The Last Virginia Gentleman

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The Last Virginia Gentleman Page 8

by Michael Kilian


  Still, the president would be disturbed by such a public incident, especially one involving a possible crime and a law enforcement officer, however insignificant. In the man’s own words, he’d be appalled.

  “You’re going to be very, very sorry about this,” Moody said to the sheriff, as he headed for the door.

  “We’ll be talking to you,” said Cooke.

  Bloch looked up expectantly as Moody returned to their table in the bar.

  “Sorry,” Moody said, looking first at his wife. “He’ll let me go, because I said I’ve got official White House business—which I do, as a matter of fact. But I’m afraid you’re stuck. Why don’t we just have dinner here again?”

  “I don’t give a damn about dinner!” Bloch said. “I want that horse! I gotta have him.”

  “What’s wrong with Sherrie’s Dream?” his wife asked. “He won the race.”

  “Be quiet.”

  They all sat unhappily, sipping their drinks, looking as glum and irritable as everyone else in the room.

  “Bobby,” said Bloch, finally. “You’re free to go?”

  “Yes. And I’d better. My place is in the White House tonight.”

  Bloch pulled out his checkbook and started to write. “I need a big favor, Bobby. I’d like you to go to the auction for me. It won’t take long.”

  Moody had no idea which of them owed the other the most favors, but certainly he owed Bloch a few. He might still be practicing law in Cumberland, Maryland, if it weren’t for Bloch.

  “I don’t know anything about buying horses, Bernie.”

  Bloch signed a check with his hurried scrawl and tore it out of the book. “I’ve made it out and everything. All you have to do is fill in the amount. I wrote down the horse’s hip number here. It’s 17A. They’ll call it in order, right after number 17. Don’t bid on 17. Make sure it’s 17A. It should be a good-looking horse. A bay, I think. Very dark.”

  “You haven’t seen it?”

  “I know all about it. I don’t have to see it.”

  This seemed more than a little odd to Moody, but he didn’t question his old friend’s peculiar ways. He took the check, folded it carefully, and placed it in his wallet. “How much do I bid?”

  “Whatever it takes. It shouldn’t be much over ten thousand, maybe less. If Wayne Lukas were here, I’d worry, because he puts a lot of store on what kind of an athlete a horse looks like when he buys. He’s pulled big-money winners outa nowhere. But he won’t be around. The buyers here will be looking at pedigrees, and this horse doesn’t have much.”

  Moody knew that Lukas had trained winning horses for the Kentucky Derby and other big flat-track races. He wouldn’t be involved with steeplechase.

  “Why do you want this one so badly?” he asked. “The world is full of horses.”

  Bloch grinned. “I got a tip. This one is special. Now, that horse is going to belong to you the instant the bidding’s over, but you shouldn’t have any problem getting them to hold it there for you until I can get Billy Bonning or somebody over there with a horse trailer to pick it up.”

  “You want me to sign for it? As the new owner?”

  “As my agent. Don’t worry about it. Just a formality. What matters is that I get the winning bid down.”

  “What if it ends up costing a lot of money?”

  “Bobby. Please. A lot of money, I got.”

  Moody’s driver and Secret Service bodyguard were waiting by his official car, which was parked prominently by the inn’s front verandah. If they’d been bored, they now looked fully alert, perhaps in anticipation of returning to Washington soon. Moody handed his briefcase to the bodyguard to put in the car’s trunk, then slid into the back seat.

  “We’re going to a horse auction,” he said to the driver.

  “Not Washington, boss?”

  “If we were going to Washington, I’d tell you.”

  “And Mrs. Moody?”

  “If she were coming, she’d be here.”

  There were several sheriff’s deputies standing along the inn’s circular driveway. One of them stepped back respectfully and gave a small salute as Moody’s black sedan passed by.

  Moody repeated the directions Bloch had given him. The auction pavilion was on the other side of town, adjoining the grounds of the Dandytown Horse Show. It was a short drive.

  As they turned through the gate, following several other arriving cars down a lane between rows of parked vehicles, there was a quiet beeping sound. A small green light flickered on Moody’s telephone console. His bodyguard picked it up and uttered the word “Straw-boss,” which was the Secret Service’s code word for the White House chief of staff. The man listened a moment, then handed the receiver to Moody.

  “It’s the White House, sir,” he said.

  Another National Security Council duty officer was on the line.

  “New development in Belize, sir,” he said. “More trouble. Involving U.S. citizens.”

  “Shooting trouble?”

  “Affirmative. We have a confirmed fatality.”

  Moody put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Stop!”

  His car slid to a halt in the gravel. In a large open space beside the pavilion, Moody could see horses being led.

  He put the receiver back to his ear. “Has the commander in chief been informed?” he asked.

  “General St. Angelo is doing that now, sir.”

  Moody hesitated, but not for long. “Tell him I am en route to Washington. I’ll be in my office in an hour.”

  His driver was already turning around, honking to make other cars move out of the way.

  “I’ll have the latest situation reports waiting on your desk, sir.”

  “Have General St. Angelo waiting there, too.” He paused, frowning. “Something else. I’d like you to place a call to my wife at the Dandytown Inn. Tell her there’s been an emergency and I’m returning to the White House. Tell her I’ll call her as soon as I can.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Something else. Tell her I’m unable to wait for the horse.”

  “The horse, sir?”

  “She’ll know what I mean.”

  He could call her himself, of course, but he knew she’d only complain. The chief of staff of the president of the United States was not about to be nagged. He wasn’t going to be held up by some screwball horse deal of Bernie’s, either.

  “That’s all. Thank you.” He hung up, leaning back against the seat. When at last they bumped up onto the highway again, and were heading east, his driver glanced over his shoulder.

  “We’re not going to make it back in an hour, boss.”

  “Give it your best shot.”

  May Moody’s gentlemanly escort seemed a little hurt that she offered no explanation for her sudden decision to stay for the horse auction, but he proved helpful enough, arranging a seat for her near the auctioneer’s podium and obtaining a copy of the catalogue for her.

  She noticed several people looking at her as she took her place, but she was unsure whether it was because they recognized her as a celebrity, or because she was an unfamiliar face to them. So many of these people seemed to know one another well.

  May had repeated the hip number, whatever that was, of the horse Captain Showers wanted over and over in her mind: 17A. There was no such number listed in the glossy catalogue, but she found it in the pages of a hastily printed addendum stuck in the back.

  She had been to art auctions before, but was unsure of the procedure here. At art sales, people were provided with cardboard paddles to indicate their bids. As the horse auction got underway, bidders were signifying their intentions by raising their hands. The auctioneer recognized one or two men who did no more than nod their heads.

  The catalogue page devoted to Hip No. 17A was full of esoteric references, beginning with a barn and stall number and the name of the seller: “Tampico Enterprises, Newark, N.J. Ltd., Partnership No. 1, Tampico Enterprises, Agent.”

  Then followed the words, “Ba
y Stallion,” the animal’s birthdate, and a diagram of the horse’s family tree, dating back three generations.

  After that came listings of the racing victories and horse show records of the sire, the sire’s other offspring, and those of the horse’s first, second, and third dams. In the entries for most of the other horses in the catalogue, these race and horse show records were fairly extensive. Those for 17A were quite skimpy. Two of the dams had nothing listed at all.

  She glanced through the front of the catalogue, noting several pages of legalese that seemed not a little forbidding:

  There is no warranty express or implied by the auctioneer, sponsors, owner or consignor, as to the racing soundness, merchantability or fitness for any particular purposes of any horse offered in this sale. All horses are sold “as is” with all existing conditions and defects except as set forth …

  Should any dispute arise between or among two or more bidders, the auctioneer shall forthwith adjudicate the dispute, and his decision shall be absolute, final and binding on all parties …

  Title passes to buyer at fall of the hammer. All risk of injury to the horse becomes buyer’s risk on passing of titles. Horse will be held for buyer by consignor until buyer makes settlement as provided …

  Any controversy arising out of a claim arising under conditions eighth, ninth and eleventh shall be settled by arbitration between the buyers and consignor …

  May lowered the catalogue to her lap and took a deep breath. She had the money to do this. She had just sold her house in Malibu Canyon for $2.5 million and had deposited a cashier’s check for $250,000 in her account. She had other funds as well. Her career may have skidded off the track, but she was far from broke. Ten or twenty thousand was nothing. She had friends—she used to have friends—who would drop that in a single afternoon of shopping in Beverly Hills.

  In a year or two, she might think differently. Her career could be in such a mess that she’d need every cent of ten or twenty thousand. She’d earned herself a reputation with producers for being difficult—irresponsible, unreliable, even crazy. That was behind her, but she had to prove it. That’s what she had come to Washington to do. The Folger was the finest Shakespeare company in the country. Though its actors were paid only a little more than $600 a week, they were disciplined professionals of the highest standard. If she could hold her own with them, if she could win some favorable reviews with her performance, she’d prove her point. She’d be back in her league. She’d never again be reduced to accepting roles in horror-chiller films, just to keep working. That was why she was going to subject herself to spending so many weeks in her father’s city.

  The bidding was going very quickly. The horses were brought out one by one to the little sawdust ring in front of the auctioneer’s podium and seemed to spend less time there than actresses performing at an audition. One had an opening price of $1,000 and sold for exactly that in a few seconds. Several sold for $30,000 or more. One went for $128,000, scaring May to death.

  But she had to go through with this. She was tired of making promises to herself she never kept. It was crazy—the sort of irrational act that would convince her moviemaking friends that she’d gone completely cuckoo.

  Her escort nudged her gently. “Your horse, Miss Moody. They’re calling its number.”

  She glanced down at the catalogue entry, then looked quickly back to the podium. The animal was handsome, very dark, with white markings on his forelegs and one rear leg. He danced out to the little ring, sidestepping skittishly as the groom tried to hold him still.

  The auctioneer spoke glowingly of the animal’s ancestry—going on about “winners’ blood,” as he had about all the entries so far—but no one in the audience around May seemed at all impressed.

  “He’s beautiful,” said her escort, “but he seems a little temperamental.”

  The opening price was $10,000. Timidly, May raised her hand. The auctioneer, looking to more likely quarters in the audience, appeared not to notice her. Irritated, she thrust her arm up high.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said. “Do I have eleven? Do I have ten thousand five? Ten thousand one hundred?”

  The horse whinnied and suddenly rose on his rear legs, pulling the reins from the groom’s hands, pawing the air with his forelegs. A hoof struck the auctioneer’s podium, causing it to rock back and forth. The gavel came down hard.

  “Sold! For ten thousand dollars.”

  With the help of Granby, who was a banker and familiar with complicated transactions, May managed to get through the purchasing procedure, which was conducted in the auction house office. She signed several copies of several papers, and was handed a batch more—certificate of ownership, veterinarian’s statement, others she didn’t understand at all. These were stuffed into a large manila envelope, which was placed in her hands after she slid her check for $10,458—including miscellaneous costs—across the counter.

  Then she and Granby were led to a barn and told to wait outside. A few minutes later, a groom appeared with the horse. Still nervous and skittish, it seemed monstrous. The only tack that came with it was a halter. The groom handed her the reins. It was then that the enormity of her foolishness struck home.

  “Nice horse,” said the groom. He turned to walk away.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Is there any way I can have him delivered?”

  The youth halted. “Delivered?”

  “Delivered. Sent to someone.”

  “We don’t do that, ma’am. We just sell them. It’s your horse.”

  “But I don’t have a trailer or anything.”

  Granby looked embarrassed. “Could you hold him for us, until we’re able to get a trailer?” he asked the groom.

  “Sometimes we do that. I’ll go ask my boss.”

  “I don’t even know where his farm is,” May said quietly, after the groom had gone. “I didn’t think any of this through.”

  “Whose farm?” said the banker. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what it is you want to do.”

  “Captain Showers. The jockey we saw this afternoon. I bought the horse for him.”

  She bit her lip. For a brief, panicky moment, she thought of just leaving the horse there and never coming back. It was something the old May Moody would do.

  Another young man was walking toward them, with an ambling but purposeful gait. He was dressed in jeans, boots, and T-shirt and had a cigarette hanging from his lips. He had blond hair and struck May as handsome.

  “You Moody?” the young man said to the banker.

  “I’m Moody,” May said.

  “You’re supposed to be a man.”

  “I’m not a man.”

  “No, you sure as hell aren’t.” His eyes wandered from her face to her body, then lifted. “Well, I’m here for the horse.”

  “Are you with the auctioneers?”

  “The auctioneers? No, I’m Billy Bonning. I’m with Bernie Bloch. I’m supposed to pick up the horse. I’ve got a trailer right over there.”

  For a moment, May thought she’d been rescued from her predicament, but the name Bernie Bloch stopped her. Bloch wouldn’t know she’d come here tonight. He’d have no idea she’d just bought a horse. “The” horse.

  “You’ve made a mistake. This is my horse.”

  The youth took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the grass.

  “Look, lady. You’re Moody. You just bought the horse. It’s hip number 17A, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, quit wasting my time. I’ve had enough things go wrong on me today.” He snatched the halter from her and began leading the animal away.

  “Stop! That’s my horse!”

  The young man kept walking. The stallion was tossing his head, as though sensing the tension around him.

  “Did you hear her?” said the banker.

  “Fuck you, buddy.”

  “Goddamn you, Billy Bonning! Not another step!”

  The thunderous voice was a w
oman’s. She stepped out from the shadows of the barn and strode toward them. She was wearing riding clothes and, as she came into the light, May recognized her as Alixe Percy, the woman who had greeted Showers when he went to tend to the injured horse at the racetrack barn.

  “Butt out, Miss Percy,” said Bonning, who had stopped in his tracks. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “Does your job include stealing horses? I saw her buy this stallion. She was the only bidder. Now just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The youth’s arrogance began to drain away. “Bernie Bloch sent me to get this horse.”

  The Percy woman, who was as broad in the shoulders as she was in the hips, stepped in front of him and took the reins.

  “I don’t know what your goddamned Mr. Bloch is up to, Billy my lad,” she said. “But you tell him this is not his horse. Tell him to find another state to play horseman in. For God’s sake, boy, your sister’s dead! Why aren’t you tending to that instead of coming out here and causing trouble?”

  “You’re the one who’s causing trouble, Miss Percy.”

  “I’m going to give you one minute to depart these premises, Billy. If you don’t, I’m going to find a sheriff’s deputy and have you arrested for the attempted theft of a horse. You go see to your sister’s arrangements. And don’t you bother this woman again.”

  “The hell with you!” snarled the youth. He kicked at the turf, then started back toward his truck. “Fucking bastards!”

  May was trembling. Bonning scared her, though she wasn’t quite sure why. The Percy woman turned to the horse, stroking his nose and calming him. Then she looked to May, smiling gently, attempting the same result.

  “Don’t worry about him,” she said. “A mistake was made. He’s just too damned stupid to realize it. Common as dirt, that boy.”

  She stepped closer. The horse moved with her. May felt odd with their three heads so close together. Granby was standing uncomfortably a few feet distant, his impatience fairly visible now.

  “David Showers told me about you, Miss Moody—how he met you in the aid station,” Alixe said.

 

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