Read Online Shoedog by George P. Pelecanos - Free Book Online

gadget in Delia’s hand. “That open everything around here?”
    Delia said, “I suppose it does,” and she rolled down the window to take some air. The rain had stopped, and with the window open a damp green smell settled around them.
    Delia pointed the gadget at the gate. It swung in and Constantine edged through, turning left onto the two-lane. He punched the gas and felt the surge of the 383.
    She looked at him, across the seat. “You’re some sort of driver, aren’t you?”
    “They think I am.”
    Delia looked out at the road as it disappeared beneath the hood. “You’re here for this new project.”
    “You don’t know the particulars, huh?”
    “He spares me the details.”
    “But you know something about it, don’t you? It bothers you enough to pretend you’re outside of it all. But not enough to walk.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m talkin’ about Grimes’s business. It keeps you in designer scarves, and it keeps you in horses.”
    “I’m not interested in what you think.”
    “You’re interested,” Constantine said. “I felt it in your touch.”
    Delia said, “Just drive.”
    The woods ended, the split rail continuing to border the field where the stable stood. Delia pointed to an open gate. Constantine slowed the Dodge, turning in and driving slowly down the gravel road that ran a path to the stable. He cut the engine.
    “Thanks for the ride,” she said, not looking at him now.
    Constantine made a head movement toward the stable. “Can I see it?”
    Delia pushed some blond off her face. “If you’d like.” She started out of the car. Constantine stopped her with his hand. Her arm felt soft beneath the chambray of her shirt.
    “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
    “You don’t know me,” she said, and moved out of the seat.
    Constantine exited the Dodge and followed her through a gate, into a paddock, and then through the dutch-doored entrance to the stable. Two stalls stood inside the stable, with the head of a horse visible over the gate of one stall. The opposite stall was open and unoccupied. The stable appeared neatly arranged, clean, with the pleasant smell of damp hay. Hooves clomped the dirt as they entered.
    “Hello, Mister,” Delia said musically, opening the stall gate out and to the left. She stood protectively against the gate as the horse moved halfway out into the stable.
    The stallion stood still as Delia patted his neck and forequarters. He was black and full and muscled, with a blue-black mane and tail, and a diamond of white between his eyes, covering the area from his forehead down close to his muzzle. Constantine looked at the horse’s deep, intelligent eyes, and then at Delia’s, crinkled at the corners as she traced her fingers down his face as she might the face of a lover.
    “A thoroughbred,” Constantine said, knowing nothing of horses, though this was something anyone could see.
    “Yes,” Delia said. “The son of an Arabian stallion and an English mare.”
    “Beautiful,” he said, looking at Delia.
    Delia walked to the back of the stable, took a leather halter and rope off a nail, and returned. She held the horse by the mane with her right hand, brought the nose band up, pushed the loose end of the crown piece over the head, and buckled it. She patted the black stallion on his hindquarters and watched him walk slowly from the stable out into the paddock.
    “What now?” Constantine said.
    “Nothing too exciting. I clean his stall—shovel it out, and lime it—and then I ride. When I get back, I feed him.”
    Constantine looked into the empty stall, the dirt damp with urine. A wooden manger sat half filled with hay, a bucket of water by its side. His eyes moved above and to the left of the stall, in a corner of the stable. A video camera hung there, pointed down, an indicator light burning red below the lens, a green button below the light. Constantine looked into the lens, chuckled, then looked at