Puss 'N Cahoots

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