Puss 'N Cahoots

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