After a few minutes, he took a tool out of his pocket and did something to her left front hoof. He looked up at me and said, “Just cleaning some of the crap out from her frog.” I wasn’t sure what frogs had to do with horses, but I watched him move on after several minutes of cleaning what must have been a mountain of crap. He spent only a few seconds on the other hooves and didn’t seem much concerned about them. All together, we’d probably spent fifteen minutes sprucing her up. Chee-chee waved at the guard as we left the area. He grinned and gave us another salute.
We all gathered in the clubhouse for lunch. By we, I mean me and Chee-chee and Marcy and the three other owners who had horses in today’s race. Chee-chee had invited them and was doing the honors because, as he said to them, “Since I’m the sure winner of today’s race, this is the least I can do.”
I didn’t say much while Chee-chee was there. He said it all, telling the others how Golden Platter would whip the tail off of all their nags. I wasn’t very hungry, but I sipped away at my drink. I usually don’t drink very much, because I don’t like the fuzzy feeling it gives me. But today Chee-chee was having such a good time it was kind of infectious, and to celebrate too, I even ordered a second drink—which is something I never do.
Somewhere around when we were all relaxing, Chee-chee got a call on his cell phone, I guess from his board of directors or something like that, and he went off to speak to them in private. Which left me with the four men. I like men, and they seem to like me. Marcy, especially, was very attentive. And he’s really good-looking, even if he is at least as old as Chee-chee, maybe more. But I could see he was more interested in talking about horses than he was about me, so I started to tease him about how Golden Platter was going to beat the tails off of all the other horses in today’s race, because she was running so much better lately.
Looking back at it, I must have been a little tipsy to tell him how Chee-chee had reacted when he saw Golden Platter run the day before. But then, I was just really agreeing with Chee-chee. After all, he had said Golden Platter would win.
Marcy wanted me to have another drink, but I was feeling fine, and I knew the awful feeling I’d have later if I had any more. The talk about horses went on. I usually don’t chime into horse conversation, but I wanted to tell them how much Chee-chee loved his horses, and about how he’d come out real early in the morning to talk to Golden Platter and to curry her and clean her hooves. All four of the men were really listening to every word I said. I could tell. I know I was a bit tipsy, but they were very nice, and they let me do all the talking.
When Chee-chee came back to the table he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Looks like my baby has been entertaining you. She’s great, isn’t she?”
Marcy looked real serious when he said, “She sure is great Charlie, and she’s very entertaining.”
I never could see anything much interesting about a bunch of animals running around a circle, but today was different. We crowded around the fence as the horses were being led out, and I could feel all the tension in the air. Chee-chee was grinning happily. About then, he reached into his pocket, and took out a handful of bills. Giving them to me, he said, “Here, live it up. Put it on any horse you like.”
As many times as I’d been at racetracks, I’d never bet before, but I’d seen Chee-chee bet often enough to know the ropes. I looked at the money, and even though I hadn’t counted it, I knew it was an awful lot. I wondered if I shouldn’t just send it off to Mom on Maui, instead of betting it. She wasn’t exactly living in a grass shack, but she could always use some spare cash. Except, about then, I decided number 3 looked like a winner. The colors were such a nice shade of blue. But then the jockey on 4 caught my eye and winked at me. He was kinda cute, so I changed my mind.
Right after the race, Chee-chee asked me why I hadn’t bet on Golden Platter. I told him about the jockey on 4. He guffawed, grabbed me and gave me a big hug when I told him how I decided to place my bet.
The race itself wasn’t particularly exciting. Golden Platter took the lead real early, then started to drop behind first one of the horses, then finally behind all four of the others. Even I could tell she was starting to limp. Someone behind us said, “It looks like a loose shoe.” Number 4 ended up winning by a length.
The auction afterwards was much more exciting. They started with the winner, who went for almost as much as I had won on him. They moved on down to the runner-up and then the next one, each bringing in less and less money, until they finally got to Golden Platter. By then I knew a tall, thin man at the other end of the auction ring was doing the bidding for Chee-chee. There was some sort of complicated set of hand signals passing between them. The thin man immediately bid ten-thousand when Golden Platter was led into the ring. The auctioneer was obviously surprised to see Marcy raise his hand at fifteen-thousand, which was more than the previous horse had brought. The bidding then became frantic. Twenty-five thousand, fifty-thousand, a hundred-thousand. The crowd had been making a lot of noise but then became awfully quiet.
I turned to look at Chee-chee, and I could see the sweat standing out on his forehead. He seemed much more baffled than the auctioneer, and a lot more disturbed. In fact, the auctioneer was having a ball. The men who had been at lunch with us were now all bidding against each other. “Do I hear five-hundred and fifty thousand? Now, six hundred. Seven hundred? I now have nine-hundred. Would someone care to round that out to a million?”
The bids soared. The thin man kept looking over at Chee-chee, and Chee-chee was muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe this.” The gavel came down at two million-twenty-thousand dollars. The thin man had finally put in the winning bid. A bidder next to us said, “Those charities did all right, today.”
Later, after we’d gone to bed, Chee-chee was still mulling over the events of the day. “I guess I can’t complain. If Golden Platter is half as good as I think she is, she’ll be one of the few fillies to have ever won the Derby. Maybe even the Triple Crown.”
I didn’t say anything because, according to Jethro, I was costing Chee-chee something in the neighborhood of forty-thousand dollars every month—and I was trying to estimate how long it would take for him to spend two million-twenty-thousand dollars on me at forty-thousand a month. I gave up trying to figure it out and snuggled up to him. The last thing I remember before I dropped off to sleep was Chee-chee saying, “Jeezus! For a lame horse who came in last. I just can’t believe it.”
ROADBLOCK
A half-dozen carabinieri were strung across the rain-soaked road, assault rifles at the ready. A sergeant stood in front of them, hand upraised, signaling for Cory Watkins to stop. Cory couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. Stan Gold had warned him only yesterday about the roadblocks, but he had pooh-poohed the possibility.
***
Stan had been complaining about Italy—as usual. Even after six months of working at United Communications’ overseas branch, Stan was singularly incapable of adjusting to life in Milan. Ordinarily, all the grumbling annoyed Cory, but this time he was merely amused. The food spread before them at lunch was just too good to allow Stan to spoil its enjoyment.
“You can’t drive five blocks from a night club or restaurant,” Stan was saying, “without running into a roadblock.”
Cory sampled the first of his broiled garlic scampi. Absolutely delicious. “I haven’t heard of any roadblocks.”
“Of course not. In this country they’re so common they’re not even news anymore. Besides, living out in a small town like Rivorno the way you do, you’re not likely to be up and around after midnight. They roll their sidewalks up at nine.”
“What do the police stop people for?” Breaking off a large chunk of bread, Cory wondered how it could be so different and so much better than the best bakery bread back home.
“Who knows? The Italians claim they’re looking for terrorists.”
“Be grateful, then. A few minutes stopping at a check point is a small price
to pay to avoid being kneecapped by some crazy urban guerilla.” The pungent chianti was a perfect complement to the scampi’s rich sauce. “Besides, you admit they don’t hassle you. They just salute you and wave you on, along with your girlfriend of the evening.”
“Well, it’s the principle of the thing. The cops don’t stop you for no good reason in the States. They’re checking for drunks or stopping you for speeding, which makes sense. But the Italian police couldn’t care less. All they ever do is look at your ID.”
Cory pointed a piece of bread dripping with sauce at his companion. “You know, Stan, your problem is you’re still single. Settle down the way I have, move out to the suburbs or a little town like Rivorno, get used to the Italian way of doing things and start enjoying your stay here. Now, Jill’s an American, but if I weren’t married, I’d hitch up with one of these lovely Italian girls you keep going out with. Yeah. Settle down. Italian women love American men. Wasn’t there a book called Latins are Lousy Lovers written back a lot of years ago? Well, they were then and they still are. You’d be a prize catch.”
Sampling the green beans in olive oil and lemon juice, Cory smacked his lips and went on. “You just have to learn to look differently at the world. When we first came here, Jill was just like you. She was a party gal back in the States, and life looked pretty dull over here. But she settled in. She gardens, goes to market, wouldn’t go back to city life in the States for love nor money. She speaks Italian like a native, and we’ve been here only a little over a year. If she can do it, you could too.”
Stan looked skeptical.
Cory held up the cup of black coffee. “See, life in Italy is just like this. I couldn’t stand the taste of the coffee when I first came here, but now I wouldn’t even think of drinking the dish water passing for coffee back in the States.”
“Well, just wait. I’ve heard they’re going to have roadblocks during the day and will be moving them out to the countryside. You’ll sing a different tune then.”
***
The sergeant saluted and asked for identification. Cory reached into his pocket, and for a moment thought he had lost his wallet. A search and an explanation in his broken Italian produced stony silence from the sergeant and no wallet. Then it occurred to Cory he had changed to his best suit for today’s presentation and had left the wallet in his other trousers.
The sergeant stood in the pouring rain listening patiently to his explanation and even practiced some of his very inadequate English on Cory. The gist of what he said was, “Well, if you forgot your wallet, why don’t you just turn around and go back and get it?”
“Grazie. Grazie.” Cory heaved a sigh of relief. Would anything like that have ever happened in the States? Never. Absolutely never! At least a fifty-dollar fine for driving without a license. Probably a search for marijuana. Certainly extra citations for a broken windshield wiper or for some other inane reason. No! Italians were just plain civilized. No other word for them.
The rain had gradually become a full-blown storm, but it was only five miles to the house. Still enough time to get to the office and put the finishing touches on the presentation for the Ministro delle Comunicazione who was flying in from Rome.
Pulling up in front of the house, Cory rushed up the steps through the pelting downpour and into the shelter of the overhang. It was then he remembered he’d left his keys in the car. What else could go wrong? Would Jill be awake? Never mind. This was too important to worry about her beauty sleep. He pounded on the door. After a few moments, he heard the bedroom window open and his sleepy-eyed wife peered out.
“Che cosa?” Jill’s Italian was good, but her American accent was unmistakable. She was looking out of the open window and at the same time trying to shield herself from the rain.
“I left my wallet in my other trousers, and there’s a roadblock on the road to Milan. They won’t let me through without an ID. Bring it down, will you? And hurry. I’ve got to handle a presentation for the Rome bigwigs this morning.”
The head disappeared and reappeared almost instantly. “Here it is. Catch!”
He caught it handily, stuffed it into his pocket, hollered, “Thanks” and ran back through the downpour to his car.
The same sergeant, now all smiles, greeted him as he pulled up to the roadblock. Part of the good humor was probably a reflection of the improving weather, which had now subsided to a light drizzle. The sergeant opened the wallet, gave it a cursory glance, started to close it, opened it again, then said, “Scuzi. Momento. I need talk to Capitano.”
What was it? Surely his residency card couldn’t have expired. It was good for at least six more months. His driver’s license? No. A standard international one. Nobody had ever questioned it before. Cory shrugged. A minor bureaucratic mixup. Surely something easily resolved here in Italy.
He took advantage of the sergeant’s departure to phone his secretary. Wonderful news. Because of the weather, the Ministro’s plane hadn’t been able to land at the Milan airport. The presentation was being put off until late afternoon. Cory decided a day which had begun badly had now turned completely around. Another indication of the turn-around was the fact the short, rotund capitano approaching the car even spoke passable English.
“You are perhaps making the joke, sir.” He held the wallet open and faced it toward Cory who was leaning out of the window to get a better look. “You are most certainly not the Mayor of Rivorno.”
There, peering out at him from the corner of an ID card and behind the glassine surface was a very Italian face wearing a charming smile.
SEVEN-TOED PETE
Even though I didn’t really mind being the one selected to go out to Red River Falls City, wherever that was, I was still annoyed. The fact of being single, and the youngest assayer working out of the St. Louis office, meant Wells Fargo could move me around like a pawn. Oh, well. It was time for me to settle down. Maybe I could find someplace in the territories to ranch, and by now I’d accumulated enough cash to prove-up a homestead somewhere out there in cattle country. Dad had always said you can take the boy out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy. It was amazing how much smarter he seemed now, thirteen years later, after I’d left Ohio at fifteen right at the end of the Civil War.
Marcus Pender handed the train tickets across the desk. “They’ve found a little color besides red in the Red River. May not amount to much, but you never can tell. I’ve got you booked in the hotel for a week. If nothing significant shows up by then, just come on back. We can always use you someplace else.”
“I didn’t know we had a branch in that part of the world.”
“We don’t. You’ll work out of the hotel. I know the owner. He also runs the town’s only restaurant and bar—all in the hotel. I’ve wired ahead to tell him you’re coming. His name’s Jesperson Truax. Nice guy. He’ll be glad to help. Show you the ropes. You know.”
I didn’t expect there’d be much in the way of ropes to show. Red River Falls City wasn’t even a spot on the map at the edge of nowhere. I had to change trains at Bismarck, then switch to a stage coach at what looked like a railroad crossing with an outhouse as a station, to cover the last twenty miles to my destination.
Well, the river wasn’t red, I’d seen bigger falls coming out of a pitcher pump, and how anyone could have called this place a city was way beyond me. The entire town consisted of about two dozen buildings slapped together with planks which had never been near a plane. The only two-story structure among them had to be the hotel, since the coach stopped in front of it. I, the only passenger, was invited to step out with the one piece of luggage keeping me company.
What greeted me when I climbed the three steps and went in through the swinging doors could hardly pass for a hotel lobby. It was a saloon, a restaurant, and—a quick glance at a table, two chairs and a safe in the corner told me—my office for the next week.
I introduced myself to Mr. Jesperson Truax, a lean, apronned individual, who immediately moved on to first na
mes—only his was just a shortened form of his last one. “Everyone around here calls me True. Welcome to Red City. Room’s upstairs. First one on the left. We’re not exactly overrun with guests right now, so if you don’t like the view, we can always move you.”
I thanked him. Told him I’d be back down as soon as I’d gotten rid of some of the dust from the train and coach, and asked about dinner.
He grinned. “We serve the best food in town. Not much variety on the menu, but plenty of it.”
I said I wasn’t fussy, and went off to explore my sleeping quarters. Surprisingly, while not matching the luxury of my room at St. Louis’ Don Remy, the bed felt comfortable and the surroundings showed very recent dusting and mopping. All the needed items, including a tin basin and a pitcher of water, were present along with a notice pasted on the door proudly announcing, in a beautiful copperplate script, the newly installed indoor plumbing down at the end of the hall. The notice also included the request the chain be pulled after each use.
I was on my way back to my room from where I had used the facilities and had remembered to pull the chain, when I almost ran into what I assumed was another guest. We nodded acknowledgement of each other’s presence, and when I got back to my room I tried, as I frequently do, to fit this individual into some sort of context. A drummer perhaps? Unlikely. Too well dressed to be just a travelling salesman. And why Red River Falls City? Certainly not a farmer. I shrugged, brushed some of the road dust off of my travel jacket, splashed some water on my face, and decided to sample the hotel’s fare.
As I came down the stairs, a middle-aged, florid man approached the bar and bought a new pack of cards. True did the introductions, pointing out I was the assayer from “down St. Louis way.” Todd McHenry was the customer’s name. He shook my hand and invited me to a “friendly game.” I thanked him, said I was about to make up for the slim railroad fare first, but I might consider joining in afterwards. I’d pretty much played out any natural inclination I might have had for cards back in my early twenties, but I still occasionally sat in on a few hands. In this instance, I knew it wouldn’t hurt to mingle with some of the locals and get acquainted that way.
Expect the Unexpected Page 27
