The Midnight Cool Read online

  There was something to being a greenhorn that you never did get back. The notion that all you hoped for was within reach. Charles had an idea that life was like the old song ‘Climbing up the Golden Stairs.’ That it was bound to be up and up and up. He had come back from town yesterday grinning out from underneath a brand-new pencil-brim Panama hat. Lord knew where he got it or how he paid for it, but he thought it made him look high-class. He was already talking about all the fine clothes he would buy when they sold the black mare.

  There had been a time, when he was still a scrap of a boy, that Billy thought he’d lost him. He remembered it after seeing him get punted by the black mare, in those awful moments of stillness after he hit the ground and before he scrambled up. That time, long ago now, they had both been on horseback, riding through backwoods in Kentucky. Charles on the hot horse, an excitable stallion, so that Billy could say to potential customers, If this scrawny kid can handle him, surely you can too! The stallion had spooked and thrown Charles hard. Billy had been a ways behind, and galloping up to the little body, he was certain of the worst. He had jumped down and knelt over Charles’s crumpled body, not daring to touch him. It did not look like he was breathing. A sinister-looking rock was inches from his skull. Dead, Billy thought, and it’s my fault, and the world around him at once went black and treacherous. Trying to fight this mean-hearted darkness he sat back on his heels and swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, There’s easier ways to dismount, you know.

  Charles had cracked one eye and without missing a beat said, Ah, but I get bored of em.

  Finished with the mule’s belly on both sides, Billy turned the egg and inked the fat end to make the smaller, rounder leg and shoulder dapples. He began to whistle. When he made his way to the rear leg the mule stomped his foot, thinking the tickle of the egg was a fly.

  Easy now. That’s a handsome fellow.

  When all four legs were done to his liking, he pressed the small tip of the egg in the polish. This he used to press in the delicate little dapples of the curve in the mule’s stifle. Nearly finished. From white to dark in the space of half an hour. In the bad light of an auction ring he would fool the sharpest eye. But really the truth was that men saw what they wanted to see. He had learned that too along the way.

  Caveat emptor, that was the first rule. The second was to never lie. Twist the truth, yes, hide it, decorate it, do what you would with it, of course, but you never looked a man in the face and opened your mouth and spoke an outright lie. You never knew when you might come through a town again, and you wanted to maintain a reputation. Besides, it took the fun out of it. Trading was a game, after all, nothing but a match of wits, and what fun was a game without rules.

  If someone asked the dissembled mules’ ages today, he might say, They’ve seen it all, or Check for yourself, or avoid the question entirely. Leland Hatcher, on the other hand, had looked Charles straight in the eye and lied, told him the mare was a good honest horse, not even giving Charles the chance to speculate otherwise.

  There was surely a story behind why he had needed to unload that horse so quickly, and surely not a happy one. Billy suspected the man had more secrets than simply why he had jumped the fence on the temperance issue.

  But Leland Hatcher could keep his secrets, for all Billy cared. Soon enough they would have his mare cured, healed of the pain of whatever injustices had made her so skittish. And they would be long gone from here.

  He stepped back from the mule, stuck his tongue in his cheek, then put in one last dapple. Not bad at all. There now stood before him not an ancient white plug but a darkly dappled gray mule who looked for all the world as if he was in the prime of his life. Once he trimmed his whiskers and filed his teeth and puffed up the sunken spots behind his eyes, even the mule’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him.

  Yes, Billy thought, giving him a last pat, Leland Hatcher could keep his secrets. A man was entitled to a secret or two. Billy knew that as well as anyone. He had his share of them.

  Kuntz and Son

  When Charles finally got back from town, it was with no fabric dye and no explanation, the telltale white line of a new haircut at the back of his neck. They got Gin hitched and the mules tied up fast and got on the road. But once out, Billy refused to hurry. If the mules broke a sweat it would ruin their paint job.

  The auction house was on the north side of town, on the Westmoreland Road, and on their way they passed acres of tobacco, a sprawling stud farm, a poorhouse with women working a vegetable garden in the side yard. Gin’s and the mules’ hooves clop-clop-clopped on the road and Billy boasted about his paint job and Charles nodded silently. At the bridge over Defeated Creek a hare streaked out of the bushes and across the road.

  How do you do! Billy called after him. It was bad luck if a hare crossed your path and you did not address him.

  They caught wind of a slaughterhouse, then passed it. Finally they heard the commotion of a sale, and saw the sign painted in big letters on the side of the massive barn.

  kuntz and son auction house.

  horses and mules bought and sold.

  sale every wednesday and saturday.

  When they pulled in a curtain of flies descended. In front of the barn, two pens were packed with horses of every size, color, breed, and condition you could think of. At the edges of the lot sat clusters of wagons and automobiles and more horses and mules tied to hitching posts and trees, tails working against the relentless flies. An assembly of men myriad as the horses, town men and farmers, local dealers, colored men and boys. Skinny dogs trotted through it all like they had someplace to be, crescents of hoof trimmings from the blacksmith held like cigarettes between their teeth.

  A boxcar on the siding behind the barn was being unloaded, mule after mule, a chorus of brays that shaded off into shrieks and groans. A man selling heeler pups from a crate on his wagon fished one out by the scruff of the neck to show it to someone, then slung it back in.

  Sonofabitch, Shorty! someone was yelling.

  Charles jumped down to ask a fellow raking the yard where the office was. He was a great big fellow with a back like a planed board, but when Charles spoke he startled like a doe and dropped the rake. When he swung his head to regard them Billy saw the blank face of an imbecile under the shadow of the jutting brow.

  Sorry, pal, Charles said, stepping back. Didn’t mean to scare you.

  Every little scrap of shade was taken. They went down to the back of the lot and tied Gin to a post rail. Charles was chewing his knuckle, a nervous habit. The smell of offal from the slaughterhouse strengthened with each gust of hot wind.

  You really think we’ll do alright?

  Billy regarded the mules. The shoe polish had held up well. He untied the animals from the wagon and brought them around and tied them to the rail next to Gin. Then he gave each one of them a good-luck kiss.

  They found the office and went in and got their paperwork. They came back out and gave it to a kid who handed them their tail numbers and pointed them back to the barn. He wore a pair of stained overalls, rolled at the ankles, and a man’s tweed cap. One eye was pink and swollen, crusted at the edges. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. Billy reached behind his ear and pulled out a penny and handed it to him and asked his name.

  Shorty, the kid said, stuffing the penny in his pocket.

  Shorty. It’s a fine day, ain’t it, Shorty? Awful bright though. I got a quarter here with your name on it if you’ll go in there and bust one of the lightbulbs above the ring.

  Shorty’s good eye lit up and he ran off. Billy turned to Charles and winked.

  I’d say we’ll do just fine.

  Over at their wagon, someone was looking at their mules. A high-class fellow, impeccably dressed, in a stiff old-fashioned derby hat. Surely a dealer. He walked around behind the animals and pulled out a small notebook and made a note of their number and walked away.

  Billy clapped Charles on the back.

  Now hold on a minu
te there. See that? We might do more than fine.

  They untied the mules and took them inside. Once they had them settled they walked down the dim aisles together, looking over the animals. Around them men were doing the same, or standing in knots talking about their crops, their roofs, what tobacco prices would do in the fall.

  A farmer, sweating heavy, was looking at a team of tobacco mules, and Billy told him that if he was in the market for mules he ought to go have a look at the dapple-gray mules in stall fifty-two.

  Pretty as a painting, he said with a wink.

  In the next stall was a plow horse with a nasty-looking poll evil. Then a big mealy-nosed sugar mule. A red mare with a foal sucking her teat.

  They stopped in front of a fine saddle horse, a bright bay, almost the caliber of Hatcher’s mare. He was too pretty. Too sharp.

  After a while Charles pointed to the horse’s thick and showy tail.

  Falsie, he said.

  Billy grinned. Well hell, boy. If it ain’t so.

  The false tail that someone had fixed to the horse had come loose just enough that you could see where it had been woven in with a piece of black ribbon. Underneath it his own tail was surely ratty and thin, rubbed to nothing against a barn wall or fence.

  At the next stall, someone sneezed so loud the horse startled. Billy looked over. A boy stood there with a load of hay in a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork in his hand. He knocked his hair out of his eyes and sneezed again.

  Damn horses!

  He tossed the fork over the door at the horse, who leapt into the far corner with a squeal.

  Billy went into the stall and picked up the fork and brought it out. The animal was still trembling in the corner.

  They’ll treat you nice if you treat them nice, he said to the boy, handing the pitchfork back. You ought to try it.

  Ah, to hell with em. They’re big and dumb and they make me sneeze.

  He put down the pitchfork and wiped away snot with the palm of his hand. The features of his face were crowded together around a flat nose, as if he had been pinched like a change purse. Charles was eyeing him.

  The kid stuck out his hand. He said that everyone called him Twitch.

  Billy shook the offered hand, but Charles just nodded, and did not uncross his arms. Twitch let his hand drop. His close-set eyes went back to Billy.

  He your boy?

  Took him in when he was just a pup.

  Billy looked up the aisle. Shorty was hustling through with a handful of rope halters. He wondered if he had even bothered to look at the lights in the ring.

  You’re in the wrong line of business, ain’t you, Twitch?

  Soon as my pa kicks off I’m going down to Nashville. I don’t care what it is, but I’ll do it. Anything to get out of here. I’d shovel any shit other than horse shit. Sheep shit. Hog shit. Hell. Even cow shit.

  Twitch looked at Charles. A shadow of mistrust crossed his face.

  Where you two from, anyway?

  Boy, we been all around the world, Billy said. He took a step closer. Tell me something. Who’s the high-dollar fellow in the derby hat?

  Lloyd Bonnyman. He comes up here from Nashville every week. Got a mule barn down there half mile long. He works for Roan and Huntington.

  Charles snorted. Roan and Huntington? Never heard of em.

  Twitch raised his eyebrows. You been living under a rock somewhere?

  Charles scowled. Like he said. We just pulled into town.

  Well wherever you’re from you ought to know Roan and Huntington.

  Twitch went on to explain that they were the biggest mule outfit this side of the Mississippi and that they moved thousands of mules every month. They had an exclusive contract with the British Army and shipped animals to India, to South Africa, all over the world. These days, most of them went to the Western Front. Dozens every week. Billy had heard of them. Years ago, during the Boer War, you couldn’t go anywhere without a Roan and Huntington man having been there first.

  Shorty came by, and Twitch reached out and stopped him. Took the halters and handed him the pitchfork.

  Hey, Shorty. Take this hay down to stall fifteen, will ya? Twitch looked at Billy again. Soon as my old man kicks the bucket, I’m going. I’ve had just about enough of this place, I’ll tell you that. Had just about enough of these damn horses. He gave the little boy’s cap an affectionate yank. And had just about enough of squirts like Shorty here, who ought to quit standing around and take this hay before I switch him.

  Shorty took the wheelbarrow. He turned to Billy.

  Busted two of them lights for you. Chunked a rock.

  Well I only got one quarter.

  Sullenly Shorty accepted the quarter and pivoted the wheelbarrow and went up the aisle.

  Charles was studying the horse across from them.

  He must make good money, he said to nobody.

  Who? Twitch wiped his nose with his shirttail. Bonnyman? Oh, sure. Lloyd Bonnyman’s got nothing to complain about. I reckon he could buy this place if he wanted to. Could buy it right out from under Kuntz tomorrow if the fancy struck him. Down there in Nashville he’s got a great big house and a French wife. He’s got dozens of agents who work for him, but he likes to come up here for this sale personally himself. Friend of Kuntz’s, and he says we get the best mules for miles around. Buys a boxcar full every Saturday.

  He looked up at the ceiling, pulled an imaginary cord.

  I hear his house has got one of them dumbwaiters in it.

  How about this Hatcher fellow? Charles said. You reckon he’s got a dumbwaiter?

  Twitch sniffed. Probably.

  He’s—he’s got a daughter, don’t he?

  Miss Catherine Hatcher? Oh, buddy. Twitch held up his palms. Don’t you and me both want to know. Course, ever since Missus Hatcher died, it’s been different with them Hatchers.

  A commotion rose at the other end of the barn, two stallions fighting over the wall of a stall, squealing like girls. Twitch sighed and went to see to it.

  Billy looked at Charles. Well? That would be a story, huh. Them two painted-up mules going over to fight in the big European war.

  Charles frowned. We’ve had nothing to eat the past three days but potatoes.

  It’s a damn fine paint job, if I don’t say so myself.

  Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. Charles pulled a sandwich out of his pocket. He lifted the top piece of bread and peered inside and then closed it again.

  What’d you pay for that? Billy said.

  Charles frowned. A dime. In the office back there.

  That slice of ham’s so thin you could read a newspaper through it.

  It’s plain crazy, Charles said.

  I’d say you were robbed.

  Shit, Billy. Ain’t talking about the sandwich. To think that Nashville fellow’s going to buy them sorry old mules. Ain’t even worth the breath to speculate.

  They pressed against the stall door to let through a man leading a Percheron team with feathered hooves big as tree stumps. It took days for them to pass.

  Charles looked down at the sandwich. You can have this. I need a smoke.

  He walked away, towards the bright light streaming in through the door at the far end of the barn. Billy walked up the aisle eating the sandwich and looking over the rest of the horses. When he finished he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and packed his pipe and lit it. He was standing under a big no smoking sign, but it was just a sign, just like the one about the sale of alcohol in the blind tiger. The world was full of signs, but it didn’t mean you ever had to read them. He watched the men coming in and hoped they had full wallets, and that Shorty had done what he said he’d done, and even more that there was someone who looked after the kid wherever he went when he left here at night. And he hoped that they really did make four hundred dollars today. He’d find a way to make a million dollars, if that was what Charles wanted.

  They found each other again just before the opening bell rang and followed the crowd taking the back way through t
he in-gate to the sales ring. From the ceiling hung four bare bulbs, two dark, smashed.

  Good boy, Shorty, Billy said under his breath.

  In front of them, men sat shoulder to shoulder on bleachers that went up to the back ceiling. The ring in which they stood was not big, ten horse lengths long by five deep, but thirty or forty men lined the perimeter. Big-time dealers stood down here, close to the action. They had their hickory sticks propped on their shoulders and their lips loaded up with tobacco. The spotters were taking their positions at the base of the bleachers and two bookkeepers were opening books up on the podium. No one was talking now. It was all business from here on out.

  Lloyd Bonnyman occupied the prime spot between the auctioneer’s podium and the exit gate. He had his stick against his shoulder and he was leafing through his little notebook, his derby pulled down low.

  The auctioneer appeared above them, grunting as he climbed to the podium. This was Kuntz. He had jowls and a walrus mustache waxed and curled and a big diamond horseshoe on one pinky. He shoved this hand into a bag of peanuts and with the other he picked up a length of plaited leather and rapped it impatiently against the podium. Cracked and ate a dozen peanuts one-handed in rapid succession and finally peered into the ring.

  What the hell is taking so long? Anybody seen Twitch back there?

  I seen his dog a minute ago, someone called out.

  Kuntz craned his head. His jowls rocked. Twitch!

  Twitch struggled out of the in-gate, tugging a reluctant yearling draft horse.

  Ain’t sure I trust that fellow—Charles started to say, but like a freight train the sale was off. Kuntz rattling along a mile a minute and the spotters yelping and yipping and jumping around, up on the rail and back down again, pointing to dealers and men in the bleachers and once in a while up to the colored seats in the back.