The Trojan Colt (16 page)

“I'm sure you expect me to say fools like Bigelow, who shell out that kind of money for a surrogate to win what they haven't won, or perhaps to consider themselves sportsmen, whatever that means—but you know, the average two-dollar bettor is just as guilty. The tracks return about three-quarters of everything that's bet, pay upkeep and taxes on the rest, and still have enough left over to shell out hundreds of millions in purses. And the guy who's betting his welfare check, or putting off his child support payment so he can lay some bets, is just as guilty as the guy who buys two percent of a top stallion for a million dollars.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge,” I said.

“You live in Blue Grass country, you learn about the industry,” she replied. “I grew up in New York City, where the average musical play costs ten million to put on and lasts less than a week. What makes one crazier than the other?”

“A telling point,” I said. “At least finding lost kids and putting bad guys in jail makes sense.”

“How long have you been doing it, Eli?” she asked as the waiter arrived with our salads.

“I started out as a cop, a uniformed cop, in Chicago. Moved up to the detective bureau after half a dozen years.”

“And?”

“And arrested the wrong people.”

She frowned. “The wrong people?”

I nodded. “Stalwart reservoirs of the public trust,” I said. “They came out of it okay. After all, they owned half the lawyers and all the judges, and I was on my way to Cleveland. Things didn't work out any better there: I shot a guy who was shooting at me, I lost my job, and my wife left. I got tired of getting fired for doing what I was paid to do, so I came to Cincinnati about five years ago, maybe a little less, and set up shop as a private eye.”

“She left you because you shot a man in self-defense?” she asked.

“I think it was more because I was unemployed again,” I answered wryly.

“Mine left for someone fifteen years younger, fifteen pounds lighter, and an inability to stop giggling,” she said. “I keep hoping he'll turn up in the drunk tank, but with her at home he doesn't go out much.”

“By God,” I said as the waiter took our salads away, “I just love trading stories with another winner.”

She laughed so hard I thought she might actually fall off her chair. Somewhere about thirty seconds into it I got the distinct impression that she was suddenly crying, but she pulled out a handkerchief, wiped an eye, and pasted a smile back on her face.

“So,” she said, changing the subject, “are you getting any closer to finding your young man?” she asked. “His parents check in every day to see if we've turned anything up.”

I shook my head. “No, he's still thoroughly missing.”

“Any ideas?” she asked as the main courses arrived.

“We can discuss it after we eat.”

She nodded. “So you think he's dead?”

“I didn't say that,” I replied.

“You didn't have to,” she said with another smile. “Someone raised you to be a gentleman, Eli. Oh, you can't tell it from the way you dress or some of your language, but you hold doors open for me, you held my chair for me, I could tell it hurt you to agree to a Dutch treat, and now you're putting off talking about the young man because dinner's arrived and you don't want to upset my delicate feelings.” She leaned forward. “I'm a cop, Eli. Such delicate feelings as I may still possess are compartmentalized and only come out when I'm alone. So shall we talk?”

“Did I really pull out your chair for you?” I said. “I wasn't even aware of it.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Son of a bitch!” I said, and then looked up toward the ceiling. “Thanks, Ma.”

“So why do you think he's dead?”

“Nothing that'd hold up in court or even hold water if you argued that he's still alive,” I said. “Anyway, his car's still here.”

“That's the only reason?”

I shook my head. “These aren't exactly reasons. They're feelings, notions, suspicions. I can't forget the way he looked the last time I saw him. He was at least very worried and quite possibly very scared. He was going to talk to me in the morning. Same thing with his girlfriend. He talks to her in late afternoon or early evening, tells her he's got a serious problem and he'll speak to her about it in the morning, and he never shows up.” I took a bite of my veal. “Not bad,” I commented.

“It's quite good,” she said. “I've had it before.” She paused and stared at me. “There's something else. I can tell.”

“A couple of things,” I said. “First, why the hell did he drive his car across town and park it in a Kroger lot with the top down when it had been raining and was due to rain most of the night?”

“Good question. Which Kroger?”

“Leestown Road.”

“Interesting,” she said noncommittally. “What was the other thing?”

“Eddie Arcaro's riding crop.”

She blinked and frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Billy Paulson was Tyrone's groom until about six weeks ago.”

“Tyrone?” she asked.

“The Trojan colt that Tony Sanders was caring for. Anyway, Billy went AWOL too. Vanished just as quickly and just as thoroughly as Tony.”

“What has this got to do with Eddie Arcaro's whip?

“According to Hal Chessman, who hired him at Mill Creek last year, that was Billy's most cherished possession. He even kept it tucked in his belt or in a boot all day while he worked.”

“Okay,” said Bernice, “it was his most cherished possession.”

“And he left it behind when he disappeared. And Tony left his car and his girlfriend.”

“I'd hardly call her a possession.”

“I agree, but the car and Nan—that's her name—are two things he cared for very much.”

“More than anything, like the other kid and the whip?”

“I don't know,” I said, thinking back on Tony's love for all aspects of racing and breeding. “But why leave them behind? More to the point, if he wasn't going to need the car, why not sell it? Why let it sit in the rain with the top down?”

“So you don't think they'd leave without the whip and the car, and they haven't shown up here,” she said. “From this you conclude that they're dead?”

“I don't conclude anything,” I said. “But it's sure as hell a possibility.”

“I agree that it's a possibility,” said Bernice. “But of course there are others, too.”

“I'm open to suggestions,” I said, digging into my veal parmesan. “Damn, this is great stuff! Thanks for suggesting this place.”

“Okay,” she said. “Suggestion Number One. You say they each were the groom for Errol—”

“Tyrone,” I corrected her.

She shrugged. “Same thing. Pretty boy with a sword. Only Basil Rathbone knew how to use the damned thing. Anyway, they both cared for this wildly expensive colt. Maybe a potential bidder paid them for inside information about him.”

“What kind?”

“I don't know. Maybe he has sore knees. Maybe something about his mouth will make it impossible for a jockey to restrain him once his blood is up. I'm just talking possibilities. Maybe he paid them and told them he didn't want them around until well after the auction.”

I shook my head. “Why pay them both, if he could get the information from one of them. And if Tony's hiding on bribe money, why hadn't he called his parents or his girl. He has to know how worried they are.”

“Why do kids do anything?” she replied. “Anyway, I'm just offering suggestions.”

“Got any more?”

“Maybe they really are frustrated beach boys at heart.”

“Not the type,” I said.

She made a face. “That's what they all say.”

“Really, I don't buy that for a second.”

“Okay,” she said. “Tyrone had a mean streak—an erratic one that doesn't show up often—and put the first kid in the hospital. Tony found out about it and didn't know whether to go public with it since the colt was being auctioned the next day, and if Fasig-Tipton forced him out of the sale, Bigelow might go bankrupt and Tony would feel it was all his fault.”

“A lot of
couldas
and
mightas
,” I said.

“If it was easy you'd have solved it already, Eli,” she said. “Lou checked you out. You're damned good at your trade.”

“Then why am I always broke?” I shot back.

“One has nothing to do with the other,” she replied. “You're a good detective. You're a lousy businessman.”

I couldn't argue with that, so I grunted an acknowledgment and finished my main course while she did the same.

“So,” I said as the waiter took our plates away, “you want dessert?”

She shook her head. “You go ahead, Eli. I'm trying to lose a little weight.”

“You look fine.”

She smiled. “And your mother would have taught you to say that even if it was the biggest whopper you told all day.”

“If my nose doesn't grow, it must be the truth,” I replied.

“I'll skip it anyway,” she said.

“So will I then.”

I signaled for the check, the waiter brought it, and I grabbed it before she could see it.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked.

“A friendly good-night kiss will cover it,” I said.

“Really,” she said. “I mean it.”

“So do I,” I said, digging into my wallet and slipping the waiter a pair of twenties. “Keep the change,” I told him, which didn't sit too well with him since the bill was for thirty-six dollars and ten cents.

I ushered Bernice out to the car before she could leave a couple of dollars on the table, then had her direct me to her apartment.

“Somehow I thought of you living in a house,” I said as I walked her to the front door.

“I used to,” she said. “But it was just too much work, holding down a job and keeping the place up. I don't know that I'm any happier here, but I'm a lot less exhausted.” She turned to me and put her arms around my neck. “Thanks for dinner.”

We kissed, and then she opened the outer door. “See you tomorrow?”

“Probably,” I said.

“We could do this again if you're still in town.”

“It's a date,” I said.

Then she was inside, and I walked back to the Ford, started it up, and began driving back to the motel. I was about halfway there when I noticed that a Mercedes convertible with very bright headlights was tailgating me, so I slowed down and gave it room to pass.

It roared up, and just as I thought it was going to jump ahead of me it lurched to the right and gave me a hell of a bump, running me off the road. The shoulder was no more than ten feet wide, and it was all I could do not to careen into a drainage ditch. I finally pulled to a stop, got out, walked around the car to assess the damage, and decided that it had been a long day, the car could get me to the motel, and I'd worry about fixing it in the morning.

And since I had friends in the Lexington police force, I'd also report a Mercedes with a driver who was probably higher than a kite.

When I got into the room I turned on the television to see how the Reds were doing. Not too well. They were down five to three in the seventh inning.

At least Lexington wasn't so caught up in the horse industry that nothing else mattered. I remember that once I was on a case—a runaway boy, and that one had run away—that took me down to Midland, Texas. The president gave a speech to the nation that night. Preempted all the networks' programming to do it. And when I picked up the newspaper the next morning, the first three pages were listings of new oil drillings, and the president's speech was on page 4.

The hotel had cable, so I ran through about fifty channels until I found an old Michael Shayne movie with Lloyd Nolan. They'd probably made it in under two weeks, and it was still more enjoyable than ninety percent of the junk they charged you ten dollars a ticket for these days. I concluded that either I was getting older or the public was getting dumber; probably a little of each.

I decided I could use some coffee. The room didn't have a coffee maker, and I probably wouldn't have known how to use it anyway, so I took an inside corridor to the office, where they had a big pot on hand, poured myself a cup, added the requisite white stuff, and looked around for something to see after Michael Shayne finished making with the wisecracks and finally brought the bad guys to the bar of justice.

There were some giveaways promoting local attractions, a few of which didn't even involve horses. There were out-of-date copies of
Time
, which told you why the Iranians weren't really a threat;
Fortune
, which told you how to get (almost) as rich as Steve Forbes; and
Cosmopolitan
, which told you how to enjoy eighty-three—count them: eighty-three—different sexual positions with the man of your choice. (I assume it was aimed at women—and wildly creative women at that, or at least acrobatic ones.)