The Trojan Colt (5 page)

I thanked him for another reminder of what I hadn't achieved with my life and began walking to the exit when a middle-aged couple approached me. They weren't dressed like most of the bidders, but zillionaires are allowed to be eccentric, so I came to a stop until they were standing in front of me.

“You're Mr. Paxton?” said the man.

“Eli,” I replied.

He looked around uncomfortably. “We'd like to speak with you, but it's very crowded and noisy in here. Could we talk outside?”

“Lead the way,” I said and fell into step behind them.

Once we were outside they stopped and turned to me.

“I am Marcus Sanders and this is my wife, Muriel.”

Something about his name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it, so I looked at him expectantly.

“We're Tony's parents.”

“Tony the groom?”

“Yes.”

“How is he?” I said. “I've been worried about him.”

“So are we,” said Marcus Sanders. “Mr. Bigelow phoned to tell us he'd run off and deserted the horse he was caring for, and that he would never work in this industry again.”

“Do you know where he went?” I asked.

He shook his head. “He phoned us last night and said he wanted to talk to us, that something was bothering him and he'd be by in an hour.”

“But he never showed up,” said Mrs. Bigelow.

“Has he got a girlfriend?” I asked. “Maybe he's with her.”

It was her turn to shake her head. “They broke up when he spent more time with the horses than with her. I don't think he's seen her in half a year.”

“Besides,” added Sanders, “that wouldn't be something he'd want to discuss with us.”

“A lot of kids run off to California,” I said. “Or these days, I think Denver and South Beach are two more prime destinations.”

“He's never been as far from home as Nashville or Dayton, Mr. Paxton. He didn't drink and he didn't drug.”

“You're sure?” I asked.

“He's our son,” said Mrs. Sanders firmly. I hated to tell her how many parents said those same words while their kids were high as kites. She turned to her husband. “Tell him, Marcus.”

“He seemed to like you,” said Sanders. “At least he said so on the phone. And he said you were a detective.” He paused. “We want to hire you to find our son.”

“If he's skipped town, it could be weeks, even months,” I told him.

“He hasn't left town,” replied Sanders adamantly. “He wouldn't know where to go.” He stared into my eyes. “He was worried, Mr. Paxton. He was coming home to talk about something, something important.”

“And you've no idea what it was?”

“No. Have you?”

I shook my head. “He was happy as a lark when I went off to dinner and very upset when I came back. But that's all I know.”

“Will you find him, Mr. Paxton?”

“No promises. I can look for him, but this is a town and an industry where I'm a total outsider.”

“He trusted you,” persisted Sanders.

“All right,” I said. “I'm not the most expensive detective around here”—an understatement by a few hundred percent—“but no detective is cheap.” I studied them, their clothes, their bearing, making my estimate. “My fee is a hundred and a half a day plus expenses, and a ten percent bonus if I find him. And I'll want five hundred as a retainer.”

If he looked like he might back off, I was prepared to tell him I'd waive the retainer and the bonus because I was so fond of Tony, but instead he pulled out a checkbook, wrote “five hundred dollars” on a check that already had my name and the current date on it, and gave me a card with their address and phone number. Then he reached into a vest pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to me.

“A list of his friends,” Sanders told me.

I studied it. “He didn't have too many, did he?”

“He was devoted to his work.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that's the way he seemed to me.”

“We trust you, Mr. Paxton,” he said. “Find our son for us.”

“And keep in touch,” added his wife.

Then they were walking toward the parking lot, and I realized that I wasn't going home just yet.

It was still an hour before dinnertime, and I figured since I was charging them for today I might as well get to work.

I wandered over to my car, stopped at the gate while track security made sure I wasn't hiding a valuable thoroughbred in the back of the Ford, then made my way to the nearest of the addresses the Sanderses had given me, which was a Jeff Calhoun.

It turned out to be an apartment building no more than two miles from the racetrack. I parked, walked in the front door, studied the mailboxes for a moment, finally found his name—he was sharing the place with two other guys—and rang the bell. Someone rang back, unlocking the inner door, and I entered, then began climbing to the third floor. A thin, ascetic-looking young man with a sparse mustache and sparser beard, wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and sandals, greeted me and ushered me in.

“Are you Jeff?” I asked as he led me into a living room that was even more beat-up and out of date than my own.

“No,” he said. “I'm Spike. I'll get him for you.”

I watched him as he walked down a corridor and knocked on a bedroom door, and wondered how anyone kept a straight face when they heard his name.

A burly, dark-haired guy, maybe twenty-five, with glasses and a mustache emerged and walked to the living room.

“You wanted to see me?” he said.

“Yeah,” I began, starting to get up.

“Stay seated,” he said, sitting in a chair opposite me. “We're informal here.” A grin. “In fact, informal is probably an understatement. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Paxton,” I said. “Eli Paxton. I'm a private detective.”

“Oh, hell!” he muttered. “Has Spike been smoking shit again?”

“I couldn't care less,” I said with a reassuring smile. “I'm here about Tony Sanders.”

He frowned. “Tony?” he repeated. “He's a sweet kid, even if he does prefer horses to people. What the hell has he done?”

“He's gone missing, and you're on a list of friends his parents gave me,” I said. “When's the last time you saw him?”

“Probably not since he went to work for Bigelow,” answered Calhoun.

“When was that?”

He shrugged. “Maybe a month ago. I used to see him a couple of times a week, but Mill Creek—that's Bigelow's farm—is a couple of miles out. Tony doesn't own a car, and I don't think any buses stop anywhere near it after dark.”

“Was he happy there?” I asked.

“He was happy anywhere he could be near horses—well, near thoroughbreds, anyway. He didn't have any use for standardbreds.”

“I'm a bit of a newcomer to the backstage part of racing,” I said. “Can you tell me the difference?”

“Standardbreds are trotters,” answered Calhoun. “I know they look alike, but it's like a whole different union.”

“Got it,” I said. “Did he ever give you any reason to think he was unhappy?”

“No, he loved his work. He wanted to be a trainer someday, but for the time being he was happy rubbing down quality thoroughbreds.”

“Where had he been working, and why did he move to Bigelow's farm?”

“Grooms move around a lot,” answered Calhoun. “They make it sound like they're experts, but really, how the hell much skill does it take to feed a horse or rub him down or muck out his stall? These farms with the million-dollar stallions, they don't just have vets on call; a lot of them have vets working right there on the grounds. So if the horse he's rubbing gets sick or hurt, no one expects him to do anything but report it pronto.”

“So he didn't move to Bigelow's just to rub this colt that got sold earlier today?”

He shrugged again. “That might have had something to do with it. I mean, the colt was worth more and rubbing it probably brought more prestige than what he'd been rubbing over at Tilly Halstrom's farm. But my guess is that they paid him more money, or maybe Tilly's daughter made one too many plays for him. She's pretty well-known for that.”

“And you haven't seen him in a month?”

“Well, about a month. Ever since he went to work for Mr. Bigelow.”

I pulled the Sanderses' list out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You think any of these other guys might have seen him more recently?”

“Not if they didn't work there, and none of them did,” he answered. Then he frowned. “Where the hell is Nan?”

“Beats me,” I said. “Nan who?”

“Gillette. Tony's girl.”

“His mother says they broke up half a year ago.”

Jeff smiled. “She wanted them to break up, so Tony just stopped talking about her. He was still seeing her as of four or five days ago.”

I frowned. “I thought you hadn't had any contact with him in a month.”

“I haven't,” he said. “But I see her all the time. She works at Fishbein's.”

“Fishbein's?” I repeated.

“A drugstore about half a mile from here.”

“You got a phone number or an address for her?”

He shook his head. “No, but she'll be working now. She pretty much arranged her hours so she'd be free late at night, when Tony could sneak away.”

“Okay, where is this joint?”

“Out the front door, right for two blocks, then left for three. You can't miss it. Only drugstore within miles that's not Walgreen's or CVS.”

“What's ‘Nan' short for?”

He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. All I've ever called her is Nan. She and Tony and I were in the same high school class together. Well, until Tony and I quit, anyway.”

“Okay,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thanks for the information.”

“Happy to help,” he said, walking me to the door. “And if she's not there, maybe she and Tony finally got out of this town.”

“You're not thrilled with Lexington?”

“It's a two-horse town,” he answered. “One runs around the track, the other runs up and down the court at Rupp Arena.”

I decided he probably wasn't far from right, thanked him again, and walked down the stairs. I went out to the Ford, started it up, and began making my way to Fishbein's. I had the radio on, but it was too early for the Reds, and all I got was a list of high-priced yearlings and their sires, as if their mothers had nothing to do with it.

It took about five minutes to get to Fishbein's—I was driving slowly and making sure I counted off the blocks correctly—and when I got there I found they had a lot on the side of the building, so I pulled in there, locked the car (not that there was anything worth stealing except the three packs of cigarettes I had hidden in the glove compartment in case I fell off that particular wagon), and entered the store.

It was almost empty, just a couple of old ladies arguing with the pharmacist that generics shouldn't cost more than a dollar apiece, and I walked around until I saw a pretty young blonde, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, straightening some shelves.

“Good afternoon,” I said, approaching her.

She flashed me an insincere smile and went back to what she was doing.

“I wonder if you can help me,” I continued. “I'm looking for a young lady named Nan.”

She stared at me but said nothing.

I pulled out my detective's license—most people can't tell it from a badge—and said, “I just want to talk to her. No laws have been broken and no arrests will be made.”

“I'm Nan,” she said, “Nanette, actually.”

I figured it was probably Nancy and that she decided Nanette sounded classier. Made no difference to me, so I didn't comment on it.

“Hi, Nan,” I said. “My name is Eli Paxton. I'm a private detective—”

“I've never seen one before, except on television,” she replied. “Do you carry a gun?”

“Rarely and carefully,” I answered.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“Just some information about a young man named Tony Sanders.”

“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “What did he do?”

“Disappeared.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that last night he was guarding this colt that was up for sale today, and this morning he was missing and no one can find him.”

“And you think
I'm
hiding him?”

I shrugged. “What would you be hiding him from?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you any idea why he might have walked away from his job on what figured to be both its most important and its final day?”

She shook her head.

“Has he mentioned anything to you, anything that might be troubling him?”

She shook her head again. “He was very happy. We were going out tomorrow night.” She frowned again. “It better not be another girl!”