Puss 'N Cahoots (22 page)

“Truth to that.”
Mrs. Murphy closely observed the great beauty.

“Most humans don't want to deal with it. They think they can negotiate things.”
Tucker was thoughtful.

“I reckon for most Americans that works. We live good lives, soft even.”
Cookie, too, was thoughtful.

“Yep, but when the trappings of civilization are stripped away, it's kill or be killed.”
Pewter was adamant.
“And I will kill Miss Nasty.”

Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Cookie chose to say nothing about Miss Nasty. There'd been enough fits already.

Joan took out the handkerchief from the pocket of her linen jacket, to fan herself. “That's why we need good friends. Friends protect one another. The government doesn't do squat.” She shrugged. “It's friends that save you. And if you have a good family, they save you, too. Once people start talking about the big things, I can care but I don't see that I can do much.” She looked straight at Renata. “But I can do for you, for Larry, for Harry, and what I tell you, Renata, is keep riding. Make movies until you're sick of it, but don't let people know what you really think like you just told us. People live in a bubble. They see the world the way they want to see it, not the way it is.”

“I know.” Renata nodded. “I do know that.”

“Anything or anyone that disturbs the bubble becomes a bad person. You're in the public eye, so you have to be a good person.” Joan fanned Renata, then Harry.

“You don't think we can work together? I mean, work together as a nation?” Harry plaintively asked.

“Daddy's generation did. His father and mother did. World War One and World War Two pulled people together, but nothing's pulled us together since then, really. Even September eleventh hasn't pulled us together.” She stopped. “Maybe it has, maybe it's underneath all this ugliness in Frankfort,” she named the town in which Kentucky's state government was located, “and Washington is on the surface. Maybe underneath, we'll do what we have to when the time comes. I don't know, and no one cares what I think, anyway.”

“I do,” Harry said.

Joan threw her arm around Harry's shoulder. “Harry, you can be so sweet.”

Renata added, “I work in a profession that sells illusions. And you know, we're pikers out there in Hollywood. Can't hold a candle to Washington.” She sighed long. “God, it's been a day. What's the night going to bring?”

“A good end to the show,” Joan replied. “Then we can all go home and get a good night's sleep.”

“You'll have a barn full of customers tomorrow.” Harry knew the drill after a big show.

“Good.” Joan brightened. “But I need one good night's sleep.”

“I swear I won't cause more uproar,” Renata promised.

Harry thought a moment. “Are you still going to buy that horse Charly showed you earlier?”

“Not only am I going to buy the gelding, I'm buying two yearlings he's bred. I will write the check after the show and I'll have them moved over to Kalarama.” She turned to Joan. “With your permission. I will beat that creep with horses he bred. He's such a fool. He'll be happy with the checks, but year after year as I beat him at his own game, that smile will be wiped right off his face.”

“He's good,” Joan quietly cautioned.

“Joan, I didn't get from a trailer park in Lincoln County to Hollywood without something extra. I will beat him. I don't care how hard I have to work. I will do it, and you'll be on the rail cheering when I do.”

“All right, then.” Joan smiled, and the three women turned to walk back to the hospitality room, arm in arm. They needed a cooling drink.

Renata said, “I'm done with men.”

Neither Harry nor Joan answered, since there wasn't a woman in the world who hadn't said this at least once in her life.

T
he organ played “New York, New York,” the strains floating over the entire fairgrounds. The first class, equitation championship, which judged the riders' ability, started. Ward trotted beside his client, a middle-aged man who came late to riding but who found a new reason for living because of it.

As he stopped at the in-gate and the gentleman trotted into the ring, Ward panted a bit. Benny, back in the barn, was preparing the next horse for the amateur three-gaited stake, the stake being five hundred dollars.

Despite all, the show ran like clockwork. Ward, grateful since he felt comfort in routine, regained his breath as he walked along behind the western boxes to the spot where they ended. He stood there so his client could clearly see him, the double-decker grandstand just behind him, people already eating at tables on the top level.

The heat hung over central Kentucky like a wet shawl. The sun wouldn't set until about eight forty-five
P.M
. A whole lot of classes would go before sunset, but perhaps the mercury would drop just a bit to help people breathe, for it was so close. He glanced to the west when it felt stifling like a storm was brewing, but no telltale clouds presaged relief. Given the grisly discovery in the last storm, Ward figured it was better to sweat.

The boxes were filled up. The grandstands, too. Those spectators who had friends in the first class cheered vigorously each time a buddy swept by, their number, in black on a white square, hanging from the collar of their jacket by means of a thin, unobtrusive wire.

Hundreds of other spectators, famished, chose the early classes to cram into the main grandstand for some of the enticing food. Those who couldn't purchase a ticket to this exclusive setting stuffed themselves with the goodies on the midway behind the western stands, where the shops had patrons standing four deep. After all, this was the last night of the show, and each person hoped perhaps he could make a good deal with the proprietor of the shop. Horse traders are horse traders, regardless of what they're buying. The incredible aroma of barbecued ribs, pork, beef, and chicken wafted over the stands, as did the distinctive odor of funnel cakes, that downfall of many a diet.

Ward inhaled deeply to calm himself. Every now and then he'd get the shakes, the morning's near brush with death haunting him. Try as he might, he couldn't think why anyone would want to kill him. Although rising in the world, he hadn't amassed enough wealth yet to be worth knocking off. He was unmarried, no children nor wife to fight over his worldly goods, and much of his blood family had succumbed to heart disease. That frightened him, too. Each time his heart raced due to today's events, he'd fret that he'd come down with the family curse, as well.

Harry, on her way to the Kalarama box with Tucker on a leash right behind her, stopped by him for some reason known not even to her. When he encouraged his client, who was riding well, Harry smiled. As the client swept by, his number reading 303, Harry put her hand lightly on Ward's shoulder. He turned, she smiled at him, and he felt his troubles melt away. Touch has great power, especially from a sympathetic, pretty woman.

“Good luck tonight, Ward.”

“Thank you.”

She continued on to the box where Fair, coming from the opposite direction of the in-gate, carried a small hamper for Frances, who was dressed to the nines, the heat be damned. Frances always looked good, but on the final night she appeared in a light pink organdy dress, quite cooling, and a pretty pink straw hat, which she would remove when she sat down. Her jewelry bespoke her status in life without shouting it. Frances knew better than that. She smiled, chatted along the way, and gloried in being on the arm of a six-foot-four-inch blond man, all muscle. Marriage is one thing, male attention is quite another, and Fair paid all the courtesies.

Harry beamed when she saw them, and thought to herself, “He truly is the most handsome man.”

Paul Hamilton was standing outside the entrance to the main grandstand, with Mr. Thompson glued to his side. A platoon of cronies hovered there, men who'd fought in World War II and Korea, men who'd known one another all their lives. Paul possessed magnetism undimmed by years. If he stood in the middle of an empty pasture, soon enough people would be there talking to him. He exuded confidence, control, and good humor, and he exuded it in spades this evening because people needed to believe all would be well. The men laughed, cigars filling most mouths but Paul's. He checked to see just where Frances was and then copped a big puff from one of his friends. A look of sublime contentment filled his face. He handed it back, said something, and all the men laughed.

Mr. Thompson ventured to query, “Any prediction for the five-gaited?”

Paul slapped him on the back. “If Point Guard doesn't win this time, he'll win every year after.”

As the first class wrapped up, Ward's client snagged third, the huge yellow ribbon in his hand, a giant smile on his face. Third at Shelbyville meant something.

Ward ran down to the gate as the gentleman rode out, and he said, “Well done, Mr. Carter, well done. You keep riding like that and you'll be in the blues in no time.”

Mr. Carter, widowed two years ago, was too happy to speak. Without being fully aware, the last of his grief leached away in that moment. Life does go on.

They passed Booty leading a client out of his barn. Ward waved. Booty waved back, although clearly he was distracted.

Miss Nasty sat in her cage, but not for long. The instant she saw Booty's back, she undid the little lock with a client's hairpin she'd fashioned for the task.

Humans, in their arrogance, believe they are the only higher vertebrate to make and use tools. Obviously they spent little time with their monkey cousins, nor did they observe ravens and blackbirds, who displayed similar abilities.

Miss Nasty swung open her cage door and lifted her little ecru-and-black-striped skirt to step out. She leapt over to the tack room, swung up on a saddle rack, perched on the saddle, and fiddled with a broken board. She slid it open, revealing a cubbyhole behind, no doubt originally made by enterprising mice. The Spikes of Shelbyville's fairgrounds slaughtered them mercilessly if they could catch them. Miss Nasty reached in, feeling around. Out came Joan's pin. She hopped down, rubbed it on a grooming rag, then neatly pinned it on her bodice, which was ecru without black stripes. She walked into the changing room, grabbed her straw boater, ribbons trailing down the back, and clapped it on her head. Miss Nasty was ready for life.

Charly also walked alongside a client for this second class. He had farther to go coming from down below the in-gate, which was one reason he reserved that barn each year. He thought the long walk helped the rider and horse focus. The young lady up top wore a cerise coat and a dashing black derby, her hands poised in the correct position, showing off beautiful kid gloves.

Charly's hand, still wrapped in Vetrap with the sky-blue ice pack, hung by his side. He walked on the right of the horse so he could use his left hand. More than anything he had to keep the swelling down or he wouldn't be able to pull on his gloves for the last class.

Boxes overflowed with people and color. Pinks, yellows from lemon to cadmium, all manner of reds, purples, lilacs, sky blues, greens from electric lime to soft shades—every color of the rainbow appeared on the human form.

The crowd had settled into deep enjoyment. Perhaps all would be well.

Frances told those in her box that bad things happen in threes so they'd be fine.

Renata, not riding, as she promised, had changed in the dressing room into a dress. She sat between Frances and Joan in the front row. She wore white, which offset her tan, her flashing teeth, her lustrous eyes. Keeping it simple—a good pair of emerald and diamond earrings, one divine marquise diamond on her hand—drew attention to her commanding physical assets. No wonder the woman was a movie star.

Harry, not beautiful but attractive, never minded being with beautiful women. Her sturdy sense of self-regard served her well.

Paul sauntered back, free of Mr. Thompson at last, to sit in the rear of the box just behind Fair and Harry.

“Mr. Hamilton, please take my seat,” Fair offered.

“No, no, you drove a long way and I'll be up walking about.” He smiled genially. “First class was good, and this one is shaping up.”

Joan turned. “Daddy, after the class tell me what you think of that gray.”

“Donna Moore's horse?” Paul mentioned a famous horsewoman—a colorful personality, too.

“Yes.”

The folks in Kalarama's box focused on the gray as the gelding swept by.

Back at the hospitality suite, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter waited with Cookie for the humans to return when the ring was tidied and fluffed after their class. The two cats smoldered with anger. They had been placed in a large dog crate. True, they had extra food treats, fresh water, and a small dirt box, but this hardly offset the insult.

Cookie, on the other hand, snored in the little sheepskin bed next to the cage.

“How can she sleep at a time like this?”
Mrs. Murphy groused.

“Jack Russells are a law unto themselves. I don't understand anything they do,”
Pewter said.

As the cats grumbled, they were surprised by Ward ducking into the hospitality suite. He looked around, then left. They heard him walk down the barn aisle, greet Manuel, then leave.

Within five minutes, Harry, Fair, and Joan returned during the brief interlude between classes.

Renata, trailing fans, ducked in shortly afterward.

Harry let the cats out of their crate.

Cookie opened one eye, then fell back to sleep.

“Did we miss anything?”
the two cats asked Tucker.

“Good classes.”

“Where's that disgusting monkey?”
Pewter irritably inquired.

“Haven't seen Miss Nasty. If she shows up, that ought to enliven the evening,”
Tucker replied.
“We'll see if she's a blowhard or not.”

Just then Booty came into the barn. “Anyone see Miss Nasty?” He avoided Renata's eye.

“No,” everyone answered.

Booty, without further comment, left.

Harry idly mentioned to Fair, “Stopped by the jewelry booth before I came to the box. They sold that ring I loved. Good thing. Now I'm not tempted.”

“That's one way to look at it.” Fair had locked the ring in the glove compartment of his truck last night.

Joan left to join Larry as they both helped a client from Illinois, who would ride next. Joan checked out her habit, while Larry double-checked her tack. The extra attention pleased her before competition, so she'd put in a better ride.

As the group fanned themselves and drank something cool, Booty was popping into Charly's barn. “Seen Miss Nasty?” He carried a chilled bottle of Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988 champagne along with two long fluted glasses.

“Get out of here,” Charly growled low.

“Hey, I was wrong. I'm really sorry.” Booty sounded semisincere.

“Get out.”

Booty turned to leave and nearly collided with Ward heading into Charly's barn. “He's in a black mood.”

“You have that effect on people.” Ward breezed right past him.

Booty said loud enough for Ward to hear, “You're gettin' too big for your britches, Ward.”

“Shut up, Booty,” Ward called over his shoulder, assuming Booty wouldn't follow him inside.

Charly looked up at Ward; he and Carlos were grooming a muscular gelding who'd be in the fourth class, junior exhibition five-gaited stake.

Charly winced as he tried to use his hand. “Damn the INS. I need hands, literally.”

“I can see that.” Ward reached up to fasten the throatlatch on the bridle, since Charly couldn't use his fingers on such a small buckle. “Had a thought.”

“That's scary.” Charly's humor was returning.