Puss 'N Cahoots

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I do. This show is all about Renata DeCarlo. Won’t break her heart to set Charly down on his ass, neither.”

  “We got to do something about Charly,” Ward again advised.

  “Ward, if you’re that worried about his mood, talk to him.”

  “We both need to talk to him.” Ward walked out of the barn to look down toward the practice arena and the parking lot. “Looks like he’s gone.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s meet him for breakfast tomorrow. The Nook just outside of town. If he doesn’t have time to go, we’ll go to him. I expect he’ll be more settled tomorrow. I’ll call him. Call you in the morning.”

  “Let you know. Where’s Miss Nasty?”

  “Changing her clothes.” Booty smiled. “Gotta go.”

  As Ward and Benny walked the two horses to the van down in the lot, Ward asked, “What do you think?”

  “I don’t trust either one.”

  “Don’t like ’em or don’t trust ’em?”

  “Both.”

  Ward kept quiet, because Booty’s comment about Queen Esther meant Booty didn’t trust him any more than he trusted Booty. He took the lead shank from the gelding Benny was leading, while Benny dropped the heavy ramp to the back of the van, walked up the rubber-coated ramp, and flipped up the heavy door bolts. He swung open the door to behold fifteen illegal workers. Wordlessly, he motioned for them to flatten against the side of the van.

  He walked down, took the gelding. “Boss, we got precious cargo.”

  “Inchworm.” Ward named one of the men he knew as highly intelligent.

  Inchworm had probably led those he could through the bushes, waited until they could slither into the lot, and jammed up into the van using the small side gangplank to get in, as it would be much easier to pull up from inside.

  Benny led the gelding right by the men. The horse planted his hooves for a second, but Benny sweetly coaxed him to his spot and tied him by the feed net.

  Inchworm, who humped up his back when he worked a horse, silently pointed for some of the men to get behind the gelding and flatten themselves at the bulkhead.

  Om Setty walked on, looked around, and reached for her feed bag.

  The men stood or sat around the horses.

  Benny and Ward slid into the cab of the old van and fired her up. She sputtered and stopped.

  “Not now, baby, not now.” Ward sweated.

  “Gotta rebuild this engine.” Benny crossed his fingers.

  “If I win a couple more classes, I can.” He pulled the choke, pushed it in a bit, cranked her. She belched black oily smoke from her exhaust, coughed again, rumbled a little, then started to hum. “Sweet Jesus, I adore Thee.” Ward then eased off the brake, pushed in the choke completely, and rolled out of the lot.

  They just had to get past the fellow at the gate. He waved at them as he unlocked it. What he saw were two immaculately groomed horses reaching up for their feed bags, their windows open to let in the night air.

  They turned left onto Route 60, Ward thinking it better to avoid I-64, the corridor from Virginia to where the Mississippi River creates a border between Illinois and Missouri.

  “What if INS comes to the farm?”

  “Won’t. Just you and me. We’re golden.”

  “Where you gonna put these guys?”

  “They’ll sleep in the outbuildings. Can’t risk them in the barns, just in case. Guess they’re hungry.” He thought. “Gonna be cereal tonight. Nothing in the fridge.”

  “I’ll make a food run in the morning,” Benny said. “Then we can call folks to come pick up their grooms.” He exhaled. “Whooeee. Gonna be busy.” He paused a second. “You’re smart not to have Mexican grooms in your barn. ’Course with me, I do the work of two men.” Benny cackled.

  “Right, Laurel and Hardy.” Ward smiled, then asked, “You think Renata called INS?”

  Benny shrugged. “Booty’s right about publicity.”

  “Wouldn’t she want the publicity about her?” Ward concentrated on the road.

  “Still, brings the reporters around and keeps them around. They’ll be there for her class.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. She’s got it all set up with Queen Esther so when she rides tomorrow night it doesn’t matter if she wins or loses, she wins.”

  “Yeah. She should win the three-gaited open stake. Helluva mare.”

  “She doesn’t come out ahead by what happened tonight. Can’t see it.” Ward frowned.

  “You falling for her?”

  “No.” A long, long pause followed. “Wouldn’t mind taking her to bed, though.”

  “That’s when your troubles really begin,” said the man with three ex-wives and children to boot.

  Horse people tend to be tough. They work hard physically, keep long hours during shows, sleep little. The compelling passion, obsession perhaps, for horses drives them ever onward, to the astonishment of those who like differing pastimes such as golf or tennis. It’s not that those sports lack committed competitors. Yachting creates an equivalent passion, but these other escapes from daily drudgery don’t have another living creature for a partner, except for dog shows. Dog shows are more sedentary, though. Horsemen are a breed apart from other sportsmen. It strikes horsemen as perfectly normal to build their barn before their house; to go without when money is tight so long as the horses are well fed, well shod; to run into a burning barn to save one’s horses without considering the danger to one’s self.

  Different as Charly Trackwell, Booty Pollard, and Ward Findley were, they shared this iron bond. They also shared a deep appreciation of profit: being horsemen did not deter them from dipping into dishonesty.

  They sat in a secluded booth in a white clapboard house west of Shelbyville that served the best breakfasts and lunches between the Kentucky and Ohio rivers. The place was packed at seven in the morning.

  Booty wanted them to be seen by others but not heard. Let people wonder what they were doing.

  Ward eagerly cut into his three sunny-side-up eggs. He’d burn off his huge breakfast by eleven. Charly and Booty kept fit, as well, although being slightly older than Ward they had learned to keep an eye on it.

  Each time the waitress, Miss Lou, red lipstick freshly applied, swept by to pour fresh coffee or drop off condiments and side orders for unvanquished appetites, they spoke of horses, classes, competitors.

  “Boys, the coffee cake defies description.”

  Longing passed over Charly’s face, but he waved off the suggestion.

  “I’ll try it.” Ward smiled. “Be finished with the eggs and sausage by the time you hit the counter.”

  “Just so’s the counter doesn’t hit back.” Miss Lou winked. “Booty, you’ll like it. ’Course, I have giant cinnamon buns, too, vanilla icing dripping all over. I know how you boys like your buns.” She sighed.

  Booty caved. “Oh, what the hell. Buns!”

  Smiling triumphantly, she spun in her special shoes, needed since Miss Lou worked on her feet all day, her starched apron flaring slightly with the quick turn.

  “I swear Miss Lou is as happy selling us a piece of coffee cake and a cinnamon bun as we are selling a three-hundred-thousand-dollar fine harness horse.” Booty laughed.

  “All relative, brother, all relative.” Charly reached for nonfattening creamer.

  The delicious concoctions appeared. Miss Lou, pencil behind her ear, didn’t write up a ticket, just in case they needed something else.

  When she moved to the next booth, the men paused a moment. The noise level in the restaurant rose upward; a line snaked out the front door.

  “Who killed Jorge?” Charly asked, voice low.

  “Not me,” Booty said as a joke.

  “Booty, get serious. It just might be one of the reasons INS swooped down like carrion crows.” Charly enjoyed a vivid turn of phrase. “The double cross on his palm points to someone or something. I can’t figure it out.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make much sense to think Larry called them.�
� Ward spoke cautiously since he was very much the junior partner in this trinity. “Jorge was his employee. Why bring on more badges?” He used “badges” as a general term for anyone enforcing the law, a relatively hopeless job when he considered it.

  “Why give him credit for thinking it through?” Charly, irritated for a second partly because he did want a piece of coffee cake, snapped. “He wants to wreck me for Saturday night’s five-gaited. The man is a ruthless competitor.”

  “That could be said of you, too, Charly.” Booty’s tone was even. “Larry isn’t the problem. The problem is if any of the, um—the desired term these days is ‘undocumented workers’—squawks.”

  “They won’t,” Charly firmly said.

  “You’re sure?” Booty tapped the side of his coffee cup with his forefinger.

  “Sure, I’m sure.” Charly leaned back, tilting his chin upward. “They’ll drop ’em off across the border. Big deal.” He threw up his hands. “The guys wait a couple of days and come back over. We need workers, and we really need people who can work around horses. So if we don’t bring back the same batch, they’ll go to other horsemen. Those guys aren’t stupid. They want these jobs. They’ll keep their mouths shut.”

  Booty squished the crumbs from the buns between the tines of his fork. “Might be.”

  “And remember,” Charly leaned forward, voice low, “the INS can’t prove we employed any of these men. They ran out of those barns like rats off a sinking ship.”

  “That doesn’t bother me.” As Miss Lou passed, Booty smiled and raised his forefinger.

  They waited quietly, and she returned and refilled everyone’s coffee cup. “Hope you boys aren’t far from a bathroom today.” She laughed, then added, “’Course, you do have the advantage there, don’t you?”

  They all laughed as she sashayed away.

  “What troubles me is Jorge’s murder. We don’t want it to come back on us.” Booty finished his thought.

  “Why would it come back on us?” Charly shrugged.

  “Don’t want anyone to find out we’re importing the Mexicans.” Ward perceived Booty’s direction.

  “Jorge’s dead. He won’t tell.” Charly seemed unconcerned.

  “Until we know who killed him and why, we’d better have long antennae.” Ward gulped his coffee. “Jorge ratted on someone.”

  “It could have been a woman problem,” Charly said. “He knocked up a girl and her brothers knock him off. Who knows? Those folks still do things that way.”

  “I don’t know. He could have done any number of things, but I sleep lightly now.” Booty folded his arms across his chest.

  “What can we do?” Ward asked.

  “Nothing. Except listen. Keep a sharp eye,” Booty replied.

  “And win. ’Course, I’ll win in the classes we’re in together.” Charly puffed out his chest.

  They laughed, then Booty smiled. “Gotta beat me first.”

  “I’ll put up a fight,” Ward added.

  “That’s the trouble with you making money.” Charly shook his head. “You’ll buy better horses, get better clients. Steer clear of Renata.”

  “She’s at Kalarama,” Ward replied, dabbing his mouth with the paper napkin.

  “She’ll come to you after a suitable interval.”

  Booty raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  As there was no point in denying it, Ward kept his mouth shut. They had taught him a lesson—a couple. If Charly and Booty had figured out that he “removed” Queen Esther at Renata’s bidding, presumably being well paid with promises of a future with a celebrity or other well-heeled clients, they were smart enough. But it also meant each of them was capable of doing it. He trusted his two senior partners as far as he could see them.

  “I don’t fault any man for getting ahead. Horse was unharmed. Renata got her publicity fix.” Booty looked at Ward. “You’ll come out ahead.”

  “I know you two don’t think Larry is stirring the pot,” Charly said, “but tell me how it was that those friends of theirs, the Haristeens, wound up at Ward’s? I don’t like it.”

  “Nothing we can do about it. And for all we know, Charly, it was a lucky shot on the part of the Virginia folks.”

  “Virginians are so damned snotty.” Ward wrinkled his nose. “Those two seem all right, though.”

  “Yeah, well, those two are sticking their noses in other people’s business. The wife—not bad-looking, actually—asked me if I’d seen Joan’s pin.” Booty was incredulous. “What the hell do I know about Joan’s pin? She’s nosy.”

  “Nosy is one thing,” Charly lowered his voice again, “but even a blind pig can find an acorn sometimes. We don’t want her snooping around.”

  “Well, what do you propose, we bind and gag her?” Ward laughed; he couldn’t help it.

  “No.” Charly wasn’t finding it funny. “I propose we keep an eye on that woman and we keep our mouths shut.”

  Easier said than done.

  “By the by, fifteen undocumented workers at my farm,” Ward whispered. “They were in the van when Benny and I drove out.”

  “Inchworm there?” Charly asked, his voice even quieter than Ward’s.

  “Yep. Some are yours.”

  “Keep ’em until after the show.” Charly sat up taller.

  “Great. If the feds come by, I’m holding the bag.” Ward’s eyes hardened for a moment.

  Booty soothingly said, “Won’t happen. What you’ll be holding is a bag of money.” He leaned back, hands on his stomach. “Hey, I bought a coral snake yesterday. You guys should come see her. She’s beautiful.”

  Charly flinched slightly. “I saw you milk a rattlesnake once. That was enough.”

  “Chicken.” Booty laughed. “You know snake venom has a lot of medical uses. That’s why I did that.”

  “How do you do it?” Ward asked.

  “Catch them with a thin pole, kind of like an old-fashioned buttonhook. Then you grab them by the neck; they can’t twist. A rattlesnake’s fangs are hinged. He’s mad now, so he flips those fangs out and you put him over a little cup with plastic wrap over it, stick his fangs in it, and the venom just drips out. Easy.” The other two men listened with no comment. “What’s interesting about a coral snake is the fangs don’t retract. You should see her.”

  “I see Miss Nasty. That’s enough,” Charly said.

  Before Ward reached the entrance to I-64 to head east, his cell rang.

  Charly, on the other end, growled, “Ward, do you know where Renata was last night?”

  “No.”

  “She rode back with you in the van.”

  Ward replied, “She left her truck at my place. When we got back, she drove off.”

  “She tell you where she was going?”

  “No. Why would she?”

  “You tell me.” Charly, peeved, disconnected the call.

  His call did convince Ward that Charly’s relationship with Renata went deeper than being her trainer. Ward kicked himself for being blind, or maybe he just didn’t want Renata to have had an affair with the likes of Charly.

  Within ten minutes Charly turned down the long, winding, tree-lined drive to his immaculately manicured establishment.

  His house, with the white Ionic pillars standing out from the weathered red brick, the boxwoods and magnolias dotted about, the freshly painted barns, fence lines trimmed neatly, looked like David Selznick’s version of Tara.

  As someone who sold at the high end of the market, Charly understood that rich folks might not know too much about horses, but they wanted the dream, “the look.”

  Some folks with big bucks did know horses, but they, too, succumbed to being doted upon in Charly’s vast front room in the main barn. Sofas, chairs, a fireplace, a kitchen, and a huge plasma TV flat on the wall shouted money, money, money. The indoor arena, larger than the one at Kalarama, had two viewing areas, one enclosed with glass in case the client didn’t wish to inhale the dust. There were small refrigerators in the viewing areas sh
ould a body desire to drink but not wish to walk the few steps back to the sumptuous lounge.

  Charly, vain about his dress, proved equally vain concerning his surroundings. No surprise then that the women in his life fit into the perfect picture. The affairs were ornamental. He did love his ex-wife, but she, too, had to meet a standard of beauty reflected in fashion magazines, television, and film. One day she’d had enough of being eye candy, walked out, matriculated at the University of Kentucky to study physical therapy, and she never looked back. She didn’t tell tales out of school, which Charly appreciated, especially after witnessing Booty’s sulfurous divorce.

  Charly tired of affairs and one-night stands. They took too much energy. Chasing women distracted him from his main purpose: making and selling spectacular Saddlebreds. He wanted, needed, a wife who could be spectacular herself but who could ride, too. His first wife, whom he had married when he returned from the first Gulf War—a first lieutenant glad to be home—possessed all the necessary graces, but she wasn’t a horsewoman. It seems superficial to non-horse people, since many couples enjoy differing sports, pastimes, but it just doesn’t work that way too readily with horse people.

  Charly made money. He made even more bringing in the undocumented workers. The profit for each worker was two thousand dollars in cash, no checks. Still, he was forever scrambling. A rich wife would help. If he had to pick between money and beauty, money would win. A man could find beauty on the side.

  Standing in front of his main barn, hands on hips, pouted a woman who radiated both beauty and money. Renata DeCarlo, fresh at nine-thirty in the morning, wore white Bermuda shorts and a magenta belt; a pair of white espadrilles on her size-8 feet completed the ensemble.

  Curious how sometimes friends, lovers, husbands, and wives will select the same colors to wear that day without consulting each other. Charly wore white jeans and an aqua shirt.

  He parked by his house and walked the two hundred yards to the barn.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, then smiled irresistibly.

  “Breakfast with the boys. I could ask the same of you. Why weren’t you at the show last night?”

  “I wasn’t riding in a class and I had a script to read.”