Shoveling Smoke by Austin Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

Houston, except out of plastic bottles with designer labels.” There was that smile again, and that irritating little curl in her voice.
    “I take it you have something against Houston,” I said, letting go of her hand in order to rub water out of my eyes.
    Sally turned off the faucet and rewound the hose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t get a chance to flirt with city boys very often.”
    I had not been flirted with in a long time, and it was having an effect. Sally came close to me, and a new scent cut through the odor of damp dirt that came from Ed. This one had something of the tropics in it, mingled with the smell of rain just before it falls.
    She took the reins out of my hand. “How about a boost?” she asked. I cupped my hands and she stepped into them, lifting herself into place on the horse’s back. She goosed Ed with her heels, and the big horse lumbered slowly off toward the street. I walked beside her.
    “Call me Sally, by the way,” she said, “unless it’s business. Then Ms. Dean is fine.”
    “Do you think we’ll be having business dealings?” I asked.
    “There are lots of different kinds of business out here in the country.” She looked down at me and winked. “You’ll do all right, Clay.”
    “I seem to be getting along with Ed here,” I said.
    “That doesn’t mean anything. Ed’s a rotten judge of character. But I think the boys may have picked right this time.”
    “This time?” I said. “What do you mean, this time?” But Ed had increased his speed, and horse and rider were leaving me behind.
    “Be patient with the boys,” she called over her shoulder. “Just don’t judge them by their spots.”
    “Or lack of,” I said to myself as the big horse plodded down the street.
    I went inside my new house and found it furnished in a mongrel sort of way, odd pieces throughout, as if from many different homes. But that was okay. My boxes from Houston had arrived and were stacked neatly in the living room. The three window units in the house—bedroom, living room, kitchen—weren’t running, and the air was hot and thick and bitter with the smell of ancient cigarette smoke. I switched on all of the air conditioners and changed into a T-shirt and shorts, then went out to the car to get the file that Molly Tunstall had given me in the office, the Rasmussen file. Some perspicacious and benevolent individual—Hardwick Chandler, perhaps—had stocked the liquor cabinet in the living room. I poured myself a good-sized bourbon and, sitting at the kitchen table, opened the file, grateful to have something to do on this first night of my new life.
    Right on top I found a letter from Rasmussen to Stroud, outlining the case. Some horses that Bevo Rasmussen owned had died in a fire started by lightning, and Rasmussen’s insurance carrier was refusing to pay off on his claim. It was to be a big payoff, over a million dollars. Apparently, these Appaloosas had spots.
    Rasmussen’s letter, full of typos, painted a miserable picture: dreams dashed, a business ruined, a reputation at stake. Rasmussen had to have the insurance money as fast as possible. “The wolves are at the door, Mr. Stroud,” he wrote. “You are the only man who can get me out of this mess.” I noted that the letter had been written over a year ago. How desperate was Rasmussen now? Surely in all that time the wolves had gotten in and carried off the baby. I would have to read further into the file to find out what had happened. But I could feel my concentration slipping away, and in a minute I had to get up and move around.
    I should have been exhausted after the day I’d had, but I wasn’t. What I needed was something to do, something other than wade through the misery of the Rasmussen file. I had noticed a lawn mower in the garage. The lawn could use a trim. That’s what I would do, mow my new yard as the last of the evening sun died away. Backyard as well as front. Who knows, maybe I would keep going after