by Ron Fisher
Natasha saw him, and said, “He’s still mad at us, I see.”
“What a shame,” I said.
“Well, I don’t want him mad at me,” she said, and headed over to him.
The rest of us took our drinks and found a table.
A few minutes later, Natasha came back and joined us.
“I’ve never seen him this angry,” she said. “He called me a deserter, and said you were out to get him.”
“I guess he’s heard we followed him when he went to get Kroll’s dope and women,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “and he said to tell you to keep your effing nose out of his business.”
“Did you tell him I was just getting started?”
“I’m not going to make this worse than it already is,” she said. “He’s working the barns and paddocks today and I doubt if we’ll see him again.”
Natasha turned to Kelly and said, “the Hat Contest is about to begin and you’ll enjoy that.” She turned to me and added, “There will be a lot of pretty ladies competing in it, so there’s something for you and Alvin, too . . . if Kelly will let you look at them.”
Will she ever let up? I wondered.
We grabbed our drinks and went back out the front entrance of the tent and made our way to the Hat Contest. The contestants were already making a circle around the judges who walked about in the middle examining each woman’s wildly colored and fancy chapeau.
The whole thing lasted about thirty minutes, and Kelly enjoyed it, more than Alvin and I did, despite the lovely contestants, but we didn’t say that to her. The winner of the contest, wearing a hat with a live parakeet in a small cage on top, had many supporters, and got a resounding ovation. Kelly was having a good time and it made me happy to see her happy.
I still hadn’t told her every detail of what I was doing, but this wasn’t the time and place. I hoped she understood. I knew the newspaper woman inside her was dying for information, but for the moment, I wanted her to enjoy the races and our time together. We didn’t get enough of these times, and we could both stand a few hours off the job.
We went back inside the tent and sat at a table munching on small roast beef sandwiches with horse radish and sweet pickles, and potato salad. I spotted Chuck Norman and his mother at a table on the other side of the tent.
Natasha nodded hello toward them, and so did I. They nodded back.
Mrs. Norman was drinking something that looked like Port or Sherry and Chuck had a cocktail. I’d never seen anyone look as bored and miserable as Chuck Norman.
“Is Teddy still mad at Chuck, too?” I asked Natasha.
“I think he is. Look at poor Chuck. He looks like he’s at a funeral. Races are supposed to be fun. Think we should ask him to join us?”
“Sure,” I said. I wanted to talk to him more about Teddy, anyway. “I’ll go ask him.”
“What are you, Mr. Bragg,” Mrs. Norman said, as I approached, “some kind of Lothario? I was under the impression when we first met that you and Natasha Ladd were in a relationship. Now, I see you today with another young woman, and you two look very chummy. Have you and Ms. Ladd parted ways, or are you just fooling around on her?”
“Neither,” I said. “You must have misunderstood my relationship with Natasha. We’re just friends. The lady I’m with today is the one I have a relationship with. My girlfriend and Natasha are old college friends.”
“And who is that disturbing looking black man?” she asked. Mrs. Norman and Chuck turned to look at Alvin.
“He’s a friend, too,” I said. “He’s the cousin of the Johnson boy who went missing.”
“You and Natasha fooled me, too.” Chuck examined me over his glass. “I thought you two were together.”
“I apologize for the misconception,” I said.
“You and Charles seem to be on opposite ends of the romantic relationship scale,” Mrs. Norman said. “You have too many, and he has none. I’ve been trying for years to get him to find a woman and produce grandchildren for me, but with no luck. There he sits, as celibate as the Archbishop.”
Chuck sat quietly, a blank look on his face. If he was bothered by what his mother said he didn’t show it. “You haven’t seen Teddy, have you?” he asked. “I was looking for him.”
“He’s here,’ I said. “Natasha said he’s working the barns and paddock area today, not that I know what that entails.”
“Oh, I forgot.” Chuck said.
I got the feeling he didn’t know anything about that. Perhaps he and Teddy really were on the outs. Maybe if I got him away from his mother, and got a few more beers in him, he’d open up some more about Teddy.
“Chuck, why don’t you join us? We’re going out to the track in a minute.”
He shot a look at his mother.
“He needs to stay here with me,” Mrs. Norman said.
Chuck did as she said but didn’t look happy about it.
A part of me felt sorry for him, but another part thought, Man up, Chuck.
I said my goodbyes and went back to our table. We got another drink and headed out to the track.
Alvin seemed to be having a good time. Steeplechases and the type of people who attend them were probably a foreign experience, but I didn’t notice him acting like he felt out of place. I figured that no matter where Alvin Brown found himself, he was always comfortable. I think he naturally expected everyone and everything to adapt to him, not the other way around.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We stood by the rail with our drinks, watching the unfolding pre-race events taking place out on the track. A parade of miniature horses went by, followed by a line of small, ornate buggies and wagons, some filled with kids. Later, horses and riders dressed for a fox hunt came along, hounds out front barking and yipping. A prayer was said by someone at a microphone in front of the stands, quieting the crowd for a minute or two, and afterward, there was the releasing of the doves, whatever that represented. Then a woman out in front of the stands sang the National Anthem, acapella. There was applause, which turned to cheers, and someone with a bugle played “Go To The Post.” Race day had officially started.
I looked at my watch, it was already one-thirty, and the race schedule I’d picked up showed that the first race was about to begin. There would be six races, one every half hour, and the purses were quite substantial. There was betting, I noticed earlier, with wagers taken by a gentleman near the stands wearing a snap-brim hat and holding a fistful of bills and a small notebook. I wasn’t sure what the gambling laws were in North Carolina, but whatever they were, no one seemed too bothered by them.
None of us were interested in placing bets. Alvin, Kelly and I were ignorant of the horse stats and chances, and Natasha said she didn’t gamble. She said she took her risks on husbands, not horses.
“Natasha,” I said. “You’re the expert here. Why don’t you give us a Steeplechase 101, so we’ll know what we’re watching.”
“I’d be happy to,” she said. “Gather round, students. There are six races, all two and three-eight’s miles. They are limited to ten horses each, but there are usually not that many—maybe six or eight on average.
“They jump over the same obstacles used up and down the East Coast, where most steeplechase races are held. The fences consist of a steel or wood frame stuffed with plastic “brush,” with a foam-rubber roll covered with green canvas on the takeoff side. Horses jump the fence in stride, much like humans in track and field events. The fences are provided by the National Steeplechase Association, and are shipped to racetracks by truck and set up in advance of the races.”
“They look like real hedges from this side, don’t they?” Kelly said.
“Yeah, I got a close up look the other night,” I said.
“Steeplechase races don’t start from a gate like flat-track races,” Natasha continued. “Instead, horses are lined up in post-position order and start from a standstill or a walk. Post positions are drawn in the presence of those making entries for the ra
ce. The horses are started by the Starter when he drops the flag.”
She went on to say the horses were all thoroughbreds, and many were flat track racers first, but probably would never have been Kentucky Derby winners. Steeplechase horses were usually older than flat-trackers, and had the jumping skills, heart and stamina to run the longer steeplechase races.
“A steeplechase horse hates the starting gate and loves the turf,” she said. “They really don’t get excited about running any distance shorter than 2 miles. Their brain engages and their bodies go to work when asked to jump a 4-foot fence every eighth of a mile or so. I read once that there are few athletes like a thoroughbred steeplechase racehorse—they race at great speed, fly over fences, and will eat a carrot out of your hand afterward.”
It was clear Natasha loved everything about the sport. She was a devoted steeplechaser.
She went on to tell us that most of the jockeys were professionals—with a few amateurs—and were both men and women, many from England or Ireland. All jockeys are small, but steeplechase jockeys weigh a little more than flat-track jockeys—roughly 140 pounds compared to 110 pounds. Height was not an issue; qualifying was based purely on weight. She said that the purses at the Upcountry had grown every year and were becoming quite significant for the National Steeplechase Association circuit.
She stopped talking and looked up the track. “Lesson over,” she said. “Here come the horses. Let’s watch.”
We all stepped closer to the rail and watched as the horses came thundering down the track from around the bend.
Their hooves were a drumbeat beneath my feet that I felt all the way to my stomach. I had already experienced that sensation the night the masked rider came over the jump and down on me, and that was only one horse. Here there were eight of them; horses and riders, flowing over fences without indecision or falter as smoothly as trout over a rock in a stream bottom. I had to admit; a steeplechase held a vigor and beauty flat track racing couldn’t touch.
The race ended as the winner flashed across the finish line to the roar of the crowd of thousands. In the trees at the top of the hill behind the tailgaters, a large flock of birds took flight, set to wing by the crowd’s ovation. Only then did the realization fully register that we were in the middle of a usually peaceful country landscape.
As the horses were called to post for the second race, I spotted Wilson Kroll down the rail with his gang of guests. He caught me looking at him and stared back. The old saying, “if looks could kill,” crossed my mind.
I turned to Alvin, caught his eye and nodded at Kroll’s direction. Alvin leaned back to see around the line of people standing along the rail between us.
“Wilson Kroll?” he asked.
“And his Cleveland guests,” I said.
Alvin stared at them. “Interesting bunch,” he said. “They stand out from this crowd as much as I do.”
“Let’s go have a chat with them,” I said to Alvin and excused us to the ladies. Kelly shot me an inquisitive glance.
“We’ll just be a minute,” I said.
Natasha had seen them by now and leaned over to explain to Kelly who they were. Kelly’s interested look slowly turned to one of concern, as she listened.
Alvin followed me over to them.
“Enjoying the races, fellows?” I said as we reached them. “Anybody got a hangover?” Alvin took a position behind me, legs spread, arms crossed, and gave them his “Big Hurt” stare.
None of them spoke, but their eyes went back and forth between Alvin and me.
Finally, Wilson Kroll spoke. “I heard you’ve been sticking your nose into my business, Mr. writer man,” he said.
Teddy probably told him, I thought. I was hoping it wasn’t his veterinarian, Sam Squires. I was counting on him going to Brandon Wise and telling all to him—without Kroll’s knowledge.
“Just working on my story about the wonderful world of steeplechase and those who support it,” I said.
“Bullshit,” he said, scowling at me.
Several bystanders at the rail turned and gave him a severe look. He didn’t seem to care.
“You’re just a muck-raking asshole,” he said. “Up here to uncover whatever dirt you can find on us rich folks. I know your type. You’re suspicious of anybody with money and a lifestyle you’ll never attain.”
“For me to muck-rake,” I said, “there has to be some muck there to rake. If there is, then it’s called journalism. And that’s what I do.”
One wise guy leaned in and said, “Where we come from, some mutt sticks his nose in somebody’s business, they find his nose in a landfill—with the rest of him still attached to it.”
They all laughed.
“Must be Cleveland humor,” I said to Alvin. He snorted, and they all looked at him, then at me, as if they were wondering how I knew where they were from, and what else I knew about them. Alvin didn’t move, he just stood and returned their looks, his expression unchanged.
“Who’s this guy?” Kroll asked, nodding at him but looking at me.
“He’s with me,” I said, and left it at that.
He kept looking from me to Alvin, and evidently decided this wasn’t the time or place to continue this. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Bragg,” he said, “I’m here with my guests to enjoy the races. Now leave us the fuck alone.” He turned to his guests and said, “C’mon guys, let’s go get our bets down. I’ll pick us another winner.”
“Enjoy it while you can, Mr. Kroll,” I said, smiling at him. “I have a feeling your luck is about to change.” Alvin and I turned and went back to Kelly and Natasha. I could feel Kroll’s eyes on my back as I walked way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Between races, Natasha said, “The sun is getting to me. I’m going in for a cool drink.”
That sounded great to us all, and we followed her in.
On the way, Kelly took my arm and spoke quietly in my ear. “We need to do things like this more often. I’m enjoying this, especially since no one’s been hurt, like the last steeplechase I attended. We spend too much time at home.”
“Are you saying you don’t like being at home alone with me?” I asked.
“You know better than that,” she said. “But we can’t ‘do it’ twenty-four hours a day.”
“Who says?” I asked.
We were standing at the bar when I saw Brandon Wise, the insurance investigator, come into the tent. He spotted me and hurried over as if I were the sole reason he was there. I told the others to get me a beer and grab a table, and I met him half way. He motioned me over to a corner where we would be out of earshot of the nearest table.
“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Bragg,” Wise said. “I found an envelope pushed through the mail slot in my office door this morning. It’s from Sam Squires, Mr. Kroll’s vet. He’s confessed to a list of fraudulent business activities that he and Wilson Kroll have committed. He verifies that Emperor had indeed become infertile, but Wilson Kroll continued to sell the horse’s services by substituting semen from another of their stallions and passing it off as Emperor’s. He also says Kroll had the horse killed. It’s everything we talked about, all signed and sealed—Wilson Kroll on a platter. He won’t get a dime from us, and may even go to jail.”
Wise paused and studied me. “Would I be right to guess this was your doing?”
“Any part I may have played in this is irrelevant,” I said. “I am but a seeker of the truth, and when found, that truth is my only reward.”
“What baloney,” Wise said. “But I’ll keep you out of it if that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I said.
“Squires says the fraud was to keep the news of Emperor’s infertility a secret from his syndicate investors long enough to arrange for the horse to be put down in a way that wouldn’t implicate him. So, he blamed it on the kid. He planned to split the insurance money with his investors to make up for their lost investment, just like you said.”
“Is there anything else in there about Ja
mal Johnson?”
“Just that Squires claims he didn’t shoot the horse, or frame the Johnson kid for it. He says we might want to talk to someone named Teddy Crane about that.”
"Gotcha!" I said, not realizing I'd spoken it aloud until I saw Wise staring at me.
“You know this guy?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “Crane is a local man who does things for Kroll. I’d like to hear what more Squires can tell us about him.”
“I’d like to talk to Doctor Squires, too,” Wise said. Have you seen him here? I’ve been trying to call him all morning, but he isn’t answering. I could make my case against Kroll even stronger if Squires will testify in person, in front of witnesses. That would not only help me but all those people who are going to want their stud fees back. This will most likely end up in both civil and criminal court.”
“If Doctor Squires is here, I haven’t seen him,” I said.
“I heard Wilson Kroll is here,” Mr. Wise said. “I want to talk to him, too.”
“I don’t mean to tell you your business, Mr. Wise,” I said, “but I strongly advise against that. Trust me when I say, it’s not a good time to confront him one-on-one. It could even be dangerous. He has some old friends from up north down here right now, and they’re the kind of people who could easily make Kroll’s problems go away—like disappear—so they’ll never be found again. Don’t become a problem to him just yet. Take these papers to the police, or at least to your company lawyers, and let them confront Wilson Kroll.”
“Jesus,” he said. “You think he’s that dangerous?”
“I do,” I said. “And so are his friends.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally said. “Maybe I’ll do it that way.”
