Triple Crown

by Felix Francis

  If things didn’t improve with time, then I’d seek medical help, but not yet.

  Rafael and I made our slow way back to the bunkhouse, me walking delicately with my knees spread wide apart like a cowboy who’d spent too long in the saddle, and him holding on to me for support.

  I went along to the shared bathroom and delicately examined my privates. Everything was very tender but at least it all appeared to be in the right place and there was no blood in my pee, which was encouraging.

  ‘Who do this to you?’ Rafael asked when I went back to our room.

  ‘I didn’t see,’ I lied.

  ‘You call policía.’

  I shook my head. ‘No police. It would only make things complicated.’

  He looked at me with a quizzical expression.

  ‘More bad,’ I said, and he nodded, steadying himself on the bedpost.

  Rafael then lay down on his bed and went straight to sleep while I carefully climbed up onto the bunk above him.

  Calling the police was not an option. For a start, it would blow my cover, but mostly it would be a waste of time. It would simply be my word against those of the Puerto Rican four who would all swear it wasn’t them and each one would give the other three an alibi.

  Diego and his chums had actually been rather clever, either inadvertently or on purpose. They had used the right degree of violence to seriously hurt me, but not enough to cause any lasting harm. I didn’t think the police would be interested, and I was quite sure they wouldn’t have arrested anyone. Indeed, I was convinced that going to the police would have placed me in greater danger of receiving a repeat performance, and I had absolutely no desire for that.

  No police.

  I would fight my own battles, and I would choose when and where.

  19

  I had a restless night.

  When my phone alarm went off at four, I’d already been awake for ages, and I was sore.

  Even the slightest of movements sent shock waves down into my groin.

  Gritting my teeth, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and lowered myself gently to the floor.

  I dug into my plastic wash bag for a couple of painkillers and hoped they would work quickly. Next I walked gingerly along the corridor to the bathroom, feeling sick.

  Using the cracked and tarnished mirror above the sink, I examined myself again as best I could. There was a slight darkening of the skin due to bruising but no major swelling and my pee was still clear of any blood.

  I decided that I’d live.

  In an ideal world I would have lain still on my bed for a day or two to allow the bruising to come out and for recovery to start. But I wasn’t currently living in an ideal world. I had to get to work, not least because I wasn’t prepared to give Diego the satisfaction of seeing that I was off sick.

  As it was, I managed to get myself dressed and over to the barn by half past four. Not for the first time, I was glad that Raworth’s grooms didn’t have to ride the horses. That would have been a step too far for the throbbing orbs between my legs.

  I readied my four horses for exercise and spent the entire morning moving slowly round with my knees slightly spread apart. Two more painkillers helped and, gradually, things started to return to normal.

  I came upon Diego as we were both collecting feed from the store. He said nothing. Instead he repeated his finger-across-the-throat gesture. I just smiled at him but that made him angry and he tipped the feed bowl I was carrying out of my hands and into the dirt.

  I sighed.

  I could do without this difficulty. It wasn’t that I’d even made a hit on Maria; it was all the other way around.

  I did my best to avoid her but she spent most of the morning walking hot horses round and round the shedrow, passing by the stalls where I was working every couple of minutes.

  Finally, after I had ignored her for almost two hours, she came in.

  ‘What wrong with you today?’ she demanded, standing full square in the middle of Paddleboat’s stall.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, not turning round and continuing to lay the straw bed for the horse.

  ‘I watching you,’ she said. ‘You move like Chuck.’

  Chuck was the yard boy, eighty years old if he was a day, permanently shaking, and only kept moderately upright by his broom. The way I felt right now, I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with him – he’d have won easily.

  ‘I caught myself on the bedpost,’ I said, still not turning to face her. ‘I’ll be fine in a couple of days.’

  ‘You want me apply ice?’ she asked with a laugh.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I do not.’

  But I couldn’t help smiling.

  I spent the afternoon lying on my bed, alone, for more thinking.

  I needed to move things on and, in order to do that, I needed to have a look in Raworth’s drug store, and also in the barn office.

  But that was easier said than done.

  Even though most of the grooms were off duty from about midday until four in the afternoon, the barn was never totally free of humans.

  When he wasn’t actively engaged in looking after Fire Point, Keith spent most of the afternoons in the office, often watching the live racing on a television connected to the racetrack system. Every hour or so he would do a circuit of the barn, looking briefly into each stall to ensure that the equine resident wasn’t stuck down or suffering from colic.

  And then there were always the day’s runners going back and forth from the track, led by one of the grooms or a hot-walker.

  The barn was never deserted.

  Even at night, Keith slept in a bedroom adjoining the office, with a connecting door between the two. And, for added security, the door contained a small glass viewing panel.

  I considered my options.

  If I’d had my top-of-the-range night-vision goggles readily available, I might have gone in at midnight, but how would I have explained them away to whoever had been through my bag on my first day?

  The only possibility was to do it during the day, maybe when Keith was having a meal at the track kitchen.

  And what exactly was I going to look for anyway?

  I’d already witnessed clenbuterol in use on Paddleboat, but it wasn’t against the rules provided the horse didn’t race until the drug had cleared its system. That alone would not be sufficient for FACSA to mount a raid. I would have to find something else.

  The drugs for the horses were kept in a large, walk-in cupboard at one end of the feed store, and it was always kept locked except when Charlie Hern was there issuing items from it. The feed store was also locked most of the time. The keys were on a ring in Charlie’s pocket.

  Suddenly even the idea of getting in seemed hopeless, never mind actually finding something there that I shouldn’t.

  The office was slightly better.

  As a general rule the office door was left open during the day when Keith or Charlie Hern were in the barn but I’d seen Keith pull it locked when he went to lunch.

  All three of the locks, on the doors to the office, feed store and the drug cupboard, were of the pin-tumbler cylinder variety, like those found on many front doors, where the door would lock automatically when pulled shut.

  I’d been taught how to pick such a lock by one of my corporals in the army. He had learned it from his father, who had been nicknamed Harry Houdini by the East London criminal underworld on account of him escaping twice from prison by picking all the locks. The son had then perfected the technique and could reportedly open anything, including safes. During the many hours of boredom of an Afghan tour of duty, he had wiled away the time by teaching the art to the rest of his platoon, me included.

  All you needed were two simple pieces of kit – a torsion wrench, which was a small L-shaped metal bar inserted in the keyhole to apply tension to the cylinder, and a thin piece of metal called a rake that was moved back and forth inside the key slot to lift the pins. As always, I had both in my wash kit.

  It was not
the process of getting in that concerned me; it was doing it, and getting out again, without being seen.

  I went over to the barn half an hour early for evening stables with the two lock picks in my left sock. But the office door was already open and Keith was in there, tipping an office chair back on two legs, with his feet up on the desk. He was watching the racing on the TV.

  I went in.

  ‘Hello, Paddy,’ Keith said, taking his eyes from the screen for a mere split-second. ‘We have a runner in this. Teetotal Tiger. Gate Two.’

  I watched as the starting gates flew open and the horses emerged in a line, Teetotal Tiger easy to spot as his jockey was wearing a white cap.

  Belmont Park boasted the longest Thoroughbred track in North American racing with a one-and-a-half-mile dirt oval, but this race was only half that distance, at six furlongs. Hence the start was midway down the back stretch.

  As on all US racetracks, the horses ran anticlockwise round the home turn. Keith took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, concentrating on the screen.

  The white cap was clearly visible in third or fourth place out of the eight runners, keeping close to the rail for the shortest trip. As they straightened up for the run to the line, the leading pair drifted slightly to their right, allowing Teetotal Tiger room to sneak through on the inside and win by half a length.

  Keith was now on his feet cheering. I was cheering too and suddenly Keith turned and hugged me in his excitement.

  ‘I knew old Tiger would win sometime,’ he said, punching the air in delight. ‘I’ve been telling Mr Raworth so for ages. He’s such a sweet old thing. I hope he hasn’t been claimed.’

  It made me smile to think that a six-year-old was called a sweet old thing. American racing was almost exclusively for horses aged two, three, four and five, and there were very few horses still in training over seven. In England a seven-year-old was a youngster, especially in steeplechasing. No horse under eight has won the Grand National steeplechase since the Second World War, and Red Rum is one of thirteen horses that have won the race aged twelve or older – one was fifteen.

  ‘How long has Teetotal Tiger been here?’ I asked.

  ‘On and off since he was two. He’s been claimed a few times and has spent short spells in other barns but his owner, Mrs Crichton, always claims him back the next time he runs. She loves him.’

  ‘Then why does she allow him to run in claiming races in the first place?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the way the system works, especially for a six-year-old maiden. Not many of them left at the track, I can tell you. Most would have gone for dog meat long ago – old Tiger as well, if it wasn’t for Mrs Crichton.’

  Keith stepped outside looking for the returning horse, leaving me alone in the office.

  Apart from the desk, there were two chairs plus a four-drawer filing cabinet up against the far wall near the corner. Alongside the cabinet, hung on a row of hooks, were a series of multi-coloured racing silks, complete with caps. I presumed that there was at least one set for each of Raworth’s owners.

  I glanced down at the desk. It was about six feet wide by three deep, kneehole style, with three drawers on either side of the central space. The surface was covered with several stacks of papers, a china mug full of pens and a heavy horseshoe-shaped clock in one corner.

  I was tempted to go behind and have a quick look through the drawers but Keith would surely be back soon. Indeed, no sooner had I dismissed the notion than he returned.

  ‘There’s no sign of them coming back,’ Keith said. ‘I’m worried he’s been claimed.’

  ‘Maybe he’s been sent for testing,’ I said. ‘Who’s over there with him?’

  ‘Diego.’

  I’d have been happier if the groom had been claimed instead of the horse.

  No such luck.

  Shortly thereafter, both Teetotal Tiger and Diego returned to the barn and George Raworth and Charlie Hern arrived with them. Keith and I went out to greet them and there was a party atmosphere in the shedrow with everyone in good humour.

  Even Diego grinned briefly at me as I congratulated him, but then he remembered and the smile instantly vanished as he took the horse off to be washed down.

  ‘I told you he’d win eventually,’ Keith said to George.

  ‘And about time too. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Crichton, he’d have gone to the glue factory years ago.’ We all laughed, even though it was hardly funny. ‘Now, how are preparations progressing for Pimlico? We have five going down altogether. Fire Point, Classic Comic and Heartbeat in the Preakness, Ladybird in the Black-Eyed Susan Stakes on Friday, plus Debenture in the Maryland Sprint Handicap. Although God knows why we’re taking him. He’s good enough for claimers but he’ll surely have no chance in that company. But his owner has insisted, and he’s paying for the transport, so he goes. The truck for the horses is booked for Monday morning, nine o’clock.’

  ‘Are we using the Stakes Barns?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I’ve reserved stalls for all five. Pimlico would like to have Fire Point in Stall Forty.’

  ‘We’ll need a minimum of three grooms for the Preakness itself, one for each runner,’ Charlie Hern said. ‘Keith with Fire Point, plus two others. They will be more than enough to cover everything else while we’re down there.’

  ‘Hot-walker?’ George said.

  ‘The grooms can do most of that but we’ll take Maria as well,’ Charlie said. ‘She’s experienced enough by now to act as an extra groom if one of the horses plays up. We’ll also have Victor. He’ll be getting there Tuesday morning to ride exercise. And Jerry will be riding Fire Point. We have plenty of manpower.’

  ‘Right,’ said George, turning to Keith. ‘That’s sorted then. We have a runner here at Belmont on Wednesday and another on Friday, so Charlie will stay here until Preakness Day itself, overseeing things. He’ll come down to Pimlico early Saturday morning. Keith, tell Rafael to sleep in your room Friday and Saturday nights. He’ll be in charge when Charlie’s gone. No track exercise Saturday. Back to normal Sunday. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Raworth,’ Keith said. ‘Any particular grooms you want to take?’

  ‘We’d better take Diego,’ Charlie said. ‘He does both Classic Comic and Heartbeat. Keith can also keep an eye on him.’

  I was still standing in the shedrow nearby, and now I moved forward.

  ‘Paddy,’ said George Raworth, looking straight at me. ‘You look after Debenture, don’t you?’ I nodded. ‘Want a trip to the Preakness?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied enthusiastically. ‘I sure do.’

  ‘But Paddy has been with us only a few days,’ Charlie said with doubt in his voice. ‘The others won’t like it.’

  Bugger the others, I thought. I wanted this gig.

  ‘I promise I won’t let you down, sir,’ I said quickly before George had a chance to reply. ‘Please, sir.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Paddy’s been very good,’ Keith said in a surprising vote of confidence. ‘He cheered on Teetotal Tiger with me just now.’

  ‘OK,’ George said. ‘Paddy, you’re in. We leave Monday morning.’

  ‘Great,’ I said out loud, almost forgetting to use my Cork accent.

  Charlie wasn’t very happy. Perhaps he thought his authority had been undermined. But I didn’t care – I was going to the Preakness. I felt like a child on Christmas morning who finds his stocking full of gifts.

  Indeed, the level of my excitement rather surprised me.

  I had been to most of the world’s major horseraces but, I realised, this was the first time the decision that I should go had been out of my hands, and not as a result of my position within the BHA.

  In spite of the ache that still persisted in my groin, I went to work at evening stables with a spring in my step only slightly dampened by the knowledge that Diego would be another of the grooms going to Pimlico.

  ‘Why did Charlie say you needed to keep an eye on Diego?’ I asked Ke
ith when I got him alone.

  ‘No idea,’ he replied. Something in his tone told me he was lying.

  ‘Will I have to share a room with him at Pimlico?’ I asked.

  ‘All three of us will have to share,’ Keith said. ‘We’ll have only two rooms down there and Maria will be in the other one.’

  I could always share with her, I thought.

  ‘Rafael says no bedpost. He says he find you lying on ground, beat up. Who do this to you?’

  Maria was standing in front of me as I ate my supper.

  ‘I didn’t see,’ I said, lying to her just as I had to Rafael.

  ‘Was it Diego?’ she demanded loudly.

  ‘I didn’t see who it was,’ I said again, looking down at my food.

  What would be the point in telling her the truth? She would only have a fight with her cousin and that would hardly make my life any easier. In fact, it would surely make it worse.

  ‘Why you lie to me about bedpost?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to worry,’ I said. ‘I am fine now, so forget it.’ I waved a dismissive hand at her without looking up, hoping that Diego had spotted it from where he was sitting with his three chums at the far end of the dining hall. I was uncomfortably aware that he had been watching the whole exchange.

  Maria hesitated but then slowly turned and walked away. She had only been trying to help but I’d cold-shouldered her assistance. She was understandably angry at my sudden indifference towards her. I didn’t much like myself for doing it, but there was no way I was going to rectify the situation, not with Cousin Diego and his three amigos looking on.

  20

  I let myself into the drug store using my lock picks. I’d already searched the office without turning up anything out of the ordinary.

  Saturday evening stables had been brought forward from four o’clock to three, and everyone had worked extra fast so that we had finished everything by five, ready for the big race of the day, the half-million-dollar Man o’War Stakes. All Raworth’s staff not actively involved had rushed off to the recreation hall to view the race on the large-screen TV.