Puss 'N Cahoots

by Rita Mae Brown

  Back at the hospitality suite, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter waited with Cookie for the humans to return when the ring was tidied and fluffed after their class. The two cats smoldered with anger. They had been placed in a large dog crate. True, they had extra food treats, fresh water, and a small dirt box, but this hardly offset the insult.

  Cookie, on the other hand, snored in the little sheepskin bed next to the cage.

  “How can she sleep at a time like this?” Mrs. Murphy groused.

  “Jack Russells are a law unto themselves. I don’t understand anything they do,” Pewter said.

  As the cats grumbled, they were surprised by Ward ducking into the hospitality suite. He looked around, then left. They heard him walk down the barn aisle, greet Manuel, then leave.

  Within five minutes, Harry, Fair, and Joan returned during the brief interlude between classes.

  Renata, trailing fans, ducked in shortly afterward.

  Harry let the cats out of their crate.

  Cookie opened one eye, then fell back to sleep.

  “Did we miss anything?” the two cats asked Tucker.

  “Good classes.”

  “Where’s that disgusting monkey?” Pewter irritably inquired.

  “Haven’t seen Miss Nasty. If she shows up, that ought to enliven the evening,” Tucker replied. “We’ll see if she’s a blowhard or not.”

  Just then Booty came into the barn. “Anyone see Miss Nasty?” He avoided Renata’s eye.

  “No,” everyone answered.

  Booty, without further comment, left.

  Harry idly mentioned to Fair, “Stopped by the jewelry booth before I came to the box. They sold that ring I loved. Good thing. Now I’m not tempted.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.” Fair had locked the ring in the glove compartment of his truck last night.

  Joan left to join Larry as they both helped a client from Illinois, who would ride next. Joan checked out her habit, while Larry double-checked her tack. The extra attention pleased her before competition, so she’d put in a better ride.

  As the group fanned themselves and drank something cool, Booty was popping into Charly’s barn. “Seen Miss Nasty?” He carried a chilled bottle of Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988 champagne along with two long fluted glasses.

  “Get out of here,” Charly growled low.

  “Hey, I was wrong. I’m really sorry.” Booty sounded semisincere.

  “Get out.”

  Booty turned to leave and nearly collided with Ward heading into Charly’s barn. “He’s in a black mood.”

  “You have that effect on people.” Ward breezed right past him.

  Booty said loud enough for Ward to hear, “You’re gettin’ too big for your britches, Ward.”

  “Shut up, Booty,” Ward called over his shoulder, assuming Booty wouldn’t follow him inside.

  Charly looked up at Ward; he and Carlos were grooming a muscular gelding who’d be in the fourth class, junior exhibition five-gaited stake.

  Charly winced as he tried to use his hand. “Damn the INS. I need hands, literally.”

  “I can see that.” Ward reached up to fasten the throatlatch on the bridle, since Charly couldn’t use his fingers on such a small buckle. “Had a thought.”

  “That’s scary.” Charly’s humor was returning.

  “Can someone really find instructions for making a car bomb off the Internet?”

  “Yes, and I can show you. After the show.”

  “I’m not asking for it now, but you are the person who knows about these things and”—he didn’t sound accusatory, just factual—“you had incentive.”

  They both looked at the doorway at once, because Booty had walked back in. He held up one hand, two glasses between his fingers, bottle of powerhouse champagne in the other. “Wait, Charly, before you blow up.” Neither Charly, Ward, nor Carlos moved. “I was wrong. Renata nailed me. I was wrong to make up something like that about her. I want to win this class, and I lost my compass, kind of.”

  “That it?” Charly had figured Booty might apologize, but he still had a hand with probably a broken bone or two in it because of Booty’s smart mouth.

  “What do you want me to do, grovel?”

  “I don’t know what I want from you, and right now I don’t care. I do know I’m not doing business with you anymore, Booty.” He looked at Ward. “If you think I blew up your van, then I expect I’m out of the game. I didn’t. I have no reason to kill you.”

  Carlos, on hearing “kill,” prudently left for the tack room. While he knew about his fellow countrymen being trucked in, he didn’t want to know anything more. Ignorance might not be bliss, but in this case it was safety.

  “Maybe. But dividing the profit two ways instead of three would be incentive enough for some people. You can find someone to do pickups, drop-offs. But can you trust them?” Ward challenged them both.

  “How do I know I can trust you? You put my feet to the fire over money,” Booty said.

  “And so will another driver in time. I’m willing to do more. I told you, I want to learn.” Ward defended himself. “And, Booty, no one has tried to kill you.”

  “Renata would if she could.” He frowned.

  “She’s not the only one.” Charly leaned his arm over the horse’s neck.

  “Annie here?” Booty made light of it.

  “Let’s sort this out some other time.” Charly returned his attention to the horse. “I’ve got a horse in the fifth class and, Booty, I’m going to win the five-gaited. I don’t care what you tell the press.” He and Booty might be in business together, but when it came to riding in the big class, their only desire was to win.

  Ward froze. “Tell what?”

  Booty shrugged. “That Charly, Renata, and you stole Queen Esther.”

  “Booty, add me to the list of people who want to kill you.” Ward checked the bridle buckles for Charly. “You do something like that and you won’t walk out of here tonight.”

  “Like Jorge?” Booty challenged.

  “You would know,” Ward fired right back. “I didn’t touch him.”

  Booty’s lower lip jutted out. “Seems to me one of us killed him. He was getting a little like you, Ward—greedy. He pressured Charly and me for a bigger cut.”

  “No one knows about greed better than you.” Charly felt his anger rising, but he didn’t want to hit Booty with his left hand. He’d have to hold the reins in his teeth.

  “One or both of you are lying, so let me say this: I came down here to apologize, Charly. I was wrong. I’m sorry. If either of you has seen Miss Nasty, let me know. That’s all I ask.” Booty put down the champagne. “I was going to drink this after I won the five-gaited, but I brought it as a peace offering. Maybe you’ll feel more forgiving once it works its magic.” Booty left the barn, taking one glass with him. He called over his shoulder, “You’ll drink alone, I reckon, because you won’t win.”

  Ward waited for him to get far enough ahead on the path before he left, too.

  Carlos came back out for last-minute touches on the horse. “If you hurt your hand more, you won’t be able to ride in the last class.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Charly replied, “but you’ll have to help me with my coat and tie. I hope I can get the damned glove on, that’s all.” He picked up the champagne and walked it to the fridge in the hospitality suite. He read the label. “Bastard does have good taste.”

  Apart from being a monkey, Miss Nasty would be conspicuous by her ensemble graced by the very expensive pin she had hooked through her bodice. Knowing Booty’s habits, she laid low—or rather, high, since she rested on the top limb of one of the large trees off the midway. Her commanding view allowed her to keep tabs on Booty’s movements. She knew that when he mounted up and rode into the ring, he couldn’t stop her from what she perceived as her frolic. If she broke cover before that, he’d nab her and her party would be over.

  More than anything, she wanted to display her treasure in front of those snotty cats. It w
as worth the wait as she watched classes, listening to the cheers. Occasionally someone walking under the tree would feel the light tap of a pistachio hull on their head. Miss Nasty had taken the precaution of grabbing a big bag of pistachios from Booty’s hospitality suite. However, the small hull posed no danger, so no one peered upward into the thick foliage to behold the well-dressed monkey on the top limb.

  Having demolished the entire bag, Miss Nasty felt a powerful thirst. It overcame her prudence, what little there was of it. She climbed down the tree and scurried behind the shops on the midway until she found the back of one of the food booths stacked with soft drinks. Snagging one, she popped the top straight off. The two ladies, as members of a Shelbyville farm club, were serving hot dogs, hamburgers, and French fries and didn’t notice the monkey chugging behind them. Having finished that off, Miss Nasty felt much better. The sugar and caffeine in the soft drink energized her.

  What if Booty did see her? She’d climb to the top of another tree. He’d have to go back to work. She intended to have her moment, so she loped along amid the cries of children and adults.

  Every resident of the 385 square miles of Shelby County had to be at the show grounds. The horsemen knew Miss Nasty. First-timers did not, so she caused a sensation, much to her delight. She even stood on her hind legs, sweeping off her lovely straw hat to a few. They’d approach; she’d fly away. Couldn’t be too sure. Anyone could be an agent of Booty’s. She wanted to parade before Pewter and Mrs. Murphy. Of the two, Pewter sent her blood pressure through the stratosphere.

  She climbed up the rear of the western grandstand. Perching on the high backrest, built so no one would tip over backward, she peeped over the heads down to the Kalarama box, again filling after another sweeping of the ring. The sun had set, and the powerful lights circling the show ring were so bright she could see the tiny dust specks floating upward.

  Night birds bestirred themselves, calling to one another. Moths danced around the softer barn lights, a few immolated on the show-ring lights.

  Miss Nasty climbed back down since people noticed her. She knew her safety rested in height, so she rapidly climbed back up a tree, which afforded her a view. The minute she saw those cats she was going to cavort in front of them.

  The ring, pristine now, filled the air with the aroma of dark loam, the last whiff of tractor gas disappearing. The flowers, dusted off after the dragging of the ring, seemed extra beautiful. The ringmaster strode to the middle, the organist hit the notes, and the two judges—one a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, the other a lady in a flowing dress—stood on the dais, ready to watch each five-gaited horse as it entered the ring.

  The lady judge—a horsewoman, obviously—knew not to wear materials that reflected light, since this caused some horses to shy. Often ladies presenting the trophies wore shiny jackets or glittering evening gowns, and the horse wouldn’t stand still to be pinned or to have the silver trophy raised by its head.

  The crowd held its breath, for this was it. The entire week culminated in the five-gaited open stake. The winner would be the favorite for the World Championship in Louisville, two weeks hence.

  Betting isn’t allowed at Saddlebred shows. No tickets for win, place, or show litter grounds after a class. However, gambling proceeds apace. Is there a horseman anywhere in the world who can resist laying down a wager?

  Money changed hands, as did chits. The extra security hired by the officials patrolled to keep order, not to dampen betting. Good thing, too, or they’d have had to arrest and hold the participants at the high-school football field. No jail would be large enough to contain the multitudes.

  Ward was first in the ring, riding a large, somewhat unrefined bay with great action, Shaq Attack. He smiled to the cheers. Ward wore a tuxedo and looked very handsome.

  Charly, slowed by having to split open the palm of his right glove to make it fit, didn’t worry about time. He’d be up there in two minutes. Before he mounted up, he had Carlos pop the cork of the Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988. Carlos poured the Baccarat fluted glass full, handing it to Charly.

  “I’ll celebrate before I ride and then after.” He knocked it back, handing the glass back to Carlos. The bubbles soothed his cut gums and loose tooth. “It will pick me up and kill some of this pain.” He swung a long leg over Frederick the Great. “My God, that’s good champagne.” He felt better already.

  Harry, Fair, Joan, and Renata filed into the box. Paul and Frances were already there, as were most of Joan’s sisters and brothers, which meant it was a full box indeed. The men stood so the ladies could sit.

  Miss Nasty spied the cats, Mrs. Murphy in Harry’s lap and Pewter in Joan’s. Cookie sat with Frances, and Tucker sat by Fair’s foot, until he picked up the dog so she could see.

  Miss Nasty hurried down the tree just as Booty entered the ring on the brilliant chestnut, Callaway’s Senator, who was on tonight.

  Larry followed on Point Guard, who gleamed like black patent leather, serving notice that the two favored horses couldn’t rest on their laurels.

  The ring filled until, lastly, with an actor’s sense of timing, Charly blasted in, hands high but quiet and a brilliant smile under his perfect dark navy homburg, with small red-colored feathers stuck in the grosgrain hatband. Frederick the Great, a light bay, groomed to perfection, hooves glistening, two red braided ribbons sailing, one from his forelock, one up behind his poll, promised to match Senator stride for stride.

  Before the class completed one round of the ring, the crowd was screaming.

  Much as Renata loathed Charly right now, she had to admit he looked divine showing a horse.

  The announcer allowed another lap at the trot, then called out, “Walk, please, walk.”

  Larry moved closer to the rail, which, while farther from the judges, set off black Point Guard against the white boards.

  As he moved away, Charly and Booty, now in the ring, jostled for position in front of the judges, each trying to block out the other. Ward hung back, slowed Shaq Attack, then asked the horse to walk out. The huge fellow ate up the ground effortlessly. While he lacked refinement, his motion compensated. Shaq should pin well and with any luck would retire to stud. Ward hoped the owners would keep the horse with him. He believed if the horse were crossed with refined mares, good things would follow, and he intended to show this horse at his best. Shaq wanted to show.

  “Reverse, please, reverse.”

  The contestants reversed direction, walked a bit, and the announcer called out, “Trot, please, trot.”

  Deep in the curve of the ring, Charly cut off Booty, laughing as he passed. Booty nearly broke stride, only managing to pull it out in the nick of time by squeezing Senator hard, which then made the flashy fellow surge forward.

  As the announcer called out the canter, Miss Nasty hopped through the now-empty midway, zoomed around the path in front of the western grandstand, vaulted onto the back of a chair in the Kalarama box, and jumped to the top rail.

  Renata flinched as the monkey flew past her.

  Miss Nasty sneered down at Pewter and Mrs. Murphy. “See! Worthless cats. Fish breath!” She pointed to Joan’s pin on her ecru bodice.

  Mrs. Murphy, grasped firmly by Harry, could do little but thrash her tail. Pewter, catching Joan unaware, lunged at the monkey, who easily eluded her. The cat then pulled back, slipping off her turquoise collar in a move worthy of the monkey. Pewter, now free, stalked the monkey. Then Miss Nasty jumped onto Joan’s lap. The monkey, thrilled at her disruption, jumped from lap to lap. Fair put Tucker down to grab Pewter, an exercise in futility.

  “My pin!” Joan finally had a second to concentrate on Miss Nasty, as the cat and monkey verbally abused each other.

  Frances, hands to her face, pleaded, “Miss Nasty, you be a good girl. Give us the pin.”

  “I’ll kill her,” Pewter promised, claws out.

  As this transpired, the announcer called the slow rack, a beautiful, controlled gait.

  Booty bumped Charly when both
judges were looking the other way. Larry, three strides behind, with quick reflexes, steered clear. He concentrated that much harder. Nothing was going to deter him from making Point Guard’s debut memorable. Well, it would be for many reasons, not least because Miss Nasty jumped into the ring, followed by Pewter.

  Joan’s eyes were darting to the drama in the ring, then back at the monkey. She knew Larry would skin Booty and Charly alive after this class. Competitive as he was, Larry would never stoop to anything like their hijinks. She thought she could see smoke coming out of her husband’s ears, but she smiled when she saw how readily Point Guard responded, how fluid his movement. He didn’t shy even when passing Miss Nasty and Pewter, who both prudently returned to the Kalarama box amid gasps from the crowd.

  “This pin is mine!” Miss Nasty touched the pin as she perched on the rail.

  Pewter lurked under the rail.

  “Give Joan the pin.” Mrs. Murphy puffed out her fur while being firmly held by Harry.

  “Or what? What can you do? Ha! Ha!” Miss Nasty turned a somersault on the rail, dropped under, and swung around then back up.

  Pewter grabbed Miss Nasty’s tail, but the monkey jerked free. The cat then bounded into Joan’s lap to face her opponent.

  Paul clucked to the monkey, who clucked back but eluded his reach.

  “Maybe if we ignore her,” Joan suggested.

  “I’ll kill her!” Pewter became repetitive.

  “Rack on, ladies and gentlemen, rack on.” The announcer called for the most physically demanding gait, the rack.

  The speed of the rack is much faster than a non-Saddlebred horseman can imagine, until he or she sits on top. It’s like driving a mighty racing Ferrari with a long hood, yet you feel the rear wheels grip the road.

  Point Guard lifted his forelegs effortlessly while driving from behind. His hindquarters were not as big as Shaq’s. Ward made the most of that, using Shaq’s muscle to drive and fly. The rack was Shaq’s best gait.

  Point Guard would develop further and his motion was truly flawless, although the rack wasn’t his best gait. Right now his trot was his best gait, his balance flawless, but his rack was showy enough.