Free The Significant Seven by John McEvoy

my back yard is spoken for. Why not Kentucky, where he can conceivably, and yes, I use that word advisedly,” he said to the laughter it elicited, “make us some more money? And have some fun while he’s doing it? Remember how he used to call out to all the fillies in his barn last summer. Strutting along with his hose hanging down? He’s got a libido as big as his heart.”
    “So you’re saying there’s no downside to this plan?” said Barnhill. “What if he winds up shooting blanks, like the great horse Cigar?”
    “That’s always a possibility, though a remote one. But c’mon, Mike,” Rison shot back, “do you know any plan that doesn’t have a possible downside for somebody? Look, it’ll be a couple of years before The Badger’s first foals hit the racetrack. The usual practice in this business is to give a new stallion at least three crops of runners before he pretty much defines himself in the stud league. We won’t really know if The Badger is going to be a success until then. But his stud fee stays the same for at least two of those first three years, depending on how the foals look and how they do at the big Keeneland and Saratoga sales.”
    “What’s his stud fee going to be, Arnie?” Carson asked.
    Rison looked at the fax in his hand. “The Fairborne people say that they want to, quote, price him realistically, unquote, in order to make him attractive to breeders. His fee will be $12,500 per live foal. That’s damn reasonable for a horse with The Badger’s record.
    “How many mares can he be bred to each year?” Barnhill persisted, still somewhat skeptical about this venture.
    “One hundred the first year,” Rison said.
    Carson scribbled some figures on his napkin. “Holy shit. That’s a million and a quarter in stud fees.”
    “Wait,” Rison said. “Probably only eighty percent of those hundred mares will produce a live foal. So the gross won’t be that high. But, still, it’ll be around a million. And,” Rison added, “remember that if The Badger turns out to be a success as a stallion, that stud fee will be increased.”
    Talk erupted around the table as Rison reached for his nearly empty martini glass. He drained it, then tapped it with a spoon. “One more major item, gentlemen, so listen up. Judge Toomey, drawing on his vast legal experience, recommends we have a partnership contract drawn up to cover The Badger’s stud career. He can’t do it because he’s involved. A friend of mine you just saw, Moe Kellman, recommended a Chicago attorney named Frank Cohan. Supposedly the city’s top contract lawyer. Cohan drew it up. I’ve read it over, and I think it’s just what we need. Just as with the racing partnership corporation, any profits will be divided equally among the seven of us after expenses and taxes.
    “But this new contract goes further. At my recommendation, it calls for a new pattern of distribution. If, God forbid, one of us dies during The Badger’s years at stud, that person’s percentage of the profits, or losses, goes not to his heirs but to the remaining members of the corporation. The Badger’s production proceeds stay in
our hands only
until the last of us goes. We’re not ever going to sell this horse that has been so good to us. The final survivor’s heirs will be in charge.
    “Now, here’s the kicker. If The Badger is still producing when six of us have died, the lone remaining heir must use the monies for charity. Specifically, a retirement foundation for retired and rejected thoroughbreds.”
    They debated the merits of this plan, but not for long. Chris Carson said, “I’m all for this. Count me in.” The others followed suit. Rison said, “I’ll send copies of the agreement to everybody to sign.” He raised his replenished martini glass. “Here’s to The Badger Express. If he’s even half the stud he was as a runner, we’ll all be farting through silk.”
    After dinner they walked a few blocks to Butch McGuire’s saloon for a