House on the wrong side.., p.1
House on the Wrong Side of the Tracks, page 1
House on the Wrong Side of the Tracks
Gayle Siebert
Table of Contents
Title Page
House on the Wrong Side of the Tracks
DEDICATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
© COPYRIGHT 2025 by Gayle Siebert
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
AI was not used to write this book, to create the cover art, or in formatting.
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*Warning: Not intended for persons under the age of 18. May contain coarse language and mature content that may disturb some readers. Reader discretion advised.
Cover Art Design by: Kelly Moran/Rowan Prose Publishing
Photo Credit: Adobe Images/Deposit Photos
First Edition
ISBN: 9798227400727
eBook Edition
Rowan Prose Publishing, LLC
www.RowanProsePublishing.com
Published in the United States of America
DEDICATION
To all the horses that have been and are in my life.
Without them, I wouldn’t be who I am.
Chapter 1
Alphonse Asselstine is boring. I think I’ll slip into a coma if I have to surveil him another minute. All he ever does is sit. In his little office. In his truck. In his living room in front of the TV. If nothing pops today, my assignment ends in failure.
It's my first assignment from Saskatchewan Government Insurance, a real feather in my cap. He claims he’s too injured to do physical work so he can’t fix up the old house he was planning to flip, which he says was going to make him a bundle. There goes his early retirement. My mission: to catch him at something he claims he can’t do. Video of him sitting on his ample backside won’t do it. He moves so seldom I wouldn’t have had to go into debt to buy the camcorder.
The second day, it looked promising. He went to his project house, took something that might have been a toolbox inside, and—came right back out with it. I got video of him getting in and out of the truck with no sign of a sore back, but no judge would deny his claim based on that. And every time I’ve followed him, he does the same thing: leaves his job as dispatcher at Swift Taxi, heads to the old house, goes in, and comes back out half an hour later. Sometimes he stays longer, but whatever he’s doing in there doesn’t make enough noise to be heard outside. With the windows boarded up, I can’t even get a look inside.
At home, he ignores overgrown bushes, lawn grass so tall it’s going to seed, and weeds crowding the house. He sits by the window drinking beer until his wife calls him for supper. And K.C. wonders why I call him Beer Belly Boy.
Today being Saturday, I thought he’d spend time at the old house, but his truck isn’t there. It’s not at his domicile either. I decide to wait in case he comes home, so I tuck my van in beside the neighbor’s hedge and settle in. I’m in luck. He drives in, and when he gets out from behind the wheel, he’s carrying a twenty-four of Lucky. In minutes, I hear football games on TV. The volume is turned to ear-splitting to drown out the hum of the fan on the window ledge. His wife is either deaf or a saint, putting up with that.
The shadows are growing. It seems unlikely he’ll do any work around the place this late and I’m about to give up and go home, when he comes out and gets in his pickup. I duck so if he notices my van, he can’t see me in it. After giving him a brief head start, I follow. I get caught on the wrong side of a traffic light, and when the light’s green again, I’ve lost him. In hopes of picking him up again, I drive on and soon spot his truck pulling into a parking stall at The Stockmen’s. I turn into the lot, drive to the far end, and park. With the Handycam stashed in the console bin, I don my Saskatchewan Roughriders ballcap, pull my ponytail out through the hole in the back, and head for the pub entrance.
The Stockmen’s smells like every other pub I’ve been in: stale beer, cigarette smoke, and beef on the grill, with hints of backed-up sewer. The place is busy, the chatter loud, Garth Brooks on the jukebox bragging about his friends in low places rumbling away in the background. The ballcap was a good idea, because I blend right in.
When my eyes have adjusted to the dim lighting, I spot my target on a stool at the bar. There are a couple of empty seats on that side of the bar, including one right beside him, all useless to me. The only other empty stool is on the end, between two guys. I take it. From here, I can covertly watch him in the mirror behind the bar.
I order a glass of house white. The guys on either side of me seem to think my Roughriders cap is a sign I’m a fan, but all I know about the ‘Riders is that they won the Grey Cup last year. The cowboy on my right is yammering about their two wins and two losses so far this season and if he was the coach he’d do this, that, or the other, or else 1990 won’t be a repeat. He predicts they’ll beat the Edmonton Eskimos on Tuesday since they’re coming off a win last week against the B.C. Lions. He looks at me and says, “Right?”
“Um...”
The forty-something guy in the South Saskatchewan Fracking ballcap on my left saves me from answering by disagreeing loudly, and they get into a spirited discussion. I suggest we trade seats so they’re not talking over me. They comply.
Another mug of beer is delivered to Beer Belly Boy. It’s well past supper time and despite the stench of sewer, my stomach is growling. I’d love to order a Caesar salad, but I’d only have to leave it if that’s it for him. I can’t sit here nursing a six-ounce glass of wine for long, though, so since he shows no signs of moving, I order another. Damn! Two glasses of wine and I’ve eaten nothing but a sandwich nine hours ago. I’ll be too drunk to drive if he doesn't make a move soon. I suppose I could’ve ordered a ginger ale, but I tell myself since one of our family businesses is winemaking, it’s research. When he orders a third mug of beer, I order the salad.
The bartender asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to run a tab?”
“I’m sure.”
I didn’t need to worry about my target leaving when I was mid-salad, because he orders a fourth mug. Before long, a large, heavily-made-up woman slides onto a stool midway down the bar. She orders a glass of house red. When her wine comes, I hear Beer Belly tell the bartender to put it on his tab. She rewards him with a smile. He moves onto the stool next to her and they strike up a conversation.
When the woman is on her second glass, the two of them begin sucking face with abandon. I wonder how I manage to keep my salad down. It looks like a good time for a comfort break, so I put the coaster on top of my glass and go to the ladies’ room. When I’m done there and come back, the two lovebirds are gone. At least I can’t see them at a table anywhere. I give the bartender a little wave and when he’s in front of me, ask, “Oh, hey, where did the two that were at the other end of the bar move to?” When he gives me a quizzical look, I hurry on: “I just realized she used to be one of my teachers, and I was going to go say hi.”
“She’s a teacher? Really?”
Does he know her? Is the idea of her being a teacher too far-fetched? But it was all I could come up with at the moment. “I think so,” I reply, and add, “I mean, maybe. I could be wrong. It’s been a few years.”
“Whaddaya know,” he says. “Well, you missed ‘em by two minutes.”
“Thanks,” I say, swig the last of my wine, and race out into the dark parking lot hoping to see them pressed up against the wall or a car or something. But there’s no one anywhere. His truck is still where he parked it. Damn! They must have left in the woman’s car. There’s no chance I’ll find them now.
Defeated, I head for my van, but as I’m passing behind the guy’s truck, I notice movement in the cab. Country music? The windows must be open. They haven’t gone after all, but are inside, trading spit like a couple of teenagers.
I race to my van and get my Handycam, then slink into the row of scruffy bushes bordering the parking lot and work my way along until I’m right in front of his truck. I was worried I might be seen, but even though I’m mere feet away, I couldn’t have a better blind if I planned it. The nearest overhead light isn’t far off and the video camera is pretty good in low light. With luck it’ll even pick up the audio.
I snagged my shirt on something
She says, “Whatsamatter, baby?”
“My goddamn back!” He straightens up and they have a quiet discussion. They must have concluded things would work better if he were to sit up and have her climb on him, because that’s what they do. It’s a rather tight fit owing to Beer Belly Boy’s beer belly, and to call her pleasantly plump would be a kindness.
It’s hard work. She plays out quickly. Apparently it’s enough as there’s a number of heartfelt oh gods and then a loud, lengthy “Gaaahhh!” They reposition themselves so they’re sitting side by side, and light cigarettes. Clouds of smoke issue from the windows. I imagine they’re whispering whatever a john and a hooker whisper at such a time. In a moment, the passenger door opens. She climbs out, straightens her skirt, stuffs her immense breasts back inside her bra, and buttons her blouse. In a voice loud enough to be heard at the other end of the parking lot, she sticks her hand in the window and says, “Next week, Alfie?”
Alfie? She knows his name. He must be a regular. He mumbles a reply, but I can’t make out what it is. He hands her something, payment I guess, as she tucks it into her cleavage and walks away.
You’d think I’d be disgusted with myself for being a peeping Lindy, but instead, I’m so pleased at getting this great evidence I feel like dancing.
ON MONDAY, I PRESENT myself at the office of Jesse Bird & Co., anxious to impress him with the video. I get my Handycam connected to the TV in the lunchroom, and when Jesse and the other half of Jesse and Company, his wife and secretary Eileen, are ready to watch, turn it on.
I give them a running commentary, but mostly let the video speak for itself. Jesse and Eileen are quiet except for low chuckles that could be surprise or humor or maybe embarrassment. When it’s finished, I ask, “What do you think? He’s able to move around pretty well, at least until she climbs on.”
“I dunno, Lindy,” Jesse says. “It kind of confirms his back is injured, and—”
“Yeah, I know,” I cut in, “he complains about his back, but it doesn’t really slow him down. I was thinking more that he wouldn’t want this video to come out. I know it’s 1990 and people aren’t puritanical these days, but he wouldn’t want his wife to see him with a hooker. So maybe it’s enough to get him to go away?”
“Only one problem. She’s Mrs. Asselstine.”
“What? She’s his wife?”
“Yeah. What you have on video is date night, I guess.”
I ponder this news, then ask, “Even so, romping like that in the cab of a truck? Isn’t that enough to prove he’s faking?”
“Maybe, if we hadn’t heard him complain about his back.”
When no one speaks for what seems like an hour, I ask, “Can I still submit my bar bill for reimbursement?”
I’VE FINISHED PAYROLL as well as issuing checks for suppliers, when K.C. comes in, Saran-wrapped plate in hand. “Red sent you a sandwich,” he says, and sets it on my desk. “Chicken salad.”
“Thanks. I’m finished here, so I don’t have to eat at my desk,” I tell him. “I’ll join you at the island.”
“I already ate. Cream of mushroom soup today.”
“Kind of a hot day for soup, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but it’s my favorite.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. I get up to give him a kiss, but he’s already turned away. I pick up the plate and follow him out into the kitchen. “You get all your horses rode already?”
“Pretty much,” he replies. He gets a mug of the coffee I made about two hours ago, but instead of taking a seat at the island with me, he leans his skinny butt back against the counter.
“That’s a short session today, then.”
“Didn’t ride that big colt. You know, the one the kids named Rocky?” At my nod, he continues, “Worked him pretty hard yesterday, and with him being so big already and still growing, I figured he could use the time off.”
“You still like him?”
“Yeah, even though he’s got that spook and buck like I told you. No small thing, not with a big moving horse like him. Besides that, he’s been so pissy lately you’d think he was a mare. I wish he’d get over his bad mood and start acting like a gelding.”
I nearly say what I’m thinking, that I know someone else who’s been acting like a mare and judging by the current state of our sex life, might as well be a gelding. Instead I say, “Too big, too much movement, and too much attitude.”
“Yup, that’s him. Plus, he’s got a big trot, something else no cowboy’s looking for. His canter’s going to be great once he gets more balanced, though. Not the makings of a cowhorse, but he’ll be a decent dressage prospect. Got some draft in him. Came from a PMU farm, I’d guess.”
I click my tongue and say, “It’s so sad. All those babies shipped for meat, just to get the pregnant mare urine.”
“But you don’t want to give up your birth control pills, do you?” he asks. His tone is harsh, and he frowns at me before turning away to gaze out the window over the sink.
I remind myself that I love him, so instead of snapping back, I reply in an even tone, “No, but it’s 1990, not 1960. You’d think they’d’ve found something better by now. Besides, people should be married if they want to have kids.”
The Pill and getting married—both touchy subjects. I had hoped our heated discussion at breakfast put an end to it. I don’t see how a baby would fit into my life. I’m too busy, what with running the ranch I inherited and starting my private investigator business. Sure, the Lindy Larsen, P.I. phone isn’t ringing off the hook and has never needed its maximum ten message storage capacity, but that may change, and when I’m on assignment I can be away from home for hours on end. If I’m honest with myself, though, I have to admit I just don’t have the necessary maternal instinct.
“You know my ex won’t give me a divorce. Besides, a marriage licence is just ink on paper. The important thing is to be in a committed relationship,” he says, bringing my thoughts back into our conversation.
The way things have been going for the past months, I’m not sure how committed our relationship actually is. I ignore his comment about marriage licences. On the subject of birth control, though, I say, “I still say they should be able to synthesize something, so they don’t need the PMU.”
“Um hmm.” He drains his coffee and sets his mug on the counter above the dishwasher before turning and starting toward the door.
I ask, “You busy this afternoon?”
He holds up in the doorway and replies, “As always. Why?”
“Well, if you don’t have anything pressing, I need to take mail to the post office. And I thought since I’m done early and have extra time, maybe I’d take a run into Swift Current to check out that new tack shop.”
“Oh yeah? You need something you can’t get at the tack shop right in town?”
“I need a new shirt for the rodeo. Too much time on my butt, what with office work and hours in my van. Hasn’t done my waistline any good. I’ve put on a few pounds, so my jeans are uncomfortably tight, and I don’t have a shirt with snaps that stay shut. I’ve already seen the ones at the Hitching Post, and I don’t like any of them.”
He fusses with the loose weatherstripping on the doorjamb, but says nothing.
To sweeten the pot, I add, “We could go for dinner at Pioneer House.”
“Okay. When’re you leaving?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Give me half an hour,” he says.
Would he have agreed to go if I hadn’t suggested dinner at his favourite restaurant? I doubt it. Sadness at the current state of our relationship squeezes my insides. I’ve been told many times that whatever I’m feeling shows on my face, so I turn away.
