Puss 'N Cahoots

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.
    “Fatty,”
Tucker yelled as she reached the aisle.
    “Come on, Pewts, we’ll get some later.”
Mrs. Murphy, curious as ever, wanted to see what was going on.
    Cookie joined the three other animals as they stepped outside.
“Looks like mice, running in every direction,”
Pewter said.
    “The guys hauling after them aren’t dressed for it.”
Cookie giggled.
“And look at that lady: can’t run in a skirt like that.”
    Six workers had jammed into a car, but they no sooner reached the exit than a police barricade turned them back. Caught.
    The ones on foot, though, would get away if they were patient and kept quiet all night once out the back of the fairgrounds. Heavy bushes and foliage at the grounds’ western edge provided enough cover for them to slip out, making their way behind homes if they headed north, or businesses, now closed, if they headed west.
    Larry showed the official their paperwork, copies of the originals kept in a file cabinet at the farm.
    Harry remarked to Joan, “I’ll go back and work with Fair so Manuel can have everyone lined up for the INS man.”
    “Thank you.” Joan’s anger masked her exhaustion.
    Damn them for pulling a stunt like this at one of the crown-jewel shows. And damn them for driving in before the three-gaited pony class, thereby spoiling this for the kids riding.
    Manuel brought three men into the hospitality tent, the official peered intently at their green cards. Since everything was in order, with a light air of disappointment he left the room, walked the aisle, and looked over the stall door at Fair.
    “May I see your license?” He had already been told that Fair was a vet so he did this to irritate since illegal workers are rarely veterinarians.
    Fair pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to his photo. “Honey, do you have yours?” he asked Harry, now in the stall helping to wipe down Golden Parachute.
    “In my purse in the truck.”
    The official handed Fair back his wallet, then said to Harry, “Won’t be necessary.” He turned to leave the barn, then double-checked his list. He came up to Larry again.
    Larry had hung up his coat and grabbed a tonic water from the bar just as the man walked in. “Would you like a drink?”
    “No thank you. I have a Jorge Gravina on my list. Thirty-two.”
    Larry pulled a moleskin notebook from his hip pocket, bent over the table, and wrote the name of the undertaker in Springfield. “He died unexpectedly yesterday. You can view the body if you like. I do have a copy of his green card.”
    “Oh, uh, I’m sorry. Will you send me a copy of his death certificate?” The official handed Larry his card. Obviously he hadn’t read the newspapers, but he was a single-minded person. He was here to bag illegal workers. If one was dead it was no skin