Puss 'N Cahoots (12 page)

“I don't think so. He knows we're best friends with Joan and Larry. His first thought might be that we're coming to see Frederick the Great, spy on the horse. Is he in good condition? Is he lame? Are there drug bottles in his stall? Which I doubt. Charly is too smart to leave Banamine or whatever around. But I can say, truthfully enough, that I'd like to see his setup, and if there's a vet on the premises, I'd like to meet him or her.”

“He'll still know we're coming with the searching eye.” She used the old Southern expression.

“He will, but it won't be as sneaky as coming when he's showing horses. If you think about it, how mad would it make you if someone trolled through our barn and you were out hunting or at a show?”

“Yeah.”

“And furthermore, you beautiful girl, if we were to go now, we'd make an enemy. If we're aboveboard, we probably haven't made a friend, but we haven't burned our bridges. And you never know when you might need someone's cooperation.”

“I never thought of that.” She sighed. “Between you and Miranda, I get set straight.”

“That's why we need people. All of us are smarter than one of us.” He leaned back on her, she put her arms around his chest. “Let's get dressed, eat at the grandstand.”

She concurred. “The food is fabulous.”

“It is. If we get there early, we'll have a nice place to sit, enjoy the meal, and then we can go down to the barns or the box. But I need a little R and R.”

“Me, too. We'll have to put the critters in the hospitality suite, because they won't be allowed in the grandstand.”

When Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker walked into the hospitality room, the sight of Cookie softened the blow of not going to the grandstand. Pewter in particular believed she needed to sample the food and provide her expert opinion to the humans. Being an obligate carnivore, Pewter knew she could taste meats and fishes better than any human.

“I could save them from mercury poisoning,”
Pewter declared as she was plopped in the burgundy, white, and black room.

Harry suffered a twinge of passing guilt.

She and Fair enjoyed a lovely meal while watching the first three classes: hackney pony pleasure driving, five-gaited pony, and junior three-gaited stake.

When they finished, Fair escorted Harry to the box. Paul and Frances sat up front on the rail. Conversation started immediately.

“Joan will be here in a minute. She's been down at the practice arena. Trying to get Looky Lous out of Barn Five,” Paul informed them.

“Folks, I'll be back in one minute.” Fair smiled. “You take care of my girl, now.” He nodded at Paul.

“With pleasure.”

To some women, this might have sounded like an insult. After all, women had been taking care of themselves and others for thousands of years without getting much credit for it—politically, anyway. But among these people, the sentiment was one of both form and affection. It would have been a careless husband who didn't, in some fashion, draw attention to how much he loved his wife.

Fair zipped around the back of the western grandstand, the one open to the skies, now rich with twilight's many-hued soft pinks and blues. He waited patiently as customers preceded him at the jewelry booth across from the grandstand's back.

Finally he smiled at the lady behind the counter and pointed to the desired ring. “Size seven.”

“You're a decisive man.” She unlocked the glass, her gray hair blueing with the light. “Would you like this wrapped?”

“I would.”

“Do you need a card?”

“Yes, please.”

This transaction lightened his wallet by three thousand dollars, but he wanted to do it. The parting with money caused no pain, because he knew how happy it would make Harry. He'd give it to her Monday, August 7. They'd be back home in Crozet.

Harry, pretty tight with the buck, spent money reluctantly even on needed items. She wouldn't buy herself jewelry. She might buy him something quite special for Christmas, his birthday, or their anniversary, but she wasn't a consumer in the typical American sense.

Fair, while not profligate, enjoyed treating himself and Harry. His philosophy was “You can't take it with you.”

He slipped the dark green box, the thin white ribbon tied in a bow, into the inside pocket of his blue-and-white seersucker jacket.

Just as he rejoined his wife, Joan walked into the box. Harried, tired, she'd been dealing with more reporters, plus Charly, who was on the warpath, accusing her of stealing the horse for Kalarama's publicity. That was an unanticipated twist.

She sat down, smiled weakly, leaned forward to kiss her father then mother on the cheek.

Frances beamed. She liked attention from anyone but especially from her children. She checked the program. “Amateur roadster pony, one of your favorites.” Frances swiveled around. “Where's Mother's pin? You always wear it for this class.”

Harry and Fair swallowed, having the presence of mind not to look at each other, but the swallowing told the tale.

Joan, utterly miserable, confessed, “Mother, it was stolen the first night of the show.”

Frances burst into tears, rose, and left the box.

Paul stood and put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. He didn't say anything but walked in a hurry after his wife.

Tears welled up in Joan's eyes. “What next?”

T
he answer to Joan's plaintive question wasn't long in coming, but first she watched the roadster class, followed by a junior-exhibitor class. Then Joan and everyone at Shelbyville gripped the railing as a tremendous class unfurled before them, the three-year-old fine harness.

All the great trainers drove the light four-wheeled buggies. The chromed wire wheels flashed as the open-topped vehicles passed by. The subdued but handsome turnout of the male drivers focused one's attention on the elegant, refined harness horses. Even at the park trot, a mid-speed gait, the horses' full manes and tails flowed. The lady drivers might wear a colorful dress that complemented the horse's color. The visual impact of the fine-harness class was potent. The class, large at fifteen, filled the expansive show ring. The sky darkened, and the lights flooding the ring danced off the bits, the wire wheels. The heat finally abated with a slight drop in temperature. Men slipped arms through their jackets; women threw jackets or sweaters over their shoulders.

The drivers sweated in their handsome attire. Rivulets poured down Charly's face under his three-hundred-dollar navy Borsalino hat. Booty favored a two-tone straw porkpie. Ward wore an expensive dove-gray fedora pulled rakishly toward his left eye.

After a long look at the class, the judges selected three horses for further inspection, Charly, Ward, and Larry. Charly cut off Larry, who was too smart to flash the anger he felt. Larry simply pulled back without breaking the trot and then moved to the edge of the rail, where he was silhouetted. Charly basically shot himself in the foot with that maneuver, because the mare he was driving, Panchetta, broke her gait, which the judges observed. Ward also observed it and made certain to glide right by the judges as he drove a compact but quite lovely seal-brown mare. Her trot wasn't as high nor her reach terribly long, but she was fluid and exhibited that charisma so desired in the ring. Without a doubt, Ward moved ahead of Charly in the judges' estimation and that of the knowledgeable audience. The crowd, cheering lustily, further animated Ward's mare, Om Setty. Booty drove wisely, but his mare just wasn't on form tonight.

The judges spoke to the announcer, who asked the contestants to line up. They drove in a clockwise direction.

When the judges walked by to carefully look over the Kalarama mare, Golden Parachute lifted her head, flicked her ears forward, and struck her pose. The crowd cheered.

The judges moved down the line. Each horse had an attendant, his or her groom, standing two paces from her head, because the driver stayed in the buggy.

Ward, clever, placed himself at the end of the line, away from the bigger horses. Americans foolishly believed bigger was better. Om Setty, just pushing fifteen point one and a half hands, gleamed. She believed everyone was there to see her. Her conformation was superb. Her deep chest gave much room for her heart. Her nostrils had the delicate shape that Saddlebred breeders desire but were not so small that they hindered her intake of oxygen, which all athletes needed plenty of to perform at the highest levels. Her neck, long, drew attention to her perfect head, as classic a Saddlebred head as one would wish to see. Her one slight flaw was that she was a tiny bit wider behind than most people like, but she wasn't cow-hocked or bowlegged or anything like that.

The judges then left the lineup to mark their cards, without fiddle-faddle. The crowd, spellbound, didn't notice a pea-green school bus followed by two black cars lumber into the parking lot by the practice arena. The officer directing traffic at that entrance quickly moved out of the way.

Frances Hamilton might have seen it, but she was still crying as she sat in the second story of the big grandstand. Paul had brought her a light drink, but she didn't want it, so he sat with his arm around her and let her cry. After all those years of marriage he'd learned there were some things a man couldn't fix, so it was best to let his wife get it out of her system. From that height and angle, one could see a bit of the parking lot. He noticed the little caravan, but it didn't register that something unprecedented was taking place, something the officer on duty felt was beyond his jurisdiction.

The announcer called out the order of ribbons from eight forward. Charly received a fifth, which disgusted him but he disguised it. Booty was fourth. A newcomer was third, which was good for the sport, so the crowd cheered. Then it was between Om Setty and Kalarama's Golden Parachute. Everyone held their breath.

When second place was given to Golden Parachute, the crowd erupted, for as wonderful as the big light chestnut mare was, this was Om Setty's night. The little mare radiated quality, energy, and that elusive star quality. When Ward, sweat still dripping from his brow, had the ribbon pinned on Om Setty's brow band, the tricolor fluttered a bit as the crowd cheered with pleasure. Benny loped on foot to pick up the handsome and expensive silver bowl.

As was the custom, Om Setty was expected to give a victory lap, but an uproar in the barns cut it short. A young Mexican groom tore through the middle of the show ring and vaulted over the eastern fence to disappear into the night. Om Setty didn't shy, but Ward thought it prudent to drive out. Benny ran alongside and Ward slowed Om to a walk.

Neither horse nor human could believe the chaos. Grooms were running everywhere. Men and women in dark suits along with armed men fanned through the barns.

On hearing the commotion, Joan left her seat to hurry back to the barns. Fair ran ahead of his wife and Joan, in case Larry needed someone who could use his fists as well as his mind. He saw Larry step out of the buggy before the entrance to Barn Five. No sooner had Larry put a foot on the ground than a man in a dark suit came up to him.

The Immigration and Naturalization Service, INS, wanted to see documentation that his non-American-born employees were legal. Any nondocumented immigrant worker would be seized for deportation. Over the years INS had descended upon horse shows for the various types of horses—Tennessee walkers, hunter–jumpers, racehorses, etc. Apparently disrupting a show in progress brought them deep satisfaction.

The day had been long, the competition fierce, and Charly Trackwell's display had tested Larry's patience. It was all he could do not to blow up. He handed Golden Parachute to Manuel.

“Does he have his green card?”

“He does.” Larry spoke evenly to the man. “But if you'll just give us a minute, we have to unhitch and wipe down the horse. She's been in the ring a long time.”

“How do I know your workers won't bolt?”

Offensive as this response was, Larry had observed the track meet when he rode back to Barn Five. It was a fair question. Luckily, he also saw Fair.

“Fair, will you help me out?”

“Of course.”

“Will you wipe down Golden Parachute?” Then Larry turned to Manuel. “Bring the boys into the hospitality suite.”

“Done.” Fair walked on the right side of Golden Parachute.

“Who's that?” The INS man clearly felt he was entitled to interrogate everyone and to suspect everyone.

“My veterinarian.”

Larry walked into the hospitality tent and drew back the curtains to the changing room. A long clothes rack stood at the back; some tack trunks were inside, as well as a full-length mirror, boots lined up neatly alongside it. A bridle case on the wall served as a makeshift paper holder, filled with registration forms, Coggins information, and so forth. He unlocked it just as Joan and Harry came in. He was tempted to hand the humorless official all the Coggins papers, which proved via blood tests that each horse tested negative for the disease.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, released from their quarters, ran through the hospitality suite.

Pewter skidded to a halt.
“There's ham up there again.”
She gazed up at the table, glorious to her.

“Fatty,”
Tucker yelled as she reached the aisle.

“Come on, Pewts, we'll get some later.”
Mrs. Murphy, curious as ever, wanted to see what was going on.

Cookie joined the three other animals as they stepped outside.
“Looks like mice, running in every direction,”
Pewter said.

“The guys hauling after them aren't dressed for it.”
Cookie giggled.
“And look at that lady: can't run in a skirt like that.”

Six workers had jammed into a car, but they no sooner reached the exit than a police barricade turned them back. Caught.

The ones on foot, though, would get away if they were patient and kept quiet all night once out the back of the fairgrounds. Heavy bushes and foliage at the grounds' western edge provided enough cover for them to slip out, making their way behind homes if they headed north, or businesses, now closed, if they headed west.

Larry showed the official their paperwork, copies of the originals kept in a file cabinet at the farm.

Harry remarked to Joan, “I'll go back and work with Fair so Manuel can have everyone lined up for the INS man.”

“Thank you.” Joan's anger masked her exhaustion.

Damn them for pulling a stunt like this at one of the crown-jewel shows. And damn them for driving in before the three-gaited pony class, thereby spoiling this for the kids riding.

Manuel brought three men into the hospitality tent, the official peered intently at their green cards. Since everything was in order, with a light air of disappointment he left the room, walked the aisle, and looked over the stall door at Fair.

“May I see your license?” He had already been told that Fair was a vet so he did this to irritate since illegal workers are rarely veterinarians.

Fair pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to his photo. “Honey, do you have yours?” he asked Harry, now in the stall helping to wipe down Golden Parachute.

“In my purse in the truck.”

The official handed Fair back his wallet, then said to Harry, “Won't be necessary.” He turned to leave the barn, then double-checked his list. He came up to Larry again.

Larry had hung up his coat and grabbed a tonic water from the bar just as the man walked in. “Would you like a drink?”

“No thank you. I have a Jorge Gravina on my list. Thirty-two.”

Larry pulled a moleskin notebook from his hip pocket, bent over the table, and wrote the name of the undertaker in Springfield. “He died unexpectedly yesterday. You can view the body if you like. I do have a copy of his green card.”

“Oh, uh, I'm sorry. Will you send me a copy of his death certificate?” The official handed Larry his card. Obviously he hadn't read the newspapers, but he was a single-minded person. He was here to bag illegal workers. If one was dead it was no skin off his nose. He actually liked raiding the horse shows, upsetting people he viewed as rich. Little men make the most of little power.

“I will.” Larry compressed his lips lest the wrong words fly out.

The fellow left Barn Five to assist another INS person.

         

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Cookie scampered through legs to Charly's barn, since that's where most of the noise was coming from now.

Four hapless young men, neatly dressed in jeans and pressed cowboy shirts, were lined up, backs to the stalls.

The animals quietly walked in. Mrs. Murphy climbed up onto a stall beam. Pewter followed with effort, as Spike, like a skyscraper steelworker, sauntered toward them from the other direction.

“What a fuss,”
Mrs. Murphy greeted the tough guy.

“You missed the knockdown.”
Spike grinned, his three good fangs yellowed a bit.

The two visiting cats glanced down, noticing a roly-poly INS official with sawdust on his back and backside.

“Did Charly do that?”
Pewter enjoyed the evolving spectacle.

“No, that guy walked right into a stall and asked one of the boys for his green card. The Mexican pushed the chub in the chest, the chub fell flat on his back, and the Mexican ran like hell. Then Charly showed up, foul as a bad storm; guess he didn't do what he wanted to do in the class. He rode right toward the fatty, now out of the stall, stopping on a dime in front of him. Gave the boys in the back of the barn time to get out, because the official's attention was on Charly, then Carlos, who was right behind him.”