Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [45]
F. Harold Field had expected more than silence from his Absalom Williams host. He’d seen the clenched fists. He now sought the cause bluntly.
‘Why did you want to hit that restaurant’s head waiter? And why didn’t you?’
Bill Williams explained, ‘He was insulting me on the management’s say so. You don’t shoot the messenger because of the message.’
He dug into a pocket and handed F. Harold a copy of the raging axe he’d taken on paper to Dennis Kinser. F. Harold Field glanced at it and started reading, eyebrows slowly rising towards hairline.
‘Don’t give that paper to anyone but Kinser,’ Bill Williams said. ‘I didn’t write it for publication.’
Dennis Kinser, looking pale, came down to the parade ring before the Kinser Cup and put on a bravado performance as owner, sponsor and general king, all designed to grab media attention. Side by side, Bill Williams and F. Harold Field watched from afar and felt nauseated.
Twenty minutes later their nausea increased geometrically, as the syndicate horse, hooves flying, won the Kinser Cup.
Dennis Kinser’s exultation and expanding arrogance filled the television screens of the nation. He announced he was the top trainer of the future and, inside, he believed it. Winning the race meant the exit of at least half of his money troubles, and surely, now, the rich and famous would flock to his stable.
It was while he preened himself in front of countless camera lenses that F. Harold Field gave him Bill Williams’ lightning bolt.
The applauding crowds faded away towards the next race. Success on racecourses was ephemeral.
Dennis Kinser stood reading the explosive page in his hand and he faced his two ill-treated customers feeling that although he’d won the world he was going to lose it. Lose it over a bloody punt. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked so hard…
In aggressive despair, he said bitterly to Absalom Elvis da Vinci Williams, ‘What will you take not to publish this article?’
‘Blackmail?’ Bill Williams asked, surprised.
Dennis Kinser stuttered. ‘Take the horse? Will that do you?’
‘It’s not yours to give,’ Bill Williams said.
‘What then? Money? Not the restaurant…’ Panic rose in his voice. ‘You can’t… you can’t do that…’
Bill Williams watched the real fear rising and thought it revenge enough.
‘I’ll take,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ll take an apology, and my money back… and a notice in your bar and printed on your menu saying that people on boats are welcome, especially if they have booked a table in advance.’
Dennis Kinser blinked, swallowed, wavered, clenched his teeth and finally nodded. He didn’t like it – he hated to be defeated – but compromise was better than destruction.
F. Harold Field stretched a hand forward, plucked the sheet of paper out of Dennis Kinser’s hands and tore it up.
He said to Bill Williams, ‘Come and see me in my office at the Troubadour on Monday.’
NIGHTMARE
Nightmare was commissioned by The Times in April 1974. (Three thousand words, please.)
Nightmare, set loosely in horse country, USA, explains how to steal a valuable brood mare and her unborn foal.
Don’t do it!
For three years after his father died Martin Retsov abandoned his chosen profession. To be successful he needed a partner, and partners as skilled as his father were hard to find. Martin Retsov took stock of his bank book, listed his investments, and decided that with a little useful paid employment to fill the days he could cruise along comfortably in second gear, waiting for life to throw up a suitable replacement.
A day’s travel put him a welcome distance from the scene of his unhappier memories, although they themselves journeyed along with him, as inescapable as habit. Thoroughbred Foodstuffs Inc. gave him a month’s trial as a salesman and when the orders swelled everywhere in his wake, a permanent post. Martin Retsov relaxed behind the wheel of the company car and drifted easily around his new area, visiting stud