Denial

By Roland Keller

When private investigator, inveterate gambler, and wannabe writer Easy Taylor is hired by Paso Fino breeder and importer Raul Mendosa to investigate the death of a farmhand the police say was accidental, Easy is drawn into a deal with Books of the Dead author and stallion owner Justin Case only to find himself embrioled in a mix-up of corpses that forces him into a horseback trek into the wintry wilderness.
Denial is the third in the series of Roland Keller’s Easy Taylor Mystery Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKA Publications
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215263235

Roland Keller

When he wasn’t riding on one of his Paso Fino horses, Roland Keller was the editor of the literary tabloid, PKA’s Advocate, for over three decades. He is the author of the ‘Easy Taylor’ mysteries Pardee Holler, Nature of the Beast, Denial, Chimera, and Squirrelly, and of the political romance novella, Straw Man. He, his wife Patricia, and their Paso Finos live in the Catskill Mountains of New York.

Book preview

Denial

Copyright 2023 Roland Keller

Published by PKA Publications

At Smashwords / Draft2Digital

Denial is a work of fiction. None of the people depicted in this work is real nor based on real people. If the reader sees any resemblance to persons living or dead, then the reader needs to meet more realistic people.

On the other hand, several of the horses in this story are, in fact, actual real Paso Fino horses. I know this because I know the horses. Calista is a real Paso Fino mare and has had several foals, all of them by Contratercero, who, as you may have guessed by now, was also a real Paso Fino stallion. So is his son Ay Caramba Contratercero. Viva Zapata Contratercero is Contratercero’s first daughter, born to Calista. However, none of these horses was yet alive in 1989, the year this story takes place. Contratercero was born on April 28, 1993 and passed away on July 3, 2016.

Everything I have written about the character, disposition, temperament, gait, abilities, attitudes, intellect, pride, durability, and determination in regards to these Paso Fino horses is absolutely true. If you would like to know more about Contratercero a/k/a Bud, you can still visit him on facebook.

–RK

This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form or by any means whatsoever, without written permission from the publisher, PKA Publications or author, Roland Keller.

Contact either at [e-mail]

Second E-Book Edition

ISBN 9798215263235

Published in the

United States of America by Americans

Cover Art & Layout Design by Patricia Keller

https://m.facebook.com/PKAArtistPublications/

http://advocatepka.weebly.com

https://pixels.com/profiles/patricia-keller

This story is dedicated to the memory of

Amadeus

(July 6, 1969 - March 23, 2007)

who taught me by example what true nobility is,

and, as ever, to Pat.

"Lo más que conozco a la gente,

más quiero a mis caballos."

–un viejo dicho Español

(The more I know people,

the more I love my horses.

–an old Spanish saying)

1

The Plunge

As he made his way up the hill, Hector Ortiz thought he could see the mares in the near distance just beyond the snow laden stone wall. They stood dark and stoic against the cold, mere shadows in the dim predawn light, barely discernible against the pale, moonlit snow. But the more he looked, the less the immobile shadows seemed to be the mares, just darker places in the rock strewn pasture.

The slope steepened and large stone outcrops jutted barefaced from the snow. Ortiz mused that, if he were a giant, the layered Catskill bluestone outcrops would be like huge steps and he could climb the hill with ease. He had the same thought each time he made the climb.

Continuing to trudge uphill, he labored in his heavily insulated coveralls. They fit just a bit too snugly across his chest, constricting his breathing and, with the cold air, making him near breathless. The crunching of the frozen snow and the rasping of his breathing filled his ears. Fifty yards along, he had to stop. As he recouped, he listened for the telltale susurrus and thud of the mares’ hooves if they were on the move through the snow or the snort that would tell him they were aware of his presence, but the silence was punctuated only by the occasional rattle of a bare tree limb catching the slight air movement high above the snow.

At times like this, Ortiz both hated and loved the frigid air and the peaceful quiet of the mountain. He revelled in the beauty, but missed the warmth of his home outside San Juan, Puerto Rico. So many contrasts here, so many wonders, so many difficulties, so cold. But he got paid well, better than at the horse farm where he had worked before coming here, and here the horses were respected and treated with kindness.

And until now, here on this farm in these mountains he had believed he was away from the gangs, the drug dealings, and the violence of his homeland. But it seemed trouble had indeed followed him. The drugs were here, too. And he knew that could only lead to violence. He did not know what to do, whether to remain silent or to go to the authorities. If he kept his secret, perhaps no one would know he knew. If he spoke up, he might become the target for revenge. But if they already knew he knew…

He resumed his trek.

With each step, Ortiz landed his boots into yesterday’s footprints, avoiding having to make a new path through the foot-deep snow in favor of the packed path his daily climb had formed since the last snowfall. His deeper tracks were criss-crossed with the paw prints of coyotes hunting in the night and with yesterday afternoon’s arrow shaped turkey tracks that always seemed to him like arrows pointing back in the direction from which the turkeys had come.

A few more steps, and he could hear the gurgling of the icy cold spring water splashing into the huge covered cistern that sat upon a broad, flat rock protruding from the slope. The water flowed constantly, emanating from beneath a mossy rock.

It reminded him of the Old Testament story told to him in the old church Sunday school about how God told Moses to speak to a rock and it would give forth water for the thirsty, wandering children of Israel. When in his frustration with his followers, Moses struck the rock with his staff, it so offended God that Moses was forbidden to enter the Promised Land. Ortiz gleaned two morals from that story. The first was that violent reactions were a bad idea. The second was that springs are a miracle from God and must be respected. That alone was enough to make this daily chore worth the effort. It was the closest Ortiz ever came to worshipping.

The excess of crystal clear water in the cistern flowed to a smaller tank and from there into a network of pipes that fed the troughs in the several paddocks, providing each with a constant flow of fresh water for the horses. The cistern itself had a single, large pipe coming out of its lowest portion, the water running to the residence and always flowing in the small fountain in the residence’s foyer. Without this constant flow into the troughs, the three workmen at the stable would have to carry buckets of water from the well house to the horses several times each day to satisfy the horses’ daily ten gallons of thirst. It was an irksome chore that he and the other two had had to do during last summer’s dry spell when the rains failed to replenish the spring beyond the needs of the household.

But now that the fall rains had been abundant and the dormant forest no longer drinking, the spring was strong, and it was Hector Ortiz’s task to check the system early each morning before feeding the horses and late each afternoon after the last feeding of the day to make sure nothing interfered with the flow so that none of the pipes would freeze. He never ceased to marvel at the sophisticated simplicity of the system.

Water always flows downhill, Mendosa had explained to him. All we have to do is direct it. As long as God provides the water, we need only provide the containers and the pipes. And keep them clear so the water never stands still and freezes.

Ortiz could not comprehend what kept the cold, clear water from freezing in this dreadfully cold weather. Fifteen degrees Fahrenheit was to him an unimaginably cold temperature before he came north to these mountains a few years ago. Now it was routine, even in mid-December before real winter arrived. Still, the prospect of even deeper cold and deeper snow worried him, just as it always did. What if he slipped, knocked his head and lost consciousness? How long could a man survive outside in this whiteness without help if he were hurt? He reminded himself that his compadres Miguel and Diego knew he was outside doing his morning chores and that, if he failed to be at the table for breakfast, they surely would notice and somebody would come searching for him.

Or he would die.

He told himself not to think such thoughts, to banish them, that they would invite trouble.

Approaching the cistern, he stopped to listen. The water sang off key, telling him even before he looked inside that something needed attention. He lifted the heavy, ice encrusted lid. To see better in the darker interior, he closed his eyes, counted to ten, then opened them.

A small, blackened leaf partially blocked the overflow outlet, causing the level of the water to rise gradually, threatening to spill over the rim and create an icy sheet on the snow. It would make the afternoon approach to the spring devilishly tricky, maybe impossible.

Ortiz cursed quietly, irritated that now he would have to remove his glove and reach his bare fingers into the numbing cold water to clear away the leaf. He propped open the lid with a stick, pulled the insulated glove from his right hand, planted his feet as solidly as he could, and leaned well over the water to reach the leaf.

So suddenly were his legs lifted backwards that he did not have time to scream before he splashed into the biting cold water, shocking him into a gasp that filled his lungs with the frigid liquid fire. In mere seconds, he lost consciousness, stopped his futile struggle for a handhold, and heard a welcoming chorus of angels singing him to heaven.

Uncorrected, the excess water rose in the cistern, breached the rim, flowed over the edge and onto the stone, freezing into a quietly, inexorably growing glacier.

2

Title Goes Here

Murdock had an army. They were tough, disciplined, totally ruthless, and heading our way. It was not going to be a quiet weekend.

Easy put down his pen and reread what he had written in the notebook. Not a bad beginning, he said to himself. Now all he needed was some notion, no matter how vague, of how to continue, not to mention what the story should actually be about. He picked up the pen and at the top of the page wrote, Title Goes Here. Below that he wrote, by Edward Zachery Taylor. Then below that he wrote, by E.Z. Taylor. Then below that he wrote, by Easy Taylor. Then he crossed out the first three by-lines and wrote, by Easy Pickins.

No good, he said aloud. Easy Pickins is a racehorse. Probably got the name trademarked or something. Anyway, he’s already cost me enough. He was about to cross that out as well and try to think of a name to use, but the people in the next room were making so much noise with their groaning and oohing and ahhing, not to mention rocking the bed so hard it shook the wall adjoining his room, that he couldn’t think clearly. Whether daytime or nighttime, it was often like that at the Days & Nights Motel, and not just because it was at the wrong end of the Village of Catskill, up the street from the sewage treatment facility and the fuel oil storage tanks. Hank had been right– of course. She was almost always right. And even when she wasn’t, and he was, she’d never admit it. But she was right about the motel. It really was a brothel, even though she had been wrong about them charging room rates by the hour. But it wouldn’t do any good to point that out to her. Anyway, as it was, if he had pointed it out, she would have said it was a moot point. Which, of course, it was.

But the room rate really was low and, as usual, Easy was so broke he felt like he even smelled broke. Actually, he had to admit he was worse than broke. He was in hock, and not just any hock. He was in hock to the only bookie in town, not to mention the only bookie on the entire planet that would ever give him credit. But credit from New York Lou came with some very serious collateral.

Y’know, Z-man, Lou had said, you bettin more’n just dinero here.

What, Lou? What? Easy had asked, a troubling knot forming in his gut.

Like Groucho used t’say, Z-man, Lou said not smiling, you betcher life.

Easy had tried to laugh it off as he nodded in agreement. Now it didn’t seem like a laughing matter. Not after that first little credit memo from one of Lou’s musclemen when Easy had missed a scheduled payment. He had been left with an aching gut, but without any serious injuries.

Before that, back in Lou’s kitchen-cum-betting parlor, Easy felt he could trust that same gut. He had reassured himself that the bet was a sure thing. After all, how could a horse named SirTenTee running at fifty-to-one not finish in the money? SirTenTee just had to be a certainty, didn’t he? So Easy initialed the $500 note, thanked Lou, and spent the rest of the day figuring out how he was going to spend the twenty-five grand in winnings, less whatever juice Lou skimmed off the top. He just knew, deep down, this was going to pay off, knew it right up to the time SirTenTee stumbled and fell coming out of the starting gate.

Now Easy was half a hair’s breadth away from giving up playing hunches and going back to his old system, which also had its flaws, and presuming he survived long enough to find the money he was again late in paying to Lou and which just at the moment he didn’t have and, if he figured in the outrageous vig Lou was charging and which made the total grow by leaps and bounds every second, he wasn’t likely to have any time soon.

Like my hunches really worked, he said to himself. He put down his pen, got up, went to the connecting wall and pounded on it. Quiet down, will ya? he shouted. I can’t hear myself think, fer cryin out loud.

The moaning was replaced by giggles and laughter, then a shouted Sorry, then a moment later by more moaning and oohing and ahhing.

Easy was at his wits end. Short road, he mumbled, and since he couldn’t come up with a quick way to raise the money he owed Lou, he did the only thing he could. He put it out of his mind and tried to focus on the as yet unwritten piece of writing he was trying to write, wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to have kept his ambitions about being a writer to himself and not told Hank. But she was going on and on again about his betting, his, as she put it, perpetually empty wallet, finally saying, Don’t you want to make something of yourself? Don’t you have any personal goals?

That’s when he’d blurted out about wanting to be an author, or at least a writer. What he didn’t say was that he thought being a writer looked like a soft gig. No waiting around for some client to want to hire him, no real legwork, no having to deal with dangerous people or irate estranged spouses trying to get the goods on their cheating partners, and no heavy lifting.

You just write a book, people buy it, and the money flows in. What could be easier?

Hank, of course, had just the right answer, or so she said. It seemed to Easy as though she had secretly known about his writing idea all along and had been saving this particular bit of information for just the right moment to spring on him. With the same kind of self-confidence she exhibited when treating a sick or injured animal at her veterinary clinic, she told him about the writing workshop at the local community college satellite annex in the former elementary school in Catskill. No entry exam, no previous educational requirement, no nothing. You just pay your sixty-seven dollars and you’re in. Besides learning something about the craft of writing, she had pontificated, you could probably make some useful connections. You know, network. Lay a foundation for a career.

Like the cowboy said when he jumped naked on the cactus, Seemed like a good idea at the time. Only now it just seemed like so much mind numbing work. And by signing up, he had blown pretty much all that was left of what little money he had managed to scrape together to keep Lou at bay a little while longer, and the writing assignment was due on Monday and he was nowhere with it. It was a lot like when he was in school and assignment deadlines would sneak up on him finding him exactly nowhere. Which was where he found himself now.

Well, not exactly nowhere. He did have an opening sentence. Three, actually. But beyond those three, he was stumped. Not only did he not have an idea for the scene he was supposed to produce– a scene setting scene that could be an introduction to a fuller, more fleshed out story– he had no idea what the fuller story was supposed to be.

The idea of writing stories seemed so easy when he read someone else’s writing. The Larry McMurtry, Louis Lamour, and Justin Case westerns he’d been reading recently seemed so facile, so ready, so unlike actual work, especially the bizarre Case novels in his Books of the Dead series that featured zombies of the old west. Meanwhile, writing his own stories seemed like trying to carry a dead horse. Maybe being a writer wasn’t any easier than being a private investigator. Maybe he should rethink the whole thing. Or maybe he should try figuring out a better way to pick winners at the track. Which would certainly be easier than writing a story, but only if he’d actually had any money or credit with which to bet, which just at the moment he didn’t have.

The noise outside his motel room snapped him out of his funk. It obviously wasn’t the amorous couple next door. He switched off the desk lamp and tiptoed to the window. With as much stealth as he could muster, he sidled up to the window frame, leaned his head against the casing, closed one eye, and peered out through the slit between the casing and the closed venetian blinds.

A shiny black SUV was parked in the slot outside his room where his car would have been had he actually had his car, a situation he would correct as soon as he found the $300, plus mounting storage fees, he owed the mechanic. Easy watched as a very large man in insulated coveralls and knitted hat got out of the driver’s side, dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and softly shut his door. Another even larger man in similar garb got out of the passenger side. He, too, shut his door quietly.

It did not seem to Easy that the men were a couple looking to take advantage of the motel’s reputation as a place for trysts. Oh jeez, more musclemen, Easy muttered, wondering how Lou found out where he was staying. Besides his lawyer, the only person he knew who knew where he was staying was Hank, and she wouldn’t give him up to Lou, not even if it meant he’d stop playing the ponies– which, in this case, could be permanently. At least, he hoped she wouldn’t.

Big Driver tipped his head toward the door of Easy’s room. Bigger Man nodded, then they both advanced. Big Driver went to the front of the SUV and leaned back against it, his arms folded across his chest. He looked from side to side and nodded to Bigger Man who strode to the door, raised his fist, and knocked.

Time to get out of Dodge, Easy mumbled, moving away from the window. He would have gone out the back door except there wasn’t one. But there was a bathroom that faced the back of the motel. So he headed there, quietly opened the window, slipped out, and shut it behind him. Then he ran.

Half a mile later at the foot of the Greene County Courthouse steps on the corner of Main and Bridge Streets, Easy stopped to catch his breath, leaning over and resting with his hands on his knees, the cold of the December morning flooding over him. Without a coat, a hat, and the gloves he finally thought to buy for himself with the proceeds from his last job before dropping a bundle with New York Lou, Easy knew he’d have to go back to the motel eventually, but not before Lou’s goons got bored and left. In the meantime, Easy decided the best he could do was to go up to the courthouse and try to blend in with the people who had legitimate business inside.

He ran up the broad steps, suppressing the urge to raise his fists in imitation of Rocky Balboa when he reached the top, and ducked inside. If nothing else, it was at least warm in the lobby even if a sheriff’s deputy he didn’t recognize was eying him suspiciously. Easy smiled his best Little Mary Sunshine smile and purposefully strode into the real estate records room and straight for the lis pendens files. If he were going to look inconspicuous, he knew he had to be doing something people come to the courthouse to do. When in Rome, he said himself, smile, darn ya, smile.

Taking a file at random, Easy moved to one of the rectory tables and mindlessly flipped through the volume. A well-dressed woman was studiously copying something from another file when she took a sidelong glance at Easy, paused, and said, Mr. Taylor, hello. You missed our last appointment, you know.

Easy hesitated for a second, feeling for all the world like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights, then relaxed. Oh, Ms Newar, I didn’t see you here, Easy said, thinking that if he had, he would have gone elsewhere. Yes, I’m sorry about that. I misplaced my appointment book and just… Easy’s voice trailed off, a plausible excuse for not checking in with his court appointed community service supervisor having eluded him for the moment.

Of course, Mr. Taylor, Bette Newar said, clearly not believing him. But you know, you are still required to finish out the rest of your community service sentence. She pulled a notebook from her briefcase, flipped it open, and said, Last time we spoke, you had logged exactly ten hours. So tell me, are you still collecting trash from along Maple Avenue? How many hours now?

Uh, let me think a moment, Easy said, wishing he had gone a block farther up to the public library instead of the courthouse. He could have been passing the time reading a Justin Case zombie western instead of dealing with his zombie lawyer. I’m not absolutely certain. Without that appointment book, you know. He tried to do some mental calculations, knowing he had a two-hundred-hour sentence to complete for allegedly jumping bail on what were bogus gambling charges that ended up being dropped anyway. The hours had starting about a week and a half ago, so if he did, say, four hours each day for, say, ten days, he’d have done about forty hours. It’s got to be at least forty, maybe forty-five hours, he said, nodding in affirmation. Yeah, call it forty-five hours.

You know, Mr. Taylor, Bette Newar said in her most condescending lawyerly voice, I’m only supervising you as a favor to Henrietta Van Vonderhueeks. She literally saved the life of my mare when the horse colicked so I owe her some gratitude. But that doesn’t mean I can turn a blind eye to you shirking your community service.

Believe me, Ms Newar, he said, his right hand on his heart, I give you my word. I know Doc Hank would be very disappointed if I didn’t honor my obligations to you and to the court. You can take it to the bank, I’ve got forty-five hours in so far, and since I’m not presently on a case, I will be finishing up the remaining one-hundred hours–

One-hundred-fifty-five hours, Newar interrupted.

What? Oh, yeah, right. One-hundred-fifty-five hours as expeditiously as I can.

If you’re not on a case, Newar said narrowly, pointing at the lis pendens file, what are you doing with that?

I, uh. Think! Easy commanded himself. Uh, well, you could call it fishing, if you know what I mean, he fumbled, hoping he sounded convincing.

For? she asked skeptically.

Oh, you know, Easy said, a case, a client. Someone who might need my investigative services. I don’t suppose you would be needing…

No, uh-uh, Newar said emphatically.

Ah, I see. Easy barely got a glimpse of hope before it faded. Then a thought occurred to him. Perhaps you might help me with a little problem I have.

You mean you want free legal advice, right?

Easy tried not to notice the sarcastic edge in the lawyer’s voice, and asked, Is it legal for a mechanic to prevent a car owner from getting his car just because he owes the mechanic for repairs?

Your car?

My car? Uh, no. A client.

I thought you said you weren’t on a case.

Easy fleetingly wished he had paid more attention to what he actually said to Newar. A case? Right, no, it’s not really a case. It’s sort of pro bono. You know what I mean.

Doing the community service supervision as a favor to her veterinarian, Bette Newar most definitely knew what pro bono meant. I never heard of a p.i. working pro bono, she said.

A favor for a friend, Easy said, dismissing off his pretended good service. So, can the mechanic do that?

Well, technically, Newar said, suspecting that Easy’s friend was a fiction, no, he can’t prevent the owner from taking the vehicle. But he can sue for the money owed in small claims court if the tab doesn’t exceed twenty-five-hundred dollars. If it does, then he can go to county court.

Great! Easy stopped himself from pumping a fist in the air. I can get my car–

Your car? Newar raised an eyebrow.

My client’s car, I mean. He can get his car. Easy tried to sound serious.

Newar glanced up at the wall clock, then checked her wristwatch. Both read 12:45. I have to get upstairs for court, she said, but before I go, I have to warn you, Mr. Taylor. Don’t play fast and loose with your sentence. Or with me. Neither Judge Noah Vale nor I take your sentence lightly. I strongly advise that you don’t, either. She slipped her notebook and legal pad back into her briefcase, snapped it shut, and looked him in the eye. Be in my office tomorrow at nine sharp, and have your service log with you and up to date. Accurately up to date. Then she marched past Easy and out to the