by John McEvoy
Orth ate everything on his dinner tray: a half-pound cheeseburger, shrimp cocktail, fries, salad. He drank two bottles of water from the minibar. Sanderson only took two or three bites of his turkey club, which was unusual for him. He opened another Malt 45 from the pack he’d brought with him. When Orth’s plates were empty, Sanderson said, “Ready?”
“Go on with it.”
Sanderson leaned forward. “This,” he said, “is our biggest project yet. It’s going to have to be very, very carefully thought out. Main reason is, we’re getting paid on a sliding scale. I’ve met with the money person. The deal looks very solid. The money’s there. I got a down payment forwarded to our off-shore accounts yesterday. But it’s not going to be easy.”
Orth frowned, awaiting an explanation.
“There’s six targets,” Sorenson said. “We eliminate them all, one at a time. Different methods. Different locales. Nothing you can’t handle. I got the whole schemata worked out, you know? Like always, we’re the fucking stealth team. Yeah, it’s going to get harder to do as we go along through the list. That’s why I negotiated an increasing pay scale. It got complicated. It took some doing. But I did it.”
Orth hated complications. “Keep talking.”
“Like I said, we’ve got to do six. These people, all men, all know each other. After one or two go down, the rest, if they have any fucking sense whatsoever, and I’m sure they must, are going to be plenty nervous. Harder to get to.”
“What numbers are we talking?” Orth said.
“We get fifty for each of the first two. Next one, seventy-five thousand. One after that, a hundred. Another hundred for the fifth one. A hundred and a quarter for the finalist.”
Orth said, “Where are these guys?”
“Pretty well clustered,” Sanderson said, “all in the Midwest. You’ll be able to reach them easily. Did I say expenses are included?” he grinned, before draining his Malt 45. “So, what we’re talking about here…”
Orth interrupted him. “Scotty, I can still count. Five hundred grand, forty percent to you.” He stood up to stretch. Sanderson watched him, thinking that Orth looked like he’d even further tightened up his muscular body in the north woods. “One dangerous fucking cat,” is how Sanderson had described him to his wife.
“Not a bad summer’s work, bro,” Sanderson said.
Orth said, “Not bad at all.”
Chapter Eight
April 24, 2009
Trainer Larry Lambert’s top two-year-old filly, Princess Croft, came out of her sleep with a jolt when she heard some of the other horses down the line in the barn nicker nervously in the early morning darkness. She shook her head and pricked her ears. A voice was saying, “Quiet, quiet, now. It’s only me.”
Wide awake now, Princess Croft poked her gray head out the stall door. Almost immediately, familiar hands were stroking her neck and a familiar voice was pouring over her in soft but insistent tones. “Easy does it, babe. It’s only me. Just relax, baby.”
Princess Croft shuddered with pleasure at this most unusual nocturnal happening. She was a very sociable sort as horses go, especially young fillies, and she reveled in this unexpected attention. She sniffed the peppermint candy pieces in the visitor’s hand, snuffled them up with rapidity.
The familiar hands moved to Princess Croft’s jaw. Her head was pushed up a few inches. Suddenly there was the thrust of something alien into her left nostril. The filly whinnied in fear, raising her head. But the strong hands held her nose down. The soothing voice continued. A small probe forced the wad of sponge even deeper into her nasal passage. Then it was over. For Princess Croft, there was no real pain accompanying this intrusion, just the uncomfortable sense that something terribly unnatural had been placed in her body.
The soft voice took on a regretful tone. “Sorry, babe. Hated to do that to you, but…” There was a final soothing rub of the filly’s neck. “Good going, girl, you’ve handled this fine. Here, take this.” Princess Croft, wary now, nevertheless tentatively reached out and nibbled up the last pieces of peppermint candy. Finished, she snorted in appreciation. She watched as her visitor briskly, silently walked around the corner of the barn and disappeared into the night.
Two days later, in Heartland Downs’ fifth race, a maiden event for two-year-old fillies, Princess Croft was made the 3-to-5 favorite. She had been a strong second in her only start, impressing observers with the strong way she finished.
Princess Croft broke sharply and gained the early lead. She buzzed along in front for the first quarter-mile. Then, suddenly, she began to shorten stride. When the winner crossed the finish line, Princess Croft was dead last, nearly twenty lengths in arrears. There were scattered boos from the crowd aimed at her disgusted jockey.
The winner paid $28.40. She topped a $382 exacta and a trifecta worth $1,420 on $2 bets.
Trainer Larry Lambert, baffled by Princess Croft’s dismal performance, called Doc Jensen two mornings later. Using an endoscope, the veterinarian found and then extracted a foul-smelling sponge. “Well, at least I know why she ran so bad,” said Lambert. “Goddam, I’d like to get my hands on whoever would do something like this to a horse.”
That same night, the sponger collected a thick pay packet.
Chapter Nine
Autumn 2005
The seven old friends met for dinner at Hobson’s, an extremely popular steak house in the heart of Chicago’s so-called Viagra Triangle, where young women and older men sought connections over expensive drinks and lavish meals. That was not the case with these seven. Arnie Rison had called them together, Judge Toomey and Chris Carson driving down together from Wisconsin, on short notice. Their meal was excellent, but their mood gloomy.
“I got the call from Ralph Tenuta early this morning,” Rison told them. “He said The Badger worked beautifully about six o’clock. A half hour later, when he was being walked and cooled out, the groom saw him limping noticeably. Ralph called our vet, Jensen. X-rays were taken. The Badger has bone chips in his left front ankle.”
Rison was gently interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he said, “Moe, good to see you. These are my partners in the horse business.”
“Looks like serious business tonight, Arnie,” Kellman replied. “I’m on my way to a dinner upstairs in the private room. I just wanted to say hello.” He nodded at the rest of the men and walked to the nearby stairway.
Mike Barnhill said, “Bone chips. I’ve had those, when I was playing ball. How serious are they for The Badger?”
“According to Doc Jensen,” Rison said, “they could be operated on. The Badger would miss maybe half the year. But, as Tenuta pointed out, what’s the point? The horse would have to undergo surgery, and he might not come back as good as he was.”
Steve Charous said, “I’m sure we always figured that The Badger, like any racehorse, could get hurt. Funny, it just never seemed to me that would happen to him. Not the way we’ve been so lucky. Well,” he said, raising his cocktail glass, “here’s a toast to The Badger. He’s been awfully damned good to us.”
Judge Toomey was about to signal their attentive waitress, Mary Joyce, for a repeat round of predinner drinks, when she arrived with a tray full of glasses. “I figured you fellas for a second round,” she grinned, and set their glasses before them.
“We have indeed been lucky,” Rison said. “But, fellas, believe it or not, our luck with this animal may not be finished.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is a fax I got late this afternoon,” he said. “It came from Fairborne Farm down in Kentucky.”
Carson whistled. “Fairborne is about as big time as big time gets. What’s up with them?”
“They heard about The Badger’s retirement. They want him to stand at stud at Fairborne. They offer to manage his career as a stallion, find the best mares they can to be bred to him, and take a percentage of the profits from the sale of foals resulting from the breedings.”
“
If there are any,” interjected Judge Toomey. “A hell of a lot of good racehorses turn out to be duds as studs.”
“True enough,” Rison said. “But I don’t see how we have anything to lose with this proposition. The Badger has a decent pedigree, excellent conformation, and a terrific racing record. He’s got to live somewhere nice, and my back yard is spoken for. Why not Kentucky, where he can conceivably, and yes, I use that word advisedly,” he said to the laughter it elicited, “make us some more money? And have some fun while he’s doing it? Remember how he used to call out to all the fillies in his barn last summer. Strutting along with his hose hanging down? He’s got a libido as big as his heart.”
“So you’re saying there’s no downside to this plan?” said Barnhill. “What if he winds up shooting blanks, like the great horse Cigar?”
“That’s always a possibility, though a remote one. But c’mon, Mike,” Rison shot back, “do you know any plan that doesn’t have a possible downside for somebody? Look, it’ll be a couple of years before The Badger’s first foals hit the racetrack. The usual practice in this business is to give a new stallion at least three crops of runners before he pretty much defines himself in the stud league. We won’t really know if The Badger is going to be a success until then. But his stud fee stays the same for at least two of those first three years, depending on how the foals look and how they do at the big Keeneland and Saratoga sales.”
“What’s his stud fee going to be, Arnie?” Carson asked.
Rison looked at the fax in his hand. “The Fairborne people say that they want to, quote, price him realistically, unquote, in order to make him attractive to breeders. His fee will be $12,500 per live foal. That’s damn reasonable for a horse with The Badger’s record.
“How many mares can he be bred to each year?” Barnhill persisted, still somewhat skeptical about this venture.
“One hundred the first year,” Rison said.
Carson scribbled some figures on his napkin. “Holy shit. That’s a million and a quarter in stud fees.”
“Wait,” Rison said. “Probably only eighty percent of those hundred mares will produce a live foal. So the gross won’t be that high. But, still, it’ll be around a million. And,” Rison added, “remember that if The Badger turns out to be a success as a stallion, that stud fee will be increased.”
Talk erupted around the table as Rison reached for his nearly empty martini glass. He drained it, then tapped it with a spoon. “One more major item, gentlemen, so listen up. Judge Toomey, drawing on his vast legal experience, recommends we have a partnership contract drawn up to cover The Badger’s stud career. He can’t do it because he’s involved. A friend of mine you just saw, Moe Kellman, recommended a Chicago attorney named Frank Cohan. Supposedly the city’s top contract lawyer. Cohan drew it up. I’ve read it over, and I think it’s just what we need. Just as with the racing partnership corporation, any profits will be divided equally among the seven of us after expenses and taxes.
“But this new contract goes further. At my recommendation, it calls for a new pattern of distribution. If, God forbid, one of us dies during The Badger’s years at stud, that person’s percentage of the profits, or losses, goes not to his heirs but to the remaining members of the corporation. The Badger’s production proceeds stay in our hands only until the last of us goes. We’re not ever going to sell this horse that has been so good to us. The final survivor’s heirs will be in charge.
“Now, here’s the kicker. If The Badger is still producing when six of us have died, the lone remaining heir must use the monies for charity. Specifically, a retirement foundation for retired and rejected thoroughbreds.”
They debated the merits of this plan, but not for long. Chris Carson said, “I’m all for this. Count me in.” The others followed suit. Rison said, “I’ll send copies of the agreement to everybody to sign.” He raised his replenished martini glass. “Here’s to The Badger Express. If he’s even half the stud he was as a runner, we’ll all be farting through silk.”
After dinner they walked a few blocks to Butch McGuire’s saloon for a nightcap. Joe Zabrauskis stopped them, holding his big arms wide and smiling. “Honest to God, you guys, can you believe this? We’re stallion owners? The seven of us, who could hardly scrape up $2 daily double bets with bookie Doherty back in Madison. Unfucking believeable?”
***
Ira Kaplan’s story appeared two days later in Racing Daily.
CHICAGO, IL—One of thoroughbred racing’s most popular performers of recent years, The Badger Express, will race no more, this publication has learned exclusively. The four-year-old multiple stakes winner suffered a career-ending leg injury following a workout earlier this week, according to Arnie Rison, spokesman for The Significant Seven, the syndicate that campaigned The Badger Express
The Significant Seven acquired The Badger Express at the Keeneland January Sale of 2003 after winning a huge Pick Six at Saratoga the previous August. Their story, involving old friends who were veteran horse players who hit a pari-mutuel bonanza, became a familiar one to the racing public. Trained by Ralph Tenuta, “The Badger,” as he was known to his many fans, was named in honor of the owners’ alma mater, the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
Under Tenuta’s guidance, the chestnut colt won thirteen of his twenty-four career starts over three seasons, including eight graded stakes, for total earnings of $3,213,048, a remarkable return on his purchase price of $95,000. This model of consistency finished in the money in all but one of those two dozen starts.
Said Rison, “We’ve had a remarkable run, me and my friends, first hitting the Pick Six jackpot, then buying this wonderful racehorse, who gave his all in every start he made. We will retire him to stud. We hope he can pass on his physical attributes and his will to win to his offspring. That’s the idea, anyway. No matter what happens, The Badger has already given us more fun and money than we ever could of hoped for.”
Details of The Badger Express’ future are expected to be made public in a few days. “We are finalizing a contract with a major Kentucky farm,” Rison said. That farm is rumored to be Fairborne, home of some of the world’s top stallions.
Chapter Ten
April 27, 2009
“Damn,” Doyle said, admiringly, “who’s that fine-looking girl with the Doc?”
Ralph Tenuta was standing next to Doyle in front of his stable area office on this bright summer morning. The veterinarian for the Tenuta-trained horses, Ron Jensen, had gotten out of his truck and begun walking toward them. Accompanying Jensen was a tall, slim blond woman carrying a medical satchel. She wore jeans, a yellow tee-shirt that revealed her tanned arms, and a black ribbon tied to hold back her long pony tail. She smiled and said, “Good morning, Ralph. I’m back.”
“Always good to see you, Cindy,” Tenuta said, “early or later. This is Jack Doyle. He’s my new stable agent. Jack, say hello to Cindy Chesney and Doc Jensen. After Cindy works as an exercise rider, some mornings she helps the doc on his rounds.”
Doyle said hello to the two of them. Tenuta asked Cindy, “How did that black filly go for you today?”
“Good mannered, just not much interested in running along with other horses. She’s kind of an out-of-place baby at this stage.”
“That’s what I’m starting realize,” Tenuta said. “We might have to send her back to the farm to grow up a little. How did the other three go?”
“Went great.” Cindy moved off with a wave to join Doc Jensen down the shed row.
Doyle watched intently her graceful, athletic walk. “Damn nice-looking woman,” he said. “Tell me about her.”
Tenuta said, “She’s one of the best exercise riders around here. She’s worked for me first thing in the morning, five-thirty or six o’clock, for the last three years. Then she has other trainers she rides for. Some days of the week, she assists Doc Jensen.”
“Hard-working woman,” Doyle said.
“That’s for sure. And one o
f the nicest people you’d ever meet.”
Doyle said, “Married?”
“No. Widowed. Like her ma, who lives with her. Cindy’s got a little boy. There’s something wrong with him, I understand, but she’s never said anything to me about that.”
“Working two jobs like that, pretty tough.”
Tenuta said, “Yeah. I guess she needs both incomes. Her mother’s in the senior ranks. I think she looks after Cindy’s kid during the day.”
They heard the crackle of the track’s barn-area loud speaker being turned on. “All horsemen are reminded that entries for Saturday’s program close today at ten-thirty a.m.” said an assistant to the Heartland Downs racing secretary.
Walking back into his office, Tenuta said, “You been married, Jack?”
“Oh, yeah.” They kept walking.
“That’s all you’ve got to say about it?” Tenuta laughed.
Doyle said, “Well, Ralph, as if it’s any of your goddam business, which I would tend to dispute, I’ve been married twice and divorced the same number. Been in love more often than I should have. I’m not exactly a big favorite for the matrimonial derby.”
Tenuta said, “Okay, okay, Jack. I didn’t mean to raise your hackles.”
“What the hell is a hackle anyway, Ralph?”
“Never mind. It’s just something my old man used to say. I meant to say I didn’t want to get you pissed off, like I did.”
Doyle laughed. “Raise my hackles. The other morning, you told me you slept like a log. How the hell does a log sleep? Last week you said the new groom was smart as a whip. What the hell is smart about a whip?”
“Could we just talk about Saturday’s entry schedule, Jack?”
Chapter Eleven
April 29, 2009
Cindy Chesney parked her faded black ’94 Geo Prizm next to her leased, faded green weather-beaten home in the East Meadow trailer park ten miles from Heartland Downs. She was exhausted after her four-hour shift the previous night at the nearby Qwik Stop cash register, one of three such shifts she worked each week. She’d exercised eight horses at Heartland Downs this morning, starting at break of dawn. She’d earned $88 from those efforts, $30 from her two hours accompanying Doc Jensen and aiding him on his rounds. Now, Cindy had an hour to shower, eat a quick dinner with her mother Wilma and five-year-old son Tyler, before returning to the Qwik Stop four miles down the road, part of the chain of service station/convenience stores that enabled her to pad out her tenuous income. Her reward for the latter effort was $36.50 per three-hour shift. All this effort added up to a weekly income that varied between $500 and $600 before taxes, since some mornings there weren’t many horses to work, some afternoons no clients to help Doc Jensen with. What Cindy brought in, coupled with Wilma’s monthly Social Security check, enabled them to survive.