The Significant Seven (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

April 23, 2006

Arnie Rison sent an e-mail to the other members of The Significant Seven. It read, “Men, we can all ride down to Kentucky together. I’ll pull one of the eight-seat Chevy vans off the lot. Joey Z can put his large self on the rear seat next to the cooler with the beer and sandwiches. The drive to Lexington takes about seven and a half hours. We’re all set for accommodations at Scottwood Bed and Breakfast. Come to my Western Springs dealership by ten o’clock Tuesday morning. I’ll have the coffee and Krispy Kremes ready. The folks at Fairborne Farm will be ready for us on Wednesday morning.”

Theirs was a convivial trip to the Blue Grass State. Signs of hunger were evidenced as the van neared Indianapolis, so Rison pulled off Highway. 65 and parked in the Shapiro’s Delicatessen lot. Zabrauskis ordered for them all at the takeout counter. Minutes later, Joey Z toting a shopping bag full of corned beef and pastrami sandwiches, they resumed their journey.

Of the seven, only Arnie Rison had previously been to the Lexington area, a part of the country perhaps at its most striking in the spring when the redbud trees were in bloom and the new foals followed their dams around the bright green pastures. Chris Carson, noting the extensive and expensive fencing surrounding the horse farms, most of them hundreds if not thousands of acres each, was awed. “It must cost these people thousands a month just to cut the grass,” he calculated. “Upkeep on all those fences is probably another small fortune.”

Similarly impressive to Judge Toomey was their B&B, a Federal brick house built in the nineteenth century and nestled on a six-acre property overlooking Elkhorn Creek. The owners, a young couple named Grahl, warmly greeted the travelers. “We’ve read about you fellows,” Annette Grahl said. “I guess you’re down here to visit your famous horse.”

“That we are,” Steve Charous said. “It’s a new experience for us. We’re all old horse players. But none of us has ever seen a mare being bred, especially not to a horse we own.” He nodded appreciatively at the beautiful dining room in which they stood, with its antique furniture, restored fireplace, and checkerboard floor.

“I wish,” Rison said, “I had known about this place before, when I came down with our trainer to buy The Badger on my first Kentucky visit. This is wonderful.”

Annette’s husband Tim said, “Thank you very much. I hope you’ll enjoy all of your stay.”

“We’ll need an early breakfast, Tim,” Rison said, “so we can get over to Fairborne.”

“No problem,” Tim said. “Seven early enough for you?”

“That would be fine,” Rison answered. The others agreed.

Annette said, “Cheese omelets, French toast, ham biscuits, fruit plates, three kinds of juice. Sound all right?” She was smiling.

Joey Z smiled back. “I’ll be down before seven,” he said. “I’m the partner with the appetite.”

***

The Chevy van was buzzed through Fairborne Farm’s imposing front gate a little after eight the next morning. Rison drove slowly up the long, tree-lined drive toward a cluster of barns positioned behind a huge main residence. Pastures on both sides were dotted by thoroughbreds of various ages, most of them grazing on the lush grass. This was the home of several of the nation’s most prominent thoroughbred stallions, the “capital of equine copulation,” as Chris Carson termed it.

“The mansion looks like Scarlett O’Hara could pop out the front door,” Carson said. “
Look
at it.”

Rison parked carefully in an area marked for visitors between a blue BMW and a red Maserati. “Hope we don’t get towed away for being nondescript.”

The Seven were immediately hailed by a fortyish, very fit-looking man wearing a Fairborne Farm windbreaker, jeans, and a ball cap with “The Badger Express” emblazoned on it. “Morning men,” he said, “welcome to Fairborne. I’m Arthur Logan. Great to see y’all here this morning.”

Rison said, “Our pleasure, Arthur. These are my partners.” He introduced them all to the Fairborne Farm owner, who shook each man’s hand enthusiastically. Mike Barnhill said, “How’s The Badger doing? We haven’t seen him since he left the racetrack.”

“Mr. Barnhill,” Logan said, “your horse is a real pleasure. Very well mannered, even gets along with the older studs in the stallion barn. Looks good and is feeling good. We’re mighty happy to have him here at Fairborne.” He turned and motioned them forward. “Gentlemen, please follow me.”

Logan led them up a red brick walkway to what he said was “the breeding shed.” It was a large, two-story brick building with rubberized flooring, a couple of walnut-paneled stalls, and several walnut-trimmed windows. “Some ‘shed,’” Barnhill said.

“You should see the stallion barn,” Rison answered. “Mr. Logan sent me a color video about Fairborne. You could move your family in there and invite people over.”

Inside the wide doorway, they were met by a large, red-haired man wearing clothes and cap identical to Logan’s. “This is our stud manager, Harley Livingston,” Logan said. “Morning, men,” Livingston said. “We’re about all set for your horse. The teaser has done his job.”

To a puzzled looking Marty Higgins, Livingston explained, “The teaser is a stud horse, not real well bred, that is used to get the mare revved up and ready. He has equipment on him so he can’t ejaculate in her.”

“What a rotten damn job,” said Joey Z.

The Fairborne owner directed them to a stairway leading to a balcony overlooking the breeding area. An elderly couple was already there. Logan said, “Mr. and Mrs. Berns, I’d like to introduce you to The Significant Seven. The men who raced and own The Badger Express.”

Logan went on to say that Peter and Barbara Berns owned the mare that would be bred that morning to The Badger Express. “We try to be here whenever our girl is bred,” Mrs. Berns said. She was wearing a stylish tweed jacket and pants, which made for an incongruous contrast to her black ball cap that read “Go Dee Dee.” After shaking hands with each of the Seven, her gray-headed husband turned to concentrate on the scene below. “Mr. Berns acts like a worried father in the maternity waiting room,” Judge Toomey whispered to Rison.

“That’s the Berns’ mare,” Logan said, “Dainty Dee Dee. She’ll be Badger Express’ first mating. She’s fifteen now, knows what she’s doing. And likes what she’s doing. She’s never been barren or slipped a foal. One of the best producers we’ve ever had here.”

“That’s our girl,” said Mrs. Berns proudly.

Suddenly, from outside the barn, came the resonant, trumpeting call of a horse in a hurry. The Badger Express was not being led but was almost dragging his stud groom to the breeding shed. He was tossing his head, nostrils flaring in the exciting air he was experiencing for the first time, swinging his already extended penis, which looked like a yard and half of slightly slimmed down fireman’s black hose. His attention was lasered on Dainty Dee Dee. “That’s Baily Williams with your horse. He’s our best stud groom. Been here almost thirty years. But he’s got his hands full today,” Logan said.

Mrs. Berns observed The Badger’s entrance with a mixture of repugnance and awe. Her husband glanced at his watch. Nodding toward the scene below, he said, “This shouldn’t take long.”

“Our boy is ready to go,” Carson said.

“They won’t have to put any Viagra in his oats,” Rison answered.

“Maybe you should get some of
his
oats for your breakfast cereal,” Joey Z said, bumping Barnhill’s arm with his elbow.”

“Speak for yourself,” Barnhill barked back.

The Badger Express shuffled about anxiously while Dainty Dee Dee was being positioned for him. Once the mare was in place, The Badger needed no urging. He mounted her eagerly, his front hooves resting on Dainty Dee Dee’s shoulders that were covered with protective pads. Livingston adeptly guided The Badger’s penis into her vagina, the mare standing firmly, her flanks trembling. The Badger ejaculated almost immediately, the process taking less than a minute. Dainty Dee Dee’s handlers tucked a small bag under her rump to catch any expelled semen, which would be discarded.

The Significant Seven looked around at each other. “Holy shit,” said Marty Higgins, “that’s how they fucking do it? I mean, do it, horses fucking? I’ll be damned.”

Livingston led their horse to the doorway. The Badger Express pranced down the walkway toward the stallion barn, tossing his head, a picture of physical pride. “He’ll be back at work this afternoon,” Arthur Logan said. “He’s going to be a real pro at this.”

The Significant Seven whooped as if they’d just witnessed a Chicago Bears touchdown.

On their way back to the parking lot, Steve Charous said to Rison, “Straighten me out on this. When will his first sons and daughters be born?”

“Offspring, they call them,” Rison laughed. “A mare’s gestation period is eleven months. The Badger’s babies will hit the ground, running we hope, starting next March. They’ll go to the races two years later. I can’t wait.”

Chapter Thirteen

May 2, 2009

Judge Henry Toomey slipped out of his bed, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, Janie, at this early hour. Whenever the Toomeys were vacationing at their Lake Geneva second home, the judge, a former swim team captain at the University of Wisconsin, began his day with an hour’s exercise in the very cool, spring-fed blue waters, usually spending at least half of that time on what had been his collegiate specialty, the back stroke. Other early risers on this beautiful southeastern Wisconsin lake were used to seeing the lanky Toomey’s long arms churning paddle wheel style across this body of deep water from his pier on the northern shore.

Toomey put on his black trunks, flip-flops, a sweat shirt, and picked up a towel. Before walking out the back door, he started coffee brewing. On the pier he spent several minutes stretching and breathing deeply.

Toomey started out a strong, level pace. Looking up at the cloud-cleared sky, he anticipated another beautiful spring day in this pleasant town. Probably nine holes of golf with Janie after breakfast, then some fishing with his neighbor, Chuck Siebert. At the mid-point of his lake crossing, back of his head in the water, face turned to the morning sky, he did not spot the figure directly in his path, awaiting him, a figure in a black wet suit, diving gear, diver’s mask just above the water as Toomey churned closer.

Seconds later the judge felt powerful hands grasp his ankles from below the water. He did not have a moment to speculate as to what was happening before he felt himself being pulled downward, his body held two feet below the lake’s surface.

Mouth closed, attempting to conserve breath, Toomey frantically tried to kick free. He reached forward and managed to briefly touch the shoulders of his attacker. He felt himself running out of air, out of strength, but not out of astonishment.
“What the
hell?”
was the last thought that crossed his mind as the water rushed into his now open mouth. His struggle to escape the iron grip of the diver dwindled, diminished further, then ceased.

Judge Toomey’s floating corpse was discovered an hour later by one of the first sailboats to come out onto the lake. Resultant shock and horror registered in Lake Geneva, in Madison, throughout Wisconsin’s legal fraternity, when it was announced that the popular Toomey, a powerful swimmer, had died of an apparent heart attack at age fifty-three.

That evening, back in northern Wisconsin, Orth unpacked his diving gear and set it out on the bench in front of his cabin’s front door. He went inside and grabbed a Leinenkugel before getting into his Jeep Cherokee for the drive to the outdoor phone he always used.

In Dallas, Sanderson picked up on the first ring of his cell phone. Orth could hear childrens’ voices in the background, the blare of a television cartoon show. “It’s me,” Orth said. Sanderson said, “I can hardly hear you. I’ll go out on the patio.”

Seconds later, Sanderson said, “Yeah?”

“All done,
amigo
. Let me know when the money transfer is headed to my account.”

“Will do. Hey, great work, bro. We’re on our way.”

Chapter Fourteen

May 7, 2009

“A damned shame, Jack. That’s what it is,” said Ralph Tenuta.

The two men were standing outside Tenuta’s office on the Heartland Downs backstretch. The subject was Judge Henry Toomey’s death, which had been widely reported the previous day.

“I only met him a few times,” Tenuta said, “when he came out with the rest of the syndicate members. Seemed like a class act. I talked to Arnie Rison this morning. He and the other five are all planning to go up for the funeral in Madison on Monday.”

They finished their coffee. It was a little after ten a.m. Tenuta’s trainees had been excercised, cooled out, and put away. The stable’s morning work was finished.

“Jack, you might want to bring some betting money when you come back this afternoon. Forget about the two-year-old filly in the second race, she’s in there just for the experience. But Editorialist should blow them away in the stakes race, even if it is on the grass.”

“I’ll meet you in your clubhouse box,” Doyle said.

***

Two mornings earlier, in his role as Tenuta’s stable agent, Doyle had walked into the Heartland Downs entry clerk’s office after Tenuta had instructed him to enter Editorialist “in Saturday’s turf course stakes.” It was a $150,000 event, Doyle knew. He said to Tenuta, “Has that nut case ever been on the turf?”

“Only when he was a baby, roaming the Kentucky pastures. But I want to give him a shot. His granddaddy was Theatrical, a helluva grass runner. Maybe those genes will transfer. And the way he moves, I think he’ll like the turf. Anyway, there’s no other race for him here for several weeks. So, we’ll experiment.”

Personnel in the entry clerk’s office had come to know Doyle. Clerk Chris Polzin looked at Doyle in surprise when he had read the entry slip. “Jack, you putting Editorialist in the grass stakes?”

“Just doing what the boss says, Chris.”

***

After getting a haircut, Doyle arrived back at Heartland Downs a couple of hours in advance of Editorialist’s race. He had a Chicago-style hot dog (“drag it through the garden”) before he rode the escalator to the second floor of the clubhouse where he bought a Heineken from his favorite racetrack bartender, “Las Vegas Lou.”

Lou DiCastri worked at Heartland Downs in the summer, a bar at McCarron Airport most of the rest of the year. He was a big, bluff, fifty-eight-year-old man with an engaging line of patter and an impressive memory for his regular customers’ drink choices. He also touted horses a bit, and evidently fairly well, for Doyle had seen many of Lou’s clientele tip him lavishly.

Lou was chatting up two heavily made-up, fortyish women, both dressed as if they were in their early twenties, with tanning bed hues and bleached hair. They laughed loudly at something he’d said, the bracelets jangling on the shorter one’s wrist as she lifted her margarita to her lips. When Lou noticed Doyle standing behind the two women, he winked over their heads. He began to draw a plastic cup of Heineken. “Jack,” he asked, “what’s the word on Tenuta’s horses today?”

“Pass on the filly in the second. That screwball Editorialist? Lou, nobody ever knows what he’ll do. He’s been disqualified four times in his career for attacking other horses. If he runs straight, he wins. That is, if he doesn’t decide to take a bite out of the starting gate.” Doyle paid for the beer, left a tip, and started moving away from the bar. “For what it’s worth, Lou, I’m betting him,” he said over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Jack.”

The taller woman, whom Lou always flattered by calling Lucky Linda, said, “Who’s that guy, Lou?”

“He works for the trainer Ralph Tenuta. Name’s Jack Doyle. Nice guy.”

“Is he married?” said the woman with the noticeable jewelry.

“Ladies,” Lou said, “drawing on my long experience observing human nature from behind the wood, I’d say ‘no.’”

Walking through the crowded clubhouse, Doyle again marveled at the nonhomogeneity of American horse players. There were a couple of dozen white senior citizens, female and male, sitting in chairs in front of a bank of large television screens. In the next section, all thirty-six carrels, each equipped with a small television set and writing desk, housed the most serious of gamblers present, all male, all poring over statistics and
Racing Dailys
and file folders filled with what they believed to be notable notations on horses competing this day. Three Asian men, probably Chinese, Doyle guessed, had lined up in front of the $50 betting window. Congregated on the terrace overlooking the track’s paddock was a group of Latinos, all dressed as if they had just come from their demanding jobs in the barn area. Next to them, a half-dozen loud, beer-drinking college boys laughed and jived, trying to impress the two very impressive-looking coeds in their midst. Situated in the far corner of this balcony, where the hint of marijuana could often be discerned, seven or eight young men with strong Jamaican accents debated the merits of the horses in the upcoming race.

“Only at the racetrack,” Doyle said to himself, “would this kind of collection collect.”

***

Doyle bet $100 to win, $50 to place on Editorialist before joining Tenuta in the box overlooking the finish line. Arnie Rison was there with the trainer. “Arnie,” Doyle said, “we were all very sorry to hear about Judge Toomey.”

“Thanks, Jack.” He dug a Marlboro out of his jacket pocket. “Believe me, that was hard to believe. Henry kept himself in terrific shape all his life. Who would think a heart attack would take out a guy of his age who’d never had a hint of heart trouble?”

Rison turned as his daughter came down the steps to the box. “Jack, I think you know Renee.” She smiled at Doyle. Her outfit this afternoon was a cunningly cut sundress that did her shapely, petite figure complete justice. “Nice to see you again, Jack,” she said. She handed her father some pari-mutuel tickets. Arnie didn’t bother to look at them. He raised his binoculars to key in on Editorialist, who was bouncing up and down behind the distant gate at the start of this one-mile race.

Rison said to Tenuta, “Did you bet him, Ralph?”

“Do they keep a good kitchen in the Vatican?” Tenuta answered. “Of course. So did Jack and the rest of the stable crew.”

“Let’s hope he comes through,” Rison said. “After we heard about Henry, the rest of us talked and talked and then decided to dedicate every dollar Editorialist wins from now on to a Henry Toomey Scholarship Fund at the University of Wisconsin law school. We’d like to kickstart that fund today.”

Tenuta said, “We’re kind of in luck, because Editorialist drew the one hole. With the rail right next to him on his left, he can only ram into the horse on his right if he wants to, instead of pinballing between two of them, trying to do damage, which he is very fond of doing.”

The gate doors clanged open. Editorialist, Doyle saw, had come out straight and true. But the Number Two horse, outside Editorialist, almost had his feet go out from under him. Recovering quickly, and despite his jockey’s attempt to straighten him, Number Two veered over and banged into Editorialist’s hind quarters, almost turning him sideways.

“Christ almighty,” shouted Tenuta.

Rison lowered his glasses and sank down into his seat next to Doyle. His dejection was obvious. He reached into his coat pocket for his pack of Marlboros. “
Wait,
” Doyle said, seconds later, elbowing Rison, “he’s straightening out.”

Unlike many previous races when Editorialist, feeling he’d been abused or disrespected and responding by trying to bite the hide of any horse within range, this time lowered his head and powered up the rail like a bullet train. He had the lead after a half mile, a lead he continued to extend. Jockey Javier Hidalgo tucked his whip away and sat still on this combustible creature. Editorialist won by four widening lengths.

Tenuta, face flushed, looked around excitedly. He said “How
about
that son of a gun? Is he something else?” Rison embraced him, as did Renee. Tenuta reached over the little woman’s shoulder to give Jack a hearty high five. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go to the winner’s circle.”

Rison stood up. His sweat-soaked seersucker suit looked like it had been worn out from the inside. On his long, creased face was a look of both pain and relief. He gave his daughter a hug. “That one’s for Henry Toomey,” he said. “It’s a start on the scholarship fund.”

“That’s a nice start,” Doyle said to Renee as they left the box. “Editorialist’s winner’s share today is $60,000.”

They hurried down the indoor stairs to the trackside level of Heartland Downs, where they were ushered by a security guard to the winner’s circle. Editorialist was being led in by two of Tenuta’s grooms. He skittered about as the photo was taken. Jockey Hidalgo cautiously reached up to remove his saddle from the fractious horse’s back.

Tenuta gave the jock a hearty hug. “Nice job, Javvie. You took a serious knock there, coming out of the gate.”

Hidalgo wiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “That just made the ’orse mad, Mr. Ralph. Then,” the jockey grinned, “he decided to run his ass off and show ’em who is the boss.”

Tenuta laughed. He clapped Hidalgo on the back. “Editorialist, that son of a bitch, is
always
mad,” the trainer said.