The Significant Seven (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Autumn 2005

The seven old friends met for dinner at Hobson’s, an extremely popular steak house in the heart of Chicago’s so-called Viagra Triangle, where young women and older men sought connections over expensive drinks and lavish meals. That was not the case with these seven. Arnie Rison had called them together, Judge Toomey and Chris Carson driving down together from Wisconsin, on short notice. Their meal was excellent, but their mood gloomy.

“I got the call from Ralph Tenuta early this morning,” Rison told them. “He said The Badger worked beautifully about six o’clock. A half hour later, when he was being walked and cooled out, the groom saw him limping noticeably. Ralph called our vet, Jensen. X-rays were taken. The Badger has bone chips in his left front ankle.”

Rison was gently interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he said, “Moe, good to see you. These are my partners in the horse business.”

“Looks like serious business tonight, Arnie,” Kellman replied. “I’m on my way to a dinner upstairs in the private room. I just wanted to say hello.” He nodded at the rest of the men and walked to the nearby stairway.

Mike Barnhill said, “Bone chips. I’ve had those, when I was playing ball. How serious are they for The Badger?”

“According to Doc Jensen,” Rison said, “they could be operated on. The Badger would miss maybe half the year. But, as Tenuta pointed out, what’s the point? The horse would have to undergo surgery, and he might not come back as good as he was.”

Steve Charous said, “I’m sure we always figured that The Badger, like any racehorse, could get hurt. Funny, it just never seemed to me that would happen to him. Not the way we’ve been so lucky. Well,” he said, raising his cocktail glass, “here’s a toast to The Badger. He’s been awfully damned good to us.”

Judge Toomey was about to signal their attentive waitress, Mary Joyce, for a repeat round of predinner drinks, when she arrived with a tray full of glasses. “I figured you fellas for a second round,” she grinned, and set their glasses before them.

“We have indeed been lucky,” Rison said. “But, fellas, believe it or not, our luck with this animal may not be finished.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is a fax I got late this afternoon,” he said. “It came from Fairborne Farm down in Kentucky.”

Carson whistled. “Fairborne is about as big time as big time gets. What’s up with them?”

“They heard about The Badger’s retirement. They want him to stand at stud at Fairborne. They offer to manage his career as a stallion, find the best mares they can to be bred to him, and take a percentage of the profits from the sale of foals resulting from the breedings.”

“
If
there are any,” interjected Judge Toomey. “A hell of a lot of good racehorses turn out to be duds as studs.”

“True enough,” Rison said. “But I don’t see how we have anything to lose with this proposition. The Badger has a decent pedigree, excellent conformation, and a terrific racing record. He’s got to live somewhere nice, and my back yard is spoken for. Why not Kentucky, where he can conceivably, and yes, I use that word advisedly,” he said to the laughter it elicited, “make us some more money? And have some fun while he’s doing it? Remember how he used to call out to all the fillies in his barn last summer. Strutting along with his hose hanging down? He’s got a libido as big as his heart.”

“So you’re saying there’s no downside to this plan?” said Barnhill. “What if he winds up shooting blanks, like the great horse Cigar?”

“That’s always a possibility, though a remote one. But c’mon, Mike,” Rison shot back, “do you know any plan that doesn’t have a possible downside for somebody? Look, it’ll be a couple of years before The Badger’s first foals hit the racetrack. The usual practice in this business is to give a new stallion at least three crops of runners before he pretty much defines himself in the stud league. We won’t really know if The Badger is going to be a success until then. But his stud fee stays the same for at least two of those first three years, depending on how the foals look and how they do at the big Keeneland and Saratoga sales.”

“What’s his stud fee going to be, Arnie?” Carson asked.

Rison looked at the fax in his hand. “The Fairborne people say that they want to, quote, price him realistically, unquote, in order to make him attractive to breeders. His fee will be $12,500 per live foal. That’s damn reasonable for a horse with The Badger’s record.

“How many mares can he be bred to each year?” Barnhill persisted, still somewhat skeptical about this venture.

“One hundred the first year,” Rison said.

Carson scribbled some figures on his napkin. “Holy shit. That’s a million and a quarter in stud fees.”

“Wait,” Rison said. “Probably only eighty percent of those hundred mares will produce a live foal. So the gross won’t be that high. But, still, it’ll be around a million. And,” Rison added, “remember that if The Badger turns out to be a success as a stallion, that stud fee will be increased.”

Talk erupted around the table as Rison reached for his nearly empty martini glass. He drained it, then tapped it with a spoon. “One more major item, gentlemen, so listen up. Judge Toomey, drawing on his vast legal experience, recommends we have a partnership contract drawn up to cover The Badger’s stud career. He can’t do it because he’s involved. A friend of mine you just saw, Moe Kellman, recommended a Chicago attorney named Frank Cohan. Supposedly the city’s top contract lawyer. Cohan drew it up. I’ve read it over, and I think it’s just what we need. Just as with the racing partnership corporation, any profits will be divided equally among the seven of us after expenses and taxes.

“But this new contract goes further. At my recommendation, it calls for a new pattern of distribution. If, God forbid, one of us dies during The Badger’s years at stud, that person’s percentage of the profits, or losses, goes not to his heirs but to the remaining members of the corporation. The Badger’s production proceeds stay in
our hands only
until the last of us goes. We’re not ever going to sell this horse that has been so good to us. The final survivor’s heirs will be in charge.

“Now, here’s the kicker. If The Badger is still producing when six of us have died, the lone remaining heir must use the monies for charity. Specifically, a retirement foundation for retired and rejected thoroughbreds.”

They debated the merits of this plan, but not for long. Chris Carson said, “I’m all for this. Count me in.” The others followed suit. Rison said, “I’ll send copies of the agreement to everybody to sign.” He raised his replenished martini glass. “Here’s to The Badger Express. If he’s even half the stud he was as a runner, we’ll all be farting through silk.”

After dinner they walked a few blocks to Butch McGuire’s saloon for a nightcap. Joe Zabrauskis stopped them, holding his big arms wide and smiling. “Honest to God, you guys, can you believe this? We’re stallion owners? The seven of us, who could hardly scrape up $2 daily double bets with bookie Doherty back in Madison. Unfucking believeable?”

***

Ira Kaplan’s story appeared two days later in
Racing Daily
.

CHICAGO, IL—One of thoroughbred racing’s most popular performers of recent years, The Badger Express, will race no more, this publication has learned exclusively. The four-year-old multiple stakes winner suffered a career-ending leg injury following a workout earlier this week, according to Arnie Rison, spokesman for The Significant Seven, the syndicate that campaigned The Badger Express

The Significant Seven acquired The Badger Express at the Keeneland January Sale of 2003 after winning a huge Pick Six at Saratoga the previous August. Their story, involving old friends who were veteran horse players who hit a pari-mutuel bonanza, became a familiar one to the racing public. Trained by Ralph Tenuta, “The Badger,” as he was known to his many fans, was named in honor of the owners’ alma mater, the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

Under Tenuta’s guidance, the chestnut colt won thirteen of his twenty-four career starts over three seasons, including eight graded stakes, for total earnings of $3,213,048, a remarkable return on his purchase price of $95,000. This model of consistency finished in the money in all but one of those two dozen starts.

Said Rison, “We’ve had a remarkable run, me and my friends, first hitting the Pick Six jackpot, then buying this wonderful racehorse, who gave his all in every start he made. We will retire him to stud. We hope he can pass on his physical attributes and his will to win to his offspring. That’s the idea, anyway. No matter what happens, The Badger has already given us more fun and money than we ever could of hoped for.”

Details of The Badger Express’ future are expected to be made public in a few days. “We are finalizing a contract with a major Kentucky farm,” Rison said. That farm is rumored to be Fairborne, home of some of the world’s top stallions.

Chapter Ten

April 27, 2009

“Damn,” Doyle said, admiringly, “who’s that fine-looking girl with the Doc?”

Ralph Tenuta was standing next to Doyle in front of his stable area office on this bright summer morning. The veterinarian for the Tenuta-trained horses, Ron Jensen, had gotten out of his truck and begun walking toward them. Accompanying Jensen was a tall, slim blond woman carrying a medical satchel. She wore jeans, a yellow tee-shirt that revealed her tanned arms, and a black ribbon tied to hold back her long pony tail. She smiled and said, “Good morning, Ralph. I’m back.”

“Always good to see you, Cindy,” Tenuta said, “early or later. This is Jack Doyle. He’s my new stable agent. Jack, say hello to Cindy Chesney and Doc Jensen. After Cindy works as an exercise rider, some mornings she helps the doc on his rounds.”

Doyle said hello to the two of them. Tenuta asked Cindy, “How did that black filly go for you today?”

“Good mannered, just not much interested in running along with other horses. She’s kind of an out-of-place baby at this stage.”

“That’s what I’m starting realize,” Tenuta said. “We might have to send her back to the farm to grow up a little. How did the other three go?”

“Went great.” Cindy moved off with a wave to join Doc Jensen down the shed row.

Doyle watched intently her graceful, athletic walk. “
Damn
nice-looking woman,” he said. “Tell me about her.”

Tenuta said, “She’s one of the best exercise riders around here. She’s worked for me first thing in the morning, five-thirty or six o’clock, for the last three years. Then she has other trainers she rides for. Some days of the week, she assists Doc Jensen.”

“Hard-working woman,” Doyle said.

“That’s for sure. And one of the nicest people you’d ever meet.”

Doyle said, “Married?”

“No. Widowed. Like her ma, who lives with her. Cindy’s got a little boy. There’s something wrong with him, I understand, but she’s never said anything to me about that.”

“Working two jobs like that, pretty tough.”

Tenuta said, “Yeah. I guess she needs both incomes. Her mother’s in the senior ranks. I think she looks after Cindy’s kid during the day.”

They heard the crackle of the track’s barn-area loud speaker being turned on. “All horsemen are reminded that entries for Saturday’s program close today at ten-thirty a.m.” said an assistant to the Heartland Downs racing secretary.

Walking back into his office, Tenuta said, “You been married, Jack?”

“Oh, yeah.” They kept walking.

“That’s all you’ve got to say about it?” Tenuta laughed.

Doyle said, “Well, Ralph, as if it’s any of your goddam business, which I would tend to dispute, I’ve been married twice and divorced the same number. Been in love more often than I should have. I’m not exactly a big favorite for the matrimonial derby.”

Tenuta said, “Okay, okay, Jack. I didn’t mean to raise your hackles.”

“What the hell is a hackle anyway, Ralph?”

“Never mind. It’s just something my old man used to say. I meant to say I didn’t want to get you pissed off, like I did.”

Doyle laughed. “Raise my hackles. The other morning, you told me you slept like a log. How the hell does a log sleep? Last week you said the new groom was smart as a whip. What the hell is smart about a whip?”

“Could we just talk about Saturday’s entry schedule, Jack?”

Chapter Eleven

April 29, 2009

Cindy Chesney parked her faded black ’94 Geo Prizm next to her leased, faded green weather-beaten home in the East Meadow trailer park ten miles from Heartland Downs. She was exhausted after her four-hour shift the previous night at the nearby Qwik Stop cash register, one of three such shifts she worked each week. She’d exercised eight horses at Heartland Downs this morning, starting at break of dawn. She’d earned $88 from those efforts, $30 from her two hours accompanying Doc Jensen and aiding him on his rounds. Now, Cindy had an hour to shower, eat a quick dinner with her mother Wilma and five-year-old son Tyler, before returning to the Qwik Stop four miles down the road, part of the chain of service station/convenience stores that enabled her to pad out her tenuous income. Her reward for the latter effort was $36.50 per three-hour shift. All this effort added up to a weekly income that varied between $500 and $600 before taxes, since some mornings there weren’t many horses to work, some afternoons no clients to help Doc Jensen with. What Cindy brought in, coupled with Wilma’s monthly Social Security check, enabled them to survive.

“Hey, Mom,” Cindy said, entering the small kitchen area of the modest-sized trailer. Seated at the table, Wilma Morton smiled up at her only child, then continued preparing the vegetable soup they would have for dinner.

“Hi, honey,” Wilma said. “How’d it go today?”

“Worked four head for Ralph Tenuta, two for Larry Lambert, couple of two-year-olds for Carlos Yanez. Both of the two-year-olds were half crazy.”

Cindy took a container of orange juice out of the small fridge and poured herself a glass. “I don’t know what kind of idiots they’ve got prepping some of these young horses to get to the track, but they are doing lousy work. It’s like climbing on wild horses, some of them. Mama,” she said with a tired smile, “I am muscle sore and leg sore and worn out. I got to lie down for awhile after I shower and before I go to work.”

Wilma reached out to her daughter. “Aw, honey,” she said, “I wish to God you didn’t have to work so horrible hard. After you lost Lane, I thought you and Tyler could come and live with me and your Dad. Then the black lung took him.” She poured herself a small glass of orange juice. “Wish I had me some vodka to go with this,” Wilma grinned. Then she turned somber. “I never in my wildest fears saw myself wind up in a trailer park with my daughter, a widow along with me, miles from West Virginia.”

“Mama,” Cindy said, “this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for a life, either.”

The two women sat in silence for minutes. On the wall behind them were two photos, one black and white, the other in color. The first was of a tall, husky, dark-haired man, shy grin crossing his long face, Cindy’s father. Next to that was a winner’s circle photo from Charles Town racetrack. Poised proudly on a dark bay filly was a handsome young man who sat erect in the saddle, grinning at the camera. It was Cindy’s late husband, Lane Chesney. The picture had been taken two weeks before Lane tumbled under a horse’s hooves during a race at the same track, incurring fatal head injuries. Lane Chesney had been called Little Dynamite for the way he could blow through on the inside rail with his mounts, taking chances by the hundreds. It only took one wrong one to kill him.

Cindy said, “Is Tyler watching
Barney
?”

“Yep. Guess he doesn’t know you’re home.” Wilma stuck a couple of fingers into her mouth and produced a whistle that overrode any nearby audio. Seconds later a chubby, bespectacled boy of eight bounced through the connecting doorway. “Hey, Mama. Hey, Mama,” he said, reaching for Cindy. She hugged him long and hard. “Good day, Tyler? Did you have a good day?”

“Good day, Mama? Did you have a good day?”

Cindy looked lovingly at her boy, whose brown eyes slanted upward behind the thick lenses of the glasses that rested somewhat precariously on his flat nasal bridge. His little mouth could hardly contain his tongue as he smiled at his mother. She clutched Tyler to her breast, her fatigue eradicated by the strength of his love.

“Mama’s going to take a shower, Tyler. Then, when
Barney
is over, we’ll have dinner with Grammy. Okay, Tyler?”

“Okay, Mama, okay?”

After Tyler waved at her and trotted into the television room, Cindy’s thoughts went back to the day her son was born, when the obstetrician took her hand and said gently, “Your son weighs almost six pounds. He’s twenty inches long.” He paused. “But he is a Down syndrome child, from what I can see. I’ve delivered a few in the past. I’ve also known mothers whose pediatrians advised them to abort.”

The shock of what he’d said rippled through her. Down syndrome? Of course, Cindy had heard of it. Of course, she never thought a child of hers would emerge so burdened. She was to learn that her son’s physical growth and mental development would be impaired by this chromosome disorder.

In the early months of Cindy’s pregnancy with Tyler, Wilma said one night, “Are you going to take that test they give pregnant women? Called an amniotesis or something. They didn’t have them during my child-bearing time,” she added, “and you turned out perfect anyway.”

Cindy had responded, “I know what test you’re talking about. It’s called amniocentesis. My pediatrican, Dr. Atkinson, mentioned it to me. I told her, ‘I’m not interested in that. I’m having this baby no matter what. Period.’”

When Cindy was sixteen, unwed, she had given birth to a girl. Shortly thereafter, she put the child up for adoption. She had regretted that decision ever since. Cindy had never regretted her decision to give birth to the damaged boy she named Tyler, the love of her life.

Cindy slumped back in her chair and sighed. She looked around the small kitchen. “A couple of widows in a dumpy old trailer, Ma, that’s what we are. I’m sure there’s a country song in there somewhere.”