by Mike Resnick
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s the way he seemed to me.”
“We trust you, Mr. Paxton,” he said. “Find our son for us.”
“And keep in touch,” added his wife.
Then they were walking toward the parking lot, and I realized that I wasn’t going home just yet.
It was still an hour before dinnertime, and I figured since I was charging them for today I might as well get to work.
I wandered over to my car, stopped at the gate while track security made sure I wasn’t hiding a valuable thoroughbred in the back of the Ford, then made my way to the nearest of the addresses the Sanderses had given me, which was a Jeff Calhoun.
It turned out to be an apartment building no more than two miles from the racetrack. I parked, walked in the front door, studied the mailboxes for a moment, finally found his name—he was sharing the place with two other guys—and rang the bell. Someone rang back, unlocking the inner door, and I entered, then began climbing to the third floor. A thin, ascetic-looking young man with a sparse mustache and sparser beard, wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and sandals, greeted me and ushered me in.
“Are you Jeff?” I asked as he led me into a living room that was even more beat-up and out of date than my own.
“No,” he said. “I’m Spike. I’ll get him for you.”
I watched him as he walked down a corridor and knocked on a bedroom door, and wondered how anyone kept a straight face when they heard his name.
A burly, dark-haired guy, maybe twenty-five, with glasses and a mustache emerged and walked to the living room.
“You wanted to see me?” he said.
“Yeah,” I began, starting to get up.
“Stay seated,” he said, sitting in a chair opposite me. “We’re informal here.” A grin. “In fact, informal is probably an understatement. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Paxton,” I said. “Eli Paxton. I’m a private detective.”
“Oh, hell!” he muttered. “Has Spike been smoking shit again?”
“I couldn’t care less,” I said with a reassuring smile. “I’m here about Tony Sanders.”
He frowned. “Tony?” he repeated. “He’s a sweet kid, even if he does prefer horses to people. What the hell has he done?”
“He’s gone missing, and you’re on a list of friends his parents gave me,” I said. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Probably not since he went to work for Bigelow,” answered Calhoun.
“When was that?”
He shrugged. “Maybe a month ago. I used to see him a couple of times a week, but Mill Creek—that’s Bigelow’s farm—is a couple of miles out. Tony doesn’t own a car, and I don’t think any buses stop anywhere near it after dark.”
“Was he happy there?” I asked.
“He was happy anywhere he could be near horses—well, near thoroughbreds, anyway. He didn’t have any use for standardbreds.”
“I’m a bit of a newcomer to the backstage part of racing,” I said. “Can you tell me the difference?”
“Standardbreds are trotters,” answered Calhoun. “I know they look alike, but it’s like a whole different union.”
“Got it,” I said. “Did he ever give you any reason to think he was unhappy?”
“No, he loved his work. He wanted to be a trainer someday, but for the time being he was happy rubbing down quality thoroughbreds.”
“Where had he been working, and why did he move to Bigelow’s farm?”
“Grooms move around a lot,” answered Calhoun. “They make it sound like they’re experts, but really, how the hell much skill does it take to feed a horse or rub him down or muck out his stall? These farms with the million-dollar stallions, they don’t just have vets on call; a lot of them have vets working right there on the grounds. So if the horse he’s rubbing gets sick or hurt, no one expects him to do anything but report it pronto.”
“So he didn’t move to Bigelow’s just to rub this colt that got sold earlier today?”
He shrugged again. “That might have had something to do with it. I mean, the colt was worth more and rubbing it probably brought more prestige than what he’d been rubbing over at Tilly Halstrom’s farm. But my guess is that they paid him more money, or maybe Tilly’s daughter made one too many plays for him. She’s pretty well-known for that.”
“And you haven’t seen him in a month?”
“Well, about a month. Ever since he went to work for Mr. Bigelow.”
I pulled the Sanderses’ list out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You think any of these other guys might have seen him more recently?”
“Not if they didn’t work there, and none of them did,” he answered. Then he frowned. “Where the hell is Nan?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Nan who?”
“Gillette. Tony’s girl.”
“His mother says they broke up half a year ago.”
Jeff smiled. “She wanted them to break up, so Tony just stopped talking about her. He was still seeing her as of four or five days ago.”
I frowned. “I thought you hadn’t had any contact with him in a month.”
“I haven’t,” he said. “But I see her all the time. She works at Fishbein’s.”
“Fishbein’s?” I repeated.
“A drugstore about half a mile from here.”
“You got a phone number or an address for her?”
He shook his head. “No, but she’ll be working now. She pretty much arranged her hours so she’d be free late at night, when Tony could sneak away.”
“Okay, where is this joint?”
“Out the front door, right for two blocks, then left for three. You can’t miss it. Only drugstore within miles that’s not Walgreen’s or CVS.”
“What’s ‘Nan’ short for?”
He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. All I’ve ever called her is Nan. She and Tony and I were in the same high school class together. Well, until Tony and I quit, anyway.”
“Okay,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thanks for the information.”
“Happy to help,” he said, walking me to the door. “And if she’s not there, maybe she and Tony finally got out of this town.”
“You’re not thrilled with Lexington?”
“It’s a two-horse town,” he answered. “One runs around the track, the other runs up and down the court at Rupp Arena.”
I decided he probably wasn’t far from right, thanked him again, and walked down the stairs. I went out to the Ford, started it up, and began making my way to Fishbein’s. I had the radio on, but it was too early for the Reds, and all I got was a list of high-priced yearlings and their sires, as if their mothers had nothing to do with it.
It took about five minutes to get to Fishbein’s—I was driving slowly and making sure I counted off the blocks correctly—and when I got there I found they had a lot on the side of the building, so I pulled in there, locked the car (not that there was anything worth stealing except the three packs of cigarettes I had hidden in the glove compartment in case I fell off that particular wagon), and entered the store.
It was almost empty, just a couple of old ladies arguing with the pharmacist that generics shouldn’t cost more than a dollar apiece, and I walked around until I saw a pretty young blonde, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, straightening some shelves.
“Good afternoon,” I said, approaching her.
She flashed me an insincere smile and went back to what she was doing.
“I wonder if you can help me,” I continued. “I’m looking for a young lady named Nan.”
She stared at me but said nothing.
I pulled out my detective’s license—most people can’t tell it from a badge—and said, “I just want to talk to her. No laws have been broken and no arrests will be made.”
“I’m Nan,” she said, “Nanette, actually.”
I figured it was probably Nancy and that she decided Nanette sounded classier. Made no difference to me, so I didn’t comment on it.
“Hi, Nan,” I said. “My name is Eli Paxton. I’m a private detective—”
“I’ve never seen one before, except on television,” she replied. “Do you carry a gun?”
“Rarely and carefully,” I answered.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive.
“Just some information about a young man named Tony Sanders.”
“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “What did he do?”
“Disappeared.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that last night he was guarding this colt that was up for sale today, and this morning he was missing and no one can find him.”
“And you think I’m hiding him?”
I shrugged. “What would you be hiding him from?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you any idea why he might have walked away from his job on what figured to be both its most important and its final day?”
She shook her head.
“Has he mentioned anything to you, anything that might be troubling him?”
She shook her head again. “He was very happy. We were going out tomorrow night.” She frowned again. “It better not be another girl!”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I spoke to him last night and he seemed very disturbed about something. Do you have any idea what it might have been?”
“No.”
“Has he ever mentioned a desire to see other places?” I continued. “Maybe California, maybe, I don’t know, Miami?”
“Tony?” she said incredulously. “I don’t think he’s ever been thirty miles from here. Whenever we’ve talked about getting married and going on a honeymoon, the farthest he would even consider is Mammoth Cave.”
I pulled a card out of my wallet, then realized that I was a hundred miles from the phone, and scribbled the Hyatt’s number on the back of it, then handed it to her.
“If you should hear from him, call this number and leave a message for Ben Miller. He’ll see to it that I get it.”
“Why don’t I just call you on your cell phone?” she asked.
“It’s broken,” I lied. “And I haven’t had a chance to pick up a new one.”
“You could buy one right here,” she said. “We’re running a sale.”
“My company’s picking one up for me,” I said, which was easier than explaining that I refused to own a cell phone or even learn how they worked.
“Well, when you get a number, call here and leave it for me.”
“Will do,” I said.
“Damn, I hope he’s all right.”
“He’s probably fine,” I said. “Young men just tend to get restless.” It didn’t sound all that reasonable even to me, and I could tell she wasn’t buying it. “I’ll keep in touch,” I promised her and headed out the door.
I tried the other three friends on the list. Two were out, and the third had nothing to add. Tony loved horses and the racing game, he had eyes for no two-legged female except Nan, and he seemed happy as a clam the last time they’d met.
By the time I was through hitting all the addresses and talking to the last friend, it was nearing nine o’clock, and I realized I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so I stopped at a Bob Evans, had some steak and eggs and a piece of pecan pie, downed a couple of cups of coffee, and hunted up a Motel 6, which cost about as much as a closet in the downtown Hyatt. I left a message for Ben Miller, telling him where he could find me if he had to, took a shower, and got ready for bed.
About two in the morning my phone rang. I picked it up, grunted a “Hello” into it, and was rewarded by the sound of Ben Miller’s voice.
“Eli, this is Ben. Sorry to wake you, but I just got in.”
“What’s up?”
“Message for you from someone called Nanette. Says to call her, night or day.” He gave me the number.
“Thanks, Ben.”
“You working on that missing groom?”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck.”
He hung up, and I dialed Nan’s number.
“Yes?” said a wide-awake female voice.
“Hi, Nan. This is Eli Paxton.”
“Thank goodness!” she said.
“You’ve heard from him?”
“No,” she replied. “But I lied to you before. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I realize I should have told you the truth. I thought I was protecting him, but you’re being paid to find and protect him too.”
“Okay,” I said. “What can you tell me?”
“I did hear from him last night.”
“When?”
“Just before midnight,” she said. “He sounded very upset, very worried. He wouldn’t say what it was, but he said he had to come by and talk to me in person, either today or tomorrow . . . well, yesterday or today, now.”
“Did he give you any hint of what was bothering him?”
“No. Just that he had to do or see something, and then we’d talk.”
“Nothing about any of the owners or trainers, at the track or at the farm?” I persisted. “Nothing he heard them say? I mean, a lot of them are filthy rich, and I’m sure their dealings aren’t always ethical or legal.”
“No, not a word about it.”
“Did you get the feeling he thought he was in danger?”
“Just worried.”
“What kind of things worried him?”
“I don’t know!” she said in an exasperated tone, and a few seconds later she was crying.
“Calm down,” I said. “Thank you for the information.”
“And you’re not mad at me for lying?”
“I’m grateful to you for finally telling the truth.”
“And you’ll let me know when you find him and that he’s all right?”
“Yes.”
She hung up without another word.
I thought about it for a while, realized there was nothing to be done at two-fifteen in the morning, and lay back on the bed. I’d run through Tony’s friends, so I decided that, come sunrise, I’d pay a visit to Bigelow’s farm.
Mill Creek Farm was about fifteen miles out of town. It wasn’t one of the classic farms like Claiborne or Calumet or Gainesway, but over the years Travis Bigelow had produced his share of stakes winners. No Derby winners, but that seemed to be a lot more important to sportswriters who followed racing two or three days a year than to the people in the industry.
I kept looking for blue grass, and what I kept seeing was green grass. I drove past a few thoroughbred farms with picturesque white split-rail fences for the public and electric wires that delivered a very mild shock for the horses, since some of the more athletic horses could probably jump the fence, but they couldn’t jump the electric wire that ran along the top of it maybe a foot or so above the top rail.
A number of the farms had training tracks, but no one was out running on them as I drove past. What struck me was the size of the pastures. You could stick a hundred head of cattle into each enclosed pasture that housed from one to ten thoroughbreds. Then I thought about it and realized that it made sense, that based on some of the figures Tony had quoted, there was every likelihood that one top racehorse or stallion was worth more than a hundred cows.
Finally I came to a sign telling me I’d reached Mill Creek Farm. I turned into the driveway, which was lined with fenced pastures on both sides, and started driving up to the house. There were a quartet of barns off to the left, and another to the right. Straight ahead was what I assumed was a typical horse country mansion, a large two-story white house with a quartet of huge white pillars holding up a portico in the front.
There was actually a uniformed guy standing at the front door. He walked over when I pulled up and waited for me to open the window.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked.
“I hope so,” I said. “My name’s Eli Paxton. I’d like to talk to the guy who does the hiring around here, or if he’s at the sale, then to Mr. Bigelow.”
�
��I’m afraid we are not currently hiring,” said the man.
I pulled out my wallet and flashed my license at him. “I’m not looking for work. I’m here about a missing groom.”
He sighed deeply. “They come and go all the time, sir.”
“Just the same, I’d like to talk to someone who knew him, and maybe take a look around.”
He frowned. “Mr. Standish is the farm manager. I believe he’s in one of the barns. As for letting you ‘look around’”—I could almost hear the quote marks around it—“you will require Mr. Bigelow’s permission.”
“Is he home?”
“He will be shortly. I believe he’s at the bank.”
I couldn’t blame him. If I had a check for three and a quarter million in my pocket, I’d want to make sure it was good too.
“Well, if you’ll point out where this Standish is, I can start by talking to him.”
“I can’t leave my post, sir. I’ll summon someone to take you to him.”
He pulled out a cell phone that made Star Trek’s communicators look like primitive kid stuff, spoke into it so softly I couldn’t hear him, and then tucked it away.
“Well?” I asked.
He pointed to a young man who was walking toward us from the nearest barn.
“This is Jeremy,” he said. “He will take you to Mr. Standish.”
“Has he got a first name?”
“I just told you.”
“I mean Standish,” I said.
“Frank.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, but he was already walking back to his station at the front door.
I decided that since he hadn’t told me to move the car, I’d leave it right where it was so I could find it again when I was done. I got out, closed the door, wished I had one of those remote control locks—not that there was anything worth stealing, but just because I didn’t want anyone pushing the car out of the way—and began walking across the lush green field toward Jeremy.
We met halfway between the barn and the house, introduced ourselves, and shook hands.
“Hector tells me you’re a cop?” he said.
“Hector?” I repeated. “No wonder he didn’t tell me his name.”
Jeremy chuckled. “I read about a Hector in high school. Some Greek guy. Got himself killed by another Greek guy.” We began walking toward the farthest barn. “So what’s a cop doing here?”