“Good, because I’m not going to explain it to you.”
“So the pony got the mare all excited, then they took the pony away?”
“Right.”
“Poor pony.”
“He’s what they call gelded, Wheeler. He’s got no nuts. He couldn’t bang her even if he wanted to. Besides, he’s not tall enough. He could barely see over the wall in the breeding shed. He’s just there to help them figure out if the mare’s keen on the idea. He’s called a ‘teaser.’”
“Why can’t the stallion figure out for himself if she’s keen?”
“Well, he could, of course, but if she’s not keen, she’ll try to kick him, and he’s too valuable to risk getting injured. Hence the teaser.”
“Who’s clearly not valuable.”
“What can I say, it’s a business.”
“It’s no life being a teaser. You’ve learned a lot today, Sarge.”
“So then Pat, who’s got these dentures he clicks all the time, brings the stallion into the shed, and up he goes—the stallion, that is—and Pat makes sure the plug hits the socket, if you know what I mean—”
“He does what?”
“I’m not kidding. He gets right in there and makes sure everything’s the way it’s supposed to be. Like I say, it’s a business.”
“If you say so.”
“So then when the stallion’s finished his business and dismounts, old Pat throws a bucket of cold water on his privates, and he shrinks up like a little boy.”
“Serves him right. Is that when you got the hairs?”
“Damn straight. Old Pat led him back to his stall, so I tagged along, and when Pat went off to get some oats, I slipped into the stall and did a little clipping.”
“Weren’t you scared? My God, clipping hairs off a stallion!”
“Nah, nothing to it. Gentle as a lamb. That’s the way us guys are after we get some.”
“Right. So what happens now?”
“So now I give the hairs to Cronish, he ships them off to his friend in Guelph, and the friend in Guelph tells us whether the horsehairs that came off Shorty Rogers’ wound came from Khan’s stallion. If they did, then we’re getting warm.”
“And if they didn’t?”
“Then we keep looking.”
“Where?”
“The other horses in Barn 7, I guess.”
“Aren’t there like a hundred horses in each barn?”
“Hundred twenty.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah, well, they won’t all have stockings.”
Inside McCully’s, the wide-screen TV beside the karaoke stage was showing a strong man competition. A giant blond man was hauling on a rope, one step at a time. Behind him, the other end of the rope was attached to the front bumper of a school bus filled with screaming children.
Young and Priam Harvey settled themselves on stools at the bar. Harvey always sat on the stool at the end of the bar, on the corner. There were two stools and an Infinity video card game machine between him and the wall to his left; straight ahead of him, the rest of the bar extended towards the kitchen like homestretch would if you were horse and rider coming out of the far turn and heading into the lane. All the regulars knew that the corner stool belonged to Priam Harvey, and if one of them was sitting on it when he walked into the bar, whoever it was would quickly relinquish it. If a stranger was sitting on the corner stool when Harvey walked in, he would tap the stranger on the shoulder and tell him it was his stool he was sitting on and to get the hell off it. If the stranger protested, Harvey would summon Dexter. Dexter would approach the stranger and say, “Get the fuck off Mr. Harvey’s stool,” which, given Dexter’s menacing demeanor and imposing physique, always did the job.
After Dexter had brought a pint of Creemore for Harvey and two bottles of Labatt’s Blue for Young, their eyes were drawn upwards to the bank of television sets mounted above the bar. TV #1, as usual, was tuned to the afternoon card of thoroughbred racing at Caledonia Downs—post time for the first race was in twenty minutes; TV #2 showed a man demonstrating a golf swing; TV #3 showed a nubile young woman in workout gear doing stride jumps; TV #4, like the wide-screen TV, was tuned to the strong man competition: the same blond muscleman who had been pulling the school bus only minutes earlier was now carrying in his bare arms a boulder the size of a doghouse. The volume on all four bar TVs and the wide-screen TV was turned down. The music on the jukebox, which was located beside the exit to the lobby of the small chain hotel that housed McCully’s Tavern, was ambient and unobtrusive. The only time the volume on the jukebox was turned down was when a horse race was being broadcast. Right now on the jukebox the Eagles were urging a desperado to come down from his fences.
Harvey raised his pint glass to his mouth, and fifteen seconds later it was empty.
Young said, “Remember that conversation we had about why Shorty Rogers is called Shorty, and you thought he was named after some jazz guy, and I figured it was just because he was short?”
Harvey let go a long, sotto voce belch. “Yes, of course I remember. You were right and I was wrong. Why must you bring it up again, unless it’s to humiliate me further?”
“No, it’s not that. I just wondered where you got your name?”
Harvey looked up at him.
“Hey, if it’s something pretty personal, forget it. I was just curious.”
Harvey eyed his empty beer glass. “No, it’s all right. It’s only natural you’d be curious. People have been asking me that question all my life. My mother’s to blame.”
“Who said anything about blame? I think it’s a great name.”
“My mother was a professor of mythologies at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York.”
“You’re an American?”
Harvey smiled. “I was an American. I grew up in Corning, New York. When I was twenty, I dodged the draft. I came up here. Now I’m a Canadian. I’m one of you!” He patted Young on the shoulder. “Anyway, my mother named me after the king of Troy.” He motioned to Dexter down the bar, and Dexter nodded. “There are certain ironies you may be unaware of. King Priam was beloved by his people. He was kind, judicious, respectful of the gods. He sired fifty sons—Paris and Hector among them—and fifty daughters. I, on the other hand, am beloved by no one, man or woman, I am far from kind or judicious, I laugh uproariously at the notion of even one god, let alone many, and I have no issue. Oh, and I am also not a king. My mother loved stories about kings and heroes. She loved stories about brave knights who risked their lives to save damsels in distress. The rope of hair out the tower window. The sword in the stone. The sword laid on the grass between knight and maid when they’re forced to sleep in the forest. I guess she was hoping I’d be like King Priam, but, as it turned out, I couldn’t be less like him. Just another of life’s little ironies.” Harvey shook a cigarette loose from his pack and lit it. “King Priam was respected, even idolized; Priam Harvey—if you’ll excuse my crass use of the third person—is merely mortal.”
“Well,” Young said, “at least she didn’t name you Dwayne or something.”
Dexter set a fresh pint of Creemore on the bar. “There you go, Mr. Harvey.”
“Thank you, Dexter. Dexter, do you believe in God?”
Dexter frowned. “I guess I do most of the time, but when something awful happens, like an earthquake kills a whole pile of people, or some little kid gets murdered, then