The Trojan Colt

by Mike Resnick

  “Could be Branson,” said Chessman. “The description fits.”

  “I think the one who had the visitor was Tony. I think it was Branson. He operates on the wrong side of the tracks. He knew what the colt would be worth, and he’s probably been bleeding Bigelow ever since he put the scar on the ringer. Maybe he thought the horse would bring two million; that’s the figure I heard when I was hired to provide security. But let’s say the new owner or the underbidder mentions that they’ll go to three million for him, and Branson finds out. He goes to Bigelow and asks for an extra hundred grand or so. And Bigelow stalls . . . and suddenly, the day before the auction, Branson figures out that Bigelow has got him targeted. So he tells Tony the truth, and says to make it public if anything happens to him.”

  “I don’t buy that at all,” said Chessman.

  “It makes sense,” I insisted.

  “Maybe for a normal man,” replied Chessman. “But not for Branson. You know how he got ruled off? The track vets never spotted what he’d done. He got caught because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about what a genius he is. He told one too many people about how his oxygenated blood and various drugs escaped detection.” He smiled at me. “You want a more likely scenario? He stopped by to see his handiwork on the colt’s neck and had to brag about it, had to say something about how his handiwork made him the Leonardo of the veterinary trade.”

  “And loyal, honest Tony challenges it, and Branson drops his name and credentials,” I said excitedly. “Tony’s so protective of the sport and of his employer that he won’t discuss it with me until he can verify what he’s heard. So after I go to sleep, he looks up Branson’s address in a phone book or gets it from someone else—after all, from what you say, Branson’s not making any effort to keep it secret. So Tony drives over to his place to make sure he was telling the truth—and then, if he was, Tony would report it. Yeah, I can buy that.”

  “Are you saying Branson killed both kids? Hell, he didn’t even know Billy.”

  I thought about it for a few seconds. “Okay, it makes even more sense this way. Bigelow’s run through all the normal channels to raise money, so he borrows it from the mob, and the Trojan colt is his collateral. Then the colt dies, he sees he’s got another chestnut that’s a look-alike, he tells them his plan. Maybe it’s even the mob that suggests Branson.”

  “Go on,” said Chessman, leaning forward.

  “When Billy Paulsen tries to extort more money, Bigelow doesn’t have to lift a finger himself. He just tells the mob, and they send a hitter named Horatio Jimenez here to kill him and protect their investment.”

  “Why do you think it was that particular killer?”

  “Because he’s the one who shot at me near Branson’s condo,” I answered. Anyway, maybe Branson just shoots off his mouth to Tony. Or maybe he spots Jimenez and figures the mob is going to take care of any loose ends, which means Jimenez is here to kill him before he can open his big mouth. It makes no difference.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because both ways work, which is to say, they both lead to the same thing. Let’s say Branson spots Jimenez at the sale. He has no place to run—like you say, he’s a pariah—and he tells Tony that the colt’s a ringer and to tell the cops and the Jockey Club if anything happens to him. But it works out the same way if he has no idea who Jimenez is, he doesn’t know there’s a hit on him, and he just says a little more than he should to Tony. Either way he goes home, Tony’s a moral kid who loves the sport and wants to make his living in it. He decides to make sure that Branson wasn’t just drunk or bullshitting before he goes to the authorities, so he goes to Branson’s condo to confront him. Jimenez is hiding there. Either he overhears Tony and realizes that he has to kill them both, or else Tony walks in on the killing and Branson can’t let an eyewitness walk.”

  “My God!” whispered Chessman. “That sounds so damned believable!”

  “Was Branson married?” I asked.

  “Not for years. She couldn’t stand the bastard either.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But Jimenez doesn’t know it. He moves the bodies out of there—it’s dark and it’s raining, and if he wraps each of them in a big plastic garbage bag, who’d know what the hell they were? And since he doesn’t know if there’s a Mrs. Branson, or a young son home from college or the army, his employers tell him to station himself there for a few days, just in case—and when I spot his car and slow down almost to a stop to write down his plate number he starts shooting.”

  “Why did you want his plate number?”

  “He was driving a distinctive car, and he’d taken a shot at me earlier at my motel, either because I’d spoken to you or more likely because I’d already driven around the area near the Kroger’s lot trying to figure out what the hell Tony had been doing there.”

  “So he’s still on the loose and we could both be in danger right now?” asked Chessman, suddenly peering into the parking lot.

  “No, you’re not in any danger,” I assured him.

  “How do you know?”

  “You were gone when Branson did his work on the colt, and just knowing that Branson exists isn’t a killing offense. Besides, if I could walk in on you twice in the past couple of days, don’t you think Jimenez could if he wanted to?”

  “You’ve got a point,” he admitted, relaxing visibly.

  “Anyway, I’m going directly to the police station from here, and then some uniformed friends and I will decide on our next move. But in the end, Bigelow—and Jimenez, if he hasn’t flown the coop yet—are going down.”

  “I’ve watched enough mystery shows on television to ask: don’t you have to have a body to charge someone with murder?”

  I nodded my head. “Yeah, you do. We’ll have three—the two grooms and Branson.”

  He looked completely puzzled. “Where?”

  “I wasn’t sure when the day started,” I told him. Then I smiled. “But I know now.”

  After I dropped Chessman off at Blue Banner Farm I went back to the station. Berger and Bernice were still there, though I didn’t know if they were on duty or just waiting to hear what I’d learned.

  I laid it out for them, and they agreed with my conclusions.

  “I’m going to arrest that son of a bitch tonight,” announced Berger.

  “Which one?” asked Bernice with a smile.

  “Bigelow,” he said. “We’ll stake out Branson’s condo too, just in case, and put out an APB on Jimenez before we leave.” He picked up his phone. “Sam? Lou. We’re gonna take Bigelow down tonight. Get me a court order to bust in if I have to . . . hell, I don’t know. Make it a search warrant, and say we’re looking for the real Trojan colt.”

  He hung up and turned to me. “We’ve got a couple of understanding local judges. Sam’ll contact one of them, and he should be back with a warrant in fifteen or twenty minutes. Why don’t you two grab some dinner or something, while I line up a couple of boys in blue and a paddy wagon?”

  “Hell, no!” I said. “I started this investigation. I’m going to be in on the end of it.”

  “The end of it is probably a two-year attempt to extradite Jimenez from New Mexico once he runs back there and thirty mob members swear he never left.”

  “I’m coming with you!” I insisted.

  “So am I,” said Bernice.

  He shrugged and turned to Bernice. “I know better than to argue with you,” he said. “Keep your blues on.”

  She nodded and turned to me. “Let him make all his arrangements and we’ll get ourselves some coffee.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “And he’d damned well better not try leaving without us,” she added, raising her voice.

  He put a pained expression on his face, then picked up his phone and went to work as we walked down the hall to get some coffee.

  “So Jimenez isn’t working for Bigelow!” she said. “That one got right by me, but of course given his financial situation he couldn’t pay for a high-priced hitter.”<
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  “And the end result is the same,” I added. “Anyone he wants to get rid of, it’s in the mob’s best interest to do the dirty work for him.”

  “At least until the check for the colt clears,” she said.

  “He sold it to one of those Dubai oil sheikhs,” I said. “The guy probably makes more in a day than what the colt cost. It must be a nice life.”

  “Yeah,” she said dubiously. “But he can’t watch Big Blue go up against Louisville.”

  “My mistake,” I said with a smile. “I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”

  She laughed, we talked a bit more and were about to return to Berger’s office when he emerged from it and approached us.

  “Everything’s set,” he said. “You want to ride in the squad car or the paddy wagon?”

  “Why don’t we just take my own car and follow you?” I said. “That way if you’re stuck there for a few hours, we can leave once he’s under arrest.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  We turned and fell into step behind him as he walked to the front entrance. The paddy wagon was parked just a few feet away, its motor idling. Lou walked over to a squad car, and Bernice and I went to the Camry. Night had fallen and we needed the headlights. We fell into formation behind them as we all drove out—I hoped for the last time—to Mill Creek Farm.

  It was obvious as we pulled up to the house that something was wrong. The door was open, and Hector the doorman was lying unconscious about ten feet to the right on it. Sounds emanated from the house, sounds like someone was getting the crap beat out of him.

  We rushed in through the foyer and then to the living room. Travis Bigelow was tied to a chair, blood streaming down his face. Horatio Jimenez was working him over, screaming, “Where is it, you lying bastard?”

  “That’s enough!” I said, starting to approach them.

  Jimenez turned and rushed at me. A single shot rang out, and he fell to the floor, bellowing in pain, and I could see a huge bloody stain spreading out from his knee. I turned and saw that Bernice had her gun in her hand, aimed at him.

  “You kneecapped me, you goddamned puta!” he roared, pulling his gun out of his shoulder holster.

  There was another explosion, and his gun went flying through the air and he screamed again as blood began spurting from his hand.

  “Call me a puta again and you may have to learn how to sign your autograph with your nose,” said Bernice pleasantly. Then, to no one in particular, she added: “I no longer resent all those hours at the shooting range.”

  “Call an ambulance,” said Berger to one of the officers. “And ride with him to the hospital to make sure he doesn’t try any funny stuff. We’ll arrange for a twenty-four-hour guard once he’s there.”

  The officer nodded, pulled out his cell phone, and called 911 on it.

  “All right, Mr. Bigelow,” said Berger as he went over and began untying him. “You’ll make a side trip to the hospital, but then you’re going to jail. Let me guess: you not only promised the three million, or a substantial portion of it, to Jimenez’s employers, but to a bunch of other people as well.” He smiled. “You’ve been a very bad boy.”

  “Those are my private dealings,” mumbled Bigelow weakly but defiantly. “His employers aren’t going to press charges, and neither are you.”

  “You got it all wrong,” said Berger. “We don’t care if you rob the mob. But you ran a ringer in the sale, and you’re going to jail for it.”

  “I won’t admit to a damned thing,” whispered Bigelow as we heard the siren of an approaching ambulance.

  “You don’t have to,” answered Berger. “We’ll just run a DNA test on the colt.” Bigelow’s swollen eyes widened—well, as much as they could—in surprise, and Berger chuckled. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mr. Bigelow.”

  Then they were loading Jimenez and Bigelow onto a pair of stretchers, and Berger had both of his officers ride along with them.

  “Where’s Mrs. Bigelow?” asked Bernice.

  “I checked before we came out there,” answered Berger. “She’s in New York, spending money she doesn’t have on things she doesn’t need.”

  “Well, that’s that,” she said, finally putting her gun away.

  “Not quite,” said Berger. He turned to me. “So where are the bodies?”

  “Follow me,” I said.

  I walked out of the house and headed toward the largest barn, the one that housed Frank Standish’s office. We walked past the huge backhoe, and just before we reached the barn I stopped.

  “Right there,” I said, pointing to the little equine cemetery.

  “Silk Scarf?” he said, shining a flashlight on the small cement marker.

  “She died this spring, so the grave is fresh. It hasn’t had time for anything to grow on it, so it was easy to open it up without anyone paying any attention. He did it the night the colt sold, when he paid Standish to take the night staff out to dinner and the movies.”

  “You’d better be right,” said Berger.

  “I am,” I replied confidently.

  “What the hell,” he said. “Even if you’re wrong, we’ve still got Bigelow on a felony, and we’ll have plenty on Jimenez before he’s healthy enough to move. We’ll wait here for some replacements to arrive, and then I’m buying you and Annie Oakley here a drink.”

  The next morning, armed with a court order to go with the previous night’s search warrant, they opened the grave and found three bodies—Billy Paulson, Tobias Branson, and Tony Sanders—just atop that of Silk Scarf. Then they dug a little farther down and found the remains of a young colt with a broken foreleg.

  I reported the sad news to Tony’s parents, had one last dinner with Bernice, and drove home.

  Some people have strange senses of humor. Khalid Rahjan, the Arab who shelled out three and a quarter million for the colt, was one of them. He viewed the whole thing as a huge joke on himself. He never tried to return the colt, never asked for his money back, didn’t even ask for a price adjustment. He even made “Tyrone” its official name. I suppose when you make a million dollars an hour on slow days, you can find humor in almost any situation.

  It had been ten months since the night we arrested Bigelow and Jimenez, and they were both doing time. I’d driven down a couple of times to visit Bernice, but in January she told me that she was dating a local. MacDonald moved to some obscure little town in Utah, God knows why, and joined the force there, and Lou Berger got a commendation and transferred to headquarters.

  I hadn’t been back since the turn of the year, but I found myself driving down to Kentucky on a pleasant April day just to see an old friend in action. I had a late breakfast at Tilly’s with Hal Chessman, and then we drove an hour over to Churchill Downs in Louisville, where they were running the Bashford Manor Stakes for two-year-olds.

  The very first Trojan colt to reach the track would be making his debut. So would the first starter by the imported British champion Morpheus. And there was one other colt who’d be starting for the first time. His sire was Spellsinger, a nice but not outstanding racehorse who had sired a couple of stakes winners and a lot of losers, and his dam was a Mill Creek Farm mare named Sassy Suzie. The colt’s name was Tyrone, and he was the old friend I’d come to see.

  “He’s 65-to-1,” noted Chessman. “Figures for a nonstarter going against two of the best-bred colts in the crop. Of course,” he added, “all that could change overnight.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Breeding’s not a science,” said Chessman. “Citation had a couple of full brothers who never won a race. And on the flip side, Polynesian and Bold Reasoning, who sired Native Dancer and Seattle Slew, weren’t classic sires until the Dancer and Slew came along, and then overnight they were. So for all anyone knows, the best-bred colt in the field might be Tyrone.”

  I looked at the tote board. He was up to 80-to-1. “I don’t think a lot of people agree with you.”

  “They’re probab
ly right,” he agreed. “I’m just pointing out that nothing’s written in stone. Or to coin a phrase: That’s what makes horse races.”

  “There he is,” I said, pointing to Tyrone as he walked by us in the post parade.

  “He looks fit,” said Chessman. “I’m going to go put ten dollars down on him. Want me to lay a bet for you?”

  I looked at the board: 90-to-1. The bay by Trojan was even money, and the black Morpheus colt was 8-to-5. Which figured. They were that well-bred.

  “No,” I said at last. “I don’t want to jinx him, I’ll just root for him.”

  “Up to you,” he replied with a shrug. He was back in three or four minutes, clutching his ticket in his hand.

  Then they were in the gate, and a few seconds later the bell rang, the doors opened, and the Morpheus colt shot out to a lead, tracked by the favorite. I didn’t have any binoculars, and Khalid Rahjan’s silks were a dull color, hard to spot. I had no idea where Tyrone was until they turned into the homestretch. Then a sleek chestnut circled the field, caught the leaders with an eighth of a mile to go, and began pulling away from him. I still didn’t recognize his silks, but I couldn’t miss the scar on his neck.

  Chessman cashed his ticket, teased me all the way back to Lexington, and then I drove home.

  They say dogs can’t laugh. Bullshit. Marlowe spent the whole night laughing at me.

  MIKE RESNICK is the all-time leading award-winner for short fiction in science fiction history and is the author of seventy-one novels, over two hundred fifty short stories, and three screenplays, as well as the editor of forty-one anthologies. A number of those novels and stories were mysteries set in the future or on other worlds. But Mike doesn’t limit himself to science fiction, as fans of Dog in the Manger know, and Seventh Street Books is pleased to have enticed him back to contemporary mysteries with The Trojan Colt. Visit him online at www.mikeresnick.com, at www.facebook.com/mike.resnick1, and on Twitter @ResnickMike.