Trotting in three quarters time (a novel), Part 12

by A.J. Lencroy

Chapter 1 is here.

Chapter 2 is here.

Chapter 3 is here.

Chapter 4 is here.

Chapter 5 is here.

Chapter 6 is here.

Chapter 7 is here.

Chapter 8 is here.

Chapter 9 is here.

Chapter 10 is here.

Chapter 11 is here.

CHAPTER 12

Retirement Party

At the end of his final shift on Friday, Detective Gerald Hooley sent out a text warning that anyone showing up at his retirement shindig at The Buzzer Beater sports bar the following evening with a card or gift would be arrested.

Most of Hooley’s friends from the Florence, KY Police Department followed the edict, except for the vice squad, who presented him with a box of inappropriate items from the evidence room and a coffee mug that read “Licensed to Chill.”

By 10 o’clock on Saturday evening, the bar had cleared out. Only Hooley, Bones Marchais, and, surprisingly, Rosemarie Foster, of the Dutch Boy paint can haircut, remained at the large round table beneath the dartboard. None of the trio was blotto, but none would be driving.

Detective Marchais, whose body fat hovered around zero, was feeling the effects of the celebration more than the others. He intermittently folded his arms on the table, rested his bald head on them, and nodded off.

Hooley refilled Rosemarie’s glass from the last pitcher, raised his own in salute, and spoke with the careful over-enunciation of a man who’d had numerous beers.

“Rosemarie, it’s too bad we didn’t have a chance to work together longer. You are a very interesting person. You shall remain a youthful enigma.”

“Well, thank you. I assume by interesting and enigmatic you’re referring to my unfortunate outburst about excessive makeup, fashion, and cosmetic surgery?”

Hooley shrugged. “I just chalked it up to a personal relationship issue. I guess that you and your partner have a country-girl, city-girl conflict thing.”

“I’m not gay.”

Hooley winced. “Sorry, none of my business.”

“My secret partner is a man.”

“Ah, got it.”

“A married man.”

“Got it.”

“He is a crossdresser who enjoys glamming up.”

“Well, there you go. You are interesting. A lady of many mysteries. Plus, you’re a whiz about harness horse racing.”

“How old are you, Hooley?”

“Fifty-three last week.”

“Do you have any retirement plans, like a bucket list?”

“Everybody asks me that.” He fluttered his hand with an either-way wiggle. “Maybe a beer glass list.”

Bones Marchais stirred, rotated his head, and then returned to his nap. Hooley and Rosemarie watched him and shared a smile. She looked into her half-filled glass and spoke without looking at him.

“I know you’re off the job, but something interesting popped up on the WAPC report this morning.”

“The Weekly Activities and Pending Case summary?”

“Yes, a DVO and an IPO against the guy from the racetrack business, Alex Pettigrew.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Domestic Violence Order. What’s IPO again?”

“Interpersonal Protection Order.”

“Did the sheriff’s office serve him?”

“They tried, but he was AWOL from his condo.”

“That’s wild. Did you look at the summary in the database?”

“Yes. Three applicants: Peter Pettigrew, his wife, and Martha Conklin. “The judge must have been pissed. Cousin Alex can’t go near the people, their residences, or — and get this — Pioneer Downs Racetrack.”

“No shit.”

Hooley set down his beer and frowned. Then he waved to Nick, the bartender, and pretended to write on his palm, signaling for the check. Nick signaled back with a runner safe at home slide gesture, followed by a thumbs-up to indicate the tab was covered.

Rosemarie and Hooley shared a comfortable silence. He carefully examined the “Licensed to Chill” mug, deep in thought.

She fished out her phone and flashed it at Hooley. “Uber, my treat. The three of us are basically in the same direction. Our ride will be here in about 15 minutes.”

“Perfect.”

After a few moments, Hooley asked her, “Do you believe in coincidences?”

“Sort of. I find events happen in threes. But that may be a self-fulfilling prophecy thing. “Part imagination, part awareness, part coincidence. Maybe a little mysticism. Who knows? Why?”

“The names on the restraining orders are Martha Conklin, the horse trainer, Peter Pettigrew, and the racetrack.”

“And?”

“I’m meeting Peter tomorrow at the racetrack and have a date with Martha for dinner on Friday. We delayed both meetings until I was a civilian. I wonder if the restraining orders will change our plans?”

“What plans?”

“It’s not complicated. Now that I’m off the force, I got this wild idea that buying into a racehorse would be a fun thing to try. You know, kind of a hobby. I’ve got some time and some money to burn.”

“You could save yourself a lot of trouble by buying a firepit and tossing your money into it instead of trying to turn a profit with yearlings.”

Hooley chuckled. “But not as interesting.”

“True, you can turn disposable money into memories.” She paused. “It’s really not a bad idea. I’ve thought about getting into racing, but I never had the money or the balls.”

Hooley said, “I’ll keep you posted on my equine adventures.”

“Great, I’d like that. Now, what about her?”

“Just social. Dinner. She’s nice. We’re the same age. We seem to hit it off. That’s it.”

Rosemaire sighed. “Geesh, Hooley, you leave the police department, and wade into romance and a swamp where Alex Pettigrew is lurking.”

Bones lifted his head, shook it once, and cleared his throat.

“What swamp?”