Hugger Mugger

NINE

I WAS HAVING breakfast with Billy Rice off the back of a commissary truck parked under some high pines at the edge of the Three Fillies training track.

"Donuts put a nice foundation under your morning," Rice said.

"Go good with coffee too," I said.

Across from us the track was empty, except for Hugger Mugger. We could hear him breathing in the short heavy way that horses breathe. His chest was huge. His legs were positively dainty, the odd, beautiful result of endless selectivity. A half-ton heart-lung machine on legs smaller than mine. His only function was to run a mile or so, in two minutes or so. Rice watched him all the time while we ate our donuts.

"Great horse?" I said.

"Be a great horse," Rice said.

"Doesn't look that different."

"Ain't what makes a great horse," Billy said. "Same as any athlete. He got to have the right body, and the right training. Then he got to have the heart. One with the heart be the great one."

"And he's got it?"

"Yes, he do."

"How do you know?"

Rice was too gentle a man to be scornful. But he came close.

"I know him," Rice said.

He was smallish. Not smallish like a jockey, just smallish compared to me. He wore jeans and sneakers and a polo shirt and a baseball cap that read THREE FILLIES across the front, over the bill. Martin, the trainer, leaned on the fence watching Hugger Mugger. And four Security South sentinels stood around the track.

"Tell me about the prowler," I said.

Rice sipped his coffee. His dark eyes were thoughtful and opaque, a little like the eyes of the racehorses.

"Nothing much to tell. I sleeping with Hugger. I hear a noise, shine my flashlight, see a gun. When I shine my light, the gun goes away. I hear footsteps running. Then nothing."

"You didn't follow?"

"I don't have no gun. Am I going out in the dark, chase somebody got a gun?"

"No," I said. "You're not."

"How 'bout you?" Rice said.

"I'm not either," I said. "Can you describe the gun?"

"No. Don't know much 'bout guns."

"Handgun or long gun?"

"Long gun."

"Shotgun or rifle?"

"Don't know."

"One barrel or two?"

"One."

"What kind of front sight?"

"Don't know," Rice said. "Only saw it in the flashlight for a second."

"Color?"

"Color? What color is a gun barrel? It was iron-colored."

"Bluish?"

"Yes, I guess."

"How about the footsteps? Heavy? Light? Fast? Slow?"

"Just footsteps, sounded like running. It was on the dirt outside the stable. Didn't make a lot of noise."

"Any smells?"

"Smells?"

"Hair tonic, shaving lotion, cologne, perfume, mouthwash, tobacco, booze, liniment."

"Sleeping in the stable," Rice said, "mostly everything smells like horses."

I nodded.

"They going to bring Jimbo out," Rice said. "Time to get Hugger out the way."

The exercise rider brought Hugger Mugger to the rail. Billy snapped the lead shank onto his bridle. The exercise rider climbed down, and Billy led Hugger Mugger back toward the stable area. As they walked their heads were very close together, as if they were exchanging confidences. The security guards moved in closer around Hugger Mugger as he walked, and by the time he'd reached the stable area they were around him like the Secret Service.

I moved up beside Hale Martin. Coming from the stable area toward the track was an entourage of horses and horse keepers. There was a big chestnut horse with a rider up and a groom on either side holding a shank. With them were two other horsemen, one on each side. The chestnut was tossing his head and skittering sideways as he came.

"Jimbo?" I said to Martin.

"Jimbo," Martin said.

The outriders gave with him as Jimbo skittered, and closed back in on him when he stopped. Riding him was a red-haired girl who might have been seventeen. The grooms and the outriders were men. One of the outriders had a cast on his right leg. He rode to the right, so that the injured leg was away from Jimbo.

"What about the guy with the cast?" I said.

Martin grinned.

"Jimbo," he said.

When Jimbo was on the track, the outriders peeled off and sat their horses in the shade near the track entrance. The grooms unsnapped their lead shanks at the same time and stepped quickly away. Jimbo reared and made horse noises. The red-haired girl held his head straight, sitting high up on his shoulders as if she were part of the horse. She gave him a light tap on the backside with her whip, and Jimbo tossed his head and began to move down the track.

"Run him a lot," I said. "Get him tired."

"Just makes him cranky," Martin said, his eyes following Jimbo. The redhead let him out and he began to sprint.

"Has he killed anyone yet?"

"Nope."

"But he might," I said.

"He wants to," Martin said.

"You have to handle him like this all the time?"

"Yep."

"Is it worth the bother?"

"He can run," Martin said.

"How about gelding?"

"Somebody gelded John Henry," Martin said. "Do you know how much money that cost them?"

"Stud fees?"

"You bet."

"You mean you'd let Jimbo loose with a mare?"

"He's different around mares," Martin said.

"Him too," I said.