“Now, now, Jack,” said Maureen, “sure and it’s bygones be bygones by now, ’tisn’t it, seeing how we sent you that tidy packet? No real harm done in the long run, am I right?” She looked quizzically up at Doyle’s damaged nose, but said nothing about it.
Maureen took Jack’s elbow and began to walk with him over the grass closer to stall No. 1. “I hope you’ll not be like what some of them are at home,” she said. “You know the saying over there? ‘What’s Irish Alzheimer’s disease?’ The answer is, ‘They forget everyt’ing but the grudge.’” Maureen laughed merrily, peering up at Doyle.
Morley caught up to them, walking on Jack’s other side.
“We’re both damned glad to see you, Jack,” E. D. said. “Now come take a look at what you helped us to get our hands on.”
Bunny’s Al, a medium-sized chestnut, was pawing the ground and tossing his head about restlessly as he was held by a groom. A well-muscled horse, his gleaming coat evidenced his terrific condition. He was jumping out of his skin, as the racetrack expression has it.
But Bunny’s Al settled down as soon as Morley approached him. The big man handed his Panama hat and white suit coat to the groom, then expertly put the saddle on the now calm horse and cinched it securely. They had brought their own jockey with them from Florida, a youngster named Jesse Black, who had ridden Bunny’s Al ever since E. D. and Maureen bought him.
“Do it again, Jesse,” E. D. told him as he boosted him aboard Bunny’s Al. Those were Morley’s only instructions to the jockey.
The crowd of owners, trainers, hangers-on, and racing officials began to leave the paddock in the wake of the horses who headed through the tunnel toward the track. “Will you watch the race with us, Jack?” Maureen asked.
“Can’t,” Doyle said. “I’ve got another little matter to settle.” He glanced at the paddock odds board. Bunny’s Al was four to one. Doyle looked at the horse’s beaming co-owners. “In spite of everything,” Doyle said, “good luck to you.”
“I think he means it,” E. D. said to Maureen.
“Acourse he does,” Maureen said. “That’s a heart a gold beatin’ away in there behind that cobbly front the man puts on.”
“Watch where you’re stepping, Maureen,” Jack said as he left them. “The horseshit can get high around here, especially with you contributing to it.”
As the Right to Bear Arms smoothly advanced, Wanda shifted her gaze from the ground far below to the man at the controls. General Oscar Belliard was a short, squat, gray-haired and gray-bearded man of fifty-five. Tufts of gray hair protruded from his large nostrils, his large ears, and the backs of his little hands. Looking at him as they soared over Chicago’s western suburbs, Wanda thought the general reminded her of some character, she couldn’t quite pin down which one, in a book she used to read to her nieces, The Wind in the Willows.
General Belliard made his living managing one of Louisville’s discount club grocery stores. His only direct exposure to things officially military had been as an ROTC cadet during his brief stint in college. A congenital heart murmur, he said, had prevented him from enlisting in any branch of the service. But his interest in everything military-including his vast collection of war textbooks, games, weapons, and films-along with his ballooning hobby, consumed most of his non-working hours. His role as founder and leader of the Underground Militia was the most important thing in the life of this lifelong bachelor.
Confidently, General Belliard gave Red and Junior the go-ahead to attach their banner to the stainless steel cables at the rear of the gondola. The banner contained the messages their flight was designed to deliver. “Target in sight,” cried the general as he looked through his binoculars toward Heartland Downs. “Prepare to unfurl!”
Having issued that order, General Belliard relaxed and reached into his knapsack for his lunch. He removed a ziplock baggy from the supply he issued to Underground Militia members when they went on backcountry maneuvers. It contained a handful of gherkins and a bulging sandwich of fried squirrel in white bread.
“Love eating these little critters-and hunting them, too,” the general said as he munched enthusiastically. Between bites he asked, “You folks hear about the scare those pointy heads over at the university are talking about? Some nonsense about a virus connected with eating squirrel brains? Can you believe that? What a load of manure, pardon the expression, Wanda.
“My Uncle Merle,” continued General Belliard, “probably ate a thousand or twelve hundred squirrels in his life, brains and all. No exaggeration. I can’t begin to estimate how many pounds of squirrel that’d come to.
“Late in his life, when he found his gums could not tolerate dentures, Uncle Merle used to skin his squirrels after he’d shot or trapped them, take the bones out, cut the meat up in little pieces, and put it all in this big blender he had. Said it made for the most refreshing drink in the world.
“And Uncle Merle lived in just darned good health to ninety-seven and three-quarters. Hunted right up to the end, too,” the general said proudly, before he suddenly clutched his chest and keeled over sideways onto the floor of the gondola.
Jockey Willie Arroyo, who normally chattered away to Beth Anderson, the pony girl accompanying the Willowdale horses in every post parade, was silent this afternoon. Beth usually just nodded without really listening to Willie’s rapid talk, but she found its absence now to be somewhat unsettling.
“What’s wrong, Willie?” she grinned, her blond ponytail swishing as she turned to face him from her big white pony as they proceeded toward the starting gate. “It’s only another half- million-dollar race. Those little nuts of yours aren’t shriveling up even smaller, are they?”
Arroyo barely heard her. His usually laughing and expressive countenance was grim, marked only by a frown. He patted Lancaster Lad on the right side of his neck, then stood in the stirrups to begin jogging the horse slowly forward. When the brown colt responded, Arroyo looked even more worried than he had moments earlier.
Seeing Arroyo’s concern, Beth Anderson turned serious. “Hey, babe, I was only kidding with you,” she said. There was no reply, so Beth asked: “Willie, what’s wrong here? Do you feel something? Is this horse sore, or what?”
They were almost at the gate, now, where the eight other Heartland Derby starters already waited to be loaded, some patiently, some having to be rotated in circles by members of the gate crew before their turns came. A dark bay filly named Nurse on Call balked and had to be hustled forward by assistant starters who locked arms behind her and pushed her into her slot. The others began to enter willingly, Bunny’s Al whinnying eagerly as he moved forward.
Beth reached over and unhooked the shank from Lancaster Lad. Willie Arroyo finally turned to face her. “Theez horse don’t,” he said, “theez horse don’t seem….”
Then Arroyo stopped talking. As the assistant starter took hold of Lancaster Lad’s bridle and pulled him forward, Arroyo took one last look back at Beth Anderson. He lifted his shoulders in a mighty shrug, flipped his goggles down and turned to face the racetrack that stretched before him beneath the bright October sun.
As the first of the Heartland Derby horses was being loaded into the starting gate, track announcer Calvin Gemmer momentarily interrupted his memorizing of the jockeys’ colors and lifted his binoculars skyward. He spotted a red, white, and blue hot-air balloon that was heading toward the track property in distressed fashion: zigging, zagging, yo-yoing up and down.
Gemmer switched on his in-house intercom and reached track publicity director Dan Zenner. “Have we got some kind of balloon promotion I should be mentioning?” the announcer asked. “Not that I know of,” came the reply. “Okay, just checking,” Gemmer answered.