The Significant Seven Read online

  They hurried across the roadway, turning left at Barn Nineteen, onto the path leading to Barn Seventeen. A large, excited group of backstretch workers had assembled there. Trucks were parked haphazardly. Golf carts used by some of the elderly trainers had been left at odd angles on the strip of worn grass separating the barns. Tenuta, worried, said, “Doc, what’s going on? Not more bad news I hope.”

  “Just something amazing,” Doc Jensen said, motioning them forward.

  Doyle thought, I hope one of these good Mexican grooms hasn’t spotted an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe in a mound of horse manure. He was relieved when the veterinarian politely pushed his way through the crowd, saying, “C’mon, people. Let these men have a look.”

  Jensen positioned Tenuta and Doyle at the door to stall Twenty-Four. “What do you think of that?” he said. Tenuta said, “What the hell?” All Doyle saw was a young filly, back in the corner of the stall, rear end turned to the crowd. Then he noticed motion in the dark corner. He said, “What’s that?”

  Jensen clapped him on the back. “Believe it or not, that’s the little colt that this two-year-old filly foaled about two hours ago. Right here in this stall, with no help from anybody. Not her trainer, or groom, or vet.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like this,” Tenuta said. “Neither have I,” said a tall, gray-haired, black groom who was standing to Doyle’s left. “And I’ve been on the racetrack since Secretariat broke his maiden.”

  Doc Jensen motioned toward the rear of the crowd. “Ralph, you know Hank Kasperski, right? I ran into him in the track kitchen a couple of days back. He said, ‘Doc, I’ve got the fattest two-year-old filly you’ve ever seen. She was vanned up from a southern Illinois farm over the weekend. It’s going to take me weeks to trim her down.’

  “Kasperski, of course,” continued Jensen, “never thought for a minute that an in-foal two-year-old filly would be shipped up to him. Her name is Modern Mimi. Never been to a track before. Anyway, Kasperski’s night watchman, Carlos Rentiera, was making his rounds about midnight. He shines his flashlight into Modern Mimi’s stall, just after her water bag breaks. Carlos saw her turn around and lie down on her side. He runs back to the office and calls Kasperski, who calls his vet, Margo Sroka, and they both hurry over here to the barn.

  “When they arrive, Carlos is in the stall on his knees. He says, ‘The feet, they come out, Mr. Kasperski. Here come the nose.’ Doc Sroka says, ‘This is going fine.’

  “The foal emerges, kicks his way out of the sac, and scrambles to his feet. His mama starts licking him clean. The umbilical cord breaks. Doc Sroka tells Kasperski, ‘If they all did this so easily nobody would ever have to call us vets out in the middle of the night.’”

  Doyle was puzzled. “How could an unraced two-year-old get pregnant? That’s not what an owner would have in mind, right?”

  Tenuta said, “No, of course not. But these things do happen, although pretty rarely. I guess one night down there in southern Illinois, nine months ago, some stud horse jumped the fence into her pasture and had his way with this little girl.” He laughed. “Kasperski must be taking some ragging about this, right, Doc?”

  “Believe it,” Jensen said. “Poor Kasperski keeps defending himself, telling them, ‘I’ve been in foaling barns. I’ve seen mares about to produce. I know what they look like. They look slab-sided when the foal moves into position. They start acting different. None of this happened with this filly.’ He is really embarrassed. Of course they’re all over him, anyway. Things like, ‘Hank, were you gonna run that filly in the Matron Stakes?’”

  “Wait a minute,” Doyle said. “How will a two-year-old filly nurse?”

  Doc Jensen said, “Modern Mimi won’t. They’re going to ship her colt to a farm out near Wheaton and put him on a nurse mare.”

  Doyle said, “Does it work?”

  Jensen said, “Most times, yes. Like most things in this racetrack life.”

  They said goodbye to the veterinarian and began to work their way back through the expanding crowd. A short, middle-aged, red-haired woman plucked at Tenuta’s sleeve. He stopped. “Hey, Mary,” he said. Motioning over his shoulder, Tenuta added, “Is that something or what?” He turned to Doyle and said, “Jack, meet my old friend Mary Izzerman.” Doyle recognized the name of one of Chicago’s first female trainers. “Great to meet you,” he said to this sixtyish woman with a wide grin on her face.

  Izzerman said, “Ralph, I bet you remember that old Western racetrack story about the mare and her foal?”

  “Nope,” Tenuta said, smiling. “But I bet you’re going to tell us.”

  “This happened at a little track out in the bushes in Colorado,” Izzerman said, turning to Doyle. “They had a real fast mare there named Neecee Self. One summer afternoon, she was leading the field around the track, as usual, when she stopped and had a little bay foal that looked just like her.” Izzerman paused letting that line ride out into the morning air. Doyle was into it now, but he waited for Tenuta, who said, “All right, Mary Izzerman, what happened then?”

  “Neecee Self, the mare, got on her feet, and caught and passed the field, and finished first by about a length. Her little foal ran second.”

  Izzerman bent over, hands on her knees, laughing, as Doyle and Tenuta joined in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  May 15, 2009

  Later that morning, Tenuta left the track for an appointment with his dentist, who was located in an office building that Tenuta, an always reluctant patient, referred to as “The House of Pain.” Doyle said he would keep an eye out for the blacksmith who was scheduled to replace shoes on four of the Tenuta horses.

  Strolling down the dirt corridor to the end of the barn, Doyle spotted a dusty white truck with a horse shoe insignia on the front door. The shoe was pointed up, of course, racing superstition holding that “luck” at that angle would not run down, or out. It was the truck Tenuta had told him to watch for. “The blacksmith’s name is Travis Hawkins. Tell him which four horses need shoes. Although he probably knows from his records. He’s a sharp guy.”

  Hawkins was a muscular, brown-skinned African American, maybe early forties. A couple of inches taller than Doyle’s five-eleven, broad shoulders and chest, large hands that looked strong enough to squeeze open a coconut. He could have been one of those middleweight boxers that for years emerged from the testing gyms of Philadelphia, eager to inflict hurt. Doyle was glad to find Hawkins to be just as amiable as he was foreboding-looking at first glance. They hit it off within minutes.

  “You’re Jack Doyle?” Hawkins said. “Heard about you. Been around the racetrack a bit, as I understand it.”

  “That’s right.”

  Hawkins grinned. “In various capacities is what I’ve heard.”

  “You could say that,” Doyle said, “and you just did. Want to get down to business? We’ve got four for you to do.”

  “We?”

  Doyle said, “That’s right. I’m here helping out Ralph Tenuta for the summer.”

  “Really?” Hawkins said. He reached into the cab of his truck and took out a worn, heavy leather apron which he strapped on. “Never thought Ralph would need much help.”

  Doyle briefly thought of confiding in this seemingly trustworthy working man. Telling him what the hell he was doing in Ralph Tenuta’s employ while working on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He quickly squelched that impulse, remembering that farrier Hawkins, whose work took him all over the Heartland Downs backstretch, was as much a possible sponger as anyone else.

  The two men walked down the shed row. Hawkins was wearing a sweat-soaked gray Chicago Bulls tee shirt under his leather apron. His jeans and steel-toed work boots were covered with dust. Doyle asked him if wanted to do Editorialist first.

  “I’d rather not deal with that son of a bitch at all,” Hawkins said. “I don’t much look forward to coming to work when he’s due for new shoes.”

  Doyle said, “Mi
nd if I watch you work? I’ve never seen this done.”

  “You’re welcome to watch away,” Hawkins said.

  “How many horses do you shoe on an average day?”

  “Depends,” Hawkins said, striding forward while effortlessly swinging his heavy tool kit. “Could be anywhere from six to ten. That’s four shoes per animal. I can usually finish one in maybe a half-hour, forty-five minutes. Most of them get new shoes every thirty days. Editorialist? With him it could take twenty minutes if he’s in the mood, or two hours of wrestling with the big bastard if he isn’t. Which he usually isn’t.”

  Hawkins proved to be a model of proficiency. He put racing plates on a couple of Tenuta’s three-year-olds in less than fifty minutes total. “That wasn’t bad,” Doyle said.

  “Not bad at all,” Hawkins said, placing his hammer and nails back in his wooden work box. “First few years I did this, it was pretty rough. Not too many folks wanted to hire a ‘Negro farrier.’ But there aren’t that many ’smiths around anymore. Most people with good sense won’t go into this line of work. You get banged around, bruised, kicked, bitten. It took me awhile to learn how to deal with these racehorses. After a few years, when I showed what I could do, I started picking up more business.”

  They stopped in front of Editorialist’s stall. The horse’s head was over the bottom door panel. He had watched them approach. Editorialist uttered a belch-like sound of disapproval and rolled his eyes. “Hello, you son of a gun,” Hawkins said. He said to Doyle, “I’ve been putting plates on this one since he came to the track at age two. You know, most horses don’t want to hurt you, but they can do it accidentally. Not this one. There hasn’t been a time he hasn’t tried to swivel and kick me. But he ain’t got me yet, have you big fella?” Hawkins attempted to stroke Editorialist’s neck. The horse retreated.

  Editorialist’s groom, a small Mexican-American woman named Rosario Lopez, appeared from the back of the stall, holding a rub rag and a brush. “Outside now, Señor?” she said to Hawkins.

  “Sí,” Hawkins said.

  Doyle stood back, occasionally asking questions as Hawkins worked. Rosario, as determined as she was small, managed to hold the barely cooperative Editorialist’s head still. By the time Hawkins had removed Editorialist’s four shoes, trimmed the growth around each foot, filed their edges, hammered eight nails into every shoe, both he and Rosario were drenched in sweat. Doyle started to perspire just watching all this.

  Finally, Hawkins said, “Gracias, Señorita. You did very well.” The little groom flashed a big smile, then pulled the big horse around and led him back into his stall, talking to him in Spanish, in a tone that sounded both admonitory and affectionate. Editorialist responded by lashing out with his hind legs. There was no target within his range. He glared back over his shoulder as if to make clear to Hawkins and Doyle, “That’s what I could have done before.”

  When Hawkins had finished with the fourth horse, Doyle said, “How about some coffee?” They rode in the blacksmith’s pickup truck to the track kitchen. “It’s about lunch time for me,” Hawkins said as they joined the cafeteria line of steam tables. When they sat down, Hawkins faced a platter containing eggs, pancakes, fried potatoes, sausages, and a pair of gravy-covered biscuits. With his cup of coffee and doughnut, Doyle watched admiringly as Hawkins rapidly cleaned his plate.

  “Guess you fellows work up quite an appetite,” Doyle smiled.

  Hawkins said, “Oh, yeah, dealing with thousand-pound animals that don’t necessarily want to be dealt with, you get a pretty good workout every day.”

  “How many blacksmiths work here at Heartland Downs?”

  “Only about a half-dozen now. The old guys aren’t being replaced. Face it, man, it’s tough work.”

  Doyle said, “Of the six farriers here, how many are black?”

  “You are one very inquisitive cat,” Hawkins smiled, adding, “you are looking at the one and only.” He sat back in his chair. “Jack, what brings you back to the racetrack? I heard you had something to do with that old Italian trainer, Angelo Cilio, a few years back. And you helped catch those crooks killing horses for insurance money. Last I heard, you worked in publicity at Monee Park. A woman you worked with there, Shontanette Hunter, is a cousin of my wife’s. She used to tell us about you,” Hawkins said, smiling, before scraping up the few remaining biscuit bits.

  Doyle said, “You seem to know a hell of a lot about me, Travis. You keep your ear to the ground pretty good? Like you say, I’ve been around in ‘various capacities.’ I also spent some time working on a Kentucky breeding farm. Then, I decided I’d like to get back to the track. I was lucky enough to get work with Ralph Tenuta.”

  Hawkins polished off the last of his eggs with three deft scoops before draining his glass of orange juice. “Know something, Jack?”

  “What?”

  Hawkins said, “I don’t buy into the last part of that story. As to why you’re here.”

  For a second or two, Doyle again considered telling this man the truth. Hawkins seemed to be a person who loved his work, and loved horses. Doyle had seen that he was forceful with them, but gentle when applying their expensive aluminum shoes.

  Hard for Doyle to imagine Travis Hawkins doing such a cruel thing to horses as sponging them. But, you never know, Doyle reminded himself. He fought down his urge to confide.

  Instead, he said to Hawkins, “My Grandfather Doyle, when he wasn’t completely sober, which was many a time as I recall, used to recite poems at the family gatherings. He knew dozens by heart. Most of our family ignored him. But when my brother and I were old enough, Grandpa would encourage us to memorize poetry by paying us a dollar a stanza if we could say it for him. One of Gramps’ favorites was ‘The Village Smithy.’ He said he’d learned it in high school. You know it?”

  “Before my time,” Hawkins said. He buttered another piece of toast. Doyle began to recite.

  “Under a spreading chestnut tree

  The village smithy stands;

  The smith, a mighty man is he,

  With large and sinewy hands.”

  “That’s about all I can remember,” Doyle said, “except there was something about ‘The smithy earns whatever he can, and looks the whole world in the face, for he owes not any man.’ I’m pretty sure that’s right.”

  “That’s good, Jack. But I guess that poem doesn’t mention the fact that a blacksmith has probably the only job in the world where his head is below his ass most of the day.”

  Doyle laughed. “No, Travis, I don’t believe it does contain that line.”

  ***

  Hawkins reached the long driveway leading to his rural Lake County home shortly before six o’clock that soft summer evening. As usual, his daughter and son heard his truck coming and left their front porch to greet him in the driveway. Eight-year-old Serena led the way. Brandon, six, trailed by a yard or two in their dash toward Daddy. At their flank was the Hawkins’ short-haired German pointer, Andy. The children jumped into their father’s brawny arms, their smiles almost as wide as his. Andy got up on his hind legs, pawing his way into the greeting committee, making more noise than the rest combined. Hawkins put the kids down, bent to acknowledge the dog’s insistent presence, and said to Serena, “Hey, my girl, how was your day?”

  “Great, Daddy. Me and Brandon caught three fish out of the pond.”

  Hawkins looked at his son. “That true, Brandon?”

  “We got three fish, Daddy, and I got two of them.”

  Hawkins laughed. “Serena, that right? Your little brother outfished you?

  Serena scowled for a second, then shrugged. “Well, today he did,” she admitted.

  Hawkins had created the pond the year after he and his family became the first blacks to own property in this otherwise printer-paper-white corner of Lake County. It took him most of their first summer there, digging into the soil on his rented Bobcat, working into the night hours after finishing his farrier stint at Hea
rtland Downs. As a boy in Riverdale, Arkansas, he had spent hundreds, if not thousands, of happy hours in quest of fish. He wanted Brandon and Serena to share his passion for the sport, to learn the patience, calmness, and concentration required of successful fishermen or women. Their progress delighted him.

  Hawkins’ wife Taliyah was waiting for him inside the screen door. She leaned forward for a brief kiss. “I’ll start the grill,” she said. “You shower.”

  “Really? You think I need one?”

  “Unless we’re all going to sit upwind of you at supper,” Taliyah said. “That whiff of horse barn you bring home is strong this evening.”

  “Glad it is,” Hawkins said. “That’s the smell of hard work that led to money, honey. Don’t forget it.” He hugged her. “I had a good, busy day for a change,” he said.

  “My business is way down. Horse owners are hurting, and so are the rest of us racetrackers. Okay, okay, I’m going.”

  ***

  The children cleared the plates from the outdoor table, Serena directing Brandon how best to scrape them clean before putting them in the dishwasher. Taliyah said, “That girl is getting bossier every day.”

  Hawkins didn’t respond. He was looking out over their back hedge. Taliyah touched his hand. “What’re you thinking, Travis? Seems your mind’s elsewhere.” She covered her mouth with her hand before saying, “You didn’t get hurt on the job today, did you? I thought you were kind of limping when you came in from the truck.”

  Hawkins smiled. He gave her hand a reassuring pat. “Nothing like that. If I’m limping, it’s just the same old kick up of the ’thritis in my right knee. No,” he continued, “I was thinking about something else. Met a man today at Ralph Tenuta’s barn. Name of Jack Doyle. Remember Shontanette talking about him a year or so ago? When they both worked at Monee Park?”

  Taliyah said, “Yes, I do. She thought he was a good guy. Kind of different, but okay. As I remember it, they got along good.”