The Trojan Colt (2 page)

In retrospect I should have listened to him.

The first order of business was to find a place to stash Marlowe for a week. Mrs. Garabaldi was out of the question. I could almost see her horrified expression: “
Me?
You want
me
to take care of the petunia killer?”

The only other little old lady I knew was Mrs. Dorfmeyer, but she had a pair of cats that Marlowe would have eaten for breakfast. Finally I phoned the huge kennel just north and east of town, but when I found out what it would cost to board him for a week, I decided I could either find a neighbor who was willing to watch him for a few days (which meant a neighbor who didn't know him), or I'd take him with me and let him spend a week growling and terrifying all the million-dollar yearlings.

I took him for a walk when I got home, and Fate intervened, because I ran into Mrs. Hoskins just as Mrs. Garabaldi was cursing both Marlowe and me for what he'd done yet again to her petunias.

“Terrible woman!” muttered Mrs. Hoskins.

“It's a comfort to know I'm not the only one who thinks so,” I replied.

“She's the cheapest woman in town. My Nancy is helping pay her tuition by waiting on tables. Do you know what Mrs. Garabaldi tipped her for a nine-dollar sandwich and a cup of coffee? A quarter!”

“I'm almost sorry Marlowe won't be able to soil her flowers for a week.”

She looked at me curiously.

“I'm leaving town on business. I'll have to board him.”

“Board him?” she repeated.

“I can't take him with me.”

“I'll tell you what, Mr. Paxton,” she said. “If you leave him with me for the week, I promise to let him lift his leg on Mrs. Garabaldi's flowers at least three or four times a day.”

“You mean it?” I asked with a big grin.

She nodded her head vigorously, and her grin matched my own.

“You might as well take him right now,” I said, handing her the leash.

“Doesn't he have his own food and water bowls?”

“He'll eat and drink out of anything.”

“And toys?”

“Give him an old shoe,” I said. In fact, try to keep one away from him. It can't be done.

She took the leash, began talking baby talk to Marlowe—who pretended he didn't mind—then asked me if I'd like to kiss him good-bye. I explained that it just wasn't manly, and she accepted it, which is probably why I still have a nose, as Marlowe tends to bite anything smaller than himself.

I walked back to the apartment, began packing, finally turned on the TV, cracked open a beer, and fell asleep sometime during the third inning. When I woke up the game was over, and the channel was running an old Bette Davis film, so I tried to get the score from some other channel, but the only thing I learned from MSNBC was why only right-wing idiots work for Fox News, and the only thing I learned from Fox News was why only left-wing whackos work for MSNBC. I tried ESPN, but they were showing reruns of a Little League game in New Mexico, and finally I fell asleep again.

The next morning I got into the Ford, which was even older in car years than I was in people years, and began driving south on the Interstate. I drove past the Great American Ballpark (which everyone still calls Riverfront Stadium) and Paul Brown Stadium, across the Ohio River into Kentucky, and past the Cincinnati Airport (which is legally part of Cincinnati, for reasons known only to select Kentucky politicians and their bankers). I stayed on I-75 after it branched off from I-71, all the way down to Lexington, where the grass really isn't blue but the horses' blood sure as hell is.

I'd been told to report to Ben Miller, one of Striker's higher-ups, at the Hyatt on West High Street. I pulled up, turned the car over to a valet, and decided this might not be such a mundane job after all. Stand guard over a yearling during the day, dine in the four-star restaurant here, then take an elevator up to my room, shower away all the smell of horses and stables, and go to sleep without Marlowe snoring on the other pillow.

I was ten feet inside the door when Miller walked up to me, hand extended.

“Good to see you, Eli,” he said. “It's been awhile.”

“Hi, Ben.” I looked around the lobby. “Nice headquarters. I approve.”

He chuckled at that and shook his head. “This isn't our headquarters, Eli. I just chose it because it's so easy to find.” He paused long enough to make sure I wasn't going to break down and cry. “No, we'll be staying at Keeneland.”

“The racetrack?” I said, surprised.

“Well, the barns, anyway.”

“The whole time?”

“Until the auction starts. Then each of us will accompany our horse to the sales pavilion. Once it's sold, we're no longer responsible for it.”

“Where do we eat and sleep?” I asked.

He smiled. “You'll see.”

“I hope you're not about to tell me that I have to sleep in the stall with a horse,” I said.

Another chuckle. “Not even the grooms do that. Well, hardly any of them, anyway.” He glanced out the window, where a Lincoln limo had just pulled up. “Ah! Here are four of the guys from the agency. Excuse me a moment while I greet them.”

Then he was out the door, and I took another look around the luxurious lobby. Good-bye, Hyatt, I thought. We could have had something special—but I'm leaving you for a horse.

I'm sure if the hotel could have answered, it would have sighed deeply and said, You aren't the first.

Miller left his little group and walked over to me.

“Looks like we may have a transportation problem, Eli,” he said. “Too many of us, too few cars. Think you can follow us to Keeneland?”

I shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

He handed me two small pieces of cardboard. “Stick this inside your car window,” he said. “It'll get you free parking.”

“And this one?” I asked, holding up the other ticket.

“It'll get your meals comped at the track kitchen.”

“You weren't kidding,” I said. “I'm really supposed to sleep in the stall.”

He shook his head. “In the barn. They've set up a tack room for you.”

“And all the other security sleeps in the Hyatt?”

He sighed. “Not a chance. You know how many goddamned barns there are at Keeneland?”

“Okay,” I said. “But if these horses are worth half what everyone seems to think they're worth, they should be sleeping at the Hyatt.”

“We'll bring it up to Fasig-Tipton next year.”

“Fasig-Tipton?”

“That's the company that runs the sale,” answered Miller. “I've already sent for your car,” he continued, as the Ford sputtered up to the door. “Just follow the limo to the track, and then ask someone to show you the way to Barn 9.”

He turned and rejoined Striker's employees. I followed them out, tipped the valet, got in the Ford, stuck in a cassette—it wasn't new enough to have a CD player—and listened to Carmen Miranda and the Andrews Sisters sing duets (four-ettes?) all the way to the track.

Keeneland wasn't as overwhelming as Belmont or Santa Anita, and in terms of size it even took a backseat to Churchill Downs an hour's drive to the west, but it was a lovely, parklike setting and it had a storied history, having played host to some of the great horses of the past century. I parked the car—I looked around, but neither of Striker's limos was anywhere near me—and began walking toward the barns. As I approached them a uniformed guard walked up to me.

“May I help you?” he said in a tone that implied he'd be equally happy arresting me.

“My name's Eli Paxton,” I said. “I'm supposed to report to Barn 9.”

He pulled a little notebook out of his breast pocket. “Paxton . . . Paxton,” he murmured as he thumbed through the pages. “Ah! Here you are. You're working for the Striker Agency.”

I resisted the urge to say “Temporarily,” and just nodded my head.

“Follow me, please, Mr. Paxton,” he said, turning and leading me to Barn 9.

It took us a couple of minutes to get there, and then we began walking down the aisle between the stalls.

“So where's the other security?” I asked as half a dozen horses stuck their heads over the half doors and stared at us.

“Most of the owners are content to let Keeneland supply it,” answered the guard. “I think only eleven yearlings have their own guards.”

“The eleven most valuable?” I suggested.

He shrugged. “Today they are. After the auction, who knows?” He came to a stop and looked to his left. “Ah! Here we are.”

I looked into the stall. There was a powerfully built chestnut colt—I assumed he was a colt—nibbling on some oats, and in a corner a young guy, either in his late teens or early twenties, was engrossed in reading a magazine.

“Hey, Tony!” said the guard. “Come say hello to Mr. Paxton.”

The boy—I could see now that he probably wasn't even twenty yet—stood up and walked over.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm Eli Paxton. I'll be keeping an eye on your charge here.”

He frowned, puzzled. “My charge?”

“Your horse.”

“Oh.” Suddenly he smiled and extended a hand, which I took. “I'm pleased to meet you. I'm Tony Sanders.”

“Okay, you don't need me any longer,” said the guard. “I've got to get back to my post.”

“Thanks for your help,” I said as he left.

“Well, Mr. Paxton . . .” Tony began.

“Call me Eli,” I said.

“Well, Eli, what do you think of him?”

“Very pretty.”

He shook his head. “Not pretty. That's for fillies. He's powerful.”

“That, too,” I agreed.

The colt looked up from his oats, walked over, and nuzzled Tony.

“Damn! I'm going to miss him after he's sold.”

“I take it you don't go with him?”

He shook his head. “I work for Mr. Bigelow. He's the breeder. When Tyrone's gone, I'll be given some other horse to rub down.”

“Tyrone?” I repeated. “That's an unusual name for a horse.”

“Oh, it's just his call name—the name we call him around here. He hasn't got an official name yet. That'll be up to the new owner.”

“It's an unusual name anyway.”

“It's for Tyrone Power,” said Tony. “I guess he was an old-time actor, but I've never seen any of his movies.” He made a face. “They say they're mostly in black-and-white.”

“So let me use my keen deductive mind and suggest that Mrs. Bigelow loves Tyrone Power movies.”

He shrugged. “I don't know. She's got nothing to do with the horses. Mr. Bigelow named him because he says Tyrone Power was always getting into swordfights in the movies.”

I looked at the colt. “Which hoof does he hold his sword in?”

Tony laughed. “Here, let me turn him around for you.”

He grabbed the colt's halter and gently led him in a semicircle.

“See?” he asked.

The colt had a scar maybe ten or eleven inches long on the right side of his neck.

“What the hell happened to him?” I said.

“We tell everyone that he got into a swordfight, and we had to bury the loser,” said Tony with a grin. “But the truth is that a bunch of weanlings were running along one of the fences last winter and he got knocked into one. They still don't know if it was a nail or just a spike of wood, but they say he was bleeding like all get-out, and it took something like forty stitches to close the damned thing.” He shrugged. “Still, he's no worse for it. They say either he or that gray colt by Storm Cloud will bring the top price.”

“Tyrone,” I repeated. “Well, I suppose it could be worse. Could be Jasper.”

“A lot of yearlings have names that would surprise you,” replied Tony. “They say that Seattle Slew was so big and awkward that they called him Baby Huey after that cartoon bird.”

“Well, if a Baby Huey can win the Triple Crown, there's no telling what a Tyrone can do.” I paused. “Just out of curiosity, where does one eat around here?”

“The track kitchen,” said Tony. “I'll point it out when it's dinnertime.”

“Point it out?” I repeated. “Why not just walk over there with me.”

He shook his head. “Now that you're here, one of us should always stay with Tyrone.”

“I know he's worth a bundle,” I said, “but there are cops on the ground, and I know for a fact that there'll be ten other detectives here. Surely you can walk a couple of hundred yards away for a bite.”

He looked hesitant.

“Think about it, Tony,” I said. “This is the most un-stealable horse on the grounds.”

He frowned and stared at me. “What are you talking about, Eli?”

“Why would someone steal a million-dollar yearling?” I said.

He shrugged. “To get him for free, I guess.”

“Okay,” I said. “And do what with him?”

“Race him.”

“Right,” I said. “I mean, you wouldn't risk going to jail stealing him so your daughter can ride him around the park.”