Getting Sassy (40 page)

Feeling guilty and a bit chastened, I said, “Let me know if I can help.”

She looked at me again, maybe a little surprised. “I’ll be fine.”

“Probably.”

As I climbed out of the car, I said, “Thanks again for looking out for my mother.”

“Your mother is a delightful woman.”

“You know, some people tell me that.”

As I began walking toward the steps leading to my apartment, it occurred to me that Mick had probably taken Bix home with him. I’d miss the critter’s presence. But I told myself I should quit wishing for what wasn’t and count my blessings—I was alive, I wasn’t in jail, and the stamp would go a long way in taking care of my mother’s needs.

I’d climbed two steps when I heard the sound of little claws clicking their way down the stairs. I looked up and saw a small shape wiggling its way toward me. “Hey, Bix!” I scooped him up and began climbing again as he slobbered kisses on my chin. And when I got to the top, there was Mick Hughes sitting in one of my lawn chairs, feet propped on the railing. He just smiled and said, “Welcome home.”

As good as it was having Mick help pull me from the river, I wasn’t sure how I felt about finding him on my porch. For now, a little distance might be good. When I looked at him, all I could think of was these last few days. It was a little like waking up after a night on the town. The light of day and the hangover combine, and the desire to erase the whole evening rolls over you like a tank. But first you’ve got to do something about that guy in bed next to you.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

He lowered his feet to the porch and pushed himself up from the chair. “Let’s see.” He locked his fingers behind his neck and, took a good stretch and said, “Once I dropped Sassy off and got rid of the van, Bix and I stopped for a burger, then we came here.” He shrugged. “Maybe an hour.”

“Thanks for bringing him home.”

I couldn’t tell him to leave. Not now. So I let him follow me into my apartment. As I walked into the kitchen of my little home above
the framing store, I realized that when I’d left it yesterday, I didn’t think I’d be seeing it again for a long time. Maybe never. But now I just stood for a moment and enjoyed the assault on my senses: the faint smell of garlic, the hum of the refrigerator and the watercolor of Edinburgh’s skyline above my café table.

And then Mick had me in his arms and was kissing me. The part of me that wanted to respond with gusto fought with my ambivalence. I didn’t push him away, but neither did I give him much back.

“God, you had me scared,” he said when he’d finished.

“I had me scared too.”

“If you had...” he broke off.

Feeling the closeness in the room, I pushed up the arms of my sweatshirt. I didn’t want to help him out.

“I think you oughta give up crime,” he said. “Makes me too nervous.”

I hesitated, but then said, “You should’ve thought of that before you decided I had to be the one to pick up the money.”

He looked like I’d struck him.

“I need to change.” I looked down at the my police-issue gray garb. “Will you make us a couple of drinks?”

He nodded. Bix followed me into my bedroom and jumped up on the bed while I took a quick shower and found some clean, comfortable clothing. He watched me as I pulled on some sweats and a T-shirt, as though afraid if he looked away he’d find I’d been replaced by a goat.

Mick had poured a nice, dark Grouse for me and helped himself to a Sam Adams. I sat on the couch with him, but not right next to him. With my feet propped on the coffee table, only inches from the singing bowl, I thought about all that had happened in just a few days. One week to a whole new you. The scotch was wonderful, and I took a couple of sips, concentrating on its peaty taste, the smooth glass, the click of the cubes against it.

“You okay?” Mick asked.

I glanced his way and saw he’d shifted so he faced me, with his back to the arm of the couch and his ankle propped on his knee.

“I will be,” I said.

After another sip, I rested the glass on my thigh. “Earlier,” I began, “you said it was okay about the money.”

“I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

He nodded and lowered his foot to the floor, then leaned toward me.

But before he could say anything, I continued, “If it wasn’t about the money, what was it about? And why did you pretend it was the money?”

He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. Then, as though finding some answer there, he nodded once, turned to me and said, “Blood wasn’t Bull’s first horse. About two-and-a-half years ago he bought a two-year-old named Pay Dirt. Terrific animal. Bull raced him every chance he got. Raced him too much. Thoroughbreds, for all their size and heart, are fragile. Those skinny legs of theirs take a pounding. Bull didn’t care what his trainer said. Didn’t care what I said.” He paused, and I saw some pain in his eyes. “And when Pay Dirt blew a bone in his leg and had to be destroyed, Bull blamed everyone but himself. The trainer quit. I should’ve.” He took a drink from the bottle and leaned back again.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

He snorted. “Like you’d have believed I was doing it in memory of a horse.”

He was right. Still, I had to work this through.

“What?” he said as though he knew where my thoughts were headed.

“I’m just trying to decide if I feel better about all this now.” I turned toward him. “I mean, there were so many ways this could have gone wrong. What would’ve happened if I had gone into that bar to get the money? What if Jack had been in there? What if he hadn’t, and
I had to face that big guy Bull had in there? What if he had died? What if I’d walked out of the men’s room and found a dozen of Fowler’s finest pointing guns at me?” I felt my eyes brimming, so I had to look away. “I don’t do stuff like that.” Mick opened his mouth as if to speak, but I wouldn’t let him. “And I’m asking myself if I feel better knowing you weren’t doing it for the money. You were striking a blow for equine...” I struggled for the right word and came up with “... justice.”

I kept going. “But no matter how noble our motives—you with the horse and me with my mother—we still committed a crime. And that means we’re no better—or not much better—than Bull.” I pulled in a deep breath. “And I don’t know why none of this occurred to me earlier. Or why it didn’t matter earlier.”

“Maybe because it was a little exciting.”

I snorted and took another drink. “And to top it off, Bull lost nothing.” Bix was curled up next to me, warm against my thigh. “I’m tired, Mick.”

I felt him watching me, but I wouldn’t look at him. Finally, he said, “You’re going to the race with me tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Are you kidding?” Now I looked to see if he was serious. He was. Entirely. “How can I be in the same room with Bull after what happened?”

“Because you are not going to want to miss tomorrow.”

He wasn’t just talking about the race. “Why not?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say. Trust me. One more time.”

The Plymouth Million was Illinois’ version of the Kentucky Derby and the attendees dressed accordingly. Bull had reserved a suite at Plymouth for a few “close” friends. We’d be viewing the race two floors above the grandstand at the clubhouse turn. There would be food, drink and, depending on the race’s outcome, potential revelry.

In my usual quandary as to what to wear, I eventually opted for the black and white halter dress I’d chickened out of the night I went to dinner with Mick, and I splashed it up a bit with a red shawl and black sandals with a small heel. Maybe I wasn’t all that ambivalent about my relationship with Mick after all.

When Mick came to pick me up, I could tell from his raised eyebrows, not to mention the low whistle, that he approved. He’d cleaned up well too, wearing a pale, tweedy, silk sports jacket with threads of oak and mulberry running through it.

August had continued to sully its reputation as the beastly month by producing another incredible day—sunny, high seventies with a scattering of puffy white clouds, just to give the sky some depth. Weather reports had the temperature increasing daily until we hit ninety by the end of the next week. But, for now, the humidity was low and my hair was behaving.

We didn’t talk much on the ride to the track. I was still bouncing all over the emotional scale, and Mick seemed to be focused on some thoughts I wasn’t privy to yet.

When we arrived at the track, we went directly to the barn. Mick wanted to see how Blood was holding up, and I wanted to see for myself that Blood and Sassy had been reunited.

The track provided security for all the racehorses, but Sassy had received some protection of his own. Racehorses came and went, but a half-million-dollar companion goat was a novelty.

I was glad everyone was focused on Blood so they didn’t notice how Sassy trotted over to me, nudging my hand for some treats. I slipped a few out of my purse and fed them to him.

Mick was conferring with Blood’s trainer, and they both agreed that the horse was up to the race. To my untrained eye, Blood appeared a bit hopped up, like any athlete would before a big event, but also somehow focused.

I watched Blood resting his forehead against Mick’s chest as Mick rubbed the animal’s cheek. Blood closed his eyes and blew air out his nostrils.

From the barn, we went up to the suite Bull had rented where forty or fifty people navigated among the hors d’oeuvres table, the bar and our very own betting window. When we arrived, last bets were being called for the first race.

Watching the races from an air-conditioned suite seemed a little artificial, but we did have a great view, and it was probably the closest I’d come to feeling like royalty.

Bull and Gwen arrived just after the fourth race. He wore the suit of a man who expected to make an appearance in the winner’s circle, and Gwen had on a snug little number that matched her husband’s pale blue shirt and she wore a drop necklace consisting of a mix of diamonds and some pale blue gems. I didn’t notice anyone mentioning the goat to Bull. Apparently having his money returned intact had done little to repair his pride. Bull Severn’s horse needed a goat nanny, and that fact did nothing for Bull’s image.

On the news last night I’d enjoyed watching Bull being led through a phalanx of reporters asking him about his goat that was held for ransom. Questions like: “Mr. Severn, did you really pay a half million for the goat’s release?” and “What kind of relationship have the horse and goat got?” Bull had surged through the crowd, shoulders first and didn’t respond to any of these questions. But his face, red and tight, had said it all.

Now, being in the same room with the man I’d been extorting on the phone yesterday made me nervous. Suddenly the voice changer was a flimsy mask. But I detected nothing in his dark, rather harsh eyes that made me think he was onto me.

Mick said to Bull, “How’re you holding up?”

Bull glanced around before answering, his voice low. “I’ve got the cops working 24/7. The dead guy wasn’t in on this alone. The fucker who did this is going to pay. I’m going to personally disembowel him.”

Mick nodded, and I tried to imagine Hedges telling his men that their careers depended on apprehending the dreaded goatnapper. It would have been funny, except that Bull was so deadly earnest. I took a sip of beer and then looked up to find Bull giving me an intense stare.

“How’re you doing?” he finally asked.

I forced myself to swallow. “Okay.” Then I asked about the man who’d been shot.

“He’ll be home in a few days.”

“That’s good to hear.” Another thing I’d never considered—collateral damage.

“How’s that book coming?” he asked.

I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “Still doing some research. Should be starting it soon.”

He nodded his approval. “Like to read it when you’re done.”

Mick was giving me an amused look.

“I’ll be sure to send you a copy,” I said, hoping this didn’t mean I’d have to write the damned thing.

Gwen came up to us then, threading her arm through her husband’s. “Mick, I’m glad you could come.” Then she turned to me, hesitated, assumed a painfully awkward expression and said, “I’m sorry, what was your name?”