They turned left onto Route 60, Ward thinking it better to avoid I-64, the corridor from Virginia to where the Mississippi River creates a border between Illinois and Missouri.
“What if INS comes to the farm?”
“Won’t. Just you and me. We’re golden.”
“Where you gonna put these guys?”
“They’ll sleep in the outbuildings. Can’t risk them in the barns, just in case. Guess they’re hungry.” He thought. “Gonna be cereal tonight. Nothing in the fridge.”
“I’ll make a food run in the morning,” Benny said. “Then we can call folks to come pick up their grooms.” He exhaled. “Whooeee. Gonna be busy.” He paused a second. “You’re smart not to have Mexican grooms in your barn. ’Course with me, I do the work of two men.” Benny cackled.
“Right, Laurel and Hardy.” Ward smiled, then asked, “You think Renata called INS?”
Benny shrugged. “Booty’s right about publicity.”
“Wouldn’t she want the publicity about her?” Ward concentrated on the road.
“Still, brings the reporters around and keeps them around. They’ll be there for her class.”
“See, that’s what I mean. She’s got it all set up with Queen Esther so when she rides tomorrow night it doesn’t matter if she wins or loses, she wins.”
“Yeah. She should win the three-gaited open stake. Helluva mare.”
“She doesn’t come out ahead by what happened tonight. Can’t see it.” Ward frowned.
“You falling for her?”
“No.” A long, long pause followed. “Wouldn’t mind taking her to bed, though.”
“That’s when your troubles really begin,” said the man with three ex-wives and children to boot.
H orse people tend to be tough. They work hard physically, keep long hours during shows, sleep little. The compelling passion, obsession perhaps, for horses drives them ever onward, to the astonishment of those who like differing pastimes such as golf or tennis. It’s not that those sports lack committed competitors. Yachting creates an equivalent passion, but these other escapes from daily drudgery don’t have another living creature for a partner, except for dog shows. Dog shows are more sedentary, though. Horsemen are a breed apart from other sportsmen. It strikes horsemen as perfectly normal to build their barn before their house; to go without when money is tight so long as the horses are well fed, well shod; to run into a burning barn to save one’s horses without considering the danger to one’s self.
Different as Charly Trackwell, Booty Pollard, and Ward Findley were, they shared this iron bond. They also shared a deep appreciation of profit: being horsemen did not deter them from dipping into dishonesty.
They sat in a secluded booth in a white clapboard house west of Shelbyville that served the best breakfasts and lunches between the Kentucky and Ohio rivers. The place was packed at seven in the morning.
Booty wanted them to be seen by others but not heard. Let people wonder what they were doing.
Ward eagerly cut into his three sunny-side-up eggs. He’d burn off his huge breakfast by eleven. Charly and Booty kept fit, as well, although being slightly older than Ward they had learned to keep an eye on it.
Each time the waitress, Miss Lou, red lipstick freshly applied, swept by to pour fresh coffee or drop off condiments and side orders for unvanquished appetites, they spoke of horses, classes, competitors.
“Boys, the coffee cake defies description.”
Longing passed over Charly’s face, but he waved off the suggestion.
“I’ll try it.” Ward smiled. “Be finished with the eggs and sausage by the time you hit the counter.”
“Just so’s the counter doesn’t hit back.” Miss Lou winked. “Booty, you’ll like it. ’Course, I have giant cinnamon buns, too, vanilla icing dripping all over. I know how you boys like your buns.” She sighed.
Booty caved. “Oh, what the hell. Buns!”
Smiling triumphantly, she spun in her special shoes, needed since Miss Lou worked on her feet all day, her starched apron flaring slightly with the quick turn.
“I swear Miss Lou is as happy selling us a piece of coffee cake and a cinnamon bun as we are selling a three-hundred-thousand-dollar fine harness horse.” Booty laughed.
“All relative, brother, all relative.” Charly reached for nonfattening creamer.
The delicious concoctions appeared. Miss Lou, pencil behind her ear, didn’t write up a ticket, just in case they needed something else.
When she moved to the next booth, the men paused a moment. The noise level in the restaurant rose upward; a line snaked out the front door.
“Who killed Jorge?” Charly asked, voice low.
“Not me,” Booty said as a joke.
“Booty, get serious. It just might be one of the reasons INS swooped down like carrion crows.” Charly enjoyed a vivid turn of phrase. “The double cross on his palm points to someone or something. I can’t figure it out.”
“Well, it doesn’t make much sense to think Larry called them.” Ward spoke cautiously since he was very much the junior partner in this trinity. “Jorge was his employee. Why bring on more badges?” He used “badges” as a general term for anyone enforcing the law, a relatively hopeless job when he considered it.
“Why give him credit for thinking it through?” Charly, irritated for a second partly because he did want a piece of coffee cake, snapped. “He wants to wreck me for Saturday night’s five-gaited. The man is a ruthless competitor.”
“That could be said of you, too, Charly.” Booty’s tone was even. “Larry isn’t the problem. The problem is if any of the, um—the desired term these days is ‘undocumented workers’—squawks.”
“They won’t,” Charly firmly said.
“You’re sure?” Booty tapped the side of his coffee cup with his forefinger.
“Sure, I’m sure.” Charly leaned back, tilting his chin upward. “They’ll drop ’em off across the border. Big deal.” He threw up his hands. “The guys wait a couple of days and come back over. We need workers, and we really need people who can work around horses. So if we don’t bring back the same batch, they’ll go to other horsemen. Those guys aren’t stupid. They want these jobs. They’ll keep their mouths shut.”
Booty squished the crumbs from the buns between the tines of his fork. “Might be.”
“And remember,” Charly leaned forward, voice low, “the INS can’t prove we employed any of these men. They ran out of those barns like rats off a sinking ship.”
“That doesn’t bother me.” As Miss Lou passed, Booty smiled and raised his forefinger.
They waited quietly, and she returned and refilled everyone’s coffee cup. “Hope you boys aren’t far from a bathroom today.” She laughed, then added, “’Course, you do have the advantage there, don’t you?”
They all laughed as she sashayed away.
“What troubles me is Jorge’s murder. We don’t want it to come back on us.” Booty finished his thought.
“Why would it come back on us?” Charly shrugged.
“Don’t want anyone to find out we’re importing the Mexicans.” Ward perceived Booty’s direction.
“Jorge’s dead. He won’t tell.” Charly seemed unconcerned.
“Until we know who killed him and why, we’d better have long antennae.” Ward gulped his coffee. “Jorge ratted on someone.”
“It could have been a woman problem,” Charly said. “He knocked up a girl and her brothers knock him off. Who knows? Those folks still do things that way.”
“I don’t know. He could have done any number of things, but I sleep lightly now.” Booty folded his arms across his chest.
“What can we do?” Ward asked.
“Nothing. Except listen. Keep a sharp eye,” Booty replied.
“And win. ’Course, I’ll win in the classes we’re in together.” Charly puffed out his chest.