Free The Significant Seven by John McEvoy Page B

of the nicest people you’d ever meet.”
    Doyle said, “Married?”
    “No. Widowed. Like her ma, who lives with her. Cindy’s got a little boy. There’s something wrong with him, I understand, but she’s never said anything to me about that.”
    “Working two jobs like that, pretty tough.”
    Tenuta said, “Yeah. I guess she needs both incomes. Her mother’s in the senior ranks. I think she looks after Cindy’s kid during the day.”
    They heard the crackle of the track’s barn-area loud speaker being turned on. “All horsemen are reminded that entries for Saturday’s program close today at ten-thirty a.m.” said an assistant to the Heartland Downs racing secretary.
    Walking back into his office, Tenuta said, “You been married, Jack?”
    “Oh, yeah.” They kept walking.
    “That’s all you’ve got to say about it?” Tenuta laughed.
    Doyle said, “Well, Ralph, as if it’s any of your goddam business, which I would tend to dispute, I’ve been married twice and divorced the same number. Been in love more often than I should have. I’m not exactly a big favorite for the matrimonial derby.”
    Tenuta said, “Okay, okay, Jack. I didn’t mean to raise your hackles.”
    “What the hell is a hackle anyway, Ralph?”
    “Never mind. It’s just something my old man used to say. I meant to say I didn’t want to get you pissed off, like I did.”
    Doyle laughed. “Raise my hackles. The other morning, you told me you slept like a log. How the hell does a log sleep? Last week you said the new groom was smart as a whip. What the hell is smart about a whip?”
    “Could we just talk about Saturday’s entry schedule, Jack?”

Chapter Eleven
    April 29, 2009
    Cindy Chesney parked her faded black ’94 Geo Prizm next to her leased, faded green weather-beaten home in the East Meadow trailer park ten miles from Heartland Downs. She was exhausted after her four-hour shift the previous night at the nearby Qwik Stop cash register, one of three such shifts she worked each week. She’d exercised eight horses at Heartland Downs this morning, starting at break of dawn. She’d earned $88 from those efforts, $30 from her two hours accompanying Doc Jensen and aiding him on his rounds. Now, Cindy had an hour to shower, eat a quick dinner with her mother Wilma and five-year-old son Tyler, before returning to the Qwik Stop four miles down the road, part of the chain of service station/convenience stores that enabled her to pad out her tenuous income. Her reward for the latter effort was $36.50 per three-hour shift. All this effort added up to a weekly income that varied between $500 and $600 before taxes, since some mornings there weren’t many horses to work, some afternoons no clients to help Doc Jensen with. What Cindy brought in, coupled with Wilma’s monthly Social Security check, enabled them to survive.
    “Hey, Mom,” Cindy said, entering the small kitchen area of the modest-sized trailer. Seated at the table, Wilma Morton smiled up at her only child, then continued preparing the vegetable soup they would have for dinner.
    “Hi, honey,” Wilma said. “How’d it go today?”
    “Worked four head for Ralph Tenuta, two for Larry Lambert, couple of two-year-olds for Carlos Yanez. Both of the two-year-olds were half crazy.”
    Cindy took a container of orange juice out of the small fridge and poured herself a glass. “I don’t know what kind of idiots they’ve got prepping some of these young horses to get to the track, but they are doing lousy work. It’s like climbing on wild horses, some of them. Mama,” she said with a tired smile, “I am muscle sore and leg sore and worn out. I got to lie down for awhile after I shower and before I go to work.”
    Wilma reached out to her daughter. “Aw, honey,” she said, “I wish to God you didn’t have to work so horrible hard. After you lost Lane, I thought you and Tyler could come and live with me and your Dad. Then the black lung took him.” She poured herself a