by Mike Resnick
“I’m a private eye,” I said.
“Wow!” he said excitedly. “I’ve never met one of them before! You got an office and a sexy secretary and girls stashed all over the city like all those private dicks on television?”
“Well, I have an office, anyway,” I said.
“So what are you here for?”
“A groom’s gone missing, and I’ve been hired to find him.”
“Another?”
“This has happened before?”
“Happens all the time. The old grooms, they don’t know nothing else so they stick around forever, but the young guys like me, we’re just passing through. Who’s flown the coop?”
“You know Tony Sanders?”
“Tony? Sure.” Jeremy frowned. “But he’s the last guy I’d expect to walk away. He loved horses and racing. I mean, every time someone would talk about heading off to California or maybe Miami, all he could talk about was Santa Anita and Hialeah.”
I nodded my head. “That’s Tony, all right.”
“What’s running this week?” said Jeremy, frowning. “Arlington, I think. And Belmont. Probably Monmouth. Oh. And Hollywood or Del Mar, something out west. You want him, that’s where you’ll find him. He probably hooked up with some trainer, talked himself into a job while they were all looking at Tyrone.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He seemed pretty upset last night.”
“Have you met Nan?”
“Yeah.”
Jeremy smiled. “If you were leaving a looker like her, wouldn’t you be upset?”
It sounded logical, but it felt wrong. Something more than leaving his girlfriend behind had been bothering him.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “but I need to talk to Mr. Standish and probably Mr. Bigelow, just to be thorough.”
“Call him Frank,” said Jeremy. “Everyone does.”
“Gotcha.”
“He could have been a hell of a trainer,” continued Jeremy. “In fact, he was once.” He shook his head. “Too bad.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“He won some big filly-and-mare stakes race out east, the winner flunked her drug test, and he was ruled off for a year, so he took a job managing the Wilson farm a few miles south of here, and then when the job opened up here a few months ago, he took it.” He frowned again. “You know the crazy part? They busted up some doping ring a couple of years later, and one of them admitted he’d doped Frank’s filly. But by then he’d settled in and was raising a family and didn’t want to go back on the circuit. I asked him about it a couple of times, if he missed it. He said that sometimes he did, but racing’s not like football or basketball or any other sport: it’s twelve months a year, and he didn’t want to be away from his wife and kids all the time.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“You away from your wife much?”
“Constantly,” I said.
He looked puzzled.
“We’re divorced.”
“Hell, just about everybody is these days. Well, except for Frank and Mr. Bigelow. And if he got rid of that witch, we’d all cheer.”
“Frank’s wife?” I asked.
He laughed. “No, Mrs. Bigelow. She always goes around acting like she’s too good for us common folks—but it’s us common folks who run her goddamned farm for her.”
We reached the largest barn, and Jeremy escorted me inside, where a middle-aged man was on his knees, running his hands over a horse’s ankle while a female groom held its halter.
“Yeah, there’s definitely some heat there,” he said to the girl. “Keep him in his stall. I’ll check every morning, and if it’s still there in two days we’ll get the vet in here.”
“I thought all the big farms had vets in residence,” I said.
“Not when they’re dispersing all their stock,” he said, standing up as she led the horse away. He turned to look at me. “Should I know you?”
I extended my hand. “My name’s Eli Paxton. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
He shook his head. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Paxton, but anything you want to know about what’s for sale, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Bigelow.”
“I’m not here to buy a horse,” I answered. “I’m a private detective, working on a missing person case.”
“Who’s missing?”
“A young man named Tony Sanders.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” answered Standish. “Mr. Bigelow was fit to be tied, walking off when he had a three-million-dollar yearling in his care.”
“I spent a little time with him before he went missing,” I said. “He seemed like a nice, responsible kid.”
“He was,” agreed Standish. “Or at least I thought so until I heard he’d taken off. I was actually thinking of getting him work with Milt Baynes in another year or so.”
“Milt Baynes?” I repeated.
“A local trainer. Mostly claimers and cheap allowance horses, but at least the kid could get the feel of the business.” He shook his head. “Well, they come and they go. He’d only been here a month. You’d think rubbing down a horse like Tyrone would keep them happy.” He shrugged. “Who understands kids these days?”
“You said ‘them’?” I asked.
“Yeah,” answered Standish. “I hired Tony because the kid who was rubbing Tyrone took a powder one night. Probably busy turning his brain to porridge in some crack house.”
“What was the kid’s name?” I asked.
“There’s no connection,” Standish assured me. “They didn’t even know each other. One flew the coop, and I hired the other two days later, once I was sure he wasn’t coming back.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s no direct connection,” I replied. “But maybe the grooms have a grapevine. You know: go to such-and-so a place for the best pot or the friendliest women, that kind of thing. I assume no one’s hired any detective to hunt for the first groom, so if I can turn up any information on him, it might lead me to Tony.”
“Sounds like a long shot to me,” said Standish. “But hell, this is one business where long shots do come in. Kid’s name was Billy something . . . give me a sec.” He lowered his head in thought, then looked up. “Billy Paulson, I think. Tell you what: leave me your card and I’ll hunt up his job application when I’m through making my rounds and have one of the kids drive it over to you.”
I pulled a card out and scribbled the motel’s address on it, then handed it to him.
“Thanks, Frank.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “If you find where all the runaway grooms from this town are hiding, you’re gonna need a baseball stadium to hold ’em all. I mean, it’s hardly permanent work, even with a horse like Tyrone.”
“He was a nice-looking horse to my unpracticed eye,” I said.
“You don’t sell for three mil if you’ve got a case of the uglies,” said Standish. “I remember his papa as a youngster, and just between you and me and the gatepost, Tyrone was a much better-looking animal, even with that scar on his neck. I gather he got it a few weeks before I arrived; it was still healing when I got here.”
“I’m surprised the breeder didn’t have an urge to keep him and race him,” I remarked.
“You mean Mr. Bigelow?” asked Standish.
I nodded.
“He hasn’t raced in, oh, it must be fifteen years. In fact, he’s just about through breeding. Sold his interest in Trojan and a couple of other stallions, and has sold a batch of his broodmares privately.”
“So he’s getting out of it?”
“He’d better be,” replied Standish. “You don’t see it up front, but the working part of this farm needs close to half a million worth of repairs and upgrades, and who the hell knows what the house needs? I think the missus has been after him to leave the Blue Grass and go back to civilization in some high-rise for a couple of years now.” He paused and sighed deeply. “Still, there was a time, and not so long ago, when this place was one of the crown jewels.” He shrug
ged. “I guess everything changes. Doesn’t mean we have to like it.”
“Does Mr. Bigelow know the hired help?” I asked. “I mean personally?”
“He knows the long-timers, of course. As for the grooms and the groundskeepers, he knows most of ’em by sight, and knows a few of their names,” answered Standish. “But he’s been in town all week, with his lawyers and his bankers and whoever the hell else he has to see during sales week. He won’t be able to tell you anything.”
“I believe you,” I said. “But I might as well speak to him as long as I’m here, just to please my clients.”
“Tony’s parents?”
“Right.”
“I never met them, but he seemed to think well of them. I hope you run the kid down before he gets in any serious trouble.”
“Hell, I just hope he’s not in any yet,” I said.
“I’m with you on that. Nice kid. Had a way with horses.” He began walking to the barn door. “Come on. I’ll take you up to the big house and introduce you. Watch your step near the door. Got a busted pipe there. Jury-rigged a patch on it until we can get a plumber out here.”
I walked around the pipe and followed him outside. A big earth-moving machine was parked about forty feet from the entrance.
“The place needs a lot of repairs,” confided Standish. “We think there’s also a leak in the main line leading from the street.”
“That’s a lot of ground to dig up,” I said, turning and looking toward the street.
“True,” he agreed. “On the other hand,” he added with a smile, “we have a lot of horses who like to drink.”
As we walked by one of the barns I saw a quartet of monuments, statues of horses with inscriptions on them.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The cemetery,” he replied.
“You’ve only had four horses die in all the years this place has been here?” I asked with a smile.
He returned the smile. “Most are disposed of by the vet. But these four deserved to be remembered. All the farms do it. Go by Claiborne and you can pay your respects to Secretariat, Bold Ruler, and Danzig. Stop by Calumet and you can do the same to Citation and Alydar and some others.” He paused. “What we have here are Vanguard, Gunslinger, Midnight Run, and Silk Scarf.”
“Silk Scarf?” I repeated. “Wasn’t that a filly?”
He nodded. “A mare. They’re colts and fillies until they turn five; then they’re horses and mares. She just died this spring.”
“Isn’t it odd for a mare to be buried here? Every horse you named here and at the other farms were males.”
“She produced eight stakes winners,” said Standish. “That’s more than some males produce with fifty times the offspring.” Another pause. “Hell, Ruffian is buried at Belmont Park, and when Zenyatta goes she’ll have a marker that dwarfs all of these.”
“I wonder what kind of grave is in store for Tyrone, if any,” I mused as we continued walking.
“First let’s see if he can beat you at even weights,” said Standish with a smile. “Then we’ll worry about ranking him with racing’s immortals.”
“Don’t you have some idea by now?” I asked.
“Some,” he replied. “But I just got here myself a few months ago. I haven’t really watched him develop from the start. He seems like a well-balanced colt, good shoulder, good muscle, and well bred.”
“But?” I prompted him.
“But a lot of well-balanced, well-bred colts wind up running in claiming races.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Whenever I’m at the track, I never bet the best-bred horse in a claiming race. I figure if his owner’s willing to sell him for a few thousand bucks, and his daddy’s stud fee is up there in the stratosphere, someone has a good reason for dumping him, and that gives me just as good a reason for not betting him.”
“I’ve never heard it put quite that way, but it makes sense,” said Frank.
We reached the house—my urge is to call it the mansion, or at least the big house—in a couple of minutes. Hector opened the door for us, stepped aside as we passed through, and closed it behind us.
The house had been as elegant as a palace once, I could see that at a glance. But the more I looked, the more I saw that the place had fallen on hard times. The carpeting was almost as threadbare as my own, and it didn’t have the excuse of Marlowe trying to bury his bones under it. The couches and chairs had seen better days, and there was even some wallpaper peeling off the wall.
It was clear that Jeremy was right: the Bigelows had to be planning on selling out and moving away. Not just because they were dispersing their horses, but because no one who dealt in million-dollar horseflesh would live like this unless they were about to unload the place.
“We’ll go to the study,” said Standish, turning and leading me to a smaller room just as shabby as the others. “This is where he likes to talk business.” We sat on a very uncomfortable couch that had seen better days but probably no more comfortable ones and stared at an empty chair and desk.
After a couple of minutes Travis Bigelow entered the room. He was a dapper-looking man in his sixties or seventies, with thinning white hair, a thick mustache, a fancy cane he carried but didn’t seem to need, and a dark three-piece suit with a muted tie.
“Hector told me you’d brought a visitor, Frank,” he said, staring at me.
“Right,” said Standish, getting to his feet, and I followed suit. “This is Eli Paxton.”
Bigelow stared at me. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr. Paxton.”
“We don’t travel in the same circles,” I said with a smile. “I’m a private detective.”
He frowned. “Another goddamned lawsuit?”
“No, sir,” I said. “This has nothing to do with you. Or only marginally. A groom who worked for you is missing, and I’ve been hired to find him.”
“Oh, good,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rude or suspicious, Mr. Paxton. But when you’re as rich as I am, you get the damnedest demands from people who want to grab a piece of what you’ve got, and usually a detective or a lawyer is a harbinger of things to come.”
“I understand, sir,” I said. I decided not to add that I hoped he kept it all in cash and tax-frees, because the house and barns looked a lot worse from the inside than the outside.
“So who is this missing groom?” said Bigelow.
“A young man named Tony Sanders,” I said.
“Sanders, Sanders,” he said. “Are you quite sure? I don’t think I know the name.”
“He’d only been here a month,” I said.
He shrugged. “You can’t expect me to know every kid who passes through here.”
“No, I can’t,” I agreed. “But since he was in charge of your three-million-dollar yearling . . .”
“Nonsense!” he snapped. “Frank was in charge of him. Tony just fed and cleaned him.”
“Then you do know him,” I said.
“I don’t know him,” he replied adamantly. “You already told me his name was Tony and that he was Tyrone’s groom.” He paused. “I wish his new owner well. That’s a hell of a horse. Almost makes me wish I was still racing them.”
“I got the impression you never raced your own horses, sir,” I said.
“I got into this decades ago with some cheap claiming horses,” he replied. “Even moved one of them up to stakes competition. It was when I learned where the real money was that I gave it up to be a market breeder. I hope to hell Tyrone goes out and wins some major races for his new owner . . . but if he doesn’t, I’ve still got my three and a quarter million.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said, and then paused for a moment. “Now, getting back to Tony . . .”
“Like I said, I don’t know the young man, but far be it from me to hinder you in the pursuit of justice or truth or whatever the hell it is you’re pursuing.”
“Right now what I’m pursuing is Tony Sanders,” I said.
“Okay, Mr. Packard . . .”
“Mr. Paxton,” he said. “You have free run of the farm. Frank, he can look anywhere he wants, interview anyone he wants.” He turned to me. “Will that be satisfactory?”
“I couldn’t ask for anything more,” I replied. Well, maybe your house and three and a quarter million, but what the hell.
“Then I think our conversation is over,” he said, extending his hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Paxton, and I hope you find the young man.”
“Eli, go on out,” said Standish. “I’ll join you in just a minute.”
I left the study and began walking to the front door. They closed the study door, but it was warped along the top, and I could hear Standish’s voice saying, “Are we going to get our paychecks today, sir?”
“Yes,” said Bigelow. “I’ll have Marvin write them out and deliver them this afternoon. I’m sorry, Frank; he and I were both tied up all day at the bank.”
I couldn’t hear anything further without coming to a complete stop, and Hector the guard was standing by the open front door staring at me, so I went outside and waited for Standish there.
As I tripped over a loose brick in the doorway, I found myself thinking that if Tony had had any money, I could well believe Bigelow had murdered him for it, just to help repair the once-proud and now-dilapidated Mill Creek Farm.
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.
