Shedrow (8 page)

Duncker always favored the very well regarded equine clinic in Lexington for any potentially serious malady.

“Well, I’m all for that, I just would have liked it if someone had let me know what the hell was up.”

Gianni walked away from the rail, opened the door to his jeep, threw his binoculars onto the seat and grabbed his cell phone, speed dialing Stu Duncker.

“Stu, it’s Anthony.”

“Anthony, I was just about to call you.”

“Just about to call? After three days? I have to find out my horse is in Kentucky after a two hour drive from Westchester to Saratoga?”

“Wait a minute,” Duncker said. Didn’t you get a call from my office on Wednesday? I asked Sandy to let you know that we wanted to have the horse evaluated by Dr. Copelan.”

“I knew nothing until I arrived here this morning.”

“I am truly sorry. It’s been a little crazy around here so I asked Sandy to help me with some of the calls. Today, I was planning to call you myself because I just got the results of Dr. Copelan’s evaluation last night, and I’m afraid it’s not good.”

Gianni was silent.

Duncker continued, “There is a significant tear in the suspensory ligament. Dr. Copelan doesn’t think it is necessarily career ending, but it would require an extended period of rehabilitation, at least six months. That would put us into December, and there would be no guarantee that he would be as sharp as he had been. In my experience with these types of injuries, and with this severity, horses never return to the same level of fitness.”

“And…he could always injure himself again,” Gianni said quietly.

“That’s absolutely right. On the other hand, he is perfectly able to function as a stallion, and we have already had some very attractive offers from some of the leading breeders in Kentucky. If we retire him now, he could begin stallion duty this next season. One year later, we’ll see his first foals. I think it’s the best thing for the horse, Anthony.”

“Have you talked to Chet?” Gianni asked.

“Not yet, but Chet has been anxious to retire him for stud duty even before this injury. It seems to be more about the dollars and cents where Chet is concerned.”

There was another long silence.

“I suppose it is best if we retire him,” Gianni said. “I expect that
Brad Hill will follow my lead, which will make it unanimous. Though if Chet wants him retired, then we already have a majority, so I guess that’s a moot point.”

“It’s the right decision, Anthony. I’m confident of that.”

Saratoga Springs, NY

The auction ring at the Fasig Tipton Pavilion is reminiscent of a two-tiered theater in the round, and its most celebrated show is the Saratoga Selected Yearlings Sale in August. The stage is a round ring of green sawdust, set off by a sturdy, ornate rope and sculptured horse heads. Horses enter and leave the ring from two separate doors behind the auction ring.

At a podium stood two men in tuxedos. One announced the horse as it entered the ring. He spoke with a distinguished British accent. “Number 164 from Eaton Sales is a grey or roan colt, by Unbridled’s Song, out of Home Court. Loads of class here, by the grade one winner of 1.3 million, sire of sixty-five stakes winners. The dam is stakes placed, and is a full sister to stakes winner One Nice Cat. This is her second foal, her first is a current two-year-old. This colt has the size, he has the looks, and he moves beautifully.”

The auctioneer then began, in speech so rapid the uninitiated would consider it gibberish. “One hundred thousand, do I hear two
now two. One fifty then, will you give one fifty, and now two, two, who will give two now, two. Two hundred thousand upstairs, now do I have two fifty now, two twenty-five then.”

Four spotters, also clad in formal wear, stood strategically around the ring. They knew who the likely bidders were, and they spotted the slightest nod, or a scarcely raised finger. It all happened with lightning speed.

“Now three. Do I hear three hundred thousand? Three, three…”

The bidding had slowed, and while the auctioneer paused, the announcer spoke into the microphone to entice the bidders. “He’s too good looking for this price folks. He’s got his sire written all over him and he has a great walk. Take another look at him.”

The auctioneer resumed, “Now three. Do we have 350? Do I hear 375? Will you give 375? And now four, do I hear four? Now four. Who will give 450? Now 450. Do I hear 450? Do I hear 475? Now 475. Do I hear 500 thousand? 475, 500. Five hundred. Five hundred.”

The spotters flashed hand signals, raised and jiggled four or five fingers and shouted as the bids continued. “Hup…Here.” They would all make great pit traders on the Commodities Exchange, Gianni thought as he followed the action. Chester Pawlek sat next to him in the upstairs gallery. An empty chair separated the two men.

The auctioneer slowed his voice for the first time since the bidding had begun, wanting to be sure to allow any final bids. “Five, 520…five, 520…520, yes or no, 520.”

The horse in the ring whinnied, as if to proclaim his worth. Gianni leaned over and whispered to Chet, “Don’t scratch your nose
now, or you may be out 500 K.”

“How do you know I don’t want him?” Chet asked.

The gavel came down with a loud clap. “Sold, five hundred thousand, upstairs.”

“That wasn’t you, was it?” Gianni asked.

“Reynolds, I think.”

“Let’s take a break,” Gianni said.

As they walked the perimeter of the upstairs gallery, Gianni paused to look at some of the artwork. Many of the oil paintings, most of them equine themed, would sell for as much as some of the yearlings.

Chet apparently couldn’t resist boasting. “I bought one of the big ones for my trophy room last year,” he said.

“Construction business must be pretty good,” Gianni said.

“What?”

“The oil painting,” Gianni said. “They’re certainly not cheap.”

“Oh, yeah. We…got some nice bids,” Chet said.

“Where?” Gianni asked.

“You know, down on the Island.”

As they walked down the stairs, a pretty young lady ran past them, disrupting their conversation as she headed up the stairs with the ticket for the high bidder to sign. Outside the pavilion, horses continued to be escorted from their barns to the walking area outside the two doors that opened into the auction ring. Gianni and Chet strolled past the walking area and headed towards the bar. Behind a large, polished mahogany bar, the walls were decorated with photographs of some of racing’s great historical figures.

“Grey Goose on the rocks, please,” Gianni said.

“Whoa, holy shit, the doctor’s drinking. I guess I’m buying. This is a first.”

“What, you buying?” Gianni chided.

“No, you drinking,” Chet said. “Brandy and a beer for me.” The bartender seemed to know Chet, and brought him Courvoisier and Guinness.

“I told you, I’m not a teetotaler, just certain times, not all the time,” Gianni said.

“And I’m more than happy to let you buy tonight. After all, you just closed one hell of a deal on the Chiefly Endeavor syndicate.”

From his coat pocket, Chet produced a large cigar, a Churchill. Even in his pudgy hand, it looked huge. “Yeah, g-g-guess I did. I figure, why not keep my fifty-percent stake. Those stud fees will just keep on coming.” Chet downed the Courvoisier and thumped the oversized shot glass on the bar. “I’ll take another brandy here,” he said to the bartender. He lit the cigar with a gold butane lighter, first heating the end with the flame, then twirling the cigar and drawing hard through tightly pursed lips. The flame grew several inches high around the end of the cigar. When the end was red with hot ash, he shut down the lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke in Gianni’s direction.

Gianni said, “I thought about keeping more of my stake than I did. But I’m really more interested in the racing end of things. I like the excitement of racing, and the peace and quiet of the mornings at the training track. I’m happy with my breeding rights for two seasons.”

“We had a good run with him, huh?” Chet said, drinking the second brandy at a slightly slower pace. His large, bulbous nose
seemed to grow redder with each swallow.

Gianni said, “That we did. Stakes winner on grass and dirt. The Florida Derby and the Preakness, for God’s sake. Too bad we had to retire him as early as we did. I’d have loved to see him race another year.”

“I’m happy just the way things are,” Chet said, taking another generous drag on his cigar and holding the smoke in his mouth.

“I know you are, but the sport needs more horses that race longer. It needs to bring in more fans, and that requires star horses with some soundness, horses that can race for a few good years.”

“Maybe so. But it’s hard to pass up that big price for a move to the breeding shed,” Chet said, turning his head away from Gianni and releasing the smoke from his mouth.

“Well, in the Chief’s case there was no good alternative. I love that damn horse, Chet, and I’ve always wanted to do what was best for him. I don’t think his suspensory ligaments would have held up. Still, I’ll miss seeing him on the track. I’ll miss my early morning visits. And I wish to God he could be running in the Travers this month, like we originally planned. I saw him just yesterday morning and he looks fantastic. Mean as hell, but fantastic.”

“Did he try to bite you again, Anthony? You really ought to be careful, you might l-l-lose a goddamn finger or something.”

“No, he’s all right. You just can’t turn your back on him.”

“I know a lot of p-p-people like that,” Chet said.

Gianni watched his boorish companion down the rest of the brandy and the beer and thought,
I imagine you do.

Newark, NJ

When a man is hunted, simple freedoms are lost until the hunt has ended and a victor declared. With many in the mob, the hunt becomes a way of life, and to function as good gangsters, they become oblivious to the constant threats to self and to family.

But Chester Pawlek had always been different. As a Polish American, he considered himself an outsider. He was drawn into the mob life in his later years, and he never got over the loss of freedom and the perpetual fear. He would hesitate momentarily when he started his car. Would this be the morning it exploded and burned? He worried walking into a restaurant, always seeking a table near the corner where he could have his back to a wall. He never liked to have his back to any open doorway, and he had developed the nervous habit of constantly looking over his shoulder, even as he spoke to a friend or a business associate in an office building.

Chet often recalled with great nostalgia the train rides from New York to Florida in his youth—the sense of relaxation and
freedom, watching the scenery change, counting the station stops and the states traversed. Now he imagined he would never again set foot on a passenger train, fearing he might be followed into a sleeper car and terminated, right there, in the berth of his once cozy retreat. He could still count the station stops, but now in every station he would be forced to view the new passengers, and regard each one as an imminent foe.

He thought of those earlier train rides as he drove under the freight tracks in a remote area of Newark. He had driven there alone, just as he had been instructed, and he circled once past the parked black sedan before returning again and stopping face-to-face with the vehicle. He turned the headlights off and tried to see into the other car. There was no way to penetrate the tinted glass of the Lincoln, but he had been told there would be only two men. Chet carried no weapon, and he got out of the vehicle and lifted his empty hands just high enough to indicate their innocence, never wanting to raise them in surrender. The two front doors of the Lincoln opened and two men in dark topcoats emerged.

“Chet, good to see you.”

Chet recognized the driver as Sal, one of the famed Catroni brothers. The other man stood silent and motionless, arms crossed with a revolver in one hand.

“You know why we’re all here, no doubt.”

“Sure, Sal,” Chet said.

Sal Catroni took a deep drag on his half-smoked cigarette and flicked the butt to the ground near Chet’s feet. “The figure is now five million and growing, and time is running short.”

“I know Sal, I j-j-just...”

“Just shut your fucking mouth, Chet, and listen. How much do you think that new young stallion of yours is worth, the one you just sent to Kentucky, Chief something or other? I heard you turned down an offer close to ten mill.”

“His name is Chiefly Endeavor, and it wasn’t quite that much.”

“Must have him insured for close to that, no?”

“Not for ten.”

“If you want to keep those fucking pastures on your farm nice and green, Chet, then I think I may see an accident about to happen.”

Chet didn’t respond. The sound of a passing freight train rumbled in the distance.

“Well, there’s your repayment plan and then some, Chet, old boy.”

“Look, I’d be a fool to even c-c-consider such a thing, even if I could get away with it, which I c-c-couldn’t. That horse has the potential to produce twenty times that in his lifetime. There was this famous stallion in the 90s, Alydar, who died under mysterious circumstances and they still whisper about it in some circles.”

“So are you saying you need
my
goddamn help with the job, Chet?”

“I’m saying I would never…could never do that. I told you, that young stallion has so much p-p-potential. Give me three years and I’ll triple what I owe you from his income alone.”

The statue with the gun burst out laughing, his first utterance, and he asked, “How’s his book of business look this year, Chet?”

“Well, it’s a little light, but we may have priced him a little high.
We might drop his stud fee you know…” Chet looked up at Catroni and the other goon, but before he could finish his plea Catroni raised his voice.

“Listen Chet, we don’t want to hear about your fucking limp-dick pony’s potential. We don’t want to hear about return in three years. You want a goddamn three year term, you go to your fucking bank. Which, by the way I know you can’t, because you’re already so friggin leveraged they won’t loan you shit. So here’s the deal. You want to keep mowing those nice green fields on your gentleman farm, with your family there, nice and healthy and all, then we’ve just outlined your plan for you. And we’re prepared to help, farmer man, if we find out that you need it. Thirty days! I’ll be watching the news, ready to cry my fucking eyes out when I read about your four-legged hero.”