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Authors: John McEvoy

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Chapter Five

January 11, 2003

The coming together of The Significant Seven and the penny-colored chestnut colt they would name The Badger Express occurred on a cold, dark, winter night at the Keeneland Sales Pavilion outside of Lexington, KY. The area had been battered by a serious ice storm the previous day, and the wind from the northwest scooted across the piled ice and snow with a vengeance. Nearby roads had been cleared after long delays. Several sections of the area were still without power. It was obvious that the crowd on hand for this auction of “Horses of All Ages” was much smaller than usual.

Of The Significant Seven, only Arnie Rison was on hand. He’d flown down from Chicago with trainer Ralph Tenuta, the man they had chosen to work with the horses they intended to purchase. Tenuta was a swarthy, pleasant-looking man in his early fifties with a long and impressive training record. He had emerged from the group’s list of “contenders,” as Joe Zabrauskis termed them, bolstered by his good nature, willingness to communicate with owners without being begged, and reputation for honesty. The tall, lanky Rison and the short, stocky Tenuta made an odd couple as they hurried through the weather from Rison’s rental car and into the sales building.

Rison’s long strides carried him ahead of Tenuta, who hurried to keep up. “Damn, Ralph,” Rison said, “this is some brutal weather to go buying horses in.”

“You want good weather,” came Tenuta’s answer, “go to the summer sale here. But be prepared to pay big summer prices.” Rison slapped him on the back as they neared the pavilion door. “Heard that.”

It had been the week before Christmas that The Significant Seven hammered out their horse ownership plan. Their primary objective was finding a successful trainer they could trust, one who would want to work with a bunch of new owners. As he was being interviewed by Rison, Tenuta had recounted the story of a previous owner who had employed him, a very rich and controlling Chicago heiress who would bring hand-drawn maps to the paddock indicating what path her steed should follow during that day’s race.

“I can’t get along with people like that,” Tenuta told Rison. “If I’m going to be your trainer, I’m going to
be
your trainer. I’m not saying I’ll make all the decisions. Hell, you’re paying the bills. But I don’t want to be interfered with or second-guessed when I make a decision about the best thing for the horse or how the jock should ride him.”

Rison reported this conversation at The Seven’s dinner meeting in Ruffalo’s, a Kenosha restaurant that had garnered great reviews for its “top-class Italian cuisine.” It wasn’t just the food recommendation that drew them; it was the convenience. Judge Toomey could drive there from Madison in less than three hours, Carson from near Milwaukee, the Chicago area partners coming just sixty miles north into Wisconsin. Over platters of antipasto, Rison said, “I think Tenuta is our guy. I’ve had him checked out six ways from Sunday. He gets A-pluses all the way down the line.

“Also,” Rison continued, “and this is the best part: Tenuta will not charge us a day rate per horse, which is now $65 or $70 per horse per day at big tracks like Heartland Downs. Tenuta says that if we let him get involved in selecting horses to buy, he’ll settle for fifteen percent of the horses’ earnings. If they flop, he doesn’t get a nickel. Tenuta seems very confident that he can make money both for himself and for us. I find it hard to argue with a deal like that.”

Chris Carson said, “Tenuta must have a hell of a lot of confidence in himself. But I’ll tell you, I looked up his training record for the past ten years. The majority of his clients have made money each year during that span. That’s a powerful endorsement of this guy.”

“Let’s hope we wind up with the majority,” Steve Charous said, lifting his cocktail glass. “Hear, hear,” said the others. Their decision was unanimous. Ralph Tenuta would be signed up as the first trainer ever employed by the old friends from Madison.

***

Tenuta was hailed by several people as he led Rison to the rear of the large Keeneland Sales Pavilion, back to the area where horses were walked in what Tenuta termed the show ring. “There’s a couple of thousand horses in this week-long sale. It takes a huge staff of workers to manage all these animals, and their sellers and buyers, for that matter. They do a great job here. Watch, Arnie, when one horse leaves to go into the sales ring section of the building, another one is brought in from a barn outside to replace it. They keep ten or so horses in this ring at the same time all night, moving them in and out. Their handlers are real pros. Some of the young horses get damn skittish. They’ve never been in a place like this before.”

Rison and Tenuta watched dozens of animals enter and leave their part of the building. Tenuta had said that afternoon during the plane ride that he would “like to take a real close look at four, maybe five, of the two-year-olds in the sale tonight. I know their pedigrees. I think a couple of them might fall into our price range.” That range, it had been established, was a total of $150,000 to be spent, maximum, for whatever the syndicate acquired.

Two hours, several cups of coffee, one Irish for Rison, and the men had looked at the first of Tenuta’s two catalog picks. Only one was appealing to the little trainer, who was assessing these animals with the practiced eye of a jeweler using a loupe to examine uncut stones.

At 9:30, they moved into the main body of the pavilion and sat in stadium seats to observe the bidding for an hour or so. Rison gulped several times, when what he thought were nondescript looking horses were hammered down for $200,000 and $300,000. Tenuta said, “Arnie, let’s go back to where they come in. I want to see Hip Number 1,106.” Rison followed along, took his place at the railing, and looked at Number 1,106.

They returned to their seats inside the pavilion. Ten minutes later, Number 1,106 entered the sales ring, very well mannered, and struck a picture pose without his handler even having to urge him. Before Tenuta could raise his hand, buyers in front of them went back and forth in a flurry of bidding that saw the colt sell for $160,000 in ninety seconds. “Nice looking colt,” Tenuta shrugged, “but too rich for us.”

At 10:45 they returned to their spot on the railing at the walking ring. They’d spent so much time there that the sales personnel were starting to kid them. One hollered out, “Hey, Ralph, when are you going to open the check book?”

“When the time is right, Beasley,” Tenuta shouted back. “When the time is right.”

Rison said, “Ralph, I’m getting tired. What other horse do you want to look at tonight?”

“She’s coming right up, Arnie. It’s that leggy bay filly, Hip Number 1,203, just walking there on the other side.” Tenuta leaned forward. “Man, she looks good, Arnie. She looks good.”

Rison didn’t answer. Apparently he had not heard Tenuta. His eyes were riveted on the chestnut colt that walked along behind the filly, Hip Number 1,204. The youngster had his head turned and seemed to be staring directly at the spot were Rison and Tenuta stood.

The colt’s groom attempted to pull his head forward when they passed the two men, but couldn’t. Hip Number 1,204’s eyes were riveted on Rison, who gripped Tenuta’s arm. “That horse there is trying to say something to me, Ralph.” Rison spoke without taking his eyes off the colt. “He’s looking at me like he knows me.” Rison took a deep breath. “Ralph, the way he looks at me reminds me of the way my old man looked at me when he was wheeled away into his final surgery. Jesus!”

Tenuta looked away, pretending not to have heard this. Then he felt big Arnie Rison’s iron grip on his arm, pulling him away from the railing. “Ralph,” Rison said, “hurry, man. We’ve to get in inside and buy this horse. Let’s go.”

As they walked, Tenuta flipped hurriedly through the catalog pages. “Not a bad pedigree on this one,” he admitted. “First foal of his dam, who won a few small races. He’s from his sire’s first crop. His sire was well bred, but only raced at two. Must have got hurt. Actually, his ped’s pretty damn good. And he’s a nice moving little guy.”

They took their seats. Rison grabbed Tenuta’s arm again. “Ralph,” he urged, “buy this horse.
Buy
this horse.

Rison made the opening bid of $6,000. Silence. Then one of the bid spotters in the back of the pavilion shouted “I’ve got ten.” A series of small escalations followed, just between Rison and the sole party who was competing against him.

“Arnie, how high do you want to go on this horse,” the worried Tenuta whispered thirty seconds later. “We’re already past the half-way mark on your budget, all on this one horse.”

Rison, jaw tight, concentrating on the chestnut colt, replied, “We’ll go to the whole $150,000 if we have to. And beyond. If we do, I’ll make it good to the other six. I
have
to buy this horse.”

To Tenuta’s relief, bidding on Hip Number 1,204 ended at $95,000. “Sold,” hollered the auctioneer as Rison sat back in his seat, exhaling. He shook his head. “I don’t know what happened there, Ralph. Something I can’t explain. I just knew we had to have that colt. That he was the horse for us.”

When Rison came out of the sales office, having signed the purchase slip and written a check for $95,000, he was approached by a young dark-haired man wearing worn work clothes and a harried expression. Believing him to be a stable worker, Rison started to step around him when the man said, “Mr. Reason?”

“It’s Rison.”

“Oh, sorry, sir. Ah, I’m Chip Wadsworth. I’m glad to meet you.” He extended his hand. Rison took it, looking quizzically at Wadsworth, saying, “What can I do for you, son?”

Wadsworth took off his University of Kentucky Wildcats ball cap and smoothed his tousled brown hair. “That colt you bought, Mr. Rison? I bred, raised, and consigned him. I was kind of sorry to see him sell. I had a reserve price of $85,000 on him. But when he went past that, and you got him, I was happy, because we need the money badly. Still, I was sorry to see him go.

“I wanted to tell you,” Wadsworth continued, “that I believe this colt is real special. I’ve been working on Kentucky horse farms since I was a kid. I’m thirty-two now, with a growing family to feed. I know horses. What the good ones look like, how they act. How the ones that look good won’t ever turn out to be nothing because they don’t have heart for it.

“I just
hated
to sell this colt, Mr. Rison. But I sure wish you the best with him. I’ll be watching for him and rooting for him, I guarantee you. And, you watch, he’ll surprise a lot of people. So long.”

Wadsworth started walking off, then stopped. “Sorry, Mr. Rison, I forgot to ask. Who’s going to train your horse?”

“This is the first horse me and my friends and I have owned,” Rison said. “Ralph Tenuta will train for us. Ralph is here at the sale with me.”

Wadsworth grinned and said, “Well, that’s good news. Mr. Tenuta has a great reputation. Where are you shipping my colt— sorry, your colt— from here?”

“To Hill ’n’ Dale Farm up in Illinois. Ralph will pick him up there in the spring and put him into training at Heartland Downs.”

Rison watched Wadsworth hurry down the long corridor toward a small dark-haired woman with two toddlers in tow. He and the woman embraced. Wadsworth picked up the heaviest and oldest of the children, and the family walked out into the January night.

Tenuta reappeared carrying two large, steaming containers. “I asked them to make us Irish coffees,” he said. “No problem, especially at these prices. Who was that young guy you were talking to?”

“Chip Wadsworth. He bred our colt. He said he wanted to wish us well, tell me what a nice horse we bought.” He sipped his coffee. “Seemed real sincere.”

Tenuta said, “I’ve heard of that young man. His father was a well known farm manager here for years. The son’s got an excellent reputation for recognizing talent and breeding sound horses. Here’s to young Mr. Wadsworth,” Tenuta said, raising his drink.

An hour after buying Hip Number 1,264, Rison signaled that he would pay $33,000 for a nearly black filly, Hip Number 1,376, who despite her handler’s efforts was skittering around the sales ring like, as Tenuta put it, “a pig on ice. But I like her spunk,” he added.

Rison rose from his seat and stretched. He was tired but jubilant. “We got the horse we need in that colt, and a filly, too, Ralph,” he said. “Good night’s work as far as I’m concerned. Let’s go downtown. You drive. I’ll call Judge Toomey from our car, he can e-mail the other guys as to what we did here tonight. Then I’ll buy you a good steak dinner at Malone’s.”

As Tenuta and The Significant Seven would discover in the year ahead, the black filly “couldn’t run a lick.” Hip Number l,204, however, was another story.

Chapter Six

April 21, 2009

It took Doyle nearly ninety minutes to drive out of Chicago and up the Kennedy and the Edens and turn west on to Willow Road and, finally, arrive at the stable gate at Heartland Downs, the showplace facility renowned as one of the world’s most beautiful and well operated racetracks. However, he found the stable gate guard to be a less impressive model of efficiency.

“Sir, do you have a pass to come in here?” asked the chubby, serious-looking young man. He wore a khaki uniform, dark sunglasses, a Smoky and the Bandit hat, and an expression of extreme suspicion. His badge identified him as Alvin Boemer Jr.

“No,” Doyle said. “I don’t have a badge. Yet. I’m here to see trainer Ralph Tenuta. I’m going to start working for him. But I can’t start working for him until I’m licensed by the Illinois Racing Board. And I can’t get Tenuta to take me to the licensing office until I meet him at his barn.”

The young man shook his head. “You should have a letter or something. So I could authorize your entrance. Without a badge, I can’t let you in.”

Doyle lowered his forehead onto his steering wheel. “I suppose, Alvin,” he said, “you’ve never heard of Catch 22?”

“Catch what?”

“Never mind. Let’s try another tack. I’m trying to go to work here, Alvin. I mean, Alvin, Jr. Take a look at me. Do I look like I’m about to set fire to the stable area? Please, just call Ralph Tenuta. He’ll tell you about me.”

Alvin Boehmer, Jr., slowly retreated to his security booth. Doyle tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the young man laboriously worked his way through what appeared to be a book of stable area phone numbers. Alvin licked his right thumb before applying it to every page he examined. Finally, he picked up the phone.

Ten minutes later, Doyle pulled his Accord into a parking place at the far end of Barn C. He was careful to sidestep a pile of horse flop at the entrance to the long, dark, dusty, musty barn. He asked one of the female Mexican hot walkers who was passing by on the end of a shank where he could find Ralph Tenuta. She smiled and, pointing behind her, said, “Down there,
Señor
.
Va a numero viente-seis.”

Carefully staying out of the way of the procession of sweating, recently exercised thoroughbreds that were being cooled out by their hot walkers or grooms, Doyle made his way to the stall numbered twenty-six. He could hear a racket erupting from it even before he’d gotten there. There was the sound of hooves crashing against the wooden stall walls. Loud exclamations in both English and Spanish. Even louder vocal horse noises. It was a rumpus of magnitude.

Doyle peered into the gloom of the stall. Two men were attempting to manage a large, very active and uncooperative bay horse, trying to put protective bandages on his hind legs. The horse was wearing a metal contraption that covered his mouth and nose. He didn’t appear to want any part of the mens’ plans for him. He pulled back against the shank, the whites of his eyes almost popping out of his head. Every thirty seconds or so, he unleashed a vicious hind leg kick. The little man working to bandage those back legs, dodged artfully each time, as if he and the animal were working on a shared, dangerous choreography. After kicking, the horse reared up, front hooves climbing toward the ceiling, as the taller man pulled down on him. It was an awesome concentration of energy in a confined space, making Doyle wince as he watched and listened.

When, finally, there was momentary lull, Doyle said, “I’m looking for Ralph Tenuta.”

“You’re looking at what’s left of him,” a voice came back from the rear of the stall, followed by the appearance of a short, compact man wearing a tan windbreaker, jeans, worn boots, and a ball cap that read “Keeneland Sales.” His dark complexioned face had exertion-caused small patches of crimson below each cheek bone. He opened the stall door and stepped outside before turning back and saying, “Jose, just let that sumbitch go unbrushed if you have to. He don’t deserve to get brushed, and you don’t deserve to get stomped by that mean bastard.”



,
Señor
Ralph,” the groom replied. “No worry now. I handle
mi grande caballo
.”

Tenuta said, “Good luck,
amigo
.”

Doyle introduced himself. “I knew you were coming,” Tenuta said. “I had a call from my brother-in-law, Bud. I sure as hell hope you can be some help back here, trying to catch this damned sponger.”

“That’s the idea.”

Tenuta said, “Let’s go into my office.” As they walked down the shed row, Doyle said, “What horse was that back there? A helluva handful, whoever he was.”

“What do you know about horses, Jack?”

“Enough to stay out of their way. Especially that one back there.” He didn’t mention his backstretch adventure a few years back on behalf of Moe Kellman.

Tenuta opened his office door. He motioned Doyle to take the only chair that fronted a battered desk almost covered in old track programs, condition books, horse business magazines, copies of
Racing Daily.
Tenuta had to shoo an old black-and-white cat off his own spring-blown chair before he could sit down. “Move, Tuxedo,” he ordered. The cat gave him a baleful look and took her feline time. Tenuta’s chair creaked like a Halloween fright house door when he plunked his chunky form into it.

Leaning forward in his noisy chair, Tenuta looked at Doyle. “Aren’t you the fella that worked at Monee Park when Rambling Rosie was running there?”

“That’s me. That was a great summer and fall.”

Tenuta’s look was now more respectful. “My old friend Tom Eckrosh, who trained Rambling Rosie, told me about you. Didn’t you save his life?”

“His, mine, and several other peoples’.”

“You had to kill somebody, right?” Tenuta said softly.

“Right,” Doyle said, then changed the subject by walking over to examine the photos on the wall behind Tenuta. He said, “You must have had a lot of fun training The Badger Express for that partnership.” The largest photo showed all of The Significant Seven surrounding their wonder horse in the Keeneland winner’s circle. Tenuta was dwarfed by most of the men, as was jockey Davey Morales.

“That was The Badger’s sixth straight stakes win. He had a dozen stakes win all told when he was retired the following year.”

Doyle said, “That’s a happy-looking bunch of owners.”

“They were that, all right,” Tenuta said, “and real, real good guys. They always staked my barn help when the horse won. And he won enough money to make my fifteen percent of his earnings into a pretty good pile. Enough for me and my wife to buy a small farm down in Florida. We’ll retire there some day.”

Doyle continued to examine the frame containing The Badger Express’ lifetime past performances. The horse’s career earnings were slightly more than $3 million. He whistled softly, calculating that Tenuta had gleaned some $450,000 from his trainee’s heroics.

“And they paid how much for him? A hundred thousand?”

“Ninety-five,” Tenuta said proudly. “One of racing’s greatest bargains. And I helped pick him out at the Kentucky sale.”

Doyle returned to his chair in front of the desk. He said, “What horse is that back there that you were working on?”

Tenuta said, “The meanest creature to come on the racetrack during my time. His name is Editorialist. Great-looking horse. One of the fastest milers in the Midwest. And one with the worst temperament. Editorialist doesn’t like people, he doesn’t like other horses, he probably doesn’t like himself. But he loves to run. And he
can.
I won three stakes with him last year and one already here at this meeting.”

“I remember reading about him,” Doyle said. “He was a fairly expensive sales yearling, wasn’t he? With good breeding?”

“Yeah, but all his ‘good breeding’ is in his pedigree, not in his nature. If it weren’t for that groom back there with Editorialist, Jose Ruiz, I don’t believe I could keep the horse here. Some grooms can communicate with horses like nobody else. They have a gift for it. Jose is one of those, thank God. I go to take a look at Editorialist in his stall and he stands in there in the corner, baring his teeth at me. Other times, he turns his back on me, and drops a load.

“But with Jose, it’s a whole different story. Jose comes up to Editorialist’s stall door and the horse’s ears are pricked, standing straight up, he’s happy to see Jose. A horse is like a person. You don’t need words to figure out what they want, what they don’t want. You just have to take your time with them. And, of course, if you’re lucky enough, have a guy like Jose Ruiz working for you.”

“Who owns Editorialist?” Doyle said.

“The Significant Seven, that syndicate. You just missed one of the owners, Arnie Rison. He came out to watch Editorialist work this morning. Came with his daughter Renee. Look, they’re over there at their car, talking to one of my grooms.”

Doyle saw a tall man in a blue golf shirt and khakis, sunglasses up on his head. He recognized the woman. Renee had on a tight white tee shirt and tighter beige slacks that emphasized the admirable contours of her ass. Her sunglasses were down on her face.

“You want to say hello to the Risons?” Tenuta said.

“Naw. I’ve met the girl. I’m sure I’ll meet her father some other time if he comes out here often,” Doyle said. “Ralph, can I ask you something? Did they ever think about gelding Editorialist? I know that’s supposed to calm down a lot of stud horses.”

Tenuta laughed enough to make his chair creak. “Doyle, that ferocious creature in there
was
gelded. A year and a half ago! Think it improved his disposition. Hah!”

“Why do you put up with a horse like that? One that is so hard to handle, so much trouble? Hell, so dangerous?”

“Because he can flat out run.”

Doyle smiled. “I guess that’s a good reason. But what’s that mask, or metal thing, or whatever it is, over Editorialist’s mouth? He looks like an equine Hannibal Lecter.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. What is that contraption anyway?”

Tenuta said, “Right after he first came to the track, Editorialist turned into a cribber. He’d grab the top of the stall door with his front teeth, arch his neck, pulling back on the door and sucking in air. The veterinarians say horses get a kick out of this, some endorphin or some shit, makes them feel good. But it’s bad for the door, for their teeth, for their energy, screwing around like that. Editorialist would spend hours doing that if I let him.”

Tenuta stopped to take a phone call from an owner whose mare was to run the next afternoon. “All is well, Mr. Steiner. Bring betting money. Your horse is sittin’ on ready.

“Where was I?” he said to Doyle.

“That device you’ve got on Editorialist.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not just to prevent that son of a bitch from cribbing. It’s to protect me and my help so he doesn’t bite our arms off. You’ve got no idea, Jack, what that devil can be like. We take the mask off only when he eats, drinks, and runs. It goes on right after each of those times, usually taking three of us working together on him.”

After Tenuta fielded another phone call, he said, “People will put up with a lot if the animal produces. There was a stud horse down in Kentucky several years ago named Ribot. He was a genuine terror. They had to build him a padded stall and even put padding on the ceiling, because he’d get up on his hind legs and try to tear the roof off from the inside. They had special equipment to control him going to and from the breeding barn. Those poor stud grooms that had to deal with Ribot, they had to be pretty damned quick on their feet. But the horse sired tons of stakes winners.

“Now, Editorialist is right up there with Ribot for being hard to handle. But my daddy years ago trained a mare that’d make either one of them seem like angels. Her name was, believe it or not, Sweet Girlie. You had to fight to rub her, to bandage her, she hated just about everything that you had to do with her. And she didn’t like anybody on her back. She tossed off so many jocks, my Dad had to pay extra to the rider who would take her on. But she could win races for you.”

Doyle grinned. “On the Meanness Meter, where would you rank Editorialist and Sweet Girlie?”

“Sweet Girlie. Not even close.”

“Really? Why?”

Tenuta said, “She had one habit worse than the regular ones that came out of her rotten disposition. Sweet Girlie hated to be whipped. You’d never dare use it on her. And my Daddy always had to instruct the riders about that.

“Sometimes, though, in the heat of the race, a rider would forget and give her a few whacks. Sweet Girlie would then start pissing while she was running. If she was hit again, she’d let go with another spray.

“This,” Tenuta said, “was awful tough on the horses and riders behind her, as you could imagine. That’s what I call real mean.”

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