All Hat by Brad Smith Page A

He unzipped his wallet, tucked his winnings carefully inside, and then pushed away from the table.
    â€œWhat the fuck you mean you’re out?” asked the Rock.
    â€œI got enough to buy a new thirty-two-inch TV,” Paulie said. “That’s all I wanted.”
    â€œSonny,” the Rock said sharply. “What the fuck is this, man—a hit-and-run?”
    Dean was laughing now. “Let’s get outa here, Paulie.”
    â€œI have to go to the washroom first,” Paulie said.
    The Rock sat at the table and glowered as Paulie left the room. After a moment he got up and approached Dean. It appeared that the Rock bought his golf shirts a size too small; his biceps, already huge from lifting, looked even bigger under the thin double knit.
    â€œThat little fucker’s not leaving,” he told Dean.
    â€œHe can do what he wants,” Dean said.
    â€œHe’s got our money,” the Rock said. “He stays in the game. End of conversation.”
    Dean looked past the Rock’s massive shoulders and saw Paulie come back into the room and gather his jacket from the chair. Dean showed the Rock a grin and said: “Come on, you should be happy that all he wanted was a TV. What if he had his eye on a new Cadillac?”
    â€œYeah?” the Rock asked. “And what if I have my Rotty tear his fucking throat out?”
    Dean looked past the Rock again, to where Paulie had the animal in question on the floor, the dog on its back, all four paws in the air, tongue lolling to one side as Paulie vigorously rubbed its belly.
    â€œSure, Rock,” Dean said. “That oughta work.”

8
    When Ray walked outside Saturday morning Pete Culpepper was sitting on the porch, working on a plug of Redman and watching the sky like a man watching the dealer in a crooked card game. The morning was cool and clear, but there were clouds stacking up in the west and the wind was on the rise. Pete was watching the accumulation and occasionally spurting a stream of tobacco onto the tangled rose bushes along the porch, bushes planted years back by one of Pete’s girlfriends, although Ray couldn’t remember which one. It was probably no better than even money that Pete could.
    â€œYou ’bout ready?” Pete asked when Ray came out of the house.
    â€œI’d like a little breakfast. Did you eat?”
    â€œI had a cowboy’s breakfast,” Pete said.
    A cowboy’s breakfast, Ray knew, was a piss and a look around, and that alone told Ray that the old man was nervous. He wasn’t one to miss a meal.
    â€œWell, I gotta eat,” Ray said. “Whoever it was said breakfast is the most important meal of the day probably wasn’t talking about chewing tobacco.”
    They were on the road by nine, Pete behind the wheel of the pickup. They hit the QEW just east of Hamilton, skirting the city traffic. The rain began around St. Catharines, and when it did it came in a torrent. By the time they reached Fort Erie the ditches were running, and Pete was describing in detail what he would like to do with the weatherman’s genitals.
    The gelding Fast Market was in barn eleven. Pete had trailered him down on Monday and had been making the trip every day since, working him on the main track.
    â€œWhat shoes you got on him?” Ray asked as they parked the truck.
    â€œPut bars on him, just yesterday. I got calks if I need ’em,” Pete said.
    â€œDoes he like the slop?”
    â€œI don’t know that it’s got anything to do with liking it. All a horse knows is to run. How he runs in the muck depends on a lot of things, but mostly the trip.”
    They found the gelding calm and content in the barn. Pete gave him a handful of oats and then went to track down his rider. Ray got a brush from a shelf and began to curry the gelding’s coat. The horse was as quiet as Pete’s old hound as he worked; at one point Ray was certain the animal was asleep.
    As