Reaching for the radio dial, she flicked on the Reverend Roland Ruland’s program. The Sports Preacher was segueing from a dissertation on Samson and Delilah-“Samson, the premier power lifter of his time, until he was brought down by the ayerobic dancing wiles of old Delilah”-into what he termed his “feature presentation lesson of the night.
“Picture the Orange Bowl on a New Year’s night,” Reverend Ruland boomed, “Florida ’gainst Nebraska, and a huge and hungry crowd on hand. But all the concession stands are locked up tighter than a miser’s safe! There’s no food or beverage to be had!
“Then imagine your lord and savior, the one and only JEEEEEZUS Christ, appears at mid-field, the fifty-yard line. Brothers and sisters, do you remember the wedding at Cana? Well, that’s what I’m talking about here….I’m talking about the Greatest Concessionaire of All Times, feeding and slackening the thirsts of the parched and hungry multitudes. But it is their souls that cry out for sustenance from the Great Concessionaire, JEEEEEZUS Christ….”
This was the windup of another twelve-hour work day for thirty-eight-year-old Earlene Klinder, the kind she’d been forced to endure since the death of her husband, Leroy, in a motorcycle accident eight years earlier.
Stoked on methamphetamine and rye whiskey, Leroy had pulled out of a roadhouse parking lot early one Sunday morning directly into the middle of a fast-moving National Guard truck convoy on the way home from once-a-month nighttime maneuvers.
“Maybe Leroy had a flashback and thought he was entering the service of his country again,” the minister had said at the funeral, putting as good a spin as he could on the situation.
Leroy had been in the U.S. Army during the Gulf War. He attributed his subsequent passion for pharmaceuticals to post-traumatic stress disorder, although in his role as an Army mechanic he’d never gotten farther from Kentucky than the motor pool at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana. Earlene had made no attempt to play the role of grieving widow. “He’d turned into such an asshole,” she volunteered to everyone who offered condolences.
Leroy’s contributions to the Klinder standard of living had been spotty at best. Even so, their disappearance forced Earlene to find a second job. At the suggestion of a childhood friend, Mary Hendrickson, who worked as a horse identifier at Kentucky racetracks, Earlene went through training and then became a licensed horse tattooer, one of the few women in the country doing that work. Earlene and Mary had been friends since the time when, ages twelve and thirteen respectively, they’d worked around a third-rate riding academy named Upson Downs in exchange for free riding lessons.
Mary Hendrickson had explained to Earlene that every thoroughbred, in order to be allowed to compete in races, must carry identification: five numbers and a letter applied to its upper lip by dye-filled needles. Most horses undergo this procedure when they are two years old.
Each horse’s lip tattoo is unique, matching the identification number that appears on it’s official registration papers. Each time a horse enters the paddock to race, Hendrickson said, the “lip tattoo is checked by the official identifier-that’s me.” If these inscriptions do not match up, Mary added, “that horse don’t run.”
Earlene visited the Kentuckiana track for three and a half hours each morning to tattoo horses. Sometimes, she drove to area farms to keep appointments. Mornings at ten she was at her post in the K-Mart checkout line, where she remained until six. Her combined income from these two jobs was just enough to keep her family afloat.
“Mrs. Klinder,” said the smooth voice over the phone, “my name is Byron Stoner. I’m calling from Willowdale Farm over near Lexington. I’m interested in making an appointment for your services as a horse tattooer.”
“Kind of late at night, isn’t it?” Earlene replied, her fatigue manifesting itself in irritability. “Hold on a second; I’ll get my appointments book.” She thumped the receiver of the phone down on the kitchen counter.
A minute later, Earlene said, “Mr. Stoner? I’m scheduled to be down your way next Tuesday. I can put Willowdale on my list of stops.”
Stoner said, “No, that won’t do. We need you to make a special trip here, this week.” There was a pause. Then Stoner said, “You see, we need you to tattoo only one horse.”
Earlene, disbelief in her voice, said, “A special trip? At night? Mr. Stoner, I only get paid $12 a horse. Look, why don’t we wait until I’ve got some other appointments lined up? Croft Lane Farm has got a bunch of two-year-olds they want done. That’s near you. I just haven’t figured out a time yet. But I could hook you in with them.
“Otherwise, it’s just not worth my while to drive all the way down there to tattoo just your one horse.”
There was another pause. Stoner then told her what the job would be worth. “I’ve got a messenger on his way to your home right now with a down payment of $1,000-in cash-just to get you to come down here and discuss this, shall we say, unique situation,” he said. “No strings attached. The $1,000 is yours regardless of what you decide.”
“Is tomorrow night soon enough for you?” Earlene asked.
Randy Kauffman met Earlene Klinder’s car at the front gate of Willowdale. He introduced himself and, without asking, opened the passenger door of her seven-year-old Yugo and sat on the front seat, his bulky body bringing a squishing sound out of the worn cushion as he squeezed in. Kauffman directed her through the dusk over a road well removed from Willowdale’s main barn complex. Minutes later, Earlene pulled up in back of the large equipment shed on the portion of Willowdale known as the Annex. Waiting for her were Byron Stoner, the groom Pedro, and a bay horse who moved his feet restlessly as he watched her approach with her tattoo kit containing its needles and dyes.
Kauffman held the horse’s shank as Earlene showed Pedro how to position the clamp that kept open the horse’s mouth.
Stoner said, “This is the tattoo you are to apply,” showing her a plain piece of paper with the letter B and five numerals on it.
“This is no two-year-old,” Earlene muttered as she readied her equipment. She could tell that by the horse’s teeth as well as its size and musculature. None of the men responded.
Two-year-olds, Earlene knew from experience, were the easiest ones to deal with. The older the horse, the more time they’d had to learn tricks, as she called them. Still, this horse stood calmly for the most part, and Earlene went about her work with cool efficiency. She finished the job in less than fifteen minutes.
Stoner walked with Earlene back to her car. As she opened the driver’s side door, he handed her an envelope. “This the remainder of your payment,” Stoner said. “May we never meet again.” He turned away without another word.
Earlene rapidly counted the $4,000 in cash in the envelope. She had just committed a criminal act, one that could lead to her being in prison and Earl and Earlene in foster homes if it were ever discovered, but she couldn’t help but feel excited, triumphant even! This was like winning the lottery, something she knew in her heart she’d never do.
Earlene was confident Byron Stoner would never reveal any details of her illegal doings here at Willowdale tonight, and she was damn sure she wouldn’t. Several times during the drive home, she riffled the bills between her fingers as they lay in the envelope on her lap. She couldn’t help but wonder to herself about who the bay horse really was.
Chapter 29
With his host busy talking on the telephone, Jack Doyle sat back in one of the comfortable chairs that flanked a long glass table positioned near the large window of Moe Kellman’s north Michigan Avenue business office. Directly in front of the table, also facing north toward a spectacular, eighteenth-floor view of the Chicago skyline, was an expansive, comfortable, dark leather couch.