumped down and removed the saddle while Paulie slipped the bridle off and replaced it with a nylon hackamore. Then they started back for the barn through the bush, where a lane had been cut for snowmobilers and dirt bikers, Chrissie carrying the saddle, Paulie leading the horse by the halter.

  Ray had tracked down Chrissie at Woodbine, where she’d been picking up a few mounts for the big boys. When he’d approached her with the scheme to fix a race, she’d turned him down immediately, was actually pissed that he would suggest it.

  When he’d mentioned that it was Sonny Stanton who would get screwed, she’d changed her mind.

  Now she and Paulie and the bay stallion made their way through the trees, with the leaves underfoot and the bare branches of the hardwoods overhead. The sky was overcast and gray, a typical November day, but there was no wind and the temperature was mild. As they walked the horse continually nuzzled at Paulie’s pocket, looking for a treat, but Pete had warned Paulie not to spoil the animal before the race.

  “One thing about him,” Paulie remembered as they walked. “He hates to go into the starting gate. You have to trick him: open the gate so he thinks he can go right through; then when he’s in, slam ’em both shut, front and back.”

  “I’ve seen that before,” Chrissie said.

  “Well, that’s what you gotta do.”

  They came out of the bush and onto the lane that led back to the barn and Pete Culpepper’s house. The lane was bordered by split-rail fences, and the grass underfoot was soft and tangled. There was a pond along the edge of the bush, and as they passed, a half-dozen mallards burst forth from the reedy shore, squawking loudly as they flew off.

  “So do you think he can win?” Paulie asked.

  Chrissie snorted. “They’d have to stick a rocket up that gray’s ass for him to beat this horse. And there’s nothing else in the race.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Chrissie looked at Paulie’s face, at the black eye and the stitches that surrounded it. Ray had told her about the incident behind the Tap. She’d spent most of the past two days with the kid and the horse; Chrissie had always had a special rapport with animals, but she’d never seen anyone who could put a horse at ease like Paulie. The stallion was like a damn snapping turtle with anybody who got close to him. All Paulie had to do was speak to the animal, and he quieted down like he’d been drugged.

  “We’ll win the race,” she told him. “It’s the rest of it I’m not too sure about. I don’t know if anybody’s ever pulled something like this off before.”

  “But if they did and never got caught, you’d never know. Ray seems like a pretty smart guy.”

  “Ray’s a pretty determined guy. As far as him being smart, I guess we’re gonna find out about that.”

  * * *

  When they got back to the barn Ray was in the stall with the gelding Fast Market. He had a large pair of tin snips in his hand, and he was cutting the cast from the horse’s leg. The gelding was standing patiently under the task, his shoulder close along the wall of the stall. When Paulie and Chrissie passed with the stallion, the horse threw his head in the air and showed his teeth to the gelding, but Paulie kept him straight and led him into the stall at the back of the barn. Paulie rubbed him down with an old blanket and began to brush him out.

  Chrissie watched for a moment, and then she came back and leaned over the top rail of the gelding’s stall and looked in.

  “How’d he run?” Ray asked.

  “Like Seabiscuit,” Chrissie said. “You sure that cast is ready to come off?”

  “I hope so. We’re gonna need this horse on Sunday.”

  “What you gonna need him for?”

  “Well, that’s part of the overall plan.”

  Ray was cutting with one hand now, while clumsily pulling the cast away from the leg with the other, mindful of catching the horse’s leg with the snips. Chrissie opened the stall door and went inside to help.

  “Why don’t you tell me the overall plan?” she asked.

  “I would,” Ray said. “But I’m afraid you might cut and run.”

  “I don’t cut and run, cowboy.”

  She grabbed the fiberglass with both hands and pulled it apart while Ray cut. They had the cast off in a couple minutes. The leg was foul smelling, and Ray went into the house for a bucket of warm water and a quart of rubbing alcohol. He and Chrissie cleaned the horse’s leg and then rubbed him down with the alcohol.

  “Well, let’s take him outside and let him walk,” Ray said.

  Paulie was finished with the stallion now, and he followed them outside to the corral. He and Ray leaned on the fence and watched as Chrissie walked the gelding slowly around the enclosure. The horse was uneasy putting weight on the leg.

  “He’s got a limp for sure,” Chrissie said.

  “That’s good,” Ray said. “I want him to favor it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yup.”

  “I suppose that’s part of the overall plan?”

  “Yup.”

  They heard a vehicle and turned to see Pete Culpepper coming down the driveway in his pickup. He parked in front of the house and then got out and walked over. He was wearing an old pair of dress pants and a blue suit coat over a denim shirt, his good Stetson. Dressed up, for Pete.

  “Is he sound?” he said, looking at the gelding.

  “Sound enough, I hope,” Ray said. “How’d you make out?”

  “Do I look like a crazy old man?” Pete asked by way of reply.

  Ray stole a quick glance at the others, who were watching Pete warily.

  “Why would you ask that?” Ray said.

  “I want to know if I look like a crazy old man,” Pete said. “Because when I went to Woodbine and entered my nine-year-old gelding in the Stanton Stakes, everybody there looked at me like I was a crazy old man.”

  Ray was lighting a cigarette, and he grinned around the smoke. “I bet they did.”

  “The part that worries me is they might be right,” Pete said.

  “Well, I could tell you that you aren’t any crazier than the rest of us, but that probably wouldn’t give you much consolation,” Ray said.

  “Not one bit.”

  Pete pushed his hat back with his thumb and put his foot on the bottom rail of the corral. Ray watched as Paulie copied the old man’s moves precisely, looking over slyly to see if he had the hat just right.

  Chrissie walked the gelding over to the far side of the corral and back again. The animal wasn’t favoring the leg so much that he seemed to be in actual pain, Ray decided. The joint would be stiff from the cast, and the animal was just naturally cautious about it.

  “I guess we can put him back inside,” Ray said.

  Paulie went and opened the barn door for Chrissie, and they both w
ent inside with the horse.

  “So there was no problem?” Ray asked. “Other than the question of your sanity?”

  “I had to pay a supplement for late entry,” Pete said.

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “Where the hell’d you get five grand? Oh—the ten you got from that acre piece?”

  “I gave that back.” Pete took a half plug of Redman from his pocket and bit off a chaw. He turned toward the barn for a moment, then spit in the dirt. “Chrissie put it up.”

  “Jesus.” Ray hung his forearms over the top rail. “I don’t know about this, Pete. I’ve always been real willing to fuck up my own life, but I never liked to drag other people into it. If this blows up in our faces, there’s gonna be a lot of people in a lot of trouble.”

  “Well, we ain’t quittin’ now, Ray.” Pete nodded toward the barn. “That Paulie—he’s a damn good kid. You see the change in him already? Hell, he even walks different. When he first got here, he’d walk into a room like he was apologizing for something. And now he don’t. All I did was give him an old hat, and he thinks I’m the second coming. He’s been told his whole life he ain’t worth nothin’, by people like Sonny Stanton. Calling him down and hitting on him. His whole life. Now maybe I done a few things I shouldn’t have done, and maybe you done a few things you shouldn’t have done, and maybe when the last steer is branded we ain’t much better than Sonny. But I gotta believe we’re a little bit better than Sonny, and I’d like to show that kid that it’s so. I’d like to show him that the Sonny Stantons in the world don’t always come out on top.”

  It was a long speech for Pete Culpepper. When it was done Ray looked at his old friend a moment, and then he flicked his cigarette into the dirt. “I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself,” he said.

  When Chrissie came out of the barn she was carrying a short length of hemp rope in her hand, and with it she was showing Paulie how to make a hackamore. Paulie hung on her every word like it was the gospel, and when she was finished she pulled the rigging apart and let him have a try. Then she walked over to Ray and asked, “What’s next, boss?”