The Trojan Colt

by Mike Resnick

  There were a couple of paid receipts, one for a pair of boots, one for some T-shirts. I assumed he was keeping them for tax purposes. There was a jockey’s whip, pretty beat up. I’d always heard that they were called “popper” whips because they made a loud popping noise that startled a horse but didn’t hurt him or leave any welts. Just for the hell of it I picked it up and slapped it down on my leg. It made a noise, all right—but it hurt like hell, and when I pulled up my trouser leg to look at my calf, I could see the welt already forming. So much for that particular myth. I probably outweigh the average jockey by seventy or eighty pounds, but every last one of them’s got to be in better shape than me, so size and strength were a wash. Bottom line: the damned thing hurt.

  Next was a little box containing some gold chains. The gold was already flaking off, so it was obvious they were cheap imitations, but then, if he was a kid who read porn, probably the young ladies he went after were cheap imitations too.

  Then there was his shaving kit, which contained a long razor like they used in barber shops when I was a kid, which looked impressive but made it damned easy to slit your throat if you sneezed at the wrong moment. It also contained a toothbrush and toothpaste, and two spray bottles of a cheap men’s cologne.

  And, finally, there was the Little Black Book. I thumbed through it. Our Billy didn’t have much of a social life. There were only five girls’ names, plus one of those joints that will give you an advance on your paycheck for a mere twenty-five percent per week or whatever. I checked to see if any of the girls lived on Leestown Road. None did, and even if one of them had I wouldn’t have known what to do about it anyway, since Leestown was where Tony had made his way, not Billy.

  I closed the box. It hadn’t told me much. The kid was old enough to shave, big enough to lust for women, he had a birthday sometime before he vanished, he had at least a passing interest in sports, and he either knew a jockey and kept the whip as a souvenir, or he was into really kinky sex.

  End result: nothing.

  In fact, there was only one loose end at all: Hal Chessman. And I was sure someone at Mill Creek could tell me who he was, and then the last possible link between Tony and Billy Paulson would be gone. I figured I’d spend another couple of days and then give the Sanders another chance to call it off just about the time I ran through every last possibility, no matter how obscure or unlikely, of finding their son.

  I realized that I hadn’t eaten yet, so on the way out of the station I stopped by Bernice’s desk and asked if she’d like to join me.

  “Eli,” she said, “you’re either two hours late for breakfast or two hours early for lunch.”

  “You choose,” I said. “I’ll pop for either.”

  She smiled. “Some of us aren’t self-employed, Eli. Some of us are salaried and have certain hours and obligations.”

  “Okay,” I said with a sigh. “Sorry.”

  “On the other hand,” she continued, “if you’d like to have dinner together, Dutch treat, the girl I’ve been subbing for came back from sick leave, and I’m off tonight at five.”

  “It’s a date,” I said.

  “No,” she replied. “It’s a dinner. We’ll play it by ear and see if it becomes a date.”

  Two guys entered the station just then and walked up to her with complaints, so I just nodded and waved good-bye as I headed out to the parking lot.

  The only loose end—and even that was putting it too strong; the only name I didn’t know in the Paulson disappearance—was Hal Chessman. I’d written down his return address, but rather than approach him cold I decided to learn what I could about him, so I drove out to Mill Creek, parked the car, and was headed off to the biggest of the barns when I spotted Frank Standish standing by a fence, watching five mares and their foals cantering around the paddock.

  “Got a minute?” I asked as I walked up to him.

  “Hi, Eli,” he said. “We’re going to have to start charging you board.”

  “I won’t be here long enough today,” I said. “I just need to ask you a question.”

  “You could have called on your cell phone,” said Standish.

  “I don’t have your number,” I said, which was true, even if it wasn’t the reason.

  “What do you think of the gray foal there?” he asked, and I looked at a baby gray horse cavorting next to its bay mother.

  “Pretty,” I said.

  “Eli, they’re all pretty. You think he’ll make an imposing yearling?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “I think he’s going to bring the biggest price of this batch,” he said. “He’s by Moon Base. Remember him?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t say that I do.”

  “He was quite a two-year-old,” said Standish. “World of early speed. But when the races got longer . . .”

  “They caught him?”

  He nodded. “Tripped on his pedigree every time. But Momma’s got some stamina in her pedigree.” He turned to me. “Okay, you didn’t come out to evaluate foals and guess what they’ll sell for next year. How can I help you?”

  “You ever hear of a guy named Hal Chessman?”

  He chuckled. “Of course! He’s the man I replaced here. In fact, he recommended me for the job.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?” I asked.

  “Sure. A real sweet guy, knows the business inside out. Never spent much time at the track, but he was supposed to be one of the best stallion managers around. Came here a few years ago when Bigelow thought he was going to import a couple of top stallions from Europe and maybe stand a few local ones as well, and when it didn’t come to pass, he took a job at Bill Redcastle’s farm managing Pit Boss, Marauder, three or four others.”

  “Where is Redcastle’s place?”

  “Maybe seven or eight miles west of here.”

  “And he left Mill Creek when?” I asked.

  “Just about Christmas. I started the day after New Year’s.”

  “He’s still in town if I want to talk to him?”

  “As far as I know. Hell, I got a birthday card from him a couple of months ago.” He frowned. “I never thought to check the return address.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I probably haven’t got a damned thing to ask him.”

  “I’ve got one to ask you,” said Standish.

  “Shoot,” I told him.

  “Hal left here at the end of December. Tony Sanders didn’t come to work for us until five or six weeks ago. What’s one got to do with the other?”

  “Not a thing, as far as I can tell,” I answered.

  “Then why—?”

  “There are two missing grooms,” I said. “I’m looking for connections.”

  He shook his head. “Eli, they didn’t even know each other. I didn’t hire Tony until Billy Paulson went missing.” He paused. “You were referring to Billy, weren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I assume he was on good terms with Chessman?”

  “Hell, everyone was on good terms with Hal. Sweetest guy you’d ever want to meet. Never abused a horse or a hired hand. And—this is in confidence, now—once or twice when Bigelow couldn’t make the payroll, or was a few days late with it, Hal paid the grooms and exercise riders out of his own pocket.”

  “Sounds like he qualifies for sainthood.”

  “He’s as close as you’ll get to a saint in this business,” agreed Standish. “Hell, when he left, most of the staff went with him. There were guys working two and three shifts when I got here, and even then the place was a mess until I could hire more help.” He paused and looked at me. “What made you curious about him?”

  “I was going through Billy Paulson’s effects down at the local police station,” I said. “The only thing I couldn’t account for was a card—Christmas, I guess—that Chessman sent him. It was a name I didn’t know, and I’m just tying up loose ends.”

  “Did you see the stick too?”

  “The stick?” I repeated.

 
“Slang,” he apologized. “The whip.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and suddenly my calf started to smart.

  “You know who once owned that?” asked Standish. “Eddie Arcaro, maybe the greatest jock of them all.”

  “Didn’t he die twelve or fifteen years ago?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “So he couldn’t have given Billy the whip.”

  “No, he gave it to the first farm Billy worked at. A two-year-old filly—a well-bred one—got loose and headed off toward the highway, and Billy caught up with her just before she ran into a truck. Sprained his ankle badly enough that they took him to the hospital—and to thank him, the owner gave him the whip. He carried it everywhere with him.” Standish smiled at the memory. “I think it was his proudest possession, the stick Eddie Arcaro might have used on Citation or Kelso or Whirlaway. Billy never touched a horse with it, but he carried it everywhere.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look a little . . . I don’t know . . . strange.”

  “Something I ate,” I said. “I should stick to getting my breakfasts at Tilly’s.”

  He nodded. “They say she’s the best.”

  I made my way back to the car and began driving back to the motel. I had a feeling my expression hadn’t changed. It had taken a minute to hit home, but when it finally did, the meaning of what I’d heard finally got through to me: the whip was Billy Paulson’s most treasured possession. He was never without it.

  But he was without it now.

  And deep down in my gut I knew he was dead.

  I’d started out looking for one missing kid. Suddenly I was sure I was dealing with two dead ones, and the only link between them was a horse that was probably a thousand miles away by now.

  I found a Walgreen’s with a pay phone and decided to look up Hal Chessman’s number, muttering a silent prayer that he had a listed number instead of a cell phone. The God of Detectives must have been listening, because sure enough, there he was in the phone book. He picked it up on the third ring. I told him who I was, that he could check me out with Frank Standish, and that I just needed a couple of minutes of his time. He agreed, told me how to get to his farm, and I told him I’d be there in twenty minutes.

  Actually, it took half an hour. Nobody posts addresses out in horse farm country, and I hadn’t asked the name of the farm he was working for. The first farm I stopped at couldn’t help me, but the second told me how to get to Blue Banner, which was the farm that employed Chessman.

  It was an impressive layout—white split-rail fences everywhere (with a discreetly hidden electric wire so none of the horses thought of jumping over it to see if the grass was greener in the next pasture). There was a huge stallion barn, with each stall leading out to its own paddock—which made sense; put two working stallions together and only one survives. There were other barns, all of them, like the fence, in beautiful condition. There was even a half-mile training track circling the place.

  I pulled up to the main barn—I knew by now that trainers didn’t live in the white-pillared mansions that seemed to accompany each farm—and approached the stallion barn. A young black man saw me, signaled for me to wait, then raced inside the barn. A moment later Chessman stepped out, pudgy and balding, just the way he looked on the card he’d sent to Billy Paulson.

  “Mr. Paxton?” he said, extending his hand.

  “Call me Eli,” I replied.

  “Fine,” he said. “And I’m Hal. Come on into my office.”

  He turned and led me into the barn.

  “That’s Marauder,” he said, pointing to a small bay stallion. “And down at the end of the row is Pit Boss. I could tell you who the other eight are, but those are the two everyone wants to see.”

  “I remember Pit Boss,” I said. “Damned good horse.”

  He nodded. “Until he ran into Trojan. His first crop makes it to the sales ring next year. I hope they do half as well as Trojan’s.” He shook his head in wonderment. “That damned horse not only sired the sales topper, but his fillies averaged just about a million apiece. He’s got a couple of colts coming up in the Saratoga sale in August. I’ll be curious to see what they do. Hopefully the market’s coming back before the Pit Bosses go up for sale.” He stopped. “But you didn’t come here to talk about that.” He gestured to an open door. “Please, grab a seat. Care for some coffee?”

  I walked through the doorway into what was probably once a pair of back-to-back tack rooms but had been converted into a very comfortable office with a desk, a phone, a computer, and some comfortable but not overstuffed leather furniture.

  “Coffee would be fine,” I said, taking a seat.

  “With or without white stuff?”

  “With.”

  He did something with his computer that was as incomprehensible to me as most things people do with them.

  “Coming right up,” he said, seating himself behind the desk. “So you’re a private detective?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m not aware that I’ve ever met one. You don’t look much like Humphrey Bogart. I think you’re more the Robert Mitchum type.”

  “An old, tired Bob Mitchum, who wishes private eyes still wore battered fedoras so I could hide my bald spot,” I said.

  He laughed. “Damn! I like you already! I hope you’re not here to arrest one of my young people.”

  I shook my head. “I just want a little information.”

  “If it’s mine to give . . .”

  A young man, just starting to grow a very sparse mustache, entered just then carrying a pair of cups on a tray.

  “Our visitor gets this one,” said Chessman, pointing to the one that had cream and, theoretically, sugar.

  The young man carried the tray to me, I took the cup he indicated, and then he placed the tray and the remaining cup on the desk in front of Chessman.

  “Thank you, Diablo,” said Chessman. “Check on that mare that just arrived from California and make sure she’s comfortable, that she’s got enough water.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Chessman,” he said, leaving.

  I turned to Chessman. “Diablo?” I said.

  “His real name’s Bruce. What can it hurt to call him what he wants to be called?”

  I decided I liked Chessman already, too.

  “So who stole the Falcon?” he continued.

  “Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre, last I heard,” I replied.

  “What I meant was, who are you after?”

  “I’m trying to find a kid you probably never heard of,” I said. “Does the name Tony Sanders mean anything to you?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Why did you think it would?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He looked puzzled. “But—?”

  “You asked, I answered. That’s who I’ve been hired to find. It’s not why I’m here. I wanted to ask a couple of questions about Billy Paulson.”

  “Nice kid,” he said. “Always on time, never made excuses when he screwed up (which wasn’t often), good with the horses, respectful of people. Never had a moment’s trouble with him.”

  “I gather most of your staff followed you here from Bigelow’s,” I said. “Why didn’t he?”

  “He was supposed to,” answered Chessman. “I promised each of them that they’d have a job here if they ever wanted it, and all but maybe three came away with me the day I moved over here. I knew Frank Standish would want his own crew, so taking mine didn’t bother me, but I also knew Frank wouldn’t get there until just after the first, so I told Billy and maybe six or seven others to stick around until Frank could replace them, that they still had jobs here whenever they showed up.”

  “And they all showed up shortly after Frank arrived at Mill Creek?”

  He shook his head. “Two of them went elsewhere. Billy was supposed to come, but then he got the Trojan colt put in his care, and I guess that convinced him to stay on. When did he go missing? Jus
t since the sale?”

  “No, more than a month ago,” I answered.

  He grimaced. “Nobody tells me anything. I’m managing the stallions here. The yearlings aren’t my responsibility, so I didn’t even go to the sale—though I heard the Trojan colt brought a hell of a price. Still, if he runs up to his pedigree, I suppose it might be worth it someday.”

  “Someday?” I repeated.

  “Selling for three million and change is one thing. Winning it on the track is another.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said. “Anyway, you hadn’t heard from Billy Paulson since he told you he was staying at Mill Creek?”

  Chessman chuckled again. “He didn’t tell me,” he replied. “Maybe he thought I’d bite his head off. He had a friend deliver the news. I sent him a New Year’s card to show there were no hard feelings, but I never heard from him again.” He sighed. “They come and go awfully fast in this end of the business.”

  And not always of their own volition, I thought. Aloud I said, “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Chessman . . .”

  “Hal,” he interrupted me.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Hal,” I amended. “I appreciate your taking the time.”

  “Not a problem,” he answered. “If you see Billy, tell him I’m not mad at him.”

  “Will do.”

  “And drink your coffee, or Diablo will have a fit,” he concluded with a smile.

  “I’d forgotten all about it,” I said. I took a taste, found it was getting cool, and drank it down like a glass of water. “Tell him he makes a good cup,” I added, getting to my feet and placing the cup on the tray.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

  “If you’ve got work to do . . .” I began.