All Hat (13 page)

He finished his pie and leaned back, lit a cigarette. He offered the pack to her, but she passed. He blew smoke into the air, and then he heard Homer's voice: “What the hell is he doing here?”

Homer was standing in the doorway to the living room. His pants were unbuckled—presumably he was going to or coming from the bathroom. His eyes were narrow, his fists bunched.

“Hello, Homer,” Ray said.

“You're not welcome here. Get the hell out.”

“Dad,” Etta said.

“Goddamn hoodlum—get out of my house,” Homer said.

“Come on, Dad,” Etta said. “You promised I could have a hoodlum over if I was good.”

She stood up and moved him into the living room. Ray could hear her talking to him in there, and then he heard footsteps ascending the stairs. A minute later she was back, helping herself to one of his cigarettes.

“Fine time for him to recognize somebody.”

“What are you gonna do?” he asked after a moment.

“What am I gonna do about what?”

“You can't live like this. You'll turn into some sad old spinster.”

“And you'll be what—the lonely old bachelor? Hey, maybe we can fix up the barn and put on a production of
The Glass Menagerie.
”

Ray took a drink of coffee and changed the subject. “You're broke, aren't you?”

“You think I'm gonna discuss my financial affairs with the hired hand? Are all you roofers this presumptuous?”

“You're broke.”

“Maybe I am. What I don't know is how that might affect you, Mr. Dokes.”

“It doesn't affect me. It just seems there's a lot of that going around. I thought this was a rich country.” He took a drink of coffee. “I couldn't care less how you live your life. Who you spend time with.”

“Well, that's good to know.” She was smiling with her eyes, but not with her mouth.

“Sonny been back?”

“Yes, sir. His father had a stroke, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, he did. And Sonny's got power of attorney, or so he claims. You think he was the big frog in the puddle before, well, look out.”

“He's still pushing Homer to sell?”

“Yeah, but very gently. Sonny seems to have developed some diplomacy of late. Which makes him a little bit scarier, if anything. A fucking monster with tact.”

“I don't like you even talking to him.”

“I don't like talking to him, Ray. But short of calling the cops, how do I keep him off my farm?”

“You could call me.”

“Yeah? Did you like jail that much?”

He looked away from her. She stood up then, went over and put her hand lightly on the back of his neck.

“I'm not going to deal with Sonny Stanton,” she promised. “And neither is Homer. I'd set a match to the place first. And don't worry about my finances, Ray.”

“I told you—it doesn't matter to me.”

“Yes, it does. And I'm glad it does. But you have to have a little faith.” She saw his eyes go to the Bible. “I'm talking secular here. You should try it sometime, cowboy. Believe me, it'll make your life a whole lot easier.”

“That something else you got from your boyfriend?”

“Tim? Naw, he's more in the nonsecular vein. And did I say he was my boyfriend?”

“You didn't say he wasn't.”

She walked him to the car, thanked him again for the roof. Driving away, he watched her in the rearview, walking easily across the lawn, barefoot in the faded summer dress.

*   *   *

Ray headed south on the side road and thought about the concept of secular faith. What she couldn't understand was that certain things were unavailable to certain people. It frustrated him that she'd never been able to understand that about him. Of course, it was her inability to understand it that made her so at ease in the world.

Thinking about the concept of secular faith made him thirsty. He drove past the Slamdance, thought about the two slugs he'd encountered last time he'd been there, and kept going. A couple of blocks along, he turned back. He'd drink where he wanted.

The place wasn't busy, this early in the day. Tiny Montgomery was behind the bar. Ray ordered a beer and sat himself on a stool. A weary-looking blonde with bad implants was moving slowly on the stage, looking like she'd rather be somewhere else.

“So what're you up to, Ray?” Tiny asked.

“I don't know, Tiny,” Ray said. “Spinning my wheels.”

“Where you living?”

“Out at Pete Culpepper's spread.”

The waitress came to the counter. Tiny supplied her with a couple Caesars and a draft, deposited the cash in the register. “Pete still in the thoroughbred business?”

“About half ass,” Ray said.

“Aw, you gotta be rich to play that game these days,” Tiny said. “I haven't even been to the track in years. I quit my gambling about the same time I quit drinking. One was no fun without the other, and they were both about to kill me.”

“Speaking of the track, who were those two guys in here last week, tried to buy me a lap dance? The woman said they were some kin to Earl Stanton.”

Tiny took a moment to think back. “Oh, Dean and Paulie,” he said. “Yeah, they're nephews or cousins or something. They're just flunkies for the stable. Paulie's a good kid, you get to know him. Dean's your basic ten-cent wise guy.”

“I thought maybe they were working for Sonny, looking to catch me alone.”

“They got no more use for Sonny than you do, if that's possible. It was probably just Dean, trying to make friends. He's a bit of a rounder, one of these guys who works real hard at being lazy.”

Ray drank from his beer and took a look around the room. The blonde finished up, and she departed the stage like a man caught cheating at cards.

“Well, he's barking up the wrong tree if he thinks I'm some kind of outlaw,” Ray said. “I'm just a working man these days. I don't have enough energy to get myself into trouble. And I figure that's a good thing.”

“So you're walking the line,” Tiny said.

“I'm walking it. Straight and narrow.”

A new dancer walked out on stage. She was slightly built, but she could actually dance. She started off to a song by Madonna, whom she favored. The boys in the front row perked up right away.

“You ever think about the old days, Ray?” Tiny asked. “High school football?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“When we played football, that's all I cared about. Even now, I play those games over and over again in my head. I swear I can remember every play.” He hesitated, as if maybe he'd revealed too much. “Thing is, that was the best time of my life. I never once gave a thought to where I'd be twenty years later. And look where I am.”

“You're making a living, Tiny. Taking care of business.”

“I guess I am,” Tiny said resignedly. “And you're walking the line.”

Ray took a long pull on his beer and watched the material girl for a moment. “You know the problem with walking the line?”

“What's the problem?”

“There's no surprises, Tiny. You got that line in front of you, far as you can see, and that's it. I used to like to get surprised once in a while.”

“You will be again.”

“Yeah—when?”

“You can't know that. It'd ruin the surprise.”

When Ray finished the second beer he decided to go. As he pushed the glass away and shook his head at Tiny to indicate he was done the front door opened and Jackson Jones walked in. He stood in the entranceway and looked with squinted eyes about the room. It was apparent he hadn't stopped by for a drink. After a moment he walked to the bar and spoke to Tiny.

“Dean and Paulie been in?” he asked.

“Haven't seen them,” Tiny said.

Jackson shook his head. “I swear those two could get lost in a shoe box.”

When he turned to go he saw Ray, and surprise flickered across his face. He hesitated, then said, “Ray.”

“Hello, Jack.”

Jackson took a moment to decide on something. Then he looked back to Tiny. “Rye and water. And another beer for Ray.”

Ray nodded his agreement, and Jackson sat down beside him at the bar and watched as Tiny brought the drinks.

“How you doing, Jack?” Ray asked.

“Good.”

“How's the thoroughbred business?”

“We're having a real good year.” Jackson took a sip of whiskey. His hands, Ray noticed, were huge, the fingers long and square at the tips. “We're running this four-year-old in the Breeders' Classic.”

“That's what I heard. I hear he's quite a horse.”

“The best I ever trained. He was an expensive colt; the old man paid damn near a million for him. But he's one that's gonna pay off, just on running alone. Then, if he's a good stud—”

“That's gravy.”

“That's gravy,” Jackson agreed. “What're you doing, Ray—still playing ball?”

“I'm a roofer these days.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jackson paused a moment. “Sonny know you're out?”

“Yep.” Ray took a drink of beer and set the glass on the bar. “I saw him at an auction sale over at the town line.”

“Right. Sonny's buying up a lot of farmland. God only knows why.”

“I'm done with him, Jack.”

Jackson nodded. “You got a raw deal, Ray. Everybody knows it. But Sonny's just Sonny, and that's not ever gonna change.”

“Yup. Sonny's just Sonny, and everybody figures they got to live with it. You too, Jack.”

“You asking me why?”

Ray shrugged. “Not my business.”

Jackson drank off his rye and signaled for another. “I'll tell you a story, Ray. Happened twenty years ago. Sonny was what, fifteen or sixteen—no, he had to be sixteen because he was driving this new Corvette the old man bought him. Anyway, he was in a big golf tournament, some junior championship. And Earl was supposed to be there, to watch his boy. Well, Earl forgot all about it, of course, and he spent the day at the electronics plant. Sonny wins the tournament, and he brings this big trophy home and throws it in the driveway and runs it over about ten times with his car. Pissed at the old man, you see?”

“Sounds like Sonny.”

“Well, that's nothing. I've never told anybody the rest of the story. Earl was just new to racing then. He had a two-year-old he bought at the Kentucky sales, paid a hundred grand, which was a lot of money back then. Good-looking colt out of Northern Dancer. Same night as the golf tournament, somebody took a steel pipe to that colt, damn near killed the animal. I found the pipe a few weeks later, stashed in some hay bales in the mow. That horse was never worth a dime after that.”

“That's a sad story,” Ray admitted. “But you know what I know, Jack. Nothing you say about Sonny is gonna surprise me.”

Jackson took his fresh drink and had a sip. There was genuine sadness in his eyes. “He was sixteen years old, Ray. Sixteen.”

*   *   *

Sonny played cards at the club until midnight, when the last of the players, facing work in the morning, begged off and headed home. Sonny, who didn't have to work tomorrow, or any other morrow, got into his car and headed for the casino. There was little traffic, and he ran the BMW up to 160 on the thruway, punching the radio stations with one hand as he drove.

Inside he dropped a quick two hundred on the slots and then made his way to the back room, where Big Billy Coon was sitting behind a desk with a skinny guy in a black suit. The guy looked Indian, Pakistani maybe. There was nobody else in the room.

“Hey Billy,” Sonny said. “Where is everybody?”

“Slow night. Mondays,” Billy told him. “Grab yourself a drink.”

There was a full bar at the far end of the room. Sonny walked over and helped himself to a vodka and tonic. Billy looked at Sonny, then at the skinny guy and nodded his head. When Sonny came back he sat down at the poker table, put his feet up, flashing his thousand-dollar Tony Llamas.

“This is Raul,” Billy said. “Sonny Stanton. Sonny's in the thoroughbred business.”

“Oh?” Raul said.

Sonny shrugged off his own importance like a pretty girl deflecting a compliment and took a long drink of vodka. Raul walked over and sat down at the poker table. Billy got up from the desk then and went to the bar for a coke.

“So you're an owner?” Raul asked.

“He owns the horse that's gonna win the Classic next month,” Billy Coon said and he joined the two of them at the poker table.

“You got an early line on that yet?” Sonny asked.

“Yup,” Billy said. “You can get four to one on Jumping Jack Flash right now. Horse will be two to one the day of the race. Maybe not even that.”

“I don't know,” Sonny said. “There's a couple of hot horses from Europe running.”

“Bet 'em then,” Billy said. “I can get you ten, fifteen to one on both those nags. You should load up on 'em. Except we both know they aren't gonna win.”

Sonny smiled and had another drink. “How long can I get four to one?”

“Today. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not.”

“Okay,” Sonny said. “Give me ten grand on the nose.”

“You got it,” Billy said. “I've been looking to introduce you to Raul here. He's an investor. What's going on with that piece of land you got in Holden County?”

“I still got a couple of farms to buy,” Sonny said.

“That's not what I asked.”

“No?”

“What're you gonna do with the land?”

“Become a farmer.”

“No, you're not.” Billy looked at Raul. “Sonny's got a secret.”

Raul appeared disinterested. “What's his secret?”

“Nobody knows; that's what makes it a secret,” Billy said. “One day he's gonna build a broodmare operation; the next it's a subdivision. Then I hear he's looking to put in a casino. That one's kinda tricky, though. The government doesn't let just anybody build a casino. You have to be charity minded. Or an honest-to-goodness Injun. I don't figure Sonny here fits either profile.”