Free Shedrow by Dean DeLuke

hundred thousand, do I hear twonow two. One fifty then, will you give one fifty, and now two, two, who will give two now, two. Two hundred thousand upstairs, now do I have two fifty now, two twenty-five then.”
    Four spotters, also clad in formal wear, stood strategically around the ring. They knew who the likely bidders were, and they spotted the slightest nod, or a scarcely raised finger. It all happened with lightning speed.
    “Now three. Do I hear three hundred thousand? Three, three…”
    The bidding had slowed, and while the auctioneer paused, the announcer spoke into the microphone to entice the bidders. “He’s too good looking for this price folks. He’s got his sire written all over him and he has a great walk. Take another look at him.”
    The auctioneer resumed, “Now three. Do we have 350? Do I hear 375? Will you give 375? And now four, do I hear four? Now four. Who will give 450? Now 450. Do I hear 450? Do I hear 475? Now 475. Do I hear 500 thousand? 475, 500. Five hundred. Five hundred.”
    The spotters flashed hand signals, raised and jiggled four or five fingers and shouted as the bids continued. “Hup…Here.” They would all make great pit traders on the Commodities Exchange, Gianni thought as he followed the action. Chester Pawlek sat next to him in the upstairs gallery. An empty chair separated the two men.
    The auctioneer slowed his voice for the first time since the bidding had begun, wanting to be sure to allow any final bids. “Five, 520…five, 520…520, yes or no, 520.”
    The horse in the ring whinnied, as if to proclaim his worth. Gianni leaned over and whispered to Chet, “Don’t scratch your nosenow, or you may be out 500 K.”
    “How do you know I don’t want him?” Chet asked.
    The gavel came down with a loud clap. “Sold, five hundred thousand, upstairs.”
    “That wasn’t you, was it?” Gianni asked.
    “Reynolds, I think.”
    “Let’s take a break,” Gianni said.
    As they walked the perimeter of the upstairs gallery, Gianni paused to look at some of the artwork. Many of the oil paintings, most of them equine themed, would sell for as much as some of the yearlings.
    Chet apparently couldn’t resist boasting. “I bought one of the big ones for my trophy room last year,” he said.
    “Construction business must be pretty good,” Gianni said.
    “What?”
    “The oil painting,” Gianni said. “They’re certainly not cheap.”
    “Oh, yeah. We…got some nice bids,” Chet said.
    “Where?” Gianni asked.
    “You know, down on the Island.”
    As they walked down the stairs, a pretty young lady ran past them, disrupting their conversation as she headed up the stairs with the ticket for the high bidder to sign. Outside the pavilion, horses continued to be escorted from their barns to the walking area outside the two doors that opened into the auction ring. Gianni and Chet strolled past the walking area and headed towards the bar. Behind a large, polished mahogany bar, the walls were decorated with photographs of some of racing’s great historical figures.
    “Grey Goose on the rocks, please,” Gianni said.
    “Whoa, holy shit, the doctor’s drinking. I guess I’m buying. This is a first.”
    “What, you buying?” Gianni chided.
    “No, you drinking,” Chet said. “Brandy and a beer for me.” The bartender seemed to know Chet, and brought him Courvoisier and Guinness.
    “I told you, I’m not a teetotaler, just certain times, not all the time,” Gianni said.
    “And I’m more than happy to let you buy tonight. After all, you just closed one hell of a deal on the Chiefly Endeavor syndicate.”
    From his coat pocket, Chet produced a large cigar, a Churchill. Even in his pudgy hand, it looked huge. “Yeah, g-g-guess I did. I figure, why not keep my fifty-percent stake. Those stud fees will just keep on coming.” Chet downed the Courvoisier and thumped the oversized shot glass on the bar. “I’ll take another brandy here,” he said to the bartender. He lit