The Significant Seven (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

May 15, 2009

Later that morning, Tenuta left the track for an appointment with his dentist, who was located in an office building that Tenuta, an always reluctant patient, referred to as “The House of Pain.” Doyle said he would keep an eye out for the blacksmith who was scheduled to replace shoes on four of the Tenuta horses.

Strolling down the dirt corridor to the end of the barn, Doyle spotted a dusty white truck with a horse shoe insignia on the front door. The shoe was pointed up, of course, racing superstition holding that “luck” at that angle would not run down, or out. It was the truck Tenuta had told him to watch for. “The blacksmith’s name is Travis Hawkins. Tell him which four horses need shoes. Although he probably knows from his records. He’s a sharp guy.”

Hawkins was a muscular, brown-skinned African American, maybe early forties. A couple of inches taller than Doyle’s five-eleven, broad shoulders and chest, large hands that looked strong enough to squeeze open a coconut. He could have been one of those middleweight boxers that for years emerged from the testing gyms of Philadelphia, eager to inflict hurt. Doyle was glad to find Hawkins to be just as amiable as he was foreboding-looking at first glance. They hit it off within minutes.

“You’re Jack Doyle?” Hawkins said. “Heard about you. Been around the racetrack a bit, as I understand it.”

“That’s right.”

Hawkins grinned. “In
various
capacities is what I’ve heard.”

“You could say that,” Doyle said, “and you just did. Want to get down to business? We’ve got four for you to do.”

“We?”

Doyle said, “That’s right. I’m here helping out Ralph Tenuta for the summer.”

“Really?” Hawkins said. He reached into the cab of his truck and took out a worn, heavy leather apron which he strapped on. “Never thought Ralph would need much help.”

Doyle briefly thought of confiding in this seemingly trustworthy working man. Telling him what the hell he was doing in Ralph Tenuta’s employ while working on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He quickly squelched that impulse, remembering that farrier Hawkins, whose work took him all over the Heartland Downs backstretch, was as much a possible sponger as anyone else.

The two men walked down the shed row. Hawkins was wearing a sweat-soaked gray Chicago Bulls tee shirt under his leather apron. His jeans and steel-toed work boots were covered with dust. Doyle asked him if wanted to do Editorialist first.

“I’d rather not deal with that son of a bitch at all,” Hawkins said. “I don’t much look forward to coming to work when he’s due for new shoes.”

Doyle said, “Mind if I watch you work? I’ve never seen this done.”

“You’re welcome to watch away,” Hawkins said.

“How many horses do you shoe on an average day?”

“Depends,” Hawkins said, striding forward while effortlessly swinging his heavy tool kit. “Could be anywhere from six to ten. That’s four shoes per animal. I can usually finish one in maybe a half-hour, forty-five minutes. Most of them get new shoes every thirty days. Editorialist? With him it could take twenty minutes if he’s in the mood, or two hours of wrestling with the big bastard if he isn’t. Which he usually isn’t.”

Hawkins proved to be a model of proficiency. He put racing plates on a couple of Tenuta’s three-year-olds in less than fifty minutes total. “That wasn’t bad,” Doyle said.

“Not bad at all,” Hawkins said, placing his hammer and nails back in his wooden work box. “First few years I did this, it was pretty rough. Not too many folks wanted to hire a ‘Negro farrier.’ But there aren’t that many ’smiths around anymore. Most people with good sense won’t go into this line of work. You get banged around, bruised, kicked, bitten. It took me awhile to learn how to deal with these racehorses. After a few years, when I showed what I could do, I started picking up more business.”

They stopped in front of Editorialist’s stall. The horse’s head was over the bottom door panel. He had watched them approach. Editorialist uttered a belch-like sound of disapproval and rolled his eyes. “Hello, you son of a gun,” Hawkins said. He said to Doyle, “I’ve been putting plates on this one since he came to the track at age two. You know, most horses don’t want to hurt you, but they can do it accidentally. Not this one. There hasn’t been a time he hasn’t tried to swivel and kick me. But he ain’t got me yet, have you big fella?” Hawkins attempted to stroke Editorialist’s neck. The horse retreated.

Editorialist’s groom, a small Mexican-American woman named Rosario Lopez, appeared from the back of the stall, holding a rub rag and a brush. “Outside now,
Señor
?” she said to Hawkins.

“Sí,”
Hawkins said.

Doyle stood back, occasionally asking questions as Hawkins worked. Rosario, as determined as she was small, managed to hold the barely cooperative Editorialist’s head still. By the time Hawkins had removed Editorialist’s four shoes, trimmed the growth around each foot, filed their edges, hammered eight nails into every shoe, both he and Rosario were drenched in sweat. Doyle started to perspire just watching all this.

Finally, Hawkins said, “
Gracias, Señorita
. You did very well.” The little groom flashed a big smile, then pulled the big horse around and led him back into his stall, talking to him in Spanish, in a tone that sounded both admonitory and affectionate. Editorialist responded by lashing out with his hind legs. There was no target within his range. He glared back over his shoulder as if to make clear to Hawkins and Doyle, “That’s what I could have done before.”

When Hawkins had finished with the fourth horse, Doyle said, “How about some coffee?” They rode in the blacksmith’s pickup truck to the track kitchen. “It’s about lunch time for me,” Hawkins said as they joined the cafeteria line of steam tables. When they sat down, Hawkins faced a platter containing eggs, pancakes, fried potatoes, sausages, and a pair of gravy-covered biscuits. With his cup of coffee and doughnut, Doyle watched admiringly as Hawkins rapidly cleaned his plate.

“Guess you fellows work up quite an appetite,” Doyle smiled.

Hawkins said, “Oh, yeah, dealing with thousand-pound animals that don’t necessarily want to be dealt with, you get a pretty good workout every day.”

“How many blacksmiths work here at Heartland Downs?”

“Only about a half-dozen now. The old guys aren’t being replaced. Face it, man, it’s tough work.”

Doyle said, “Of the six farriers here, how many are black?”

“You are one very inquisitive cat,” Hawkins smiled, adding, “you are looking at the one and only.” He sat back in his chair. “Jack, what brings you back to the racetrack? I heard you had something to do with that old Italian trainer, Angelo Cilio, a few years back. And you helped catch those crooks killing horses for insurance money. Last I heard, you worked in publicity at Monee Park. A woman you worked with there, Shontanette Hunter, is a cousin of my wife’s. She used to tell us about you,” Hawkins said, smiling, before scraping up the few remaining biscuit bits.

Doyle said, “You seem to know a hell of a lot about me, Travis. You keep your ear to the ground pretty good? Like you say, I’ve been around in ‘various capacities.’ I also spent some time working on a Kentucky breeding farm. Then, I decided I’d like to get back to the track. I was lucky enough to get work with Ralph Tenuta.”

Hawkins polished off the last of his eggs with three deft scoops before draining his glass of orange juice. “Know something, Jack?”

“What?”

Hawkins said, “I don’t buy into the last part of that story. As to why you’re here.”

For a second or two, Doyle again considered telling this man the truth. Hawkins seemed to be a person who loved his work, and loved horses. Doyle had seen that he was forceful with them, but gentle when applying their expensive aluminum shoes.

Hard for Doyle to imagine Travis Hawkins doing such a cruel thing to horses as sponging them. But, you never know, Doyle reminded himself. He fought down his urge to confide.

Instead, he said to Hawkins, “My Grandfather Doyle, when he wasn’t completely sober, which was many a time as I recall, used to recite poems at the family gatherings. He knew dozens by heart. Most of our family ignored him. But when my brother and I were old enough, Grandpa would encourage us to memorize poetry by paying us a dollar a stanza if we could say it for him. One of Gramps’ favorites was ‘The Village Smithy.’ He said he’d learned it in high school. You know it?”

“Before my time,” Hawkins said. He buttered another piece of toast. Doyle began to recite.

“Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands.”

“That’s about all I can remember,” Doyle said, “except there was something about ‘
The smithy earns whatever he can, and looks the
whole world in the face, for he owes not any man.’
I’m pretty sure that’s right.”

“That’s good, Jack. But I guess that poem doesn’t mention the fact that a blacksmith has probably the only job in the world where his head is below his ass most of the day.”

Doyle laughed. “No, Travis, I don’t believe it does contain that line.”

***

Hawkins reached the long driveway leading to his rural Lake County home shortly before six o’clock that soft summer evening. As usual, his daughter and son heard his truck coming and left their front porch to greet him in the driveway. Eight-year-old Serena led the way. Brandon, six, trailed by a yard or two in their dash toward Daddy. At their flank was the Hawkins’ short-haired German pointer, Andy. The children jumped into their father’s brawny arms, their smiles almost as wide as his. Andy got up on his hind legs, pawing his way into the greeting committee, making more noise than the rest combined. Hawkins put the kids down, bent to acknowledge the dog’s insistent presence, and said to Serena, “Hey, my girl, how was your day?”

“Great, Daddy. Me and Brandon caught three fish out of the pond.”

Hawkins looked at his son. “That true, Brandon?”

“We got three fish, Daddy, and I got two of them.”

Hawkins laughed. “Serena, that right? Your little brother outfished you?

Serena scowled for a second, then shrugged. “Well,
today
he did,” she admitted.

Hawkins had created the pond the year after he and his family became the first blacks to own property in this otherwise printer-paper-white corner of Lake County. It took him most of their first summer there, digging into the soil on his rented Bobcat, working into the night hours after finishing his farrier stint at Heartland Downs. As a boy in Riverdale, Arkansas, he had spent hundreds, if not thousands, of happy hours in quest of fish. He wanted Brandon and Serena to share his passion for the sport, to learn the patience, calmness, and concentration required of successful fishermen or women. Their progress delighted him.

Hawkins’ wife Taliyah was waiting for him inside the screen door. She leaned forward for a brief kiss. “I’ll start the grill,” she said. “You shower.”

“Really? You think I need one?”

“Unless we’re all going to sit upwind of you at supper,” Taliyah said. “That whiff of horse barn you bring home is strong this evening.”

“Glad it is,” Hawkins said. “That’s the smell of hard work that led to money, honey. Don’t forget it.” He hugged her. “I had a good, busy day for a change,” he said.

“My business is way down. Horse owners are hurting, and so are the rest of us racetrackers. Okay, okay, I’m going.”

***

The children cleared the plates from the outdoor table, Serena directing Brandon how best to scrape them clean before putting them in the dishwasher. Taliyah said, “That girl is getting bossier every day.”

Hawkins didn’t respond. He was looking out over their back hedge. Taliyah touched his hand. “What’re you thinking, Travis? Seems your mind’s elsewhere.” She covered her mouth with her hand before saying, “You didn’t get hurt on the job today, did you? I thought you were kind of limping when you came in from the truck.”

Hawkins smiled. He gave her hand a reassuring pat. “Nothing like that. If I’m limping, it’s just the same old kick up of the ’thritis in my right knee. No,” he continued, “I was thinking about something else. Met a man today at Ralph Tenuta’s barn. Name of Jack Doyle. Remember Shontanette talking about him a year or so ago? When they both worked at Monee Park?”

Taliyah said, “Yes, I do. She thought he was a good guy. Kind of different, but okay. As I remember it, they got along good.”

Hawkins picked up the pitcher of iced tea. He offered it to Taliyah, who declined. He refilled his glass. “Far as I know,” he said, “Doyle has been at least a couple of things around racing in Chicago. What I can’t figure out is what he’s doing on the backstretch now, working for Ralph Tenuta. It just doesn’t seem normal, going from the Monee publicity job to this one. I think there’s something else going on with him.”

The sun had dropped behind the stand of tall pine trees on the western edge of their property. From in the house Travis could hear his children arguing about which cartoon channel to choose. “Turn that TV off, you two,” he said loudly. Silence ensued.

Hawkins got up from his the picnic bench and extended his hand to Taliyah. “It’s nothing to get concerned about,” he said. “I’m just a little puzzled at Mr. Doyle’s new, what do you call it,
presence
, on the backstretch.”

Chapter Nineteen

May 25, 2009

Orth had finished his morning exercises, showered, and eaten breakfast and was relaxing on the small porch of his cabin when he heard the first of what he knew would be a day-long succession of firecrackers being shot off, even a few rifle and pistols being aimed skyward. Memorial Day. Early summer madness and excuse for revelry. Just another day of the week to Orth. Restless now, he went inside his cabin, dressed for town, and got into his black Jeep Cherokee.

Boulder Junction was jammed with cars and trucks when Orth parked on the side of the road at the edge of this small town. He had intended to grocery shop and pick up a few items at the town’s lone sporting goods store, but decided to delay doing those chores in order to watch some of the parade. It had apparently just begun, its advance guard comprised of small children stomping happily and erratically down Main Sreet, waving small American flags.

People lined both curbs of the four-block long street. They hailed the marchers, some shouting out greetings at the Nelson Lumber Yard parade entry (“Jesus, Swede, pick up those big feet of yours”), or whistling appreciatively at the town’s “Holiday Queen,” a chubby, deeply tanned girl in tight shorts and a white tee shirt that declared her to be “America’s Next Top Model.” She waved widely from the back of a recently waxed red Ford pickup.

Main Street here was like the Main Street of many upper Midwest small towns, packed with dark saloons, their walls festooned with deer heads and lengthy stuffed fishes. Wisconsin, home of more than five thousand liquor-license holders, most per capita of any state in the Union, had earned place number one in per-capita binge drinking in a national survey. Badger State residents sported one of the highest incidences of drunken-driving caused deaths in the U. S.

The parade continued with an eleven-piece band from the local high school. A float came by carrying three aged male horn players and a teenaged female cymbal shaker. The sound they produced, Orth thought, was enough to drive all the county’s birds southward even this far ahead of migration time.

He was turning away to go to the Pic-and-Save for groceries when he heard the rumble of slow moving motorcycles. Orth looked back. Three cyclists rode in an across-the-street line, two on Harleys, the other on a vehicle emblazoned with the words “Die Hard Chopper.” Each bike’s handlebars held a small U. S. flag. The riders were all men Orth recognized from high school. They wore black leather jeans and boots, black leather vests cut to reveal their flabby upper arms. All had kerchiefs above the dark sun glasses through which they solemnly gazed at the curbside crowds.

Orth said, “These phony bastards.”

A heavy-set woman next to him said, “What was that, mister? What did you say? That’s my husband Earl on that Die Hard.”

“I know Earl Bardwell,” Orth said. “He’s never been closer to a war than on his Game Boy. He’s full of shit with his flag, his biker patriotism. All Earl’s done for this country is take up space. Same with most of this crowd,” he added before striding away toward the store.

Thinking of the bikers, Orth recalled the man he briefly bunked with when he worked for Agua Negro in Iraq. Gordie Norquist, from Gilroy, California, the “Garlic Capital of the World,” as he often proclaimed. Norquist had captured (or found, Orth suspected) an impressive sword. He dangled it by a thread from the ceiling above the table that held their laptop computer. When Orth first saw this, he said, “What’s that for?”

Norquist replied, “It’s a weapon of war. It helps me concentrate on my dangerous duties here in Iraq,” he added smugly.

A week later, having twice observed Norquist sidestep danger in the dark alleys of Sadr City, Orth returned one night and ripped the sword from the ceiling string.

“All this has made you concentrate on, Norquist,” Orth said as he threw the sword into a corner of the room, “is saving your phony ass. I hate guys like you.”

Norquist moved out the next day. He must have put out the word on Orth, because Orth roomed alone until Scott Sanderson joined him three weeks later.

Coming out of the store with his bag of groceries, Orth stopped and looked across the street at a raucous group of young men, well into the supply of beer in their white plastic cooler on the curb. They alternately hooted or applauded the parade marchers. They were getting louder by the minute, this group of alcohol and testosterone-spiked youngsters as they tried to impress each other and the coterie of young women standing behind them, who were smoking cigarettes and looking unimpressed.

Orth placed his grocery bag down, leaning it against a parking meter, just as the Local VFW’s paltry parade entry approached. Some of the loud punks were deriding the quartet of uniformed oldsters limping down the street, keeping cadence as best they could.

“Pick it up, you geezers,” one of the youths brayed repeatedly. Orth sprinted across the street and grabbed the loud mouth by the neck. One of the kid’s buddies reached for Orth, who flattened him with a karate chop to the collar bone. “You beer-brained piece of shit,” Orth said, his face inches away from the kid’s, “you got no right mocking those old men who put on the uniforms of their country.” He released the boy with a powerful shove that sent him toppling backward over one of the beer coolers. “Am I clear on that?” The boy, still on his back in the circle created by the young women, mumbled something.

“I said, am I clear on that?” Orth said.

“Yes,” the boy managed softly.

Orth shouted, “What?”

“Yes. I said yes. Yes.” The boy began to cry. Orth, disgusted both by his attention-drawing actions as much as the youngster’s weakness, slid rapidly through the crowd and back to the street. He ran between the Miss County Snowmobile float and the Seniors Dance Club truck featuring two active couples that any moment threatened to spin their way down onto the street.

“They must be drinking, too,” Orth said, shaking his head as he took one last look over his shoulder at the careening, aged dancers. He quickly retrieved his grocery bag.

Still seething when he reached his cabin, Orth got into his running gear and sprinted off into the nearby woods. He ran off most of his anger in the course of the next hour, but not all of it.

“What a fucked-up fucking country,” he said loudly as he ran, “full of fucked-up idiots.”