by Brad Smith
“Next we have to figure how to change that bay into a chestnut,” Ray said. “We can use Pete’s bay mare as a guinea pig; she’s about the same color as the stud.”
“How you gonna do it?” Chrissie asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Ray said. “I’ve noticed that women like to color their hair.”
“This is my natural color, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Chrissie said. “I dyed my hair once, in high school. It was purple.”
“I can’t see us fooling a lot of people with a purple horse,” Pete said.
“I’ll go to the drugstore after lunch and see what they got in a chestnut brown,” Chrissie said. “We are gonna eat lunch, aren’t we?”
They went into the house, and Pete cooked up hamburgers and fried potatoes, and the four of them sat at the kitchen table to eat. Pete hung his hat on a peg inside the back door when he came in, and Paulie was halfway through his first hamburger before he noticed, and then he got up and hung his hat alongside. When they were finished eating, Pete made a pot of coffee, and they all had a cup.
“There’s one thing nobody’s mentioned,” Pete said. “How you gonna pass that stallion off as a gelding. And don’t tell me we’re gonna geld the sonofabitch.”
“Might improve his disposition if we did,” Ray said. “But no, we’re not gonna geld him. I figure he’s doing us a favor, and that’d be a hell of a way to repay a favor. The thing is, when it comes to cajones, a horse isn’t like an Aberdeen bull. You have to get pretty close to see ’em. I figure we braid his tail up, maybe weight it down some so he can’t swing it, and we’ll just take our chances. And he’s a nasty piece of work; nobody’s gonna want to get too close behind him. And when he’s on the track, the plan is for him to be moving so fast that nobody’ll get a look at anything.”
“What about afterward, in the winner’s circle?” Chrissie asked.
“That’s gonna take some fancy footwork,” Ray said.
“Because Sonny and Jackson Jones are both gonna be there,” Pete said. “Before and after.”
“I’m guessing Sonny will be in the bar,” Ray said. “Jackson will watch the race from the clubhouse, with the high hats. But you’re right; Jackson knows that horse better than anybody, and he’ll be tough to con. We have to get out of there before he gets close.”
“What about afterward?” Chrissie said. “The grooms and the hot walkers are gonna see something; you’re never gonna keep this quiet.”
“Monday, we tell Jackson he gets his horse back, safe and sound, if there’s no questions asked,” Ray said. “He’ll do it to get the horse back. And Jackson’s word is good.”
“What about Sonny?” Pete asked. “You gonna trust his word if he finds out?”
“Not on your nelly.”
Ray looked at Paulie across the table. Paulie was watching Chrissie at the counter, pouring more coffee. Pete was right; the kid seemed more at home on the farm each day.
“What if Sonny was in on it?” Ray asked.
“Yeah, we’ll just call him up,” Chrissie said.
Ray sat there thinking. “What if somebody else called him up?”
Ray dropped Chrissie off at the drugstore in the mall, and then he drove over to ask Tiny Montgomery where he might find Misty. Tiny sent him to the Ramada but said he didn’t know if she was still around. She’d only been at the club once since her encounter with Sonny, and that had been to get her pay.
“Hard to say where you might find her,” Tiny said as Ray left.
Ray thought about it as he drove across town, heading for the Ramada. Finding her would be the first problem.
Convincing her would be the second.
* * *
After Ray and Chrissie had left, Paulie gathered up the dishes and ran the sink full of water and set to washing them. Pete finished his coffee and then came over, dumped his cup in the dishwater, and then took up a dish towel and began to dry.
“I see you got a For Sale sign out front,” Paulie said.
“Yup,” Pete said. “You in the market?”
“No. I don’t have any money. It’s sure a nice farm, though.”
They finished up the dishes and then sat at the table while Pete had a cigarette and Paulie patted the Walker hound. It was a warm day, and there was no reason to have the space heater on. After a moment Pete went over and shut it off.
“Looks like I’m heading to Texas when this is over,” he said when he sat back down. “Ain’t really fair to drag that hound all that way at his age. Would you consider taking him?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t have anyplace for him,” Paulie said.
“Where do you live, anyway?” Pete asked.
“I just got a room at a motel.”
“You live in a motel?”
“Yeah, just a room.”
Pete put out his smoke in the ashtray. Paulie had hold of the loose skin at the scruff on the hound’s neck and was shaking it gently, and the hound had his eyes closed and his neck arched.
“How old are you, Paulie?”
“Twenty-three.”
Pete leaned back and looked out the window. The two broodmares and the new foal were moving along the fencerow in front of the barn, the mares walking single file, heading for some spot near the lane, where there was grazing or maybe something else altogether, something that would be of interest to broodmares only. The foal was full of piss and vinegar, kicking her heels and running back and forth, circling her mother, her head high. Less than a week old, and she was as confident as a cock rooster. Pete watched the horses, and he tried to recall being twenty-three.
He liked to tell stories about his wild youth—about the panhandle and oil derricks and flat-head Fords. Flush Fridays and busted flat Mondays. Pretty Texas girls in thin summer dresses. The problem was, he couldn’t remember what was truth and what was made up anymore. It was a hell of a thing when a man couldn’t distinguish between what he’d lived and what he’d invented.
“Maybe I’ll bring that mare up to the corral for Ray,” he heard Paulie say, and he turned to see him standing at the door, the Stetson in his hand.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “Take a pail of grain, she’ll come right to you.”
“Okay,” Paulie said, and he opened the door.
“Paulie, why do you suppose Sonny is the way he is?”
“I don’t know. My mother used to say that it just seemed like the devil had a lot more interest in Sonny than he did in other people.”
Paulie walked out onto the porch, and the hound followed him. After a few moments Pete saw him walking into the pasture field, a grain bucket in his hand, the animal still on his heels. It was the first time in a year the old dog had ventured that far from the house. Pete Culpepper sat at the kitchen table, watching the two crossing the field and trying to remember what it was like when he was twenty-three.
* * *
Sonny was in the den, watching the PGA on the satellite, when the phone rang. He set the clicker down, reached for the phone with one hand and his drink with the other. He said hello, watching the television.
“Sonny Stanton?”
“You got him.”
“This is Detective Frank Harmer,” the voice said. “Metro police.”
Sonny’s hand froze on his drink. “Is this about my horse?” he asked.
“No, it’s not about your horse. We’ve had a complaint lodged against you by a young woman. She claims you assaulted her.”
Sonny’s heart jumped in his throat. He took a drink, tried to keep his tone nonchalant. “Who is this woman?”
“She’s a dancer at a club. That’s all the information you get for now. Do you have anything to say about this?”
“Yeah—I never assaulted anybody.”
There was a short silence. “Listen, Sonny. I know your father.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Detective Frank Harmer.”
Sonny had never heard of the man. “You say you know Dad?”
“I’ve known him for twenty-five years. Now, there’s going to be a warrant issued for your arrest. I can stall it for twenty-four hours. If you can get in touch with this woman before then and settle this, maybe we can avoid a bad situation. You’ve had problems in this area before. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Sonny was staring at the set, and as he watched, Sergio Garcia sank a forty-foot putt for eagle, then leaped in the air and ran across the green, pumping his fist. Sonny took another drink and then set his glass down.
“This allegation is complete nonsense,” he said into the phone. “Let me talk to the woman.”
“You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
* * *
Pete hung the phone up and looked across the room at Ray, who was leaning against the counter and watching him expectantly. Chrissie and Paulie were sitting at the table, also looking on.
Pete just shrugged his shoulders. “Wait and see,” he said.
“Who’s Frank Harmer?” Ray asked.
“A good old Texas lawman from the days of yore,” Pete said.
“Does he know you’re using his name?” Chrissie asked.
“He’s dead,” Pete told her.
“So are we,” Chrissie told him, “if we get found out.”
* * *
There was a cold wind off the lake and a buildup of dark clouds over the green hills of Pennsylvania on the far shore. Etta parked in the driveway and got out of the car and was hit with the frigid air. Pulling her jacket around her, she hurried to the house. It had been unseasonably warm at her place.
In the kitchen, Mary greeted her with a hug and told her to sit down for coffee. Etta sat at the old wooden table. There was the smell of baking in the air, but then there always was. Today it held the promise of cinnamon and brown sugar.
“We haven’t seen you for a while,” Mary said. The coffee had been brewed, and she poured two cups.
“I’m sorry about that,” Etta said. “There’s been a lot going on.”
Mary sat down. “I’ll have some buns in about ten minutes.”
“Coffee’s fine,” Etta said. And then: “How is she?”
Mary offered a look that suggested she was growing weary of the question.
“I’m sorry,” Etta said. “Am I supposed to stop asking?”
Mary sipped at her coffee, then left the cup on the table as she got up to have a look in the oven. She used an oven mitt to pull a pan halfway out, then slid it back and closed the oven door. She sat down again, apparently satisfied that things were progressing as they should.
“Ray was here.”
“Today?” Etta asked in surprise.
“Last week.”
“Oh.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Oh, I’ve seen him. He’s about to get himself in shit.”
Elizabeth was sitting in the studio, wearing shapeless cotton pants and a heavy pullover and looking out the French doors. The room faced the lake, and the windows were inexpertly sealed, allowing the cold drafts to penetrate. She turned at the sound of Etta entering and smiled when she saw her.
“Hey,” Etta said.
When she moved closer she saw Elizabeth tense up, and she backed away at once, knowing that physical contact was not always welcome. Etta pulled a chair up and sat down. The paintings of the lake were scattered about the room; there must have been fifty of them in all. Etta looked from one to another, hoping to find some diverse subject matter and knowing in her heart that she wouldn’t. There was a half-finished canvas on the easel.
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
“Not really,” Elizabeth said. She was looking out over the water again. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
“I guess.”
Elizabeth smiled as if they had shared a joke, and she continued to watch out the window. In spite of the wind the surface of the bay was flat, with the occasional ripple skipping across the water like a series of flat stones.
“Ray was here,” Elizabeth said.
“So I keep hearing.”
“I think I’ve disappointed him.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“He expects me to be as strong as him.” The slight sad smile never left Elizabeth’s face.
“It’s not about strength. It’s about happiness. I think he would like for you to be happy.”
“Happiness.” After a moment Elizabeth turned her head toward Etta. “What does Ray know about happiness?”
“Well, you know your brother. I’m not convinced he believes it’s available to him. He’s his own version of Robin Hood—he believes he can give it to other people.”
Elizabeth’s smile was genuine this time. “Hooray for Robin Hood.”
Etta looked out over the lake and saw a man in a small aluminum punt heading out into the bay. The man appeared to be elderly, and he pulled stiffly at the oars, heading for a yellow buoy a couple hundred yards from the rock point that marked the west edge of the inlet.
When he reached the buoy the man tied the boat to it and then bent over the side of the punt and pulled up an iron anchor to which was attached a plastic water line and foot valve. The man unfastened the anchor and put it and the buoy in the boat and then tied the water line to the bow. Etta watched as he started back for shore, the punt pulsing slowly forward with each stroke of the oars. The water line formed a wide arc on the surface and followed him along.
“Have you been painting?” she heard Elizabeth ask.
“Not really.”
“How long has it been?”
“A long time. I haven’t painted since … it’s been a long time.”
“You haven’t painted since I was raped,” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly. “Isn’t it strange that I still paint and you don’t?”
“I don’t know that I would call this painting, what you do,” Etta said, looking about the studio. “You may have fallen into a bit of a rut, kid.”
“You can only paint what you feel. If you’re honest, anyway. Every time I sit at the easel I start a different painting, and every time I paint the same scene. My hands are no longer connected to my brain. I want to be me, and yet I can’t be.”
She stopped talking and was now watching the man in the aluminum punt. She was still smiling the wan smile but there were tears in her eyes.
“Do you know what I mean?” Elizabeth asked Etta.
“Not really.”
“He didn’t leave enough of me to live my life.”
Etta left with that and a half-dozen apple cinnamon buns. Following the lake road, she drove slowly until her eyes dried and her anger settled into something more manageable, resentment maybe. When she reached the highway she went into a convenience store and bought her first pack of cigarettes in ten years.
She headed back north, smoking and punching the radio buttons in search of something that might improve her mood. Maybe Coltrane would help. Or Cohen. Hell, she’d give old Spike Jones a try if she could find him on the dial.
She wondered what it would be like to feel at peace with the world. She’d long held the suspicion that she was missing out on one extraordinary truth just around the corner. So she had kept turning corners, only to find more.
It was around one such corner that she’d found Ray. And while he was not the truth she’d been seeking, he was indeed one of the things she’d been missing. Not that he’d been looking for the same. With Ray, it was never a matter of spiritual enlightenment or a quest for one shining moment. His motives were a lot simpler than that. In fact, he was a lot simpler than that. With him it was all instinct, and that was one of the things she admired about him. It was also the thing that drove her crazy.
* * *
It was midafternoon and sunny when Etta pulled into the driveway at Pete Culpepper’s place. She drove up beside Pete’s pickup, parked, and got out. There was a crowd in the corral off the end of the barn. Pete was sitting on a wooden chair just outside the barn door; he had a western saddle on a stand in f
ront of him and he was working oil into the leather with a cloth. Ray was standing beside him, leaning against the wall. Paulie stood at the head of a bay horse, and the jockey Chrissie was kneeling down beside the animal’s flank, which was splotched here and there with various shades and shapes of brown. On the ground there were two buckets of water and several packages of hair-color kits from the drugstore, all opened and scattered about. A chestnut horse was standing to one side, tethered to a post, watching the proceedings. All six of them looked up as Etta walked over.
“That horse named Joseph?” she asked.
“Who the fuck would call a mare Joseph?” Chrissie demanded.
“Well, it’s got a coat of many colors.”
Etta ducked down and slipped through the railing into the corral. When she straightened up, Ray was smiling at her. She shrugged just a little, holding his eyes, and then she looked at Pete and said hello.
“Nice to see you, Etta.”
She turned to the kid Paulie and said hello. She saw that he was healing nicely, what she could see of him under the oversized hat. Then she walked over and gave the various dye jobs on the mare a close scrutiny. Chrissie was staring at her like she might throw a punch. After looking at the mare, Etta turned to her and said, “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Well, it ain’t Annie Oakley,” Chrissie said.
Etta smiled at that, and she nodded toward the gelding. “That the color you’re going for?”
Ray walked over then, thinking he might have to get between the two women. “We’re not having a lot of luck. Horse hair is different than human hair.”
“Gee, do you think?” Etta asked. “Do the people at Clairol know about this?”
She walked around the other side of the mare, where her flank was still a fresh canvas, and had a long look. Then she glanced over at the gelding.
“The race is tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
“What’s the weather?”
“Cool but sunny, that’s what they’re saying,” Ray said. “Why?”
Etta took another look at the mare. “I’ll be back.”
She got into her car and drove off. Chrissie stood by the fence, her bottom lip pushed out just a little.
Ray regarded her a moment and decided to change the subject. “You make arrangements for the track pony?”