The Hit Man- Part 1

         Mac McCranie resembled Conway Twitty, should Conway been tossed in the washing machine with the whites and got bleached, or perhaps just left in the sun too long. Mac had a huge white smile, and tight, dark blue wranglers with a crease down the center. He had the swagger of a movie star, with white blonde hair that was swept back and held into place with an entire can of hairspray. When he walked, the pearl buttons on his cowboy shirt would wink at you, and his belt buckle, as big as a small dinner plate, aimed properly, could blind you.
       Mac's eyes crinkled when he smiled, and for a few seconds, you might get sucked into that friendly face, even feel a little special, the way he gave you a look that said you had his every scrap of attention, you were the most important woman in the world. You almost forgot two important things. One, Mac was pushing 70, and the fact that he was 100% pure cowboy hat wearing, rooster strutting, evil.
       If you didn't know better, the woman that sat beside him, looked like is sister. She had the same white hair, except for a shiny, slicked back sheet, it was a mass of cotton candy fluff. It seemed soft, but it also defied gravity, for when she moved her head fast, her hair lagged, held down by the industrial strength Aqua-net. It was always the same exact style, almost like she simply took her head off each night, and set it on the side table, to avoid messing it up. Mandy McCranie wore the same matching blue jeans, but when she walked by, you always heard the same song lyrics in your head, "A cowboy once had a millionaire's dream, and boy I loved that lady wearing tight fittin' jeans."
    The jeans were the same, dark blue as Mac's, but they no longer seemed like pants, but simply a denim colored skin that had a W stitched on the ass. There was no line where leg started and jean began, Mandy and the wranglers were one. She resembled a cowboy Barbie, except this Barbie was old, and mean, and though her body may be all curves and plastic, her face was a deep, nutmeg colored raisin. A raisin with a scowl permanently sewn amongst  the wrinkles.
     Mandy and Mac, king and queen of the Walterboro Horse Auction.
     Nobody in their right mind really came there to actually buy anything, it was simply something to do on a Friday and Saturday night. Sure, there were a few shoppers, bright eyed city people who wandered in from Charleston. I called them "Tennis Shoe Cowboys" because of their new hats and bright, western print shirts, and ridiculous swagger that was supposed to say, "Yep, I'm a real cowboy." which really translated into, "Yep, I take English riding lessons, and I have only fallen off once!" They should have simply come with a sign that read "Hey-  I'm over here! Sell me something drugged and dangerous!"
     The real cowboys were quiet, they had faded jeans and sagging old hats, and walked with a limp. They were the ones with the keen eye, and if something did come through that auction that was worth a dollar, they bought it out back, before they ever had a chance to run through the chute.

     As soon as the tennis shoe cowboys would plop down, the dealers would swarm. Danny Tate would be on one side, Vince Vierra on the other. Preston Martin would be below, and the old slaughter man would sit above. The newbies were the soft underbelly, and the men that surrounded them, the sharks. They'd pretend to have a conversation, but instead it was a very carefully orchestrated plot, like bookies taking bets. "Aw, look at that right front, he looks a little off." one of them would say of  a chestnut gelding being brought through. "Yep." chimed in another. "I wish I had done brought that quarter mare through, but I left her out back. I don't think I'll get what I want for her, nobody in this crowd knows good horseflesh, cides'," he'd add mournfully, "I want her to get a good home." a good home meaning anyone with cash. A few minutes later, you would see two very excited city people, 'casually' heading towards the side door, with a old trader swaggering behind.

      I loved the auction, the smell of kerosene from the big metal heaters that were so close to the wooden bleachers that the paint bubbled, the cowboys and their stories, even the four dollar tray of greasy fries. I usually never finished the fries, they usually were dumped when I jumped out of my seat, screaming at the auctioneer, Mac's son (equally handsome and evil), for saying something to make me pissed off.
    "You can't train this 'un with milk and cookies darlin'." He'd say when I would bid on the occasional mangy animal that ambled through. I have a very keen eye for the diamond in the rough, and was young enough that I still bounced when I fell.
    "Fuck you!" I'd scream, levitating from the hard plywood bench, my fries flying, my coke dumping at my feet. "I sure as shit can!" I'd jab my finger at him, ignoring all the rules on the new sign. It was impossible for me to be courteous or quiet.

     I had a bit of a reputation in town, one that insinuated that I did not fully embody the behavior a Southern Lady.I had a nasty of a mouth, one that made sailors take notes on the new curse words they could use later.            
I  was not married, and often told the boys if they wanted to buy me a ring, it better damn well have sand footing. I lived in the woods of Rum Gully in a haunted rental house on a couple of dusty acres I forged into a profitable training business, thanks to that same auction. I called it the Sunday morning blues- when Saturday night's horse drugs wore off, and the proud owners were now left with a raging, evil, angry horse that Mac refused to take back. I would be called, and a few hours later, I would have a new customer.
      I ran my own fence and built my round pen out of scraps of posts and wire panels tied together with twine. I drove a ford truck that was older than I was, and was on first name basis with all the guys at the auto parts store. I loaded my own feed at the farm supply, and had arms bigger than most of the men that worked there, I was the opposite of a southern lady, and damn proud of it. I would defend my white trash honor to the death, if need be.

    The bidding for a depressed looking filly went over what I was willing to pay, and Mac's son laughed at me, saying something snide. I stepped in the soup of fries and coke at my feet and screamed "Fuck you!, that thing ain't worth $600!". Mac and Mandy scowled, but left me alone. I think I added to the entertainment value.

    The last horses were led through were for the slaughter man, they were the lame, the ugly and the crippled, stuff nobody wanted.
     The slaughter man was a nice guy. He was fat and sweaty, with a kind face and a baseball cap so greasy the brim shined. He'd travel around the state with his big cattle truck and buy horses from the low end auctions, and drive up the state, running them back through the auction and turning a profit. The ones that didn't sell, met their final destination in a Georgia rendering plant.
   I liked to sit with the slaughter man because he could tell you the back story on almost every horse. "That one's got so much ace in him he'll sleep for a week." he said, nodding towards a pretty Appaloosa mare with a sleepy eye. He taught me how to read teeth, and to check their gums for color to see if they'd been drugged. "Watch out for head pressers." he told me once, explaining that one of the side effects of Ace is messing with the equilibrium in their head, causing the horse to press is head against walls, or even your hand if you tried to pet them. "Used to be used on crazy people." he pointed to his head, "but they'd bust their heads all to hell and had to quit using it." I don't know if any of his stories were true, but they were fun to hear. He'd even helped me pick a few really good horses in the past.
   The crowd was thinning and one of the last horses was brought through. "Do I hear One-fifty? One-twenty five? C'mon folks he's not that ugly."
    He's not that ugly.I was on my way out, but turned around. Those same exact words were used to describe me in middle school. I was long, and awkward, and had big hair that was not straight, or curly, but in some bizarre transformation stage that rendered it large, and in charge. I looked down at the chute, and there was a plain bay pony being led through. Nobody wanted a horse that was being led through. If it was being led, it was dangerous, unrideable, crippled, or all of the above. When nobody bid, a little girl about fourteen came from a side door and walked out. She had long hair down to her waist, with eyes that looked older, like they had seen too much of the world in such short years, and most of it was bad. She worked for the auction, so that's probably all she ever saw. She was the girl that rode the horses nobody else wanted to ride. She strode out, her fierce, determined eyes sized up the pony. Someone came forward and gave her a leg up, and she rode the pony bareback, up and down, back and forth.
      In front of the announcing booth he pooped.
    "Well folks, he ain't gonna colic on you, that's fer sure!" Mac's son said, grasping for something nice to say about the poor, plain mount.
    The slaughter man wasn't bidding, and  should have seen that as odd. I knew better, but it was like love at first sight, but worse. It was like some piece of destiny was falling into place, I could almost hear the slam of the door of fate. This horse was mine. "I got eighty, do I hear eighty-five?" Mac's son called. Some unseen force raised my hand.  The other man bidding gave me a look, usually when you outbid someone it's a look of defeat, but this was not defeat it was relief. I beat him by $5.00 and he looked happy about it. I walked to the back to see what the heck I just bought for $85.00

     Buying from an auction is a lot like on-line dating. You do a lot of browsing before you find something you want more information on. At the auctions, you go in the back, you separate the hustlers and dealers from the owners, and you have a very good idea of what to bid on before it comes through the chute. It doesn't hurt to have a little horseman's Spanish under your belt too.
    I was at an auction in Modoc South Carolina, making my rounds when I came across a beautiful TB mare standing tied to a trailer. She was wearing a beautiful Mexican saddle with a dinner plate horn and even a fancy stitched sword sheath. "Wow, she is so pretty!" I said, tilting my had down over my eyes and pretending to be shy. If you played dumb little girl with the cowboys, you could make even the most hardened dealer spew stupid, telling  things he shouldn't be about his horse. "Well, he bucks, a little."
   A handsome gentleman with a hat as big enough to blot out the sun and maybe smuggle a few small children into a movie theater walked up. "She sure is." He hooked his finger in his belt loop. His helper sat in the open trailer and looked scared.
   "How old is she?" I kicked the dirt and pretended not to be interested.
    "Seven."
    That usually translates into fifteen in auction speak, much like a profile on-line, the age was always a lie. I checked her teeth, he was right. The mare had a bright eye, and glossy coat. She did not belong at an auction tied to a Mexican horse traders ramshackle trailer. .
    The man watched me carefully. He knew I wasn't stupid, so I gave up the ruse and started asking questions. "Is she rideable?"
     "Yep."
     "Can I see you get on?"
     "Sure, no problem." he said, tilting his Volkswagen sized hat. He tightened the cinch on his saddle. The man in the trailer looked stricken "Este caballo esta' jodidmente loco." The mare is fucking crazy.
     My head snapped up.
    "Ella va a estar bien, yo ya la le monto un par de horas." She'll be fine I already rode her a few hours. He climbed on, the mare hunched for a moment and then walked off without incident.
     I had seen and heard enough. I tipped my average sized hat and smiled, "Gracias, pero ya tengo bastantes caballos locos." Thank you, I already have enough crazy horses.

    Little did I know, I was going to add to my collection. This plain pony was the best and worst $85.00 I've ever spent. I did my walk of shame, past the slaughter man. . . despite my best efforts, the fact that I was a girl in a man's world, slipped out. I made my very first emotion based auction buy.
   Guido, as I'd later change his name to, because it seemed fitting for a small gangster with hidden weapons, waited in a stall in the back. The door was rusty, and bent. Jagged pieces of metal and bent rails paid homage to all the other lost soles that had been through these hallowed stalls before them, some so desperate to escape that they attempted jumping, some climbing.
    He lolled his head towards me, and then away. He had the look of defeat and abject hopelessness. I was thrilled! I would prove him wrong, I would win this lost sole over and we'd be great friends. I walked inside and ran my hand over his dull brown coat. He was a pony, but he really just looked like a stunted horse. He was well proportioned, and not too small that I couldn't ride him. I put my hand on his forehead and that's where I noticed the pipe mark.
    Right between his eyes was a perfect circle where his head had been presumably smashed with a pipe. The skin folded back on itself, leaving a simi-circle skin pocket. It had healed, and leaving a hairy pocket and a shiny scar. I put my finger in the pocket, almost to the knuckle.
    Just behind his withers was a hunk where muscle should have been, but it left a hole, a skin covered dip, like someone or something had simply scooped it out. His rear leg was swollen, and he was covered in various scratches and cuts, and he was mine. I reached down and picked his front feet, ran my hand down his side and picked up his rear. "Be careful, he's young." The slaughter man said. I turned around to catch a fleeting expression of guilt as he passed. This was his horse. He didn't even stop to get his halter. NO dealer in the history of dealing has EVER let you keep the halter. Something was bad wrong. . .