Hugger Mugger

FORTY-FIVE

THE FILES WERE locked, but I figured there'd be a key somewhere. People who would leave the office key hanging on a nail in the tack room wouldn't be terribly fastidious about the file cabinet. It wouldn't be too high because then Penny couldn't reach it easily. And it wouldn't be too far because people hate to bother. In about five minutes I found it, hanging on a hook in the lavatory, under a hand towel.

It took me a while longer to find anything interesting in the files. But it didn't take forever. The files were immaculately neat, which helped. Everything was precisely labeled, and everything was alphabetical, and near the back was a file folder with no label. I took it out. Inside were reports from Security South dating back more than ten years. There was information about Stonie at the truck stops, about Cord's problems with young boys, about SueSue's adulteries, and Pud's arrests for public drunkenness and assault. Each case included specifics of action taken and sums expended by Security South to resolve the problem. Most of these reports in the earlier years were initialed WC, and in recent years, increasingly, PC.

There was also a three-page typewritten report, unaddressed and unsigned, which in summary concluded that it was quite possible that Walter Clive had been having an affair with Dolly Hartman while he was married to Sherry, and it was entirely possible that Jason Hartman was Walter's son. There was a copy machine on the long table behind the desk. I ran the report through the copier, folded up the copy, stuck it in my back pocket, and put the original back in its folder. I assumed the report was by Delroy, and I assumed it was for Penny. There were no initials on this one, but there was no reason for Walter Clive to commission such research. He'd know whether he could have been Jason's father or not.

I spent about an hour more, but didn't find anything else to help me. It appeared from my fast glom of the files that Penny was running the business, and that the business was doing very well. I locked the files, put the key back, turned off the lights, locked the office door, and put the key back in the tack room.

Mickey had finished washing down the chestnut filly, who was back in her stall, looking out at me. Half a carrot would get me anything. Mickey sat on an upended plastic milk crate, reading Cosmopolitan.

"You got a carrot I can give her?" I said.

"In the bag," Mickey said, nodding at a black canvas backpack lying near her left foot.

There was a plastic bag of loose carrots in the pack, in among what appeared to be gym clothes and makeup. I selected one.

"Put it on the flat of your hand and let her lip it off," Mickey said. "That way she won't confuse your finger for a carrot."

"Hey," I said. "I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. You think I don't know horses?"

"Really? How old were you when you left?"

"Ten or twelve," I said.

Mickey smiled.

"Hold your hand flat, let her lip the carrot," she said.

Which I did. The chestnut filly took the carrot as predicted, leaving my fingers intact.

"You find anything?" Mickey said.

"Nothing special," I said. "What do you think about Delroy?"

"He works for my boss," Mickey said.

"I know that. But I figure anyone willing to exercise Jimbo has to have a certain amount of independence."

Mickey smiled at me. She had a wide mouth. Her big eyes were steady.

"Delroy is a creep," Mickey said. "He gives me the whim-whams every time I have to talk to him."

"Really? That's the way I feel about Jimbo."

"Jimbo's up-front," Mickey said. "He wants to kill you and will if you'll let him. Delroy's a slimeball."

"Don't beat around the bush," I said.

Mickey smiled. "You asked me," she said.

"What makes him so slimy?"

"He's so buttoned up and spit-shined and polite.

Kind of guy wears a blue suit to a beach party. But inside you know he likes to download kiddie porn from the Internet."

"Literally?" I said.

"Hell, I don't know. I just know he's not the way he seems."

"How?"

She smiled at me.

"Female intuition," she said.

"But Penny likes him."

"You bet," Mickey said.

" 'Likes' is too weak?"

Mickey shrugged.

"I don't know. Sometimes I think they're doing the nasty. Sometimes I think she just uses him for her purposes."

"Could be both."

Mickey shivered.

"God, how revolting. Being in bed with him. Yuck!"

"He ever make a pass at you?"

"Not really," she said. "He's too stiff and creepy. But he's a starer. You know? Sometimes when you first teach a horse to be ridden, you lay across the saddle on your stomach while he gets used to your weight. Which means your butt is sticking up in the air. If Delroy's around you he's staring."

It had gotten dark as we talked. We stood in the small splash of light from the stable while around us the Georgia night, not yet black, turned cobalt. I took a card from my shirt pocket and gave it to Mickey.

"If you think of anything useful about Delroy, or anything else, I'm at the Holiday Inn for the nonce," I said.

"The what?"

"Nonce. But you can always leave a message on my answering machine in Boston."

"I'd just as soon our conversation was private," Mickey said.

"Me too," I said. "Mum's the word."

"Not nonce?"

"Mum," I said.

"You talk really funny," Mickey said.

"It's a gift," I said.