“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.”
“Did the INS man—”
“What’s INS?” Spike inquired.
Murphy answered. “Immigration and Naturalization Service.”
“Oh.” Spike sat down. “Humans have hunting territories like us. These fellows are in our territory.”
“Who, INS?” Pewter asked.
“No, the Mexicans. I listen to the barn radio, you know. Illegal immigrants, all in the news.” He opened his mouth wider; his missing left fang gave him a sinister appearance, but at heart, Spike was a good cat.
Down below, the two dogs sat on their haunches as Charly excoriated the INS official. Carlos took Panchetta.
“I want to see his papers.”
“And you will, but I can’t have the mare standing here in harness. If you want this to go faster, help us.” Charly put the man on the spot.
The fellow stepped back. “I’m kinda afraid of horses.”
“Then wait, because I’m not going to risk my mare for you or anybody. I wouldn’t give a good goddamn if the President of the United States walked in here. I wish he would.” Charly overflowed with hostility, but he did add, “So he could see what idiots you people are.”
“Politics isn’t my department.”
Charly and his groom rapidly unhitched Panchetta, then walked her back to her stall for a rubdown. “Bullshit. Politics is everyone’s department,” he yelled from inside the stall. “Don’t stand there like a bump on a log and tell me you’re just doing your job.”
The official, cowed by Charly, stood up for himself on this one. “I am just doing my job.”
“Sure. You raid us at one of the biggest shows of the year. You tell me that isn’t political?” Before the man could answer, Charly turned to his groom. “Carlos, show him your card, will you?”
“Yes.” The skinny, good-looking man fished in his hip pocket, retrieving a worn leather wallet, the hand tooling nearly smooth. He stepped outside the stall.
The roly-poly man brought it close to his eyes. “Hmm, fine.” He handed it back to Carlos as Charly stepped out of the stall.
“I could have you arrested, you know,” the official declared but without belligerence. “You’ve been using illegal workers.”
“Prove it.” Charly was calming down. “You go ahead and prove it. I don’t know who those men are.” He pointed to the four hapless illegal workers.
The INS official knew that one man knocking him down didn’t prove that Charly had hired the worker. The evidence was circumstantial, and the illegal had fled. But circumstantial was better than nothing.
“I’ll have to cite you.”
“Go ahead. And when you get back to your dreary little desk in your dreary little office, remember this: I will fight you, I will fight the INS tooth and nail. You have to prove I hired illegal workers. My employee has shown you his green card. He is the only non-American working for me.” This was a bald-faced lie. “And furthermore, you find me white people who will shovel shit and clean out water buckets. Americans don’t want to get their hands dirty. They’d rather sit on their sorry asses and collect welfare.”
“He’s getting ugly,” Tucker laconically said.
“And you know what,” Charly’s voice rose again, “you find me some blacks who will shovel shit or some Koreans or Chinese or, hey, whatever you got. And even if they’ll shovel, they ain’t horsemen, brother.”
“Those questions aren’t my concern.”
“I guess not. If we solve this problem, you’ll be out of a job, won’t you?”
Tilting his many chins upward, the official asked, “Who are these men?”
“Never saw them in my life.”
“He’s good.” Spike chuckled.
“Lies without batting an eye,” Pewter agreed.
“I found them at the end of your barn just outside. One was pushing a wheelbarrow.”
“So?”
“They don’t work for you?” His voice carried doubt.
“They don’t work for me. But you do. My taxes pay your salary. If you want to stand here,” he handed him a pitchfork, which the INS man handed back with disdain, “work.”
On that note, the roly-poly man left, glad to be out of the barn unharmed.
The dogs moved closer to the stall as the cats nimbly walked overhead in time to hear with their incredible ears Charly, under his breath, hiss to Carlos, “Double cross.”
The disruption caused by the INS agents delayed the ensuing classes, many of them junior classes, which outraged many people, not just Joan. They could have come in the daytime or after the last class. Some of the young competitors were crying.
Larry, arms crossed over his chest, said, “I’m going over to Ward’s to congratulate him. Nothing I can do about this damned mess.”
“I’ll stay here.” Joan sank into a director’s chair. “This feels like the longest day of my life.” She waited a moment. “Told Mom about the pin and, well, it’s been a long day.”
Larry leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. “Some days you get the bear, some days the bear gets you.”
Harry said, “Joan, do you mind if I tag along with Larry?”
“No, go ahead.”
“In that case, I’ll keep this beautiful lady company.” Fair smiled as he walked to the bar to fix Joan a gin rickey.
As Harry and Larry left the barn, Joan glanced up. “Are you plying me with alcohol?”
“Made it light. I know you’re not a drinker, but, Joan, a little relaxation at this moment is good for you.” He handed her the tall glass, the bubbles rising upward promising to pop on her tongue. “I’m fixing you a sandwich and one for me. How about turkey? High protein, low fat, not that you need to worry.”
She took a sip, feeling better instantly, part of that being psychological. “I ruin the low-cal benefit by smearing mayo over everything.”
He beamed. “You will always be beautiful, so if you want mayo, mayo it is.”
“Fair, you’re so sweet. I’m glad Harry saw the light.”
“I had to see it first.” He put crisp lettuce on the dark bread. “When I slipped out of the box, I managed to get to the jeweler without her knowing, and I bought the horseshoe ring she liked. She’ll be forty in
a heartbeat. She should have a big present.” He grinned.
“That is a gorgeous ring. You know, I had a bad moment when I turned forty, and then it vanished. I really don’t care, do you?”
“Yes and no.” He held the knife aloft for a moment, the large mayo jar below. “I fear not being able to pull out foals if they need it or not being able to lift sixty-pound bales of rich alfalfa. I do worry about that. But you know, you do what you can, and if I can’t physically perform, I hope I can still serve. As long as the brain works.”
“Mine has shut off.” She laughed.
“Been a hell of a couple of days.” He handed her a plate, then sat next to her. “At least it’s quiet right now. No one’s here, they’re back on the rail or running away from INS.”
Joan bit into the succulent turkey sandwich, then put it on the plate. “Mmm.” She swallowed. “Hey, where’s Cookie and the gang?”
“I don’t know, but if they’re not back by the time we finish our sandwiches, I’ll go look. They’re Americats. Don’t need a green card.” He winked.
“Cookie will jump in any open car. She loves her rides. One time a customer came to the barn, called a half hour after he left. Cookie was asleep in the backseat of his car and he didn’t know it until she woke up. Had to drive to the Louisville airport to pick her up from Hertz since he was in a rented car.”
They both laughed.
As they visited, relishing the bit of peace they had, Harry and Larry walked into Ward’s barn, where a congregation had gathered to congratulate him.
Ward easily saw Larry, since Larry was tall. “Hey, drinks on the tack trunk.”
“Great ride, Ward. Om wanted it tonight. She’s a terrific mare. Hope you breed her someday.” Larry pushed through and shook Ward’s hand.
Harry, in his wake, also offered her congratulations.
“I guess all this commotion stole some of my thunder.” Ward smiled. “Glad all I have is Benny, and he’s red, white, and blue.” Ward made it a special point to note he hired no Mexicans. No one much thought about it at the time.
Benny, leaning against a stall, raised his beer. “Sometimes I’m Confederate gray.”
They laughed, since Benny would whip out his Confederate Zippo lighter if he thought someone was touchy, which meant Yankee.
Charly Trackwell came into the barn. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Cookie followed. Given what they’d witnessed, they thought they’d tail Charly. He was so wrapped up in things he didn’t notice the posse behind him.
Harry exclaimed, “Where have you been?”
Charly thought she spoke to him. “In the barn dealing with a goddamned idiot INS agent.”
Harry smiled at him. “I’m sorry.” She figured it better not to say she was greeting the animals, all of whom ran to her.
“I’m tired. Pick me up,” Pewter whined.
“Pewter.” Harry sighed but bent over to pick up the solid cat. Pewter was overweight, but she had a lot of muscle, too.
“Oh, I love seeing from this height.” Pewter purred.
Mrs. Murphy climbed a stall post. “I’ve got a better angle.”
“Who cares.” Pewter put her paws around Harry’s neck.
The dogs decided to keep out of it.
“Let’s see if Ward has Bag Balm,” Tucker whispered to Cookie. “Seems to be the standard for rubbing on little cuts and irritated skin.” They had observed a young rider surreptitiously open her little green Bag Balm tin. The small tin was a good place to hide things once the heavy balm had been washed from it. Fortunately, most folks kept their drinking and other treats in check—at least until after the last class of the night.
Cookie, being a Jack Russell, scooted to the grooming bucket, since she’d heard all about this stuff.
However, the dogs couldn’t get their noses in because Benny shooed them away.
Charly paid his compliments to Ward, then edged away from the small crowd. Larry, too, turned to go.
“Larry, you son of a bitch, you called INS, didn’t you?”
Startled at this off-the-wall accusation, Larry laughed it off. “Have another drink, Charly.”
Harry kept a few steps back. She didn’t trust Charly’s temper.
“I’d say it’s damned convenient for you, Hodge,” Charly snarled. “Your men have their green cards on them, too. And by the way, where’s Renata? You kept her out of this because of the bad publicity?”
“Charly, you’re out of your mind. She doesn’t have a class tonight.”
“Oh, bullshit. With that massive ego, you think she’d pass on everyone fawning on her tonight because Queen Esther showed up? You bet she showed up. You took her in the first place.”
Larry’s face, beet red, betrayed his own rising anger. “You know what it is, Trackwell? You can’t stand losing. You cut me off in the ring tonight to make Golden Parachute break. Didn’t work. And you aren’t going to win the five-gaited stake, either, so who are you going to blame Saturday night? Think ahead. Has to be someone else’s fault.”
“I’ll win and I’ll win big. Panchetta was off. Happens.” He pulled in his horns somewhat, thinking about the horses and also because he knew Larry could throw a hard right.
“We’ll see.” Then Larry taunted him: “How many Mexicans did you have running out the back of the barn? You don’t think I’ve noticed Little Tijuana at your barn? Come on, Charly. You got what you deserved.”
Charly leaned forward, hissing through clenched teeth. “And you got a dead one. Why is that? What are you covering up?”
Larry, deeply upset over Jorge’s death although he had kept it in check, let fly. “Too bad it wasn’t you, you sorry—”
“You’ll die before I do.” Charly stepped back, digging his heels in the loam. “Maybe they came for you and killed Jorge instead.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it any way you want, but I’ll see you dead.”
After the last class, the show organizers shut down the selling booths, encouraging the spectators to leave. They shut the gates when the crowd vacated but left two men there for the trainers, riders, and the few other spectators who would be late in leaving. If the reporters from Louisville and Lexington came out upon being notified of the INS raid, they would find the gates closed. This gave the horse people an opportunity to prepare for tomorrow’s grilling. Not that any of them had anything to do with the illegal workers or tonight’s debacle, but they needed to formulate a clear statement. This show was turning into a media hot spot.
The trainers, grooms, and owners trickled out. A few, overburdened by chores without their workers, stayed behind. The men at the gates knew who they were. One walked to each trainer, asking for a sense of how long they would be.
Booty Pollard, whose junior had won the last class of the night, the junior five-gaited stake, walked across the paths to Ward’s barn. The lights glowed overhead in the aisle as Ward and Benny put blankets over the two horses to return to the farm. No one else was in the barn.
“Congratulations, Ward. Had a kid in the next class, so I didn’t have a chance to tell you what a great ride you put in.”
“Thanks.” Ward leaned over the back of Om Setty, her green and white blanket crisp and clean. “Heard you won the last class.”
“Did.”
“Congratulations to you.”
Booty moved closer, then spoke freely in front of Benny. “Any idea who made the call?”
“Charly accused Larry Hodge.”
Booty snorted. “Jesus.”
“Threatened to kill him, too.”
Om Setty, a good girl, didn’t even twitch when Booty put his arms on her back. The two men spoke with perhaps eight inches between their faces as they leaned over the very special mare.
“Time to jerk Charly’s chain.”
“Shit, Booty, he’s off the chain. Don’t know what he’s going to do or say next.” The handsome younger man wiped his brow with a handkerchief; the humidity remained oppressive. “Who does
he think he’s fooling?”
Booty smirked. “Started when Renata left him. I always thought there was more going on there than Charly let on.”
Ward’s eyebrows shot upward. “If Charly Trackwell was nailing a movie star, he’d put a full-page ad in the Lexington Herald-Leader.”
Booty considered this. “You’ve got a point there.” Then he asked, “What is it? The money? She’s a dream client.”
“That she is,” Ward agreed, a crooked smile on his boyish face. “But women like Renata aren’t easy keepers.” He used a term meaning a horse you had to feed extra, making owning it more expensive.
“Some stunt, Queen Esther in your pasture.” Booty laughed as he probed for an incriminating response. “Anyone believe you?”
Ward smiled, shrugged, but admitted nothing.
“Don’t make the mistake that Charly did, Ward. Don’t assume because Renata is beautiful she’s dumb. When you think about it, Larry’s a tough competitor, he’ll go all-out to win, but it’s not like him to pull something like this. Just not.”
“Maybe so.” Ward thought about it.
“And it doesn’t really benefit Kalarama to have this show turned inside out any more than it does us. Upsets the organizers, makes the fans wonder, and everyone loses time to the federal government. Won’t keep the fans away, though, thank God.”
Benny, hands behind his rear end, leaned against the stall, taking in every word. With two days’ growth of beard—he hadn’t time to shave—he resembled a desperado.
“Yeah, but who would call? Can’t see what someone would gain by this.” Ward knew something was out of kilter, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source.
“Well now, if you want publicity, if you want cameras at this show all the time, that seems to be right up Renata’s alley.” Booty stepped away from Om Setty, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Ah, Booty, think she went around and toted up Mexicans?”
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