The Trojan Colt (8 page)

I spent an hour nosing around the barns, escorted by Frank Standish. I spoke to some of the grooms and the other hired help. Everyone liked Tony, no one had a bad word to say about him, and no one was surprised that he had left. Kids were doing that all the time, and even at nineteen or twenty he was still a kid in this industry.

I figured the next stop was the local police station. I hate cooling my heels while the cops check my credentials at their usual snail's pace, so I called ahead, gave them my name, told them to check with Jim Simmons of the Cincinnati police, then went out for lunch (or maybe it was a late breakfast, since I hadn't eaten since I got up), smoked a cigarette when my conscience wasn't looking, and finally drove over to the station.

I introduced myself to the desk clerk (or maybe she was the desk clerkess, a redhead in her forties), and she led me to the office I wanted. A uniformed cop sat behind a desk, and when I entered he stood up and extended his hand.

“Lou Berger,” he said.

“And I'm Eli Paxton,” I replied, taking his hand.

“Jim Simmons has nice things to say about you,” said Berger. “Have a seat and tell me what's on your mind.”

“I'm trying to track down a young man who went missing yesterday,” I said, sitting down opposite him.

“Just since yesterday?” he said, frowning. “That hardly qualifies as missing. Has he got a girl or maybe a habit?”

I shook my head. “His girl hasn't seen him, and no one's ever seen him smoking, snorting, or shooting any junk.”

“Still, one day . . .” he said dubiously.

“The circumstances were unusual,” I told him.

“In what way?”

“Did you read or hear about that Trojan colt who went for over three million yesterday?”

“A little out of my league, but, yeah, you can't live in this town and not hear about the yearling sales.”

“Well, this kid was his groom.”

“And he just walked off the job?” said Berger. “He's gonna have a hard time finding work in that industry when he finally shows up.”

“There's a little more to it than that,” I continued.

Suddenly he looked alert. “Tell me,” he said.

“I was hired as security for the horse.”

“You one of Bill Striker's men?”

“Temporarily,” I said. “Anyway, the night before the auction something happened.”

“What?”

I shook my head. “Damned if I know. But this was a friendly, happy, carefree kid when I went out for dinner, and when I came back he looked worried and maybe a little bit scared. I asked what was wrong, and he told me he had to think about it, that maybe he'd tell me in the morning.”

“And did he?”

I shook my head. “I went to bed, and as far as I know, no one's seen him since.”

“You doing this for Striker?”

“No, for the kid's parents.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. I can't imagine the Striker Agency would be interested, or that anyone connected with a groom could afford them.” He pulled out a pen and a pad of paper. “Okay, Eli, what's his name?”

“Tony Sanders,” I said. “I can get you a photo of him from his parents.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Berger. “I'll ask around and put it out on the wire, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Kids run away all the time, and shoveling horseshit isn't the kind of job you fight to keep hold of.”

“I know. If I hadn't spent a couple of days with him, I'd figure he was hitching his way to California.”

“These days it's Florida,” replied Berger. “Say Florida and everyone thinks about the Mouse, but go down to South Beach and there is every stimulant you could want, including a few thousand dead-gorgeous topless girls out on the sand. That's where they run to, at least from the Midwest.”

“Anyway, thanks for your time and trouble,” I said, getting to my feet. “I'll check in every day or two.”

“My pleasure, Eli. Where are you staying?”

I gave him my hotel's phone number. “Anything happens, just leave a message for me to call you.”

“Will do,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”

“Same here,” I said, reaching for the door. Suddenly I froze.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“This is probably nothing, but Tony had been with Mill Creek and the Trojan colt for only about a month. He replaced another groom who just up and vanished one day. I wonder if you've got anything on him?”

“You think there's a connection?”

“Probably not,” I said. “Hell, almost certainly not. But since I'm not likely to be sent to South Beach . . .”

He smiled. “Okay. What's his name?”

“Billy Paulson,” I said, and then added, “Probably.”

“He wasn't sure or you're not sure?”

“Frank Standish wasn't sure. He's supposed to be checking for me.”

“Hell, I know Frank. We bowl in the same league. I'll call him myself and ask.”

“Thanks,” I said, opening the door. “And this time I will leave.”

“By the way,” he said, “it's a two-way street. I'll share anything I can get on either kid, but you'll do the same. We don't need any more heroes.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “Hell, I used to be a cop. I've never considered you guys enemies or rivals, and I'll bet every last one of you goes to the shooting range and the gym more than I do, even the redhead who ushered me in.”

“You want to see tough?” he asked with a grin. “Her name's Bernice. Pinch her bottom and see what happens.”

“I'll take your word for it,” I said.

“You'll live longer if you do.”

Then I walked out of his office and the building, wondering what the hell else I could do to earn my money.

I went back to Keeneland, planning to ask some of the other grooms, or even the uniformed guards, if Tony had said anything to them that might give a hint as to what was bothering him. I knew the odds were that he was off with a bottle or a bimbo or both, but I couldn't help remembering how worried he was the last time I saw him—and it wasn't just me. Nanette had sensed the same thing.

He was going to talk to her in the morning when he'd settled his problem, or at least figured out what to do about it, and he'd said pretty much the same thing to me.

So my first question, of course, was what was his problem?

That led to a second question: he hardly knew me, but why couldn't he talk to Nan, or even his parents, about it?

And that led to the third question: he'd been fine when I went off to dinner, and an hour later he was as troubled as any kid I've ever seen, and the next morning he was gone without a trace. What the hell had happened during that hour?

I hunted up the guard who had originally led me to Barn 9. He was standing just inside the aisle to Barn 7, looking pretty relaxed now that about three-quarters of the yearlings had been sold and taken to their new homes, and there was a lot less hustle and bustle.

“Ah, Mr. Paxton,” he said as I approached him. “How may I help you?”

“Start by staying in the shade and let me join you,” I said. “That sun's a bitch.”

“That it is, sir,” he said as I stood next to him. He stared at me for a moment. “You're here about the young man who was rubbing the Trojan colt.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah, that's right.”

“I heard he'd gone missing. Foolish timing, walking out the day his colt went up for sale.” He shook his head. “I don't know who'll hire him now, and I do know that he loved the sport, studied it more than some of the trainers you see around here.”

“Did he say anything to you the last day he was here?”

“He probably said ‘Hi,'” replied the guard.

“Anything else?” I said. “Especially toward evening?”

He shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”

“I spoke to him when I got back from dinner,” I continued. “He was pretty worried about something. Distressed is the word I'd use.”

“I don't think I saw him after late afternoon,” was the reply. “The auction had already begun, and I was directing people to the sales pavilion most of the night.”

“He was here when I went to bed, maybe eleven or midnight,” I said, “and he was gone in the morning. Maybe the night shift can help.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Paxton, but there isn't a night shift.”

“With all those trillions of dollars of horseflesh on the grounds?” I said, frowning.

“Maybe I should clarify that,” he said. “Of course we have a night staff, but it's much smaller, since no owners or trainers are expected to be wandering the grounds. I think there are six men, total, and they're more concerned with vandals at the clubhouse and the sales pavilion than with the horses. I believe only two men are in charge of all the barns, and of course they won't enter one without a reason, because they don't want to upset the horses or wake those grooms who are staying here.”

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I'm just trying to cover all the angles.”

“Are you working for his parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you'd be willing to take something to them.”

“What?” I asked.

“Even if he turns up, he's not going to be back in the barns here,” answered the guard. “He left a couple dozen racing magazines here. If they're still here in a couple of days I'll just throw them out, so I thought you might take them in case you luck out and find him.” He paused and shook his head again. “Even if you do, I don't think anyone'll hire him, certainly not until they all forget about this.”

“What the hell,” I said. “I might as well take them.”

“Follow me,” said the guard. He led me to Barn 9, and then to one of the tack rooms—not the one I'd slept in—and there, on a beat-up wood table, were maybe twenty magazines, the same ones I'd seen Tony reading during the past few days.

“Thanks,” I said, lifting them up and starting to head out the door toward the parking lot.

“I hope you find him,” said the guard. “He was a nice kid, one of the better ones.”

“I liked him too.”

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Do you think he's run off, like so many other kids?”

“Seriously?” I said. “No. I can't forget how worried he was.”

“If he didn't run away, what do you suppose happened to him?”

I shrugged. “Let's hope nothing did.”

“Have you talked to the cops?”

I nodded. “Yeah. But it's really too early for them to have any reports on runaways who have been spotted.”

“I didn't mean that.”

I stared at him for a moment and finally understood. “If his body turns up, I'll know as soon as they identify him. And if they can't identify him, then they'll call me and his parents in, and we'll do it.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he said as we reached the end of the row of barns and I headed for the parking lot, “good luck, Mr. Paxton.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”

I got to the car, loaded the magazines into the trunk, and tried to figure out where to go next. Then I figured, what the hell, the track kitchen was right here, and maybe they'd think my meals were still being picked up by the Striker Agency.

I walked in the door, nodded to the guy behind the counter, sat down, picked up a discarded newspaper, and tried to find out how the Reds were doing. I finally got a score, buried beneath a dozen articles about the sale.

“What can I get for you—Eli, is it?” asked the counterman.

“A cheeseburger and a cup of coffee,” I said.

“Coming right up.”

“Got a minute?” I asked.

He looked around at the near-empty place and smiled. “Yeah, no one'll starve in the next sixty seconds.”

“Did you know Tony Sanders?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Should I?”

“He was a groom.”

“For one of the sales yearlings?” he said. “Hell, none of them were on the grounds for as much as a week.”

“Well, it was worth a try.”

“Who did he work for?”

“Mill Creek.”

“That Bigelow guy?”

“Right.”

“How's Frank Standish doing?” he asked. “Now, that was a trainer. Why the hell did he quit?”

“He decided his family was more important,” I said.

“Families are a dime a dozen,” he said. “But there's only one Trojan or Secretariat or Zenyatta.”

“Well, if he felt like you, I imagine he'd be training horses on the Coast and wondering why his wife left him.”

He chuckled at that. “Yeah, maybe you got a point. Especially if his wife looked like Jenny Piccolo.”

“Jenny who?” I said, frowning.

“You haven't heard of her?”