The Trojan Colt

by Mike Resnick

  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.”

  I pointed to the scar on Tyrone’s neck. “Until they learn to do plastic surgery on a racehorse, no one’s going to steal a horse that’s so easy to identify.”

  His face lightened up, and he smiled. “I never thought of that.”

  “So we’ll have dinner together?” I said. “My treat.” Well, Bill Striker’s treat, anyway.

  “Sure.”

  An hour later we walked over to the kitchen and grabbed some hamburgers, then went back to Barn 9 and spent a couple of hours just talking. He liked the same sports teams I liked, lusted for the same top-heavy movie stars, hated the same politicians. He even promised to give Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon a try the next time they were on, and I promised to listen to his favorite rock band (once I remembered its name).

  By the time I made my way to the tack room and lay down on the cot they’d supplied for me, I almost felt like I’d found the kid brother I never had.

  It’s a damned good thing that Tony didn’t need much sleep, because for the next two days he must have led Tyrone out of his stall twenty times for the benefit of the zillionaires who were considering bidding for him. There were Wall Street businessmen, a couple of Hollywood actors, and enough Arab sheiks to make you think the jihadists had landed.

  Probably they knew what they were looking for, and besides, any one of them could have used a couple of million dollars’ worth of tax write-off.

  But after they were done, a number of them sent the guys (and two ladies) who did know exactly what they were looking for: nine trainers by my count, five of them already in the Hall of Fame. (That’s something I learned from Tony. A horse had to be retired before he’s eligible for the Hall, but trainers and jockeys can be voted in while they’re still working at their trades.)

  Bill Halwell, one
of the trainers, wearing his Del Mar tan, or maybe it was his Santa Anita tan, went over Tyrone with his hands, inch by inch.

  “So what do you think of him?” I asked.

  “Nice horse.”

  “I have no rooting interest,” I said. “I’m just the bodyguard.”

  He nodded. “Reminds me of his father. Not too long in body, which is good. My experience is that long-bodied horses are often short on stamina. Nice shoulder, straight legs, doesn’t toe out.” He stared at Tyrone, then nodded again. “Yeah, very nice colt.”

  “How much do you think he’ll bring?”

  He shrugged. “That’s another union.”

  “How high will you tell your boss to go?”

  “Actually, I’ve got three bosses interested in this colt,” answered Halwell. “The old days, when a trainer worked for just one owner or stable, are long gone. And as for your question, I’m afraid that’s privileged information.”

  “I’m not going to try to outbid them,” I assured him with a smile.

  “I know,” he said returning the smile. “But if I say twenty million, to name a totally preposterous price for the sake of argument, what’s to stop you or the groom here from telling Travis Bigelow to bid nineteen and a half million?”

  “Who’s Travis Bigelow?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I guess you really are just the bodyguard. Bigelow is the man who’s put this colt up for auction.”

  “Well, if one of your owners winds up with him, and he’s as good as he’s supposed to be,” I said, “I hope you’ll run him here in the Blue Grass Stakes before the Derby so I get a chance to see him and tell everyone I knew him when.”

  “First let’s find out if he can run up to his looks and his pedigree,” said Halwell.

  He lingered a few more minutes, then wandered off. I don’t think Tyrone was in his stall ninety seconds before Biff Wainwright, who had trained Trojan himself, came by to take a look.

  “Looks a lot like his daddy,” he said. “But what the hell happened to his neck? He’d better give up long blades for safety razors.”

  Tony explained what had happened.

  “And he doesn’t shy away when a horse comes up on that side of him?” persisted Wainwright.

  Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him on a track. He doesn’t shy away from people.”

  “People didn’t give him that scar.” Wainwright stared at Tyrone for another moment. “Oh, well, I suppose whoever winds up with him will find out soon enough.”

  He began walking away. I walked to the end of the shed row to see if anyone else was coming, gave Tony an all-clear sign, and he led Tyrone into his stall, took off the lead shank, and came back out, closing the door behind him.

  “I guess it’s going to be like this from now until they sell him tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Is this your first sale?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, but it’s my first million-dollar horse. I’ve only had him for a month, but still, I’ll hate to go back to cheap horses with nothing special to their names.”

  “No reason why you should, if you do a good job with Tyrone,” I said. “And you seem to be.”

  He shook his head sadly “Ain’t much of value left at the farm,” he said. “Mr. Bigelow’s been dispersing his stock over the past couple of years.”

  “Tired of racing?”

  “Not into racing at all. He’s always been a market breeder.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’s just tired of Kentucky. He’s getting up in years, and he has to drive half a mile just to get to his mailbox. Maybe he wants to take the missus and live in some high-rise in New York City.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, leaning against a wooden wall and watching Tyrone nibble his oats. “If I had a horse that might be worth a couple of million, what would I do—sell him or race him?”

  “If you were a sportsman—that’s how all these rich folk describe themselves—you’d probably race him. And go broke.”

  “You don’t think he’ll be any good on the track?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” he said. “I think he’ll do fine, but the odds say he won’t.”

  “What odds are they?” I asked. “He’s never even set foot on a track.”

  Tony smiled. “You know how many yearlings have sold for over a million dollars?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “More than a thousand. You know how many earned back their purchase price on the track?”

  I stared at him. “How many?”

  “Six. Know how many became year-end champions?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just one: A. P. Indy, a son of Seattle Slew.”

  “You really know your stuff, kid,” I said admiringly.

  “I grew up here. You probably know everything there is to know about the Reds and the Bengals. Me, I was always gonna be too small to play basketball for Kentucky or Louisville, so horse-racing became my sport.” He flashed me a guilty smile. “You wouldn’t believe how long and hard I cried when I realized that I was going to be too big to be a jockey.”

  “Poor kid,” I said. “Too small to guard LeBron James, too big to ride against Garrett Gomez.”

  He nodded. “I’m a groom now, but ten years from now I’ll be training them.” He rubbed Tyrone’s muzzle. “Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll train one of his kids.”

  “If he’s one of the six in a thousand,” I said.

  “Oh, he doesn’t have to win his purchase price to be worth ten times as much. There’s far more money in breeding than in racing.”

  “Explain, please,” I said. “I thought the whole point was winning those six- and seven-figure purses.”

  “Well, it’s great if you can, of course,” replied Tony, “but you don’t have to win a million dollars to be worth more than that at stud. Let’s say that Tyrone never makes it to the Triple Crown races. He runs thirty times, and wins seven, and five of them are stakes races—not the Breeders’ Cup or anything like that, but good, competitive races at major tracks. Okay, they retire him after his four-year-old season, and because he’s a multiple stakes winner and he’s by Trojan and maybe some other Trojan colts and fillies are doing well at the track, they stand him for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar fee.”

  “That much?” I asked.

  “Okay, fifteen thousand, which is dirt cheap for a horse with his breeding and record. He covers a hundred mares a year for three years, before anyone knows if his offspring are any good.” Suddenly he grinned. “You see? He’s already made a million and a half at stud and he’s only seven years old. If he sires a champion or a couple of major-stakes winners, by the time he’s ten his fee will be up around $50,000. Now, we’re not talking a great sire here, a Seattle Slew or Danzig or Storm Bird, just a good, well-bred one with some stakes-winning offspring. Now do you see how the big money’s in breeding and not racing?”

  “I do indeed,” I said. “How much does a truly top sire stand for?”

  “Storm Bird stood for eight hundred thousand and got well over a hundred mares a year. Danzig and A. P. Indy were cheaper; they only got three hundred thousand a pop.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Okay, I’m properly impressed.”

  “It’s not the part of the game I’m attracted to,” added Tony, “but it pays for the part I love.”

  “Hell, it sounds like it could pay the national debt and have something left over,” I said.

  “It’s more than I’ll ever have,” said Tony. He paused for a moment. “Is anyone else heading this way?”

  I looked out into the aisle. “No.”

  “Good!” he said. “Maybe I can finally catch up on my reading.”

  “You’re in school?” I said, surprised, since I knew caring for the colt was a full-time job.

  He shook his head. “No, I quit the day I turned sixteen. I knew what I wanted to be.” He walked out of the stall, entered one of the tack rooms, and emerged with a trio of magazines in h
is hand. “Thoroughbred Weekly, American Racehorse, and Turf. Gotta keep up.”

  “Well,” I said, “since no one seems to be paying us a visit for the next few minutes, and you’re doing your homework, I think I’ll pop over to the track kitchen and grab a bite.”

  “See you later,” said Tony. He reentered the stall, sat in a corner with his back propped up against the wooden wall, and began reading. I decided that if they were still publishing Black Mask or Dime Detective, maybe I’d look forward as eagerly to my homework as he did to his.

  Ben Miller was seated alone at a table and gestured for me to join him.

  “How’s it going, Eli?” he asked as I pulled up a chair.

  “Easiest money I ever made,” I told him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Our business is always easy—until it isn’t.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Well, at least I got to meet a few billionaires and a handful of trainers I’ve admired from a distance.”

  “Any of ’em dead-set on buying the colt?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? The owners could pay for him with pocket change, and what trainer wouldn’t like to have a colt from Trojan’s first crop in his barn?”

  “True,” he agreed. “Doesn’t cost Biff Wainwright a penny if the damned horse never wins a race.”

  “So am I free to go back to Cincinnati after the colt sells tomorrow?”

  “Stick around until the next morning. Maybe the new owner will want to keep you on until the sale ends in four days.”

  “I’m not spending one more night in the tack room than I have to,” I said adamantly.

  “Let me see if I can get Bill to pop for a room at the Hyatt,” he said. “If not, at least I’ll try to put you together with the high bidder and see if he wants you to stay with the colt.”

  “Fair enough.” I ordered a sandwich and a beer. “I wonder what Tyrone will finally go for?”

  “Tyrone?” said Miller with a smile.

  “For Tyrone Power,” I answered. “Because of the scar.”