Free Strangers by Bill Pronzini Page B

hay rick, two windmills with galvanized water tanks, and a maze of corrals and cattle-loading chutes. A fairly large operation, and a successful one judging from the buildings’ well-kept look and the overall orderliness of the place.
    A middle-aged Latino was using a gas-powered weed-whacker along one side of the bordering fence when I came into the ranch yard. I stopped near him, waited until he shut off the noisy implement, and asked in Spanish if Jimmy Oliver was working here today. Speak a person’s native language in a friendly way and you can usually get a cooperative reply. He nodded and said yes, el hombre joven was in the stable attending to the horses, and pointed toward the smaller of the two barnlike structures adjacent to a pole-fence corral populated by half a dozen equines. The way he smiled as he said asistencia a los caballos indicated that what young Jimmy was mainly doing was shoveling horse manure.
    Not so, as it turned out, at least not right now. The cool interior of the stable smelled of manure, all right, but its only occupant was bent over the hindquarters of a roan mare outside one of the stalls, applying some sort of sticky brown substance to the animal’s leg just above the hoof. When he heard my footfalls on the rough floor he glanced around briefly, then resumed his work on the horse’s leg.
    He was a tall, gangly kid, body and limbs and head all angles and juts and knobs. Trying to grow a mustache, probably to make himself look older, but not having much luck at it; it had a sparse, weedy look on his upper lip. He was dressed cowboy-fashion, a sweat-stained Stetson hat pulled down low over his ears—an outfit you had the feeling was standard with him when he was out of sight of his mother.
    I stopped a short distance away—I’ve never been particularly comfortable around horses—and asked if he was Jimmy Oliver. He admitted it without looking up from his work. “Do something for you, mister?”
    â€œAnswer a few questions about Cody Hatcher.”
    The words froze him for a couple of seconds. He swiveled his head to give me an up-from-under look through squinted eyes. Then, slowly, he uncoiled and faced me, pushing the Stetson back on his forehead with his free hand.
    â€œWho’re you?” he asked warily.
    When I told him, he relaxed a little. “For a minute there, I thought maybe you’re some new guy with the county and my uncle sent you. I guess you know he’s the sheriff?”
    â€œYes, we’ve met. Why would he send somebody around to talk to you?”
    â€œHe thinks I might know something about Cody and those rapes that I won’t tell him. You know, like Cody confessed to me or something because we’re buddies.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he approve of Cody?”
    Jimmy Oliver’s mouth pinched in at the corners. “Him and my mother, they’re always telling me what a bad influence he was, how I’d get into trouble if I hung around with him. Now it’s I-told-you-so and a lot of praying and trying to make me forget I ever knew him.”
    â€œYou don’t believe he’s guilty.”
    â€œNo way. He wouldn’t attack a woman, wouldn’t hurt anybody. He just likes to have a good time, that’s all. I told my uncle who I think did the rapes and framed Cody, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
    â€œWho would that be?”
    â€œDerek Zastroy. That jerk-off’s had it in for Cody ever since Cody and Alana got together.”
    â€œWhy? Jealousy?”
    â€œYeah. Zastroy used to go with Alana. He’d attack a woman, all right. Real bad temper, smacked Alana around a couple of times—that’s why she wouldn’t have anything more to do with him.”
    â€œCody and this Zastroy had trouble, then. What kind?”
    â€œName-calling, shoves, a couple of punches.”
    â€œDid Cody tell you about this or did you see it happen?”
    â€œBoth. I was