Рита Браун - Puss 'N Cahoots

“That it?” Charly had figured Booty might apologize, but he still had a hand with probably a broken bone or two in it because of Booty’s smart mouth.

“What do you want me to do, grovel?”

“I don’t know what I want from you, and right now I don’t care. I do know I’m not doing business with you anymore, Booty.” He looked at Ward. “If you think I blew up your van, then I expect I’m out of the game. I didn’t. I have no reason to kill you.”

Carlos, on hearing “kill,” prudently left for the tack room. While he knew about his fellow countrymen being trucked in, he didn’t want to know anything more. Ignorance might not be bliss, but in this case it was safety.

“Maybe. But dividing the profit two ways instead of three would be incentive enough for some people. You can find someone to do pickups, drop-offs. But can you trust them?” Ward challenged them both.

“How do I know I can trust you? You put my feet to the fire over money,” Booty said.

“And so will another driver in time. I’m willing to do more. I told you, I want to learn.” Ward defended himself. “And, Booty, no one has tried to kill you.”

“Renata would if she could.” He frowned.

“She’s not the only one.” Charly leaned his arm over the horse’s neck.

“Annie here?” Booty made light of it.

“Let’s sort this out some other time.” Charly returned his attention to the horse. “I’ve got a horse in the fifth class and, Booty, I’m going to win the five-gaited. I don’t care what you tell the press.” He and Booty might be in business together, but when it came to riding in the big class, their only desire was to win.

Ward froze. “Tell what?”

Booty shrugged. “That Charly, Renata, and you stole Queen Esther.”

“Booty, add me to the list of people who want to kill you.” Ward checked the bridle buckles for Charly. “You do something like that and you won’t walk out of here tonight.”

“Like Jorge?” Booty challenged.

“You would know,” Ward fired right back. “I didn’t touch him.”

Booty’s lower lip jutted out. “Seems to me one of us killed him. He was getting a little like you, Ward—greedy. He pressured Charly and me for a bigger cut.”

“No one knows about greed better than you.” Charly felt his anger rising, but he didn’t want to hit Booty with his left hand. He’d have to hold the reins in his teeth.

“One or both of you are lying, so let me say this: I came down here to apologize, Charly. I was wrong. I’m sorry. If either of you has seen Miss Nasty, let me know. That’s all I ask.” Booty put down the champagne. “I was going to drink this after I won the five-gaited, but I brought it as a peace offering. Maybe you’ll feel more forgiving once it works its magic.” Booty left the barn, taking one glass with him. He called over his shoulder, “You’ll drink alone, I reckon, because you won’t win.”

Ward waited for him to get far enough ahead on the path before he left, too.

Carlos came back out for last-minute touches on the horse. “If you hurt your hand more, you won’t be able to ride in the last class.”

“I’ll be fine,” Charly replied, “but you’ll have to help me with my coat and tie. I hope I can get the damned glove on, that’s all.” He picked up the champagne and walked it to the fridge in the hospitality suite. He read the label. “Bastard does have good taste.”

Apart from being a monkey, Miss Nasty would be conspicuous by her ensemble graced by the very expensive pin she had hooked through her bodice. Knowing Booty’s habits, she laid low—or rather, high, since she rested on the top limb of one of the large trees off the midway. Her commanding view allowed her to keep tabs on Booty’s movements. She knew that when he mounted up and rode into the ring, he couldn’t stop her from what she perceived as her frolic. If she broke cover before that, he’d nab her and her party would be over.

More than anything, she wanted to display her treasure in front of those snotty cats. It was worth the wait as she watched classes, listening to the cheers. Occasionally someone walking under the tree would feel the light tap of a pistachio hull on their head. Miss Nasty had taken the precaution of grabbing a big bag of pistachios from Booty’s hospitality suite. However, the small hull posed no danger, so no one peered upward into the thick foliage to behold the well-dressed monkey on the top limb.

Having demolished the entire bag, Miss Nasty felt a powerful thirst. It overcame her prudence, what little there was of it. She climbed down the tree and scurried behind the shops on the midway until she found the back of one of the food booths stacked with soft drinks. Snagging one, she popped the top straight off. The two ladies, as members of a Shelbyville farm club, were serving hot dogs, hamburgers, and French fries and didn’t notice the monkey chugging behind them. Having finished that off, Miss Nasty felt much better. The sugar and caffeine in the soft drink energized her.

What if Booty did see her? She’d climb to the top of another tree. He’d have to go back to work. She intended to have her moment, so she loped along amid the cries of children and adults.

Every resident of the 385 square miles of Shelby County had to be at the show grounds. The horsemen knew Miss Nasty. First-timers did not, so she caused a sensation, much to her delight. She even stood on her hind legs, sweeping off her lovely straw hat to a few. They’d approach; she’d fly away. Couldn’t be too sure. Anyone could be an agent of Booty’s. She wanted to parade before Pewter and Mrs. Murphy. Of the two, Pewter sent her blood pressure through the stratosphere.

She climbed up the rear of the western grandstand. Perching on the high backrest, built so no one would tip over backward, she peeped over the heads down to the Kalarama box, again filling after another sweeping of the ring. The sun had set, and the powerful lights circling the show ring were so bright she could see the tiny dust specks floating upward.

Night birds bestirred themselves, calling to one another. Moths danced around the softer barn lights, a few immolated on the show-ring lights.

Miss Nasty climbed back down since people noticed her. She knew her safety rested in height, so she rapidly climbed back up a tree, which afforded her a view. The minute she saw those cats she was going to cavort in front of them.

The ring, pristine now, filled the air with the aroma of dark loam, the last whiff of tractor gas disappearing. The flowers, dusted off after the dragging of the ring, seemed extra beautiful. The ringmaster strode to the middle, the organist hit the notes, and the two judges—one a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, the other a lady in a flowing dress—stood on the dais, ready to watch each five-gaited horse as it entered the ring.

The lady judge—a horsewoman, obviously—knew not to wear materials that reflected light, since this caused some horses to shy. Often ladies presenting the trophies wore shiny jackets or glittering evening gowns, and the horse wouldn’t stand still to be pinned or to have the silver trophy raised by its head.

The crowd held its breath, for this was it. The entire week culminated in the five-gaited open stake. The winner would be the favorite for the World Championship in Louisville, two weeks hence.

Betting isn’t allowed at Saddlebred shows. No tickets for win, place, or show litter grounds after a class. However, gambling proceeds apace. Is there a horseman anywhere in the world who can resist laying down a wager?

Money changed hands, as did chits. The extra security hired by the officials patrolled to keep order, not to dampen betting. Good thing, too, or they’d have had to arrest and hold the participants at the high-school football field. No jail would be large enough to contain the multitudes.