A Pedigree to Die For (8 page)
So this was the man who'd wanted Beau badly enough to offer a blank check. The man Aunt Peg had given a tour of her kennel to. The man she seemed so sure that we could trust.
Oh boy.
Nine
“I couldn't help but overhear,” he said as I drew near. “You're looking to breed a bitch?”
I nodded. “She's black, from the Bel Flor line. I'd like to find a dog that's compatible.”
“Why?”
A sports jacket was hanging on the tent pole behind him. I watched as he slipped it off the hanger and pulled it on, then filled the pockets with a metal comb, a stuffed rat, and a handful of dried liver. “Why what?” I asked.
“Why do you want to breed a litter of puppies?”
Of all the questions Aunt Peg had prepared me for, that one hadn't been on the list. “Why not?” I asked brightly.
My answer made him frown. “Because there's a tremendous pet overpopulation problem. The pounds are filled with unwanted puppies, many of them bred by people just like yourself who thought it might be fun to have a litter. Every bitch that's bred without good reason only adds to the problem. That's why not.”
“I see.” I pretended to ponder what he'd told me. No use in trying to justify the breeding of a nonexistent Poodle. “Then I guess you wouldn't have a stud dog for me.”
Driver stood up the tall rangy Poodle on his grooming table and fluffed out her bracelets. “As it happens, I don't have any dogs at all, only bitches. Are you aware of the genetic testing that should be done before your bitch can be bredâhips, eyes, SA?”
I hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about, but his superior attitude was beginning to get on my nerves. “Of course,” I said. “I'm planning to have all that done.”
“When?”
I raised my nose a notch. “I'm working on it now.”
“Is that so?” With great care he hopped the bitch down from her perch, then waited while she shook out. “Any responsible breeder will make you prove that. If you're determined to find a stud dog, I guess you may as well talk to Peg Turnbull. She's the tall womanâ”
“I know who she is.”
“And?”
“I'm not interested in her dogs.”
A further proof of my stupidity, if the look he gave me was anything to go by. “Well, you should be. Peg has bred some of the finest Poodles on the East Coast, and the dog she has now, Beau, is probably the best she's ever had.”
“Really? What can you tell me about him?”
“There's no point in my telling you anything. Talk to Peg. She's the one whose approval you'll need.”
With that, he turned his back and left. I figured he was just being rude, but when I looked around, I saw that most of the other exhibitors were heading up to the ring as well. Checking my watch, I was surprised to discover that it was almost two o'clock.
I followed the heavy woman with the little black bitch over to the next tent, fascinated by the contortions she went through to push, wave, and bump everyone out of the way so that throughout the course of the journey, no one came within three feet of her immaculately coiffed entry.
At the gate, a steward was handing out numbered armbands and calling the first class's entrants into the ring. I found an empty chair and sat down to watch.
In breed competition, the judge assesses the correctness of each dog's conformation and movement, using both his hands and eyes as a guide. Although a certain standard of training and behavior is expected, the dogs are not required to perform anything even approaching the intricate maneuvers seen in the obedience classes. For the most part, they are examined singly, first standing still, then trotting a predescribed pattern. The judge then weighs his choices and makes his selection.
Although the process itself was not rife with excitement, now that I knew some of the players in the game I found out how easy it was to become involved. I hadn't stopped to buy a catalogue at the gate, but the woman sitting beside me had. The classes for the males went first, and as they came and went, I read over her shoulder, smiling at the Poodles' elaborate names and skimming through their parentage in search of a familiar line.
As all of the people I'd spoken to were showing bitches, my attention wasn't entirely on the ring. Still, I couldn't help but notice a tall, flamboyantly dressed man who appeared again and again. There was definitely something about him that drew the eye. It might have been that he was dressed in lime green slacks, a pink jacket, and a madras tie; or maybe it was because he used the outsized gestures of a Broadway star playing to the balcony. Either way, he was hard to miss. Judging by the fact that he won almost every class he entered, it seemed to be a successful system.
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman with the catalogue. “Could you tell me who that man is?”
She didn't even have to consult the book to find out. “That's Crawford Langley. Everybody knows him.”
“He certainly shows a lot of dogs.”
The woman nodded. “He's a professional handler. People who don't have the time or the talent to show their own Poodles pay him a fee to do it for them. He's got a big string now, and a waiting list after that. He's the best there is. ”
That was the second time I'd heard that accolade. Curious, I turned back to the ring to study the man. He was tall, tan, and whippet-thin; also reasonably good-looking in a studied sort of way, his brown hair carefully styled and blown dry, his fingernails manicured and buffed to a high gloss. He controlled the ring with authority, exuding an air of aggressive confidence that left little doubt but that he knew that he was good at what he did.
When the bitch classes began, Langley's dominance continued. He piloted a pretty cream to the head of the line in the Puppy class, then won the American-Bred as well, beating the big blond woman, who looked none too pleased. Finally the Open class filed into the ring. Aunt Peg took her place in line, as did Sam Driver, Crawford Langley, and seven others, most of themâaccording to the talkative woman sitting beside meâprofessional handlers as well.
The judge went through his individual examinations, then pulled out four bitches to receive further attention. Aunt Peg was pulled, as were Langley and Driver. The fourth bitch singled out was a blue with a beautiful head and melting, dark brown eyes. I looked her up in the catalogue and saw that her handler was listed as Randall Tarnower, Agent. Another pro.
“Watch this,” the woman beside me whispered.
The conventions of good handling can be pretty subtle, so it took me a minute to catch on, but when I did I realized I was witnessing a real battle between two experts as each of the professional handlers pulled out all the stops to showcase his bitch's good points for the judge. While Tarnower pushed the blue's pretty head, Langley was all over his Poodle's correct hindquarter, both of them working with a seriousness and sense of purpose that seemed more suited to weightier decisions.
Finally the judge made his selection. He went with the blue bitch and placed Langley's black in second. Aunt Peg was third, Sam Driver, fourth. I joined in the applause as the previous class winners were brought back into the ring to contest the Open bitch for Winners Bitch. Langley, in with the puppy, gave it his all; but once again Tarnower's blue prevailed. The scowl on Langley's face as he accepted the striped ribbon for Reserve left no doubt as to his feelings on the matter.
The woman chuckled with satisfaction as she snapped her catalogue shut. “There'll be hell to pay for that. Crawford and Randy are the worst sort of rivals. Even though they're both immensely talented, neither is willing to give the other even an ounce of credit. That's the first time Randy's beaten Crawford with that bitch. Next we'll hear the rumors starting: the judge was paid off, he's in Randy's pocket, etc.”
I stared at her in surprise. “Do things like that really happen?”
“The rumormongering or the paying off?”
“Both.”
“Sure, they do. And more often than most people would like to admit.”
After the battle that had gone on in bitches, Best of Variety seemed almost anticlimactic. There was only one champion entered, shown by yet another of the pros. The judge awarded it the prize almost summarily.
The judging over, I followed the exhibitors back to the grooming tent. After the hours they'd spent preparing their Poodles to go into the ring, yet another hour would now have to be devoted to taking everything apart. Langley's huge setup was down at the end. In a regrettable bit of placement, I saw that Tarnower's crates were only one row over. All concerned were ignoring each other determinedly.
The assistants, who never seemed to take a break, were busy brushing out and rewrapping. Langley stood back and surveyed the scene, his face a study in boredom. Obviously he was not so bored, however, that he would stoop to helping out with the chores, so I leapt in to fill the gap.
Catching his eye, I strode purposefully over and introduced myself. In the manner of all those who make their living by charming total strangers, Crawford Langley was very pleased to meet me. “I'm sure I can help you,” he said when I'd finished outlining my quest. “I currently have several stud dogs, including a new one that I'm very high on. He's here with me today, back in my motor home, if you'd like to see him.”
This was too good to be true. “I'd love to. Do you have time now?”
“Sure.” He removed his sports coat and flung it over his shoulder, then barked out a command to the two flunkies, and we were off.
As we reached the edge of the field, a shout went up from under the grooming tent behind us. We both turned just in time to see Tarnower's blue Poodle come racing out from beneath the tent, running free. Beautiful as she was, I still felt my breath catch. What if she ran out to the road? How would they ever catch her? Luckily, when Tarnower appeared only seconds later and called the bitch to him, she gamboled happily into his arms, and the crisis was averted.
If he hadn't chuckled, I probably wouldn't even have looked Langley's way, but when I did, I saw that his expression was tinged with satisfaction. Then he glanced over and caught me staring. “Kid got lucky,” he said.
Kid? Did he mean Tarnower? I supposed there was a gap in their ages. Was that why the rivalry was so intense? The old guard being pushed aside by the new young buck?
“How do you suppose she got loose?” I wondered aloud.
“Who knows?” Langley shrugged, but he sounded more than a little pleased. “Poor management, probably.”
After that, we walked in silence for a few minutes, past the first parking lot and on to the next, where the overnight vehicles were parkedâa dazzling display of vans, trucks, and motor homes that fanned out in all directions.
“Who do all these belong to?” I asked.
“Handlers mostly. We need something this size just to carry all the dogs we bring to each show. The rest belong to regular exhibitors who use them to save on hotel bills. This one's mine here.”
We'd arrived at a sleek white number, and he hopped up the three steps into the coach. “Be back in a minute. I'm sure the dog will be just what you're looking for.”
A moment later he reappeared in the doorway, his hand cupped around the muzzle of a black Standard Poodle. Hoisting him up and out, he dropped the dog into a chrome exercise pen beside the door.
I gasped audibly with disappointment. Langley's Poodle was in full show coat. Beau, who had retired from the show ring months ago, had had his coat cut down. There was no way this Poodle could have been Aunt Peg's missing stud dog; he simply had too much hair.
Crawford Langley, however, mistook my gasp for one of pleasure. “He's a beauty, isn't he?” he asked, a rhetorical question if I'd ever heard one. Langley, the salesman, pressed on. “He's producing gorgeous puppies, too. He's terrific with heads and hindquarters.”
His spiel sounded like the come-on on the back of a cereal box. Idly I wondered if there was a free prize offered with every mating.
“What do you think?”
“I'm afraid he isn't the right dog for me,” I said. The disappointment in my voice was genuine.
“Maybe you'd like to see him move.” Obviously Langley was not about to let a potential client slip away without a fight. “It's hard to tell too much before you've seen the dog come and go.”
Without waiting for my reply, he threw open the gate to the pen, fished a leash from his pocket, and looped the collar around the Poodle's neck. “Watch,” he called back over his shoulder as they trotted away.
There didn't seem to be much else I could do under the circumstances, so I watched. Next he'd have the dog jumping through hoops.
“Well?” Langley asked as he and the Poodle slid to a stop.
“He's very nice. But I'm afraid he's just not what I'm looking for.”
“Well, think about it. You may change your mind.” His hand slid in his pocket once more and came out with a card. I reached for it, but he didn't let go right away, so for a moment our hands locked. “In this business, you've got to be careful whom you deal with.” His eyes flickered off in the direction of the grooming tent. “Not everyone's on the up and up. You know what I mean?”
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