by Mike Resnick
Published 2013 by Seventh Street Books™, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Trojan Colt. Copyright © 2013 by Mike Resnick. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Resnick, Michael D.
The Trojan colt : an Eli Paxton mystery / by Mike Resnick.
p. cm.
ISBN 978–1–61614–789–1 (pbk.)
ISBN 978–1–61614–790–7 (ebook)
1. Private investigators—Ohio—Cincinnati—Fiction. 2. Horse racing—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.E698T76 2013
813’.54—dc23
2013007139
Printed in the United States of America
To Carol, as always,
and to Dan Mayer,
for encouragement and patience.
It was a hot June day. The air-conditioning wasn’t working, the phone hadn’t rung all day, and the office was starting to feel like the inside of an oven, so I got up, walked out the door, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and stepped outside.
The air-conditioning wasn’t working any better on the outside. It must have been ninety degrees, and ninety in downtown Cincinnati, a couple of blocks from the Ohio River, is like a hundred and ten in the desert. In fact, the humidity can make you long for a hundred and ten degrees of what they call a dry heat.
When the Reds are at home most of my favorite eateries are jammed, but the team was busy being rained out in Philadelphia, so downtown was relatively deserted. I considered stopping for a little Skyline chili, which isn’t chili at all but is the world’s greatest junk food and is unique to Cincinnati, but it was too damned hot to eat—especially chili—so I caught a bus and got off a block from my apartment.
Marlowe was waiting for me. Marlowe’s my dog. I don’t like him much, and he’s not real fond of me, but we’re all either of us has, so we put up with each other. He looked as hot as everybody else. He also looked a little tense, or strained, or anxious, so I put his leash on him and we went out for a walk. He relieved himself on Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias, as usual, and she opened her window and cursed at us in Italian, as usual, and Marlowe looked exceptionally proud of himself, as usual, and then we decided only a crazy man and a crazy dog stayed outside in the sunlight on a day like this, so we went back into the apartment.
Marlowe glared at his food until it cringed into submission, but it was too damned hot to eat, and he finally jumped onto my octogenarian couch and began snoring. I sat down on an easy chair, considered turning on the television, but decided there was probably nothing much on that was worth watching, which meant it was a typical day on cable.
I picked up a Playboy—I’d long since admitted that I didn’t buy it for the articles—and began thumbing through it, wondering if Miss August was as hot and uncomfortable under the photographer’s lights as I was right where I was sitting, and concluded that she couldn’t possibly be.
At some point I nodded off. It was dark when I opened my eyes, and after a minute I realized that the reason I’d awakened was because the phone was ringing. It took me a minute to get up and walk over to it, by which time it had stopped ringing.
I figured as long as I was up, I’d get a beer from the beat-up fridge. I wandered into the kitchen, pulled out a can of Bud, popped it open, and was about to take my first swallow of that beautiful cold fluid when the phone rang again.
I got to it on the third ring.
“Goddamnit, Eli, where the hell have you been?” said a familiar voice.
“Right here.”
“I just rang a few minutes ago,” said the voice. “There was no answer.”
“I was sleeping. It took me awhile to walk over to it.”
“Why don’t you join the twenty-first century and buy a goddamned cell phone?”
“We owe a gazillion dollars and two-thirds of the world wants to kill us, and you enjoy this century?” I said. “I could have picked a better one out of a hat.”
“Yeah, if there was ever any doubt about it, now I know I’m talking to the real Eli Paxton.”
“And who the hell am I talking to?” I growled.
“Bill Striker, goddammit!”
That woke me up in a hurry. Bill Striker ran the biggest detective agency in Cincinnati. He had a staff of fifteen, plus a pair of secretaries and a receptionist. Of all the detectives in town, he made the most money, had the classiest clients, wore the best suits, drove the most expensive cars, and had the prettiest wife and most accomplished kids. More to the point, every now and then he sent a job my way, and, as usual, I was in no position to turn down any acts of largesse, and given the pile of overdue bills on my desk, the largesser the better.
“Hi, Bill,” I said. “Sorry if I seemed groggy for a minute. I was up all night on a stakeout.”
“Is it done?”
“Is what done?”
“The stakeout!” he said in exasperated tones. “Have you been drinking?”
“Not today and not enough,” I said. “I’m just sleep-deprived.” And cash-deprived, I added silently. “Anyway, the stakeout’s over.”
“Good,” said Striker. “I’m in a position to throw you a little work. Pays pretty well for what it is.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“Security,” he replied.
“Rock star or athlete?”
“A horse.”
“Okay, it’s my turn to ask you,” I said. “Have you been drinking—or has this horse maybe swallowed some diamonds?”
“He’s worth more than diamonds—potentially, anyway,” said Striker. “I know you live and die with the Reds and the Bengals . . .”
“Hell, everyone dies with the Bengals,” I said.
“But I also know you go out to the track every now and then.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said. “But there’s nothing running at River Downs that’s worth a bodyguard, and besides, your agency’s got a starting lineup that could spot the Bengals two touchdowns and still beat them.”
“And most of them are going to be doing exactly what you’re doing, Eli,” said Striker.
“Okay, I’m wide awake and still mystified,” I said. “Explain, please.”
“You’re right about River Downs,” he said. “But we’re not talking about River Downs.”
“What are we talking about?”
“Try ninety miles south of here,” said Striker. “The Keeneland Summer Sale starts next week. The Striker Agency has been hired to provide security for some of the well-bred yearlings, a few of which will sell for well over a million dollars.”
I’d heard of the sales, of course, even read about them, but ninety miles was as close as someone of my social and financial stature ever got to them. These were the high rollers of the thoroughbred industry, guys who would risk a couple of million to buy a well-bred or good-looking yearling that had never raced, maybe even never been saddled.
“Don’t they have round-the-clock grooms for these babies?” I asked, hoping he’d say no. “I mean, I figure
the groom probably sleeps in the stall with the horse.”
“They know how to care for horses,” replied Striker. “They don’t know shit about providing security.”
“Have there been any threats?”
“No one’s going to kill one of these yearlings, Eli,” said Striker, as if speaking to a child. “What they may do, if they can get away with it, is steal one. Then they have two options: put a look-alike ringer in the stall, keep the yearling themselves, and hope he runs true to his pedigree. But in truth that’s awfully far-fetched. What’s far more likely is that they’ll just disable or bribe the groom, take the horse away, and hold him for ransom.”
“I suppose that figures. What breeder wouldn’t pay a quick couple of hundred grand and agree to drop all charges to get his million-dollar yearling back?”
“You got it,” said Striker. “So, you want to bodyguard a colt and his groom for a week? Double your usual fee, room and board comped, reimbursement for gas.”
“Yeah, I’m in. Any idea who I’m guarding?”
“Remember Trojan?”
“Remember him?” I shot back. “Hell, I damned near went broke trying to find a horse to beat him.”
“He was really something,” agreed Striker. “Unbeaten at two, won the Derby at three, Horse of the Year at four, retired with earnings of almost eight million dollars. He was syndicated for about forty-five million.” There was a pause. “Damn! I still remember that Preakness. Stumbled at the start, blocked at the head of the stretch, he didn’t get loose until the last hundred yards, and he still came within length of winning it. I hate to tell you how much I lost on that race.”
“He was some horse,” I agreed. “But surely he’s not up for sale.”
“No, this is a yearling sale,” said Striker. “Besides, Trojan has been syndicated, split into forty-five shares. They can’t sell him, just parts of him.”
“So who am I guarding?”
“The first Trojan colt ever to make it to the auction ring,” answered Striker. “I think there’ll be two more sold at Saratoga in a couple of months, and there are three fillies up for sale at Keeneland, but most people are hanging on to their Trojans.”
“That sounds one step away from being a dirty joke,” I said. “When I was a young man, Trojans were—”
“I think they still are,” said Striker. “Try to leave your bad taste in Cincinnati.”
“When do I leave?”
“Day after tomorrow. I don’t suppose you have an e-mail address?”
“Not if you need a computer to have one,” I said.
“Figures,” he said. “All right, I’ll have a messenger drop off the pertinent details at your office tomorrow: where you go, where you stay, who you report to, the usual.”
“I’ll be looking for it,” I said. “And thanks, Bill.”
“Happy to do it, Eli. Our personalities may not exactly mesh, but you’re a damned good detective. That thing you uncovered when you were looking for the show dog, that was just grade-A work.”
“And now I’m bodyguarding a horse,” I said sardonically.
“I think you may have found your métier,” said Striker with a chuckle and hung up.
Marlowe gave me a look that said: So you think guarding a horse is a no-brainer? You just don’t know us animals, pal.
In retrospect I should have listened to him.
The first order of business was to find a place to stash Marlowe for a week. Mrs. Garabaldi was out of the question. I could almost see her horrified expression: “Me? You want me to take care of the petunia killer?”
The only other little old lady I knew was Mrs. Dorfmeyer, but she had a pair of cats that Marlowe would have eaten for breakfast. Finally I phoned the huge kennel just north and east of town, but when I found out what it would cost to board him for a week, I decided I could either find a neighbor who was willing to watch him for a few days (which meant a neighbor who didn’t know him), or I’d take him with me and let him spend a week growling and terrifying all the million-dollar yearlings.
I took him for a walk when I got home, and Fate intervened, because I ran into Mrs. Hoskins just as Mrs. Garabaldi was cursing both Marlowe and me for what he’d done yet again to her petunias.
“Terrible woman!” muttered Mrs. Hoskins.
“It’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one who thinks so,” I replied.
“She’s the cheapest woman in town. My Nancy is helping pay her tuition by waiting on tables. Do you know what Mrs. Garabaldi tipped her for a nine-dollar sandwich and a cup of coffee? A quarter!”
“I’m almost sorry Marlowe won’t be able to soil her flowers for a week.”
She looked at me curiously.
“I’m leaving town on business. I’ll have to board him.”
“Board him?” she repeated.
“I can’t take him with me.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Paxton,” she said. “If you leave him with me for the week, I promise to let him lift his leg on Mrs. Garabaldi’s flowers at least three or four times a day.”
“You mean it?” I asked with a big grin.
She nodded her head vigorously, and her grin matched my own.
“You might as well take him right now,” I said, handing her the leash.
“Doesn’t he have his own food and water bowls?”
“He’ll eat and drink out of anything.”
“And toys?”
“Give him an old shoe,” I said. In fact, try to keep one away from him. It can’t be done.
She took the leash, began talking baby talk to Marlowe—who pretended he didn’t mind—then asked me if I’d like to kiss him good-bye. I explained that it just wasn’t manly, and she accepted it, which is probably why I still have a nose, as Marlowe tends to bite anything smaller than himself.
I walked back to the apartment, began packing, finally turned on the TV, cracked open a beer, and fell asleep sometime during the third inning. When I woke up the game was over, and the channel was running an old Bette Davis film, so I tried to get the score from some other channel, but the only thing I learned from MSNBC was why only right-wing idiots work for Fox News, and the only thing I learned from Fox News was why only left-wing whackos work for MSNBC. I tried ESPN, but they were showing reruns of a Little League game in New Mexico, and finally I fell asleep again.
The next morning I got into the Ford, which was even older in car years than I was in people years, and began driving south on the Interstate. I drove past the Great American Ballpark (which everyone still calls Riverfront Stadium) and Paul Brown Stadium, across the Ohio River into Kentucky, and past the Cincinnati Airport (which is legally part of Cincinnati, for reasons known only to select Kentucky politicians and their bankers). I stayed on I-75 after it branched off from I-71, all the way down to Lexington, where the grass really isn’t blue but the horses’ blood sure as hell is.
I’d been told to report to Ben Miller, one of Striker’s higher-ups, at the Hyatt on West High Street. I pulled up, turned the car over to a valet, and decided this might not be such a mundane job after all. Stand guard over a yearling during the day, dine in the four-star restaurant here, then take an elevator up to my room, shower away all the smell of horses and stables, and go to sleep without Marlowe snoring on the other pillow.
I was ten feet inside the door when Miller walked up to me, hand extended.
“Good to see you, Eli,” he said. “It’s been awhile.”
“Hi, Ben.” I looked around the lobby. “Nice headquarters. I approve.”
He chuckled at that and shook his head. “This isn’t our headquarters, Eli. I just chose it because it’s so easy to find.” He paused long enough to make sure I wasn’t going to break down and cry. “No, we’ll be staying at Keeneland.”
“The racetrack?” I said, surprised.
“Well, the barns, anyway.”
“The whole time?”
“Until the auction starts. Then each of us will accompany our horse to the sa
les pavilion. Once it’s sold, we’re no longer responsible for it.”
“Where do we eat and sleep?” I asked.
He smiled. “You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re not about to tell me that I have to sleep in the stall with a horse,” I said.
Another chuckle. “Not even the grooms do that. Well, hardly any of them, anyway.” He glanced out the window, where a Lincoln limo had just pulled up. “Ah! Here are four of the guys from the agency. Excuse me a moment while I greet them.”
Then he was out the door, and I took another look around the luxurious lobby. Good-bye, Hyatt, I thought. We could have had something special—but I’m leaving you for a horse.
I’m sure if the hotel could have answered, it would have sighed deeply and said, You aren’t the first.
Miller left his little group and walked over to me.
“Looks like we may have a transportation problem, Eli,” he said. “Too many of us, too few cars. Think you can follow us to Keeneland?”
I shrugged. “How hard can it be?”
He handed me two small pieces of cardboard. “Stick this inside your car window,” he said. “It’ll get you free parking.”
“And this one?” I asked, holding up the other ticket.
“It’ll get your meals comped at the track kitchen.”
“You weren’t kidding,” I said. “I’m really supposed to sleep in the stall.”
He shook his head. “In the barn. They’ve set up a tack room for you.”
“And all the other security sleeps in the Hyatt?”
He sighed. “Not a chance. You know how many goddamned barns there are at Keeneland?”
“Okay,” I said. “But if these horses are worth half what everyone seems to think they’re worth, they should be sleeping at the Hyatt.”
“We’ll bring it up to Fasig-Tipton next year.”
“Fasig-Tipton?”
“That’s the company that runs the sale,” answered Miller. “I’ve already sent for your car,” he continued, as the Ford sputtered up to the door. “Just follow the limo to the track, and then ask someone to show you the way to Barn 9.”
He turned and rejoined Striker’s employees. I followed them out, tipped the valet, got in the Ford, stuck in a cassette—it wasn’t new enough to have a CD player—and listened to Carmen Miranda and the Andrews Sisters sing duets (four-ettes?) all the way to the track.