"What's going on with that one?" I said.
"He tends to swallow his tongue," Martin said. "So we have to tie it down when he runs."
"How's he feel about that?" I said.
Martin grinned. "Horses don't say much."
"Nothing wrong with quiet," I said.
A trim man with short hair and high cheekbones came toward us from the stable area. He had on a tan golf jacket, and Dockers and deck shoes. A blue-and-gray-plaid shirt showed at the opening of the half-zipped jacket. He wore an earpiece like the Secret Service guys, and there was a small SS pin on the lapel of his jacket. When he got close enough I could see that he was wearing a gun under the golf jacket.
"Delroy," he said.
"Spenser," I said, trying to stand a little straighter.
"I heard you were coming aboard."
"Aye," I said.
Delroy looked at me suspiciously. Was I kidding him?
"I'd appreciate it if you'd check in with me when you're in the area."
"Sure. When did you come aboard?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, when did you start guarding the horses?"
"After Heroic Hope was shot."
"The second horse shot."
"That's right."
"So where were your guys when someone was pointing a gun at Hugger Mugger?"
"If somebody did," Delroy said.
"You figure the
groom made it up?"
"Nobody could get to him through our security."
"How about the other horse, Saddle Shoes?"
"He was shot at long range," Delroy said. "We can't be everywhere."
"'Course not," I said. "Why would the groom lie?"
"Most of them lie," Delroy said.
"Grooms?"
Delroy snorted. "They wouldn't tell a white man the truth if it would make them rich."
"What's the SS for on your collar?"
"Security South."
"Oh, it's not Schutzstaffel? "I said.
"Excuse me?"
"A little Nazi humor," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"The SS was Hitler's bodyguard," I said. "It's an abbreviation of Schutzstaffel."
"This pin stands for Security South," Delroy said.
"Yes."
Delroy looked at me for a moment. Martin was silent beside me, his eyes on the horses moving around the track.
"You're a big guy," Delroy said.
"I try," I said.
"Well, to be honest with you, size doesn't impress me."
"How disappointing," I said.
"We're professionals, every one of us, and quite frankly, we don't think we need some wizard brought in here from Boston to tell us how to do our job."
"Well, it's certainly a nice professional-looking earpiece," I said. "Can you listen to Dr. Laura on it?"
"I command a twelve-man detail here," Delroy said. "I need in-touch capability."
"Military Police?" I said.
"I joined SS five years ago. Before that I was with the Bureau and before that I was an officer in the Marine Corps."
"The Corps and the Bureau," I said. "Jeepers."
"What are your credentials?"
"I got fired from the cops," I said.
Delroy snorted. Martin kept watching the horses.
"How the hell did you weasel onto Walt Clive's payroll?" Delroy said.
"Maybe size impresses him," I said.
"Well, let's put it on the table where we can all look at it," Delroy said. "We'll complete our mission here with you or without you. You do whatever you want to, or whatever Walt Clive wants you to do. But if you get in our way we'll roll right over you. You understand?"
"Most of it," I said. "Martin here can help me with the hard parts."
"Anything has to do with that horse," Delroy said, "you go through me."
He about-faced smartly and marched away.
"First Pud, now him," I said to Martin.
"Southern hospitality," Martin said absently. His mind was still on the horses.
"Just so we're clear," I said. "I'm not after your wife. I won't tell you how to train horses."
"My wife will be sorry to hear that," Martin said.
"But the horses won't give a damn," I said.
"They never seem to," Martin said.
SIX
I WAS SITTING in an office at the Columbia County Sheriff's Lamarr substation with a man named Dalton Becker. He was a big, solid, slow black man. He had short graying hair. His coat was off and hanging behind the half-open door. His red-and-blue-striped suspenders were bright over his white shirt. He wore his gun tucked inside his waistband.
"You care for a Coca-Cola?" he said.
"Sure."
"Vonnie." He raised his voice. "Couple Coca-Colas."
We waited while a young black woman with bright blond hair sashayed in, chewing gum, and plopped two Cokes on his desk.
"Thank you, Vonnie," Becker said.
She sashayed back out. He handed one to me, opened his, and took a drink.
"Here's what I know about this horse business," he said. "First of all, there's been three horses attacked. Not counting the alleged attack on Hugger Mugger. One of them died. All three attacks were here at Three Fillies. Far's I know, there have been no other attacks on other horses."
"Alleged?"
"Yep. We only got the groom's word."
"You believe the groom?" I said.
"I been at this awhile. I don't believe or not believe. I just look for evidence."
"Anything wrong with the groom?"
"Nope."
"Just native skepticism," I said.
"You got any of that?"
"Some," I said.
Becker smiled. I waited.
"First one was about a month ago, at the training track, here in Lamarr. Stable pony got plugged with a.22 caliber slug. Bullet went into the brain through the eye socket. He died. You know what a stable pony is?"