T he answer to Joan’s plaintive question wasn’t long in coming, but first she watched the roadster class, followed by a junior-exhibitor class. Then Joan and everyone at Shelbyville gripped the railing as a tremendous class unfurled before them, the three-year-old fine harness.
All the great trainers drove the light four-wheeled buggies. The chromed wire wheels flashed as the open-topped vehicles passed by. The subdued but handsome turnout of the male drivers focused one’s attention on the elegant, refined harness horses. Even at the park trot, a mid-speed gait, the horses’ full manes and tails flowed. The lady drivers might wear a colorful dress that complemented the horse’s color. The visual impact of the fine-harness class was potent. The class, large at fifteen, filled the expansive show ring. The sky darkened, and the lights flooding the ring danced off the bits, the wire wheels. The heat finally abated with a slight drop in temperature. Men slipped arms through their jackets; women threw jackets or sweaters over their shoulders.
The drivers sweated in their handsome attire. Rivulets poured down Charly’s face under his three-hundred-dollar navy Borsalino hat. Booty favored a two-tone straw porkpie. Ward wore an expensive dove-gray fedora pulled rakishly toward his left eye.
After a long look at the class, the judges selected three horses for further inspection, Charly, Ward, and Larry. Charly cut off Larry, who was too smart to flash the anger he felt. Larry simply pulled back without breaking the trot and then moved to the edge of the rail, where he was silhouetted. Charly basically shot himself in the foot with that maneuver, because the mare he was driving, Panchetta, broke her gait, which the judges observed. Ward also observed it and made certain to glide right by the judges as he drove a compact but quite lovely seal-brown mare. Her trot wasn’t as high nor her reach terribly long, but she was fluid and exhibited that charisma so desired in the ring. Without a doubt, Ward moved ahead of Charly in the judges’ estimation and that of the knowledgeable audience. The crowd, cheering lustily, further animated Ward’s mare, Om Setty. Booty drove wisely, but his mare just wasn’t on form tonight.
The judges spoke to the announcer, who asked the contestants to line up. They drove in a clockwise direction.
When the judges walked by to carefully look over the Kalarama mare, Golden Parachute lifted her head, flicked her ears forward, and struck her pose. The crowd cheered.
The judges moved down the line. Each horse had an attendant, his or her groom, standing two paces from her head, because the driver stayed in the buggy.
Ward, clever, placed himself at the end of the line, away from the bigger horses. Americans foolishly believed bigger was better. Om Setty, just pushing fifteen point one and a half hands, gleamed. She believed everyone was there to see her. Her conformation was superb. Her deep chest gave much room for her heart. Her nostrils had the delicate shape that Saddlebred breeders desire but were not so small that they hindered her intake of oxygen, which all athletes needed plenty of to perform at the highest levels. Her neck, long, drew attention to her perfect head, as classic a Saddlebred head as one would wish to see. Her one slight flaw was that she was a tiny bit wider behind than most people like, but she wasn’t cow-hocked or bowlegged or anything like that.
The judges then left the lineup to mark their cards, without fiddle-faddle. The crowd, spellbound, didn’t notice a pea-green school bus followed by two black cars lumber into the parking lot by the practice arena. The officer directing traffic at that entrance quickly moved out of the way.
Frances Hamilton might have seen it, but she was still crying as she sat in the second story of the big grandstand. Paul had brought her a light drink, but she didn’t want it, so he sat with his arm around her and let her cry. After all those years of marriage he’d learned there were some things a man couldn’t fix, so it was best to let his wife get it out of her system. From that height and angle, one could see a bit of the parking lot. He noticed the little caravan, but it didn’t register that something unprecedented was taking place, something the officer on duty felt was beyond his jurisdiction.
The announcer called out the order of ribbons from eight forward. Charly received a fifth, which disgusted him but he disguised it. Booty was fourth. A newcomer was third, which was good for the sport, so the crowd cheered. Then it was between Om Setty and Kalarama’s Golden Parachute. Everyone held their breath.
When second place was given to Golden Parachute, the crowd erupted, for as wonderful as the big light chestnut mare was, this was Om Setty’s night. The little mare radiated quality, energy, and that elusive star quality. When Ward, sweat still dripping from his brow, had the ribbon pinned on Om Setty’s brow band, the tricolor fluttered a bit as the crowd cheered with pleasure. Benny loped on foot to pick up the handsome and expensive silver bowl.
As was the custom, Om Setty was expected to give a victory lap, but an uproar in the barns cut it short. A young Mexican groom tore through the middle of the show ring and vaulted over the eastern fence to disappear into the night. Om Setty didn’t shy, but Ward thought it prudent to drive out. Benny ran alongside and Ward slowed Om to a walk.
Neither horse nor human could believe the chaos. Grooms were running everywhere. Men and women in dark suits along with armed men fanned through the barns.
On hearing the commotion, Joan left her seat to hurry back to the barns. Fair ran ahead of his wife and Joan, in case Larry needed someone who could use his fists as well as his mind. He saw Larry step out of the buggy before the entrance to Barn Five. No sooner had Larry put a foot on the ground than a man in a dark suit came up to him.
The Immigration and Naturalization Service, INS, wanted to see documentation that his non-American-born employees were legal. Any nondocumented immigrant worker would be seized for deportation. Over the years INS had descended upon horse shows for the various types of horses—Tennessee walkers, hunter–jumpers, racehorses, etc. Apparently disrupting a show in progress brought them deep satisfaction.
The day had been long, the competition fierce, and Charly Trackwell’s display had tested Larry’s patience. It was all he could do not to blow up. He handed Golden Parachute to Manuel.
“Does he have his green card?”
“He does.” Larry spoke evenly to the man. “But if you’ll just give us a minute, we have to unhitch and wipe down the horse. She’s been in the ring a long time.”
“How do I know your workers won’t bolt?”
Offensive as this response was, Larry had observed the track meet when he rode back to Barn Five. It was a fair question. Luckily, he also saw Fair.
“Fair, will you help me out?”
“Of course.”
“Will you wipe down Golden Parachute?” Then Larry turned to Manuel. “Bring the boys into the hospitality suite.”
“Done.” Fair walked on the right side of Golden Parachute.
“Who’s that?” The INS man clearly felt he was entitled to interrogate everyone and to suspect everyone.
“My veterinarian.”
Larry walked into the hospitality tent and drew back the curtains to the changing room. A long clothes rack stood at the back; some tack trunks were inside, as well as a full-length mirror, boots lined up neatly alongside it. A bridle case on the wall served as a makeshift paper holder, filled with registration forms, Coggins information, and so forth. He unlocked it just as Joan and Harry came in. He was tempted to hand the humorless official all the Coggins papers, which proved via blood tests that each horse tested negative for the disease.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, released from their quarters, ran through the hospitality suite.
Pewter skidded to a halt. “There’s ham up there again.” She gazed up at the table, glorious to her.