“I’ll win and I’ll win big. Panchetta was off. Happens.” He pulled in his horns somewhat, thinking about the horses and also because he knew Larry could throw a hard right.
“We’ll see.” Then Larry taunted him: “How many Mexicans did you have running out the back of the barn? You don’t think I’ve noticed Little Tijuana at your barn? Come on, Charly. You got what you deserved.”
Charly leaned forward, hissing through clenched teeth. “And you got a dead one. Why is that? What are you covering up?”
Larry, deeply upset over Jorge’s death although he had kept it in check, let fly. “Too bad it wasn’t you, you sorry—”
“You’ll die before I do.” Charly stepped back, digging his heels in the loam. “Maybe they came for you and killed Jorge instead.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it any way you want, but I’ll see you dead.”
A fter the last class, the show organizers shut down the selling booths, encouraging the spectators to leave. They shut the gates when the crowd vacated but left two men there for the trainers, riders, and the few other spectators who would be late in leaving. If the reporters from Louisville and Lexington came out upon being notified of the INS raid, they would find the gates closed. This gave the horse people an opportunity to prepare for tomorrow’s grilling. Not that any of them had anything to do with the illegal workers or tonight’s debacle, but they needed to formulate a clear statement. This show was turning into a media hot spot.
The trainers, grooms, and owners trickled out. A few, overburdened by chores without their workers, stayed behind. The men at the gates knew who they were. One walked to each trainer, asking for a sense of how long they would be.
Booty Pollard, whose junior had won the last class of the night, the junior five-gaited stake, walked across the paths to Ward’s barn. The lights glowed overhead in the aisle as Ward and Benny put blankets over the two horses to return to the farm. No one else was in the barn.
“Congratulations, Ward. Had a kid in the next class, so I didn’t have a chance to tell you what a great ride you put in.”
“Thanks.” Ward leaned over the back of Om Setty, her green and white blanket crisp and clean. “Heard you won the last class.”
“Did.”
“Congratulations to you.”
Booty moved closer, then spoke freely in front of Benny. “Any idea who made the call?”
“Charly accused Larry Hodge.”
Booty snorted. “Jesus.”
“Threatened to kill him, too.”
Om Setty, a good girl, didn’t even twitch when Booty put his arms on her back. The two men spoke with perhaps eight inches between their faces as they leaned over the very special mare.
“Time to jerk Charly’s chain.”
“Shit, Booty, he’s off the chain. Don’t know what he’s going to do or say next.” The handsome younger man wiped his brow with a handkerchief; the humidity remained oppressive. “Who does he think he’s fooling?”
Booty smirked. “Started when Renata left him. I always thought there was more going on there than Charly let on.”
Ward’s eyebrows shot upward. “If Charly Trackwell was nailing a movie star, he’d put a full-page ad in the Lexington Herald-Leader.”
Booty considered this. “You’ve got a point there.” Then he asked, “What is it? The money? She’s a dream client.”
“That she is,” Ward agreed, a crooked smile on his boyish face. “But women like Renata aren’t easy keepers.” He used a term meaning a horse you had to feed extra, making owning it more expensive.
“Some stunt, Queen Esther in your pasture.” Booty laughed as he probed for an incriminating response. “Anyone believe you?”
Ward smiled, shrugged, but admitted nothing.
“Don’t make the mistake that Charly did, Ward. Don’t assume because Renata is beautiful she’s dumb. When you think about it, Larry’s a tough competitor, he’ll go all-out to win, but it’s not like him to pull something like this. Just not.”
“Maybe so.” Ward thought about it.
“And it doesn’t really benefit Kalarama to have this show turned inside out any more than it does us. Upsets the organizers, makes the fans wonder, and everyone loses time to the federal government. Won’t keep the fans away, though, thank God.”
Benny, hands behind his rear end, leaned against the stall, taking in every word. With two days’ growth of beard—he hadn’t time to shave—he resembled a desperado.
“Yeah, but who would call? Can’t see what someone would gain by this.” Ward knew something was out of kilter, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source.
“Well now, if you want publicity, if you want cameras at this show all the time, that seems to be right up Renata’s alley.” Booty stepped away from Om Setty, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Ah, Booty, think she went around and toted up Mexicans?”
“I do. This show is all about Renata DeCarlo. Won’t break her heart to set Charly down on his ass, neither.”
“We got to do something about Charly,” Ward again advised.
“Ward, if you’re that worried about his mood, talk to him.”
“We both need to talk to him.” Ward walked out of the barn to look down toward the practice arena and the parking lot. “Looks like he’s gone.”
“Tell you what. Let’s meet him for breakfast tomorrow. The Nook just outside of town. If he doesn’t have time to go, we’ll go to him. I expect he’ll be more settled tomorrow. I’ll call him. Call you in the morning.”
“Let you know. Where’s Miss Nasty?”
“Changing her clothes.” Booty smiled. “Gotta go.”
As Ward and Benny walked the two horses to the van down in the lot, Ward asked, “What do you think?”
“I don’t trust either one.”
“Don’t like ’em or don’t trust ’em?”
“Both.”
Ward kept quiet, because Booty’s comment about Queen Esther meant Booty didn’t trust him any more than he trusted Booty. He took the lead shank from the gelding Benny was leading, while Benny dropped the heavy ramp to the back of the van, walked up the rubber-coated ramp, and flipped up the heavy door bolts. He swung open the door to behold fifteen illegal workers. Wordlessly, he motioned for them to flatten against the side of the van.
He walked down, took the gelding. “Boss, we got precious cargo.”
“Inchworm.” Ward named one of the men he knew as highly intelligent.
Inchworm had probably led those he could through the bushes, waited until they could slither into the lot, and jammed up into the van using the small side gangplank to get in, as it would be much easier to pull up from inside.
Benny led the gelding right by the men. The horse planted his hooves for a second, but Benny sweetly coaxed him to his spot and tied him by the feed net.
Inchworm, who humped up his back when he worked a horse, silently pointed for some of the men to get behind the gelding and flatten themselves at the bulkhead.
Om Setty walked on, looked around, and reached for her feed bag.
The men stood or sat around the horses.
Benny and Ward slid into the cab of the old van and fired her up. She sputtered and stopped.
“Not now, baby, not now.” Ward sweated.
“Gotta rebuild this engine.” Benny crossed his fingers.
“If I win a couple more classes, I can.” He pulled the choke, pushed it in a bit, cranked her. She belched black oily smoke from her exhaust, coughed again, rumbled a little, then started to hum. “Sweet Jesus, I adore Thee.” Ward then eased off the brake, pushed in the choke completely, and rolled out of the lot.
They just had to get past the fellow at the gate. He waved at them as he unlocked it. What he saw were two immaculately groomed horses reaching up for their feed bags, their windows open to let in the night air.