Fender Mason

By Bernie Orenstein

Jockeys, trainers, Arab billionaires lawyers and beautiful
women are all part of the Kentucky landscape in which
first-time horse owner, Fender Mason, finds himself.
His Beverly Hills background didnt prepare him to be a
farm owner . . . or much else . . . but fate hurls him into the
middle of a mystery that introduces him to the danger zone of
thoroughbred racing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462849451

Bernie Orenstein

Bernie Orenstein is an Associate Professor of Television History at Long Island University who, in his previous life was the writer/producer of such television favorites as Sanford and Son, Love American Style, Kate and Allie, Cosby and many others. Born in Toronto, where he worked in early television, he moved to New York in the late ‘60s to write Candid Camera and then to Hollywood where his thirty-five year career in sitcoms began with That Girl, the Marlo Thomas hit. He now lives in Connecticut with his wife, actress Barbara Rhoades. His first novel, Fender Mason, was a comic look at thoroughbred racing. If you love great writing, and enjoy murder mysteries--this book is for you. M. E. Altieri Saratoga.com Fender Mason and his friends kept me company for three days on my Sanibel FL vacation. I really enjoyed the verbal sparring between Fender and Anita - smart, cute and not sit-commy. So, Mr. O, I am asking about book 2. Is there one in the works? Margie Peters Executive Producer Facts of Life

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Bernie Orenstein.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4628-4846-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-4945-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

102078

To Barbara

with love

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteeen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter One

You could get killed by a Kentucky winter.

The walk from the house to the barn wasn’t more than a hundred yards, but this winter Fender Mason was positive he wouldn’t make it alive. Kentucky had blue grass, and horses and the worst Februarys in America.

Harry Greer, who handled the mares over at Colonial Farms, had actually frozen to death on a similar walk a couple of years ago, and Fender always thought of him as he made his middle-of-the-night trek from the warmth of his bed to the mare barn that stood protected from the biting wind only by a lone geranium pot at the entrance. Of course Harry Greer was in his early nineties and had a bad cold since his late fifties, but his death made Fender painfully aware of a possible personal disaster.

It was on nights like this that Fender was glad he hadn’t lost that fifteen pounds he’d been threatening to drop. He couldn’t understand why people would want to get rid of fat in a climate like this. The fact that Eskimos actually ate blubber should have been a clue that fat and cold are natural partners.

Somehow it would all have been easier to take if there was snow on the ground to accompany the ridiculous temperature, but there was only a wisp of white huddled against the bottom of a fence post. It was amazing how a place could get so ugly after it had issued the beauty of a radiant autumn. But you weren’t supposed to hint that anything was ugly in Kentucky; in any state in which people spoke with a drawl, no matter how subtle.

The double doors at the end of the barn were closed, and only the palest sliver of light poked out at the bottom. Fender tried to figure out how to open the door without taking his hands out of his pockets, but he gave up and began to shout into a convenient crack. Actually it was more of a moan, and it elicited a response in seconds.

Stop moaning, Fender. I’m here.

Don’t tell me you’re here. Show me you’re here.

The huge doors parted and Fender fell into the light, realizing quickly that it was as cold inside as out. He shuffled to the middle of the barn and peeked into the foaling stall, nodding middle-of-the-night hellos to Harold, who had let him in, and to Anita, who stood in the stall waiting for the mare to make her next move.

Why did you call me at two o’clock in the morning? Fender asked, as he made sure the top of his jacket was buttoned.

You told me to. There’s some coffee over there. Anita pointed towards the end of the barn.

Don’t listen to me between November and May, please, he pleaded, waving off her offer of Harold’s terrible brew.

He leaned against the stall, looking at the mare who was steaming, but other than that, didn’t seem ready to deliver. Her tail was tied, and Anita stood behind her, waiting for something to happen. As much as he seemed to complain, Fender loved these moments. Being a farm owner was part of it, but it was just being able to stare at Anita, looking totally at ease in the barn, watching her brush a dark strand of hair from her eye and looking even more beautiful than on those rare occasions when she spent a half hour reluctantly fooling with makeup at her dressing table.

Most of the horses at Fender’s farm were boarders sent by their owners to be cared for by Anita and her staff. This season was a particularly busy one, and at the beginning of the month there were thirty-six mares on the property, eleven with brand new foals at their side. Most of them would stay to be bred to stallions in the area, and the sixteen dollars a day per animal that he charged almost allowed the farm operation to break even.

He owned three of the mares himself: a sixteen year old Bold Commander bay, who hadn’t been in foal for three years, but who was loved by all; an Arts and Letters giant of a broodmare who was carrying a Northern Jove baby; and the one he was watching now, Intensity, who was waiting to drop her Majestic Light colt or filly.

He looked at Anita and flashed back to last year when he stood in the same place waiting for Intensity to drop a Naskra filly that turned out to be too crooked to hope that it would bring anything at the sales.

This mare always remained standing when she delivered, and he remembered how Anita caught the filly, straining under the weight, yet smiling because of her part in delivering a new life, and gently putting the new foal on the straw. The baby was a beautiful chestnut, with extraordinarily sharp markings that made Fender think that she might have been special. But the filly’s poor conformation became evident very quickly, and visions of a hundred thousand dollar bid at the Saratoga sales disappeared before a month had passed. Maybe she’d make a decent riding horse when she got a little older.

Now he waited in the cold to see if this year’s baby would be better. The foal had been working, and legs were starting to show as the mare was moving around. The tip of a nose was there and Fender craned for a better view as Anita moved with the mother so as to stay behind her. She called for Harold, who slipped into the stall with her, making Fender feel more like a visitor than an owner. He had assisted a few times in the foaling stall when Harold was drunk in his apartment next to the tack room, but he was uneasy with the responsibility, unlike Anita, who was a natural. She started helping the mare by pulling at the foal’s legs, gently at first, getting the back ones clear of the opening. As in previous years, Intensity made the art of birthing look simple, and it took only a few more minutes to see that the foal had a wonderful white blaze on its face. Anita started pulling more vigorously and Harold got next to her to help in the catch that he knew would happen any minute.

A huge mare in the next stall brayed with such emotion that even Anita looked up, and in that instant the foal followed a rush of liquid and slid into Harold’s arms. The weight of the slippery baby pulled him to the ground, but he cushioned the fall and Anita immediately was on the straw with him to help.

Fender would have applauded except that his hands seemed glued in his warm pockets. The blaze was as beautiful as he first suspected and he started thinking of him, or her, in the winner’s circle.

Colt or filly? he asked

Colt, Harold rasped. Heavy, too.

*     *     *

Back at the house, Fender poured the drinks as Anita expertly stacked the logs in the fireplace. Fender had never learned how to build a fire without the help of gas jets that were common in California, but he knew Anita loved showing off her Campfire Girl skills. Besides, he was more comfortable at the bar than at the hearth. He looked at her and she must have sensed his stare. She turned and smiled at him.

Pretty good looking colt, he said, as he handed her the Scotch.

You like the white on his nose. That doesn’t make him a good looking colt.

Talk nice to me. I’m the boss. Cheers.

Cheers, boss

She emptied her glass, and held it out for a refill as she stood and moved over to the comfortable chair that Fender had his eye on. He poured another Chivas, purposely being stingy with the refill, and gave it to her. She smiled a thank you and he thought for the thousandth time that she had the greatest mouth in the world.

Aren’t you too young to be drinking scotch in the middle of the night?

Aren’t you too old to be trying to get me drunk?

I only look old, Fender said. They had played this game often.

That’s true, and I only look young.

Twenty-seven is young.

I was twenty-seven when we met. As each year goes by you add one to my age. That’s how it works, she said. I guess you want to know about the foal.

Fender nodded.

He stood up quickly enough. I don’t think there’s a problem with the legs.

Good looking? he asked, looking for confirmation.

Real good looking.

That about covered the horse talk and he settled into the sofa. Anita took her boots off and played with her drink. He watched and started feeling that mellowness that always took over when they were alone together.

Anita Hoving was probably the youngest farm manager in the blue grass area. Youngest woman manager, that was for sure. Prettiest, without question. Smartest, maybe.

*     *     *

Anita was working over at Broadmoor Farms when Fender first came to the state nearly five years before and boarded his own horses there. She was first hired by Hugh Penter, the manager of the broodmare barn, to fill in during her high school summers, and after she graduated from the U of K in Lexington, she was at the farm full time.

Fender had asked her to go to dinner the third or fourth time he saw her and she said he was too old for her. He never asked her what age she thought wouldn’t be too old, afraid of an answer, although he never thought of himself as being ancient. Hell, Sean Connery was older than he was and he seemed to appeal to women of all ages. Of course, at five-eight, hair he could never comb the way he wanted, and a general look that was more supermarket manager that secret agent, he knew he was no James Bond.

It was the owner of Broadmoor, old man Varagent, who told her that Fender Mason was well under forty, and the next time he saw her she brought up the dinner invitation.

You mentioned dinner a while back, she said, as she was cleaning a stall.

Did I? Fender loved the role of Mr. Cool.

Forget it! She pushed a shovel full of manure towards a corner.

Don’t forget it! said Mr. Panic.

Wednesday would be okay with me. Anita had a trace of a smile now.

Eight?

Seven. She tucked her silver necklace back into her plaid shirt. I work, you know.

I forgot.

In those days Anita had an apartment that she shared with a girlfriend who worked at the University, and Fender picked her up there at seven sharp. He was afraid to be late. He wondered why she intimidated him, but dismissed the thought, realizing that she was worth it. It was hard to shake the thought that she might be too young, or that he might be too old, but he was determined not to let that spoil the evening for him.

He had moved to Kentucky the previous Labor Day, and he tried to count the number of dates he had been on as he drove to her place. He had been with Marcia Tolliver enough to know she was a horrible person who was wonderful in bed; and with Jeanne Guilford who was just the opposite. Corillia Hutchins asked him to a number of private parties, and even though everyone thought she was attractive, she did nothing for him. He went to the Radisson Bar a few times but there was never anyone else sitting there. And that was about the extent of his social life.

He hated first dates, knowing that something always went wrong. Usually it had to do with the girl not being anything like he thought she was. Basically, she was always uglier, dumber and more boring than he hoped. Anita, however, was prettier, smarter, and was more involved in more things than anyone he had met since settling in Kentucky. She talked about stamps and bridge and even knew a little about the Big Bands. She belonged to a gun club, supported NARAL and marched against the war when she was in college. And the mouth. That’s what got him right away. The most perfect lips guarding what could have been the most perfect teeth, except for that very slight chip, but together making a smile that was the most perfect thing in the world. Fender was in love before they claimed their reservation at Carmine’s.

Nick led them to their table. Fender said, thanks, and Anita said something more involved in flawless Italian. Nick answered and Anita issued an easy laugh while Fender felt the complete outsider, yet promising himself never to ask for a translation of the exchange. They were seated and quickly ordered their drinks: a Tanqueray for him and a Chivas and water for her. The menus were put aside so that the opening conversation could begin.

I’ve never dated a farm client before, she said, looking straight at him.

It was a little disconcerting to be put on the defensive so early in the game. I could take my horses off the farm, he mumbled, trying his hand at date talk.

Don’t be a shmuck, Fender.

And it went on from there. First of all she explained how she learned to use the word shmuck. No academic accomplishment this, but rather the result of living with Melanie Cohen, who peppered every conversation with Yiddish folk expressions. He would soon learn that Melanie didn’t limit herself to her own ethnic bon mots, but included Italian hand gestures, Arab camel references and the occasional fuck you.

After their drinks arrived, he told her about his parents, Ben and Corinne, his life in California and how he ended up in Lexington.

So, you don’t know anything about horses. She was seeking verification of what she already suspected.

Not really. Fender hated admitting it. But that just makes me like ninety percent of the other horse owners.

I guess so. She had finished her drink before Fender had taken more that a few sips of his. She reached across the table and used his folded napkin to wipe her lips. He liked that she felt comfortable doing that.

You’ve got a great mouth.

I’ve heard that.

Fender thought his mouth critique was original. From whom?

You said whom. I like that. The person that told me about my mouth taught English. He hated people that said who instead of whom.

"You mean people who said who instead of whom."

You can tell that grammar was his thing, not mine.

So, he’d like me. Was he a boyfriend?

We dated for a year or so. I liked him a lot, but he dumped me.

Impossible.

Thanks. I’d like another Scotch. She moved a flower that was in the center of the table. He was pleased that she wanted to see an unobstructed Fender.

He nodded at their waiter, who understood the request, and then Fender went on with his story.

His father, Ben Mason, had moved from Buffalo to Los Angeles after the war with his wife and young son, made a lot of money building single family boxes in the Valley, and walked out on his family the morning of Fender’s twentieth birthday. Corinne and Fender had the home in Mandeville Canyon, but that was about all. Ben had obviously been planning his departure for a while, and managed to provide for his own future with some intricate financial moves so that he and the lady he ran off with would be more than comfortable.

If Anita had a weakness it was for sad story that had a touch of sleaze, and Fender’s had the making of a beauty. She moved a little closer to him and he liked that.

Fender continued. I had just given up on college when he left. My mother was at a fat farm in Tecate. So, it was through our family accountant that I heard that my father had gone to the Bahamas with a blonde person that he had known for a couple of years. My mother didn’t take it at all badly until she found out there wasn’t any money. I was more upset though, because I knew the blonde person was Phyllis, whom I thought was just his secretary over whom I had lusted on many occasions, Actually I did more than just lust. We went to bed together… really to desk together, one afternoon when he was in Chicago and I had gone to his office to get some money for something or other.

You fucked your future stepmother?

They never got married. He saw that this disappointed her.

And then?

And then, nothing too exciting until last May when he drowned in Nassau.

I’m sorry. Was your mother upset? Probably not.

Well, it was a year after my mother got killed ballooning in the Napa Valley.

This is not a lucky family. Anita was serious.

By then I was starving trying to sell rare coins and anxiously waiting for the famous reading of the will.

The waiter appeared with two menus and asked if they would like to hear the specials. Anita shook her head and turned back to Fender. Thrilled that his story was more important than the specials, he went on.

It was in an office right out of a Dashiell Hammett paperback.

Who?

The Maltese Falcon guy. It doesn’t matter. My lawyer shared his desk with an insurance broker. Not a successful practice.

They read it in a lawyer’s office, like in the movies? They don’t really do that, do they? She brushed away a strand of her hair that was covering her eye, but the hair fell back over her forehead. Fender reached across and brushed the strand away for her.

No. It was a letter that was hard to understand, but for eight hundred dollars, I got it translated into English by this Sherman Oaks attorney. Dear Ben had left me three broodmares, two in foal that you now take care of, plus a thousand shares of stock in something close to worthless that I quickly sold, and that’s my life.

That’s it? That’s the story? She reached for the menu.

I didn’t think it sounded that bad.

It started out great, but then fell apart.

Fender finished his gin and moved an inch closer. He decided he had told her enough for a first date conversation. He would mention his unusual marriage and his ejection from Caesar’s Palace at some later time. Now, what about you?

I’ll have the mozzarella marinara, she said.

*     *     *

He often thought about that first night, and all that he had learned about her, including that she drank a little too much Chivas, had a passion for mozzarella marinara and used to go with an idiot English teacher. The dinner was good enough for Lexington, and knowing that she had stalls to clean early in the morning, he drove her back to her apartment around ten. There was nothing close to a kiss, although she said thank you in a way that made it sound like she meant it.

All that was five years ago, 1979, and as he looked down at her face tonight, scrubbed from their shower and flushed from their love making, he thought about their progression from daters to lovers, and how much his life had changed because of her and their first trip to Saratoga.

He never thought that trip would get him involved in a murder.

Chapter Two

When Fender first came to Kentucky it took him months to figure out the direction he was driving. Every road in the city seemed to curve and that made it difficult. It was a complaint voiced by most newcomers to the city, but now, on most nights after he dropped Anita at her place, he was able to find his way back to Cleveland Lane and the small house he had rented from Sid Bain.

Sid was a Kentucky lawyer who helped Fender with the inheritance of the mares and encouraged him to come to Lexington and be out of work there. At least in Kentucky, unemployed people seemed more relaxed than in California. Sid loved selling Kentucky. He was native born and was stuck with an accent that made you smile the moment he said hello. At six-three it was strange to hear Sid refer to nearly everyone else as big boy. Of course to Fender they all were. At five-eight, he and Sid made a strange duo, but Sid liked the curly blond Californian, and Fender felt totally safe in this alien world when he was with the balding giant. It was easy to talk Fender into moving out to Lexington. He liked the idea of thinking he was a horseman, although three ordinary mares weren’t something you bragged about in the bar at Keeneland Race Track

Cash became a problem very quickly, and Fender thought he’d look around for a buyer to take one of his mares. One of them was in foal to Mr. Prospector, a young sire who was starting to get a lot of attention, and a second one was carrying a Halo baby. Halo was standing at stud at Windfields Farm in Maryland, and although he wasn’t a high priced stallion, his offspring were acquitting themselves nicely on the track.

Sid had a client in Memphis who was looking for a mare and suggested to Fender that the gentleman might take the barren one that he had. Fender applauded the idea and Sid made some calls and a deal was struck. Fender got thirty thousand and Sid took ten. The man from Memphis got a seventeen-year-old Prince John mare that, although not pregnant now, could be bred in the upcoming season. Mares sired by Prince John seemed to produce more than their share of winners at tracks all over the country, and so, for the man from Memphis it was a pretty good deal. For Fender, the timing was right. The money let him live fairly comfortably and he knew that with some luck, he could make a hundred thousand or so when he sold the Mr. Prospector and Halo yearlings in a year and a half.

After their first dinner at Carmine’s, Fender and Anita made it their regular stop. He noticed she spoke less Italian and included him in her conversations with Nick. Fender was feeling less of an outsider and he credited Anita for making his Lexington life close to perfect.

Not too many weeks after their first date, Anita encouraged him to do something with his time.

Like what?

Like get a job. The stable hands keep asking me what you do. I’d like to be able to at least generalize. You know, tell them, you work.

I’m in the horse business and I love everything about it. Fender told her.

You’ve got two fat mares. Mr. Lundy is in the horse business. Mr. Hunt is in the horse business. You’ve got a jacket with leather on the elbows. That’s as close as you come, Fender.

There was nothing mean about the way she said it. He laughed and she joined him. The next day he got a job with a bloodstock company.

He guessed Anita would have preferred to see him behind the counter at MacDonald’s. He found