Simpatico's Gift

by Frank Martorana

  All the unwilling members of the Bluegrass Conspiracy stared at each other. Trapped meadow mice.

  “However,” Figurante began again, his tone relaxed, “I have no intention of using the tapes for any purpose other than insurance. I’ll do the dirty work. I know that’s the way you southern gentry prefer it.

  “So now, let’s get back to the reason I called the meeting tonight. In our discussions of key New York stallions, we overlooked one — VinChaRo’s Hubris. Do you recall the horse?”

  Every head nodded.

  “He’s got to be dealt with.”

  Anguished groaning noises rumbled up every throat.

  “He may be even better than Simpatico, his sire.”

  Clayton Davis, one of Churchill Downs principal stockholders, held up both hands. “Hold on, Hector. Enough is enough. I am not going along with any more plans to kill horses. Period.” He pushed back his chair, and stood to leave. Several others did the same.

  “Careful now, Clayton,” Figurante said, with false sincerity in his voice. He pointed to the hidden cabinet. “Remember the tapes.”

  “Forget the goddamn tapes!” Davis roared. “You’ll get caught sooner or later, and I’m not going to be there when you do. You can’t eliminate every horse you don’t own, Hector.”

  “Sit back down, Clayton,” Figurante said, “Let me finish. I do not intend to eliminate Hubris.”

  Figurante turned to the others, each one waiting for Clayton Davis to fight on. “We don’t need a wholesale rebellion here. Listen to what I’m about to say.”

  Clayton sank back into his chair, and the others followed his lead.

  “Thank you,” Figurante said, letting them refocus. “I said that Hubris must be dealt with, not eliminated.”

  “Let’s not play word games, Hector,” Hook said.

  Figurante remained composed. “Actually, Clayton hit the nail on the head when he said, ‘you can’t eliminate every horse you don’t own.’”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Surprising as it may seem to you folks, I agree.” Figurante smiled an evil smile, and let his words hang.

  “Then how do you propose to eliminate him, or deal with him — whatever — get rid of him?”

  Figurante stayed silent for an infinite moment. Finally, he leaned forward, braced his arms on the table, and said flatly, “We buy him.”

  No one made a sound as the mice mulled the possibility. Now Figurante was talking their language. They knew money talked. They knew wealth was power, and they had used money to achieve their goals many times before.

  “You think Elizabeth would sell him?” Corbett asked.

  Figurante let out a short laugh. “If the price is right, she will.”

  “She’s got tons of money.”

  “So do we.”

  “I think Elizabeth is more interested in prestige than money.”

  “Come on, Hamilton. You’ve spent a lifetime in this business. There is nothing more prestigious than a big sale.”

  Corbett conceded that with a nod, “True.”

  “We could syndicate and offer her a price that would set a new record,” Figurante said. “That’s prestigious. She’ll go for it.”

  Corbett nodded again, but said nothing.

  “Besides, think what a fantastic addition Hubris would be to Kentucky’s breeding stock. We’d be killing two birds with one stone.”

  Corbett raised his eyebrows, drew his lips tight, beginning to see Figurante’s point. “We may even be able to recoup our investment.”

  “Of course we will,” Figurante said. “After an historic sale like that, breeders will be breaking down the door to book their mares. We’ll make his stud fee astronomical.”

  The others began a buzz of conversation among themselves. Figurante watched their heads bobbing a positive reaction. He moved his eyes around the table, making eye contact with each person.

  When he was sure everyone was on board, he said, “Good. I’m glad we’re all in agreement. I will work out the details and let you know. Consider the members of the Bluegrass Conspiracy the new owners of yet another premier stallion.”

  Then with the shrewdness of a born salesman, he concluded the meeting while sentiment was favorable.

  CHAPTER 33

  Figurante headed east on Route 20. The lush green hills of Central New York were a pleasant change from Kentucky’s unrelenting heat. He drummed his fingers to the beat of his rented Lincoln’s radio. It felt good to be behind the wheel. He stomped the accelerator in giddy experimentation, and the luxury cruiser’s engine hesitated as if startled by the unfamiliar prodding, then lurched ahead in response. He pushed his shoulders back into the seat, and roared toward Jefferson.

  He swung a sharp right at the blinking light as Route 20 became Albany Street and paid little attention to the quaint sidewalks and storefronts or the quiet square guarded by the statue of Willard Covington, founder of Jefferson. Figurante scoffed at the appropriateness of the perfectly white Presbyterian Church, morning sun glinting from its steeple.

  One block farther, on the intersection that was Jefferson’s main hub, Figurante found what he had been watching for. It was a colonial brick building, large for a small town, yet elegant, with three stories of windows each flanked with black shutters. A wrought iron arm suspended from a white signpost stated simply, THE RED HORSE INN, established seventeen eighty-one.

  He cranked the wheel hard and pulled into the inn’s parking lot. Perfect. Just the place for an old blueblood like me.

  A few minutes later, Figurante was shown to his room. It was appointed with delicate cut glass lamps and rich patterned carpet encircled by a border of polished hardwood. Fine lace curtains. A marble fireplace with carved mantle occupied most of one wall. All of it wasted on Figurante. As soon as the bellman was gone, he flopped onto the canopy bed that was the room’s centerpiece, and collected his thoughts. After a minute, he pulled a black book of phone numbers from his coat pocket, riffled through it, reached for the telephone, and dialed a number.

  “Yes. I’d like to speak with Burton Bush.” He listened to the receptionist’s reply. “That’s all right. I’ll hold, it’s important.”

  After a long wait, Figurante heard a dull voice come over the phone.

  “Burton, I need to talk to you,” Figurante said. Not bothering with an introduction. “Where can we meet?”

  He knew Burton recognized his voice by the dolt’s alarmed response.

  “Why? Where are you?”

  “I’m in Jefferson. When do you get off work?”

  “Four o’clock. You’re in New York?”

  “Where can we meet?”

  “Uh. Kolbie’s, I guess.”

  “What’s Kolbie’s?”

  “A bar.”

  “Is it in town?”

  “Hell, no. It’s out in the sticks. Maybe five miles.”

  Figurante wrote down the directions. “I’ll meet you there at four-thirty this afternoon.”

  “Why?” Burton said, his voice a mix of fear and distrust. “Can’t you just say what you gotta say right now?”

  “I’ll see you at four-thirty,” Figurante said, and hung up. He glanced at his watch — just after ten.

  He forced himself to wait a full fifteen minutes, then tapped in the number of VinChaRo Farm again.

  “Hello,” he said with exaggerated diffidence so that the receptionist would not recognize him as the previous caller. “Is Elizabeth St. Pierre in today?”

  “Yes she is, but she’s busy in the barn. Can I take a message?”

  Figurante had guessed Elizabeth would be too busy to talk. “No, thank you,” he said vaguely. “I need to talk to her about an insurance matter at some point. No hurry. I’ll try again later if that’s okay.”

  “Of course, Mrs. St. Pierre should be here all
day today. She’ll be in and out of the office, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you very much.” Figurante hung up.

  He had travelled to Jefferson unannounced. The risk of having Elizabeth away on business was well worth the bargaining advantage he would gain by a surprise visit. Now he knew she was at the farm. Perfect.

  It was just after noon when Figurante pulled into the only filling station in Jefferson — old style — full service without asking. From behind the shop’s plate glass window a burly attendant, face covered by a bleached full beard, walked slowly toward the car. “What can I do you for?”

  “I’m looking for VinChaRo Farm.”

  “St. Pierre’s?”

  “That’s the place.”

  To Figurante’s surprise, the man followed with clear, concise directions.

  Within a few minutes, Figurante passed through VinChaRo’s wide-open gate. He parked in front of the office, stretched as he stood next to the Lincoln, and pulled on a sport coat. It was then that he noticed a shiny mobile veterinary unit backed up to the end of the stallion barn. His face darkened.

  When he entered VinChaRo’s office, the receptionist looked up from the long file drawer in which she had been placing forms. “Good morning.”

  “Morning. Is Elizabeth around?” Figurante asked.

  “Yes, she is.” The receptionist gestured toward the door to the barn. “She’s helping in the stallion barn. I can page her for you, Mister . . .?”

  “No. Never mind. She’s through this way?” Figurante stepped toward the door without giving his name.

  “Yes. But it would be better if she met you here . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Figurante bullied. “Elizabeth’s an old friend. I’d just as soon surprise her.”

  He pushed through the door and entered the stallion barn, ignoring the receptionist’s protests.

  He scanned the alleyway — no activity. Voices were coming from the breeding shed, and he moved quickly toward it. When he pushed open the shed’s door, everyone working inside turned to see who had intruded.

  Emily and Aubrey registered casual interest. Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. Kent’s knees jerked as if he had touched an electric fence. Maria dropped the lead rope she was holding.

  Figurante braced on his cane and locked eyes with Maria. His face beamed with the giddy surprise of one just presented with a birthday cake. He stepped closer, scanned her supple body, and received the sign he needed when she began to tremble and sway.

  “Esta hombre es el mismo demonio,” she mumbled, with a disoriented slur.

  “Maria Castille. What a wonderful surprise.” He opened his arms and reached to greet her.

  Emily watched Maria turn on rubbery legs, flail her arms to ward off Figurante’s attempt at reunion, and stagger out of the barn. So this was Hector Figurante.

  Figurante’s face registered disgust at the crooked girl who ran awkwardly after Maria.

  Kent grabbed the plastic obstetrical sleeve that he was wearing and ripped it off his arm. He stepped in front of Figurante who had moved in the direction the girls had taken.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  For a moment Figurante ignored the question. He stared over Kent’s shoulder at Maria until she was gone from the shed. He blinked and redirected his attention to Elizabeth. In the politest of tones he said, “I hope you can pardon my rudeness in arriving unannounced. I am actually in the area on — uh — other business. However, I have some extra time and thought I might use it to get a quick tour of VinChaRo. And maybe I’d nudge you on the Snow Din deal.” He turned one last glance toward the door through which Maria had fled.

  “We don’t give tours,” Kent said as if he owned the place. “You should have called, saved yourself the trip.”

  Figurante just smiled. To Elizabeth, he asked, “Where do we stand with Snow Din?”

  “I’m still up in the air,” she said, without the least cordiality in her voice.

  Kent grabbed Figurante’s arm and forcefully turned him toward the office. “You better get out of here. Now.”

  Figurante yanked his arm free. He stood toe-to-toe with Kent, raised his cane to chest height and ran his fingers along its black shaft. Kent didn’t budge. The two men glared at each other.

  “Just a minute, Kent,” Elizabeth said, breaking the stalemate. “I think we should make an exception, let Mr. Figurante see the farm.”

  Kent’s brow furrowed as he shifted his attention to Elizabeth. “What?”

  “I want to give Hector a tour,” Elizabeth said evenly.

  “You must be kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  Figurante flashed Kent a victorious sneer. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  Kent stared at Elizabeth in silence, then shrugged and headed toward the door. “You do what you want.”

  “Wait, Kent,” Elizabeth said. “I would like you to join us.”

  Kent spun, took a deep breath to give her the million reasons why there was not a chance, but Elizabeth was smiling, her expression was knowing.

  “Elizabeth, I don’t . . . “

  She cut him off. “Just come along, Kent.”

  Kent stood frowning like a child. Finally, he raised both hands, palms up. “Okay. Sure.”

  Calmly, graciously, Elizabeth gestured toward Aubrey, whom to this point, had watched in silence.

  “This is Aubrey Fairbanks, our farm manager. Aubrey, Hector Figurante from Criadero del Jugador in Cynthiana, Kentucky.”

  Aubrey slid her hands into the pockets of her jeans when Figurante extended his hand.

  Undaunted, Figurante gave her the same lecherous perusal he had just given Maria.

  “VinChaRo’s women are as beautiful as her horses. Now, here is a gene pool worth importing to Kentucky.”

  Kent took a step toward Figurante, fists balled, the veins in his neck like ropes, but Elizabeth stopped him with a laser look. She ignored Figurante’s remark.

  “I’d like you to help me show our guest around, too,” she said to Aubrey, as if it were an invitation to tea.

  Aubrey stared at Elizabeth like she was from another planet. “I don’t think so. I’m going to check on the girls.”

  She turned and stalked out.

  Kent admired her for it, and wished he’d done the same.

  The tour was a stiff stroll along rows of stalls. They peeked through half doors as Elizabeth gave uninspired commentary about various occupants. Kent threw in meaningless asides and cast questioning looks to Elizabeth whenever he thought Figurante wasn’t looking. Figurante showed only polite attentiveness while they viewed mares and foals, but when they moved to the row of stallions, his interest piqued.

  “Elizabeth, you should be proud. I underestimated your stock. You New Yorkers have made real strides since I last toured a farm up here.” The words seemed to catch in his throat.

  “That is a point we’ve tried to make to you Kentuckians for some time now,” Elizabeth said. “New York Breds are as good as the Kentucky-bred horses in every way. They represent a whole new gene pool that breeders from Kentucky, California, Florida, or anywhere else can utilize to improve their stock.” She stepped to the next stall, opened the top half of the door. “And it is on this horse, right here, we place our hopes. He will capture that market for all of New York.”

  With an inquisitive snort, Hubris swung his head over his door and into the alleyway.

  “Ah, yes, Hubris, the great Simpatico’s son,” Figurante said, reading the brass nameplate. “Believe me, his reputation already extends well beyond New York.” Figurante stared at the magnificent animal. “He is even more spectacular in person.”

  Elizabeth pushed Hubris away as the horse nuzzled her. “Get back in there, Mister,” she said gently. “This is the horse to watch, the number one New York Bred. Believe me, lot of people thin
k he’s even better than Simpatico.”

  “No doubt, Hubris is head and shoulders above the rest,” Figurante said, then looked at Elizabeth. “May I talk to you in private? In the office, perhaps?”

  Kent stroked Hubris’s muzzle and watched the two owners grow smaller as they headed down the alleyway. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked.

  Hubris shook his head and snorted.

  What was Figurante doing at VinChaRo? Elizabeth knew what he did to Maria. Why would she even talk to him, let alone give him a tour?

  CHAPTER 34

  Figurante squealed the Lincoln’s tires as he hit the road outside VinChaRo’s main gate. He swore a loud curse in Spanish. Elizabeth had flat-out refused to sell Hubris. He could not believe it. He had offered her the heaven and stars. ‘No, no, no,’ that’s all she’d said.

  The New York Breds were far better than he had imagined. He had underestimated Simpatico’s ability to transmit his genes to his son. So, if Elizabeth won’t sell Hubris, he must be eliminated. To hell with buying him. To hell with his lily-livered co-conspirators in Kentucky. He had tried to play by their rules. Now, Hubris must be eliminated, pure and simple, just like the others. But how?

  Figurante parked his Lincoln in a secluded spot behind Kolbie’s Tavern. Through the windshield he studied the back of the ramshackle building. A discarded deep fat fryer lay on its side in some tall weeds, an overflowing dumpster buzzed with flies, and several beer kegs pretty much blocked the rear entrance to the kitchen. He hoped he would not have to be there for long.

  Thankfully, a few minutes later, Burton’s dilapidated pickup rumble into the parking lot.

  “Right on time,” Figurante said, his tone a mixture of relief and anger.

  Burton pulled in close to the Lincoln and stuck his red head out the window. “The place looks dead now, but it’ll pick up in the next hour or so. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer,” he said.

  Burton’s swagger didn’t conceal his nervousness.

  “No. You get in here,” Figurante said. He leaned across and pushed open the Lincoln’s the passenger door. Its springs sank as Burton’s hulk descended into the seat.