“What do you think it might be, Web?”
“I’ve got my suspicions, but that’s all they are.”
Billy eyed him keenly as he took a last bite of toast and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You’re thinking it’s maybe the
mafioso running stolen goods or something. Believe me, that crap went on in the trucking business. If I had a dollar for every
I-talian come through my door with a suitcase full of money in exchange for hauling their stuff in my trucks, well, I wouldn’t
need to be working my ass off on this farm.”
“God,” said Gwen, as she pounded the table with her hand, “we leave Richmond to get away from murderous white supremacists
and move next door to a bunch of criminals.” She stood, went over to the sink and stared out the window.
Billy said, “Look here, Gwen, whoever is next to us, it don’t matter in our lives, okay? They do their thing and we do ours.
If they got something illegal, it’s not our problem, ’cause Web is gonna bust ’em, okay? We’re running a horse farm, just
like you wanted. Okay?”
She turned and looked at him anxiously. “But not what you wanted?”
He grinned. “Oh, sure. Hell, I even kind of like mucking the stalls.” He glanced at Web for a moment. “Pushing manure is sort
of therapeutic.” To Web, the man didn’t look like he meant it. Billy looked away and said, “Well, look what the cat dragged
in.”
Web glanced over at the doorway and saw Nemo Strait standing there, his Stetson in his hands. He was staring at Billy and
his features were a little unkind, it seemed to Web.
Billy said, “Y’all ready to go?”
“Yes, sir, just come up to let you know before we hit the road.” They all went outside and down to the main road, where Web
saw a caravan of ten horse trailers, some bumper-pulled, others fifth wheels hooked to heavy-duty trucks, and each emblazoned
with the East Winds logo.
“Most of those are brand-new trailers,” said Billy. “Cost a damn fortune ’cause we had to customize some, but I guess you
got to look good, at least that’s what folks keep telling me. Ain’t that right, Nemo?”
“If you say so, Billy.”
Billy pointed to the trailers. “Now, those three are custom fab three-horse slant loads.” He continued pointing. “Then we
got two Sundowner Pro Stock MPs, a straight-load gooseneck with horse dressing room, a ten-foot Townsmand bumper pull with
young Bobby Lee all by his lonesome inside, two Sunlite 760s and that big-ass one over there.” He pointed to the last trailer,
an elaborate-looking contraption that resembled more of a people coach than one for horses. “Now, that’s the little jewel
in this group, though it sure ain’t little. That’s a Classic Coach Silverado. Living compartment for the boys in front, tack
space and other equipment and such in the middle and then space for two horses in the back. It’s a beaut. All self-contained.”
“Where are they heading?” asked Web.
“Kentucky,” answered Gwen. “They have a big yearling sale up there.” She pointed to the trailers. “These are our best yearlings,
nineteen of them in all.”
She sounded a little sad, thought Web. Maybe for her it was like more children going away.
Billy said, “This is what separates the men from the boys. This sale goes well, we have a good year. I normally go too, but
the FBI has persuaded me otherwise.” He shot a glance at Web. “So if the sales aren’t like they should be, I guess you guys
can make up the difference.”
“That’s not my call,” said Web.
Billy shook his head. “Yeah, I bet. Those bastard buyers pick the horses apart and lowball us, then we’re selling pencils
on the sidewalk. Now, these yearlings are some of our best ever. But those folks will hem and haw and find every little flaw
they can, and then try to buy ’em for pennies on a dollar, and next thing you know, they got the next Secretariat. Well, that’s
not going to happen. I been down that road before. You haul their asses back here, Strait, if they don’t fetch the reserves
I gave you. Screw ’em.”
Nemo nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Web watched as Gwen went over to one of the smaller trailers and looked inside it.
“That’s Bobby Lee,” said Billy, pointing to the horse inside the trailer Gwen was looking at. “Now, if things go right, that
horse will bring us a nice little bundle. He’s special, so he doesn’t have to share his ride with another horse. Damn, wish
I had me a deal like that. That’s my problem, too many people around.”
Web wondered whom, if anyone, the man was referring to. “How come you don’t keep the horses and race them yourself?” asked
Web.
“It takes mountains of money to raise and maintain Thorough-breds for racing, that’s why the most successful farms are run
by corporations and syndicates primarily. They have lots of capital behind them, so they can weather bad times. We can’t compete
with that. East Winds is a breeding farm and that’s all we really want to be. Believe me, that’s a big enough pain in the
ass. Ain’t that right, Gwen?”
She said nothing and moved away when Web went over to Bobby Lee and looked inside the Townsmand ten-foot trailer. The rear
windows of the trailer were open and Web could see the horse inside, starting with the top of his bushy tail. Strait came
over and stood next to him.
“Hate to see Bobby Lee go, he’s a good horse. Fifteen hands already, beautiful chestnut coat, glossy, damn impressive musculature,
look at that chest, and he’s got a lot of growing left to do.”
“He is a nice-looking animal.” Web looked at the heavy-duty equipment boxes welded on the interior walls of the horse trailer.
“What are those for?”
Strait opened the trailer and went inside, coaxing Bobby Lee over to the side. He opened one of the boxes. “Horses are worse
than women when it comes to traveling.” He grinned and stepped aside. Inside the box Web saw halters and bridles and blankets
and every other piece of equipment a horse might need.
Strait ran his hand along the soft rubber that lined the outside of the boxes. “We pad the sides so the horse doesn’t hurt
itself against the edges.”
“Not a lot of room for error,” Web said as Strait closed up the box.
“There’s a lot of little details that might not seem so obvious to nonhorse folks. For example, you riding with a single horse
in a two-staller, you got to keep the animal on the driver’s side so the extra weight don’t keep pulling you to the side of
the road. These trailers are real versatile. All the dividers swing out and you can reconfigure them. Keep a mare in the back
and the foal up front, for example.” He tapped the walls. “Galvaneal metal, and that lasts a lot longer than people.” He pointed
to the long, open space directly in front of the horse. “And up here is their feeding and water trough. And over there”—he
pointed to the door on the side—“is the escape hatch if you got to get the horse out fast and don’t want to get kicked in
the process.”
“Where’s the TV?”
Strait laughed. “Tell me about it. I wished I traveled half as good as these animals, although I tell you, with the Silverado
over there, we’re going to be living in style now. Even got its own toilet and kitchen, so no more Porta Pottis and fast food
for yours truly. Billy really outdid himself with that one, and me and the boys sure appreciate it.”
Web looked at the roof of the trailer. Bobby Lee’s head was close to it.
Strait was watching him and smiled. “Bobby Lee is a big yearling and we can’t make the roof any higher.”
“How come?”
“Give horses enough room, they’ll take advantage of it. Hell, I watched one horse that didn’t like to be trailered do a backward
somersault, if you can believe it, and jump out the rear onto the highway, where he got hit by a truck. It wasn’t a pretty
sight and almost cost me my job. That’s why horses are situated facing the front of the trailer, or else they’ll try and jump
right out. And we got a side access door and side ramp on all the trailers so you can take the horses out frontways if there’s
an emergency. It’s faster, and you try taking a frightened horse out from the back on a highway, you might just get your head
handed to you if it decides to kick. See what I mean?”
“Gotcha.”
“Yep, they’re complicated machines. Sort of like my ex-wife.” Strait laughed again.
Web fanned the air in front of his nose. “Boy, these trailers get pretty ripe.”
“Huh,” said Strait as he patted Bobby Lee’s neck, came back out and secured the trailer latch, “just wait until that horse
has been in there a few hours, then you’ll really smell something. Now, dogs love the smell of horse manure, but humans don’t.
I guess that’s why we’re called civilized. That’s why we replaced the aluminum floors with wooden ones, they drain better;
and also why we spread the sawdust on the floors. You just sweep it clean, manure and all. Better than the straw.”
They left Bobby Lee and went back over to Billy.
“Now, you got all the trailer stickers for state inspection and the horse papers?” asked Billy.
“Yes, sir.” Strait looked at Web. “You cross state lines with a bunch of animals, the police stop you at random, and they
ain’t gonna let you go one step farther until they check your commercial license and the horse’s vet certificates and such.
They’re worried about spreading equine diseases and such.”
“And who can blame them?” said Gwen as she rejoined them.
“No, ma’am,” said Strait. He tipped his hat. “Well, here’s to making East Winds some big bucks.”
Strait climbed in one of the trucks and Web and the Canfields watched as the caravan of trailers started up and passed down
the main road and out of East Winds. Web glanced over at Gwen, who looked very upset. Billy walked back up to the house.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“I’m as okay as I’m ever going to be, Web.” She crossed her arms over her chest and walked off, away from the house.
Web just stood there, looking at husband and wife going their separate ways.
R
omano picked up Claire and was driving her back to East Winds, taking great care that they weren’t followed.
Claire glanced at the man’s hand and said, “When did you graduate from Columbia?”
Romano looked at her in surprise and then saw that she was staring at the ring on his finger. “Good eye. I graduated longer
ago than I’d like to admit.”
“I went there too. Pretty nice, going to college in New York.”
“Nothing like it,” agreed Romano.
“What was your major?”
“Who cares? I barely got in and I barely graduated.”
“Actually, Paul Amadeo Romano, Junior, you entered Columbia at the age of seventeen and graduated in three years near the
top of your class with a degree in political science. Your senior thesis was titled ‘The Derivative Political Philosophies
of Plato, Hobbes, John Stuart Mills and Francis Bacon.’ And you were accepted into the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard
but didn’t attend.”
Romano’s gaze was chilling. “I don’t appreciate people checking me out.”
“Part of a therapist’s job is not only to understand the patient but also to become familiar with significant people in his
life. Web must trust you and think highly of you for him to send you to bring me back here. So I did a few mouse clicks and
looked you up. Nothing classified, of course.”
Romano still looked at her suspiciously.
“Not many people would have turned down Harvard.”
“Well, nobody ever accused me of being most people.”
“You were awarded a scholarship, so it wasn’t money.”
“I didn’t go because I’d had enough of school.”
“And you joined the military.”
“Lots of people do.”
“Lots of people out of high school do, but not those near the top of their class at Columbia with a free ticket to Harvard.”
“Look, I’m from a big Italian family, okay, we got priorities. Traditions.” He added quietly, “Sometimes people get around
to them a little too late. That’s all.”
“So you’re the oldest son?”
He shot her another suspicious glance. “Another mouse click? Damn, I hate computers.”
“No, but you are a junior, and that normally goes to the oldest son. And your father’s deceased and he wasn’t a college man?”
Romano almost pulled the car over. “You’re freaking me, lady, and you better knock it off.”
“I’m not a magician, Mr. Romano, just a humble psychiatrist. You mentioned large Italian family, traditions and priorities.
But you didn’t mention expectations. The oldest sons in such families usually face expectations they have to live up to. You
said people get around to these traditions sometimes too late. So I’m thinking that you went to college against your father’s
wishes, he died, and you left academia to pursue the occupation your father envisioned for you. And yet you still wear your
college ring. That’s probably your way of showing you didn’t totally capitualate to living out your father’s plans for you.
It’s just observation and deduction, Mr. Romano, just the sorts of tools law enforcement people use every day.”
“That don’t make it any easier to take.”
She studied him. “Do you realize that you talk like an uneducated man at times?”
“You’re pushing my buttons all the wrong way.”
“I’m sorry. But you’re extremely interesting. In fact, you and Web are both interesting. I suppose it comes with the territory.
What you do for a living takes a very, very special sort of person.”
“Don’t try and brown-nose your way out of this, Doc.”
“I guess innate curiosity about my fellow human beings comes with what I do for a living. I meant no offense.”
They drove in silence for a while.
“My old man,” said Romano, “wanted only one thing in life. He wanted to be one of New York’s finest.”
“NYPD?”
Romano nodded. “Only he never finished high school and he had a bad ticker. He spent his life on the docks hauling crates
of fish and hating every second of it. But he wanted that uniform, man, like nothing else in life.”
“And because he couldn’t, he wanted you to wear it for him?” Romano looked over at her and nodded. “Only my ma didn’t see
it that way. She didn’t want me working on the docks and she sure as hell didn’t want me strapping on a gun for a living.
I was a smart student, aced the college boards, got into Columbia, did great there and had my sights on maybe even teaching.”