The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick

private dicks on television?”
    â€œWell, I have an office, anyway,” I said.
    â€œSo what are you here for?”
    â€œA groom’s gone missing, and I’ve been hired to find him.”
    â€œAnother?”
    â€œThis has happened before?”
    â€œHappens all the time. The old grooms, they don’t know nothing else so they stick around forever, but the young guys like me, we’re just passing through. Who’s flown the coop?”
    â€œYou know Tony Sanders?”
    â€œTony? Sure.” Jeremy frowned. “But he’s the last guy I’d expect to walk away. He loved horses and racing. I mean, every time someone would talk about heading off to California or maybe Miami, all he could talk about was Santa Anita and Hialeah.”
    I nodded my head. “That’s Tony, all right.”
    â€œWhat’s running this week?” said Jeremy, frowning. “Arlington, I think. And Belmont. Probably Monmouth. Oh. And Hollywood or Del Mar, something out west. You want him, that’s where you’ll find him. He probably hooked up with some trainer, talked himself into a job while they were all looking at Tyrone.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “He seemed pretty upset last night.”
    â€œHave you met Nan?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Jeremy smiled. “If you were leaving a looker like her, wouldn’t you be upset?”
    It sounded logical, but it felt wrong. Something more than leaving his girlfriend behind had been bothering him.
    â€œMaybe you’re right,” I said, “but I need to talk to Mr. Standish and probably Mr. Bigelow, just to be thorough.”
    â€œCall him Frank,” said Jeremy. “Everyone does.”
    â€œGotcha.”
    â€œHe could have been a hell of a trainer,” continued Jeremy. “In fact, he was once.” He shook his head. “Too bad.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    â€œHe won some big filly-and-mare stakes race out east, the winner flunked her drug test, and he was ruled off for a year, so he took a job managing the Wilson farm a few miles south of here, and then when the job opened up here a few months ago, he took it.” He frowned again. “You know the crazy part? They busted up some doping ring a couple of years later, and one of them admitted he’d doped Frank’s filly. But by then he’d settled in and was raising a family and didn’t want to go back on the circuit. I asked him about it a couple of times, if he missed it. He said that sometimes he did, but racing’s not like football or basketball or any other sport: it’s twelve months a year, and he didn’t want to be away from his wife and kids all the time.”
    â€œMakes sense,” I said.
    â€œYou away from your wife much?”
    â€œConstantly,” I said.
    He looked puzzled.
    â€œWe’re divorced.”
    â€œHell, just about everybody is these days. Well, except for Frank and Mr. Bigelow. And if he got rid of that witch, we’d all cheer.”
    â€œFrank’s wife?” I asked.
    He laughed. “No, Mrs. Bigelow. She always goes around acting like she’s too good for us common folks—but it’s us common folks who run her goddamned farm for her.”
    We reached the largest barn, and Jeremy escorted me inside, where a middle-aged man was on his knees, running his hands over a horse’s ankle while a female groom held its halter.
    â€œYeah, there’s definitely some heat there,” he said to the girl. “Keep him in his stall. I’ll check every morning, and if it’s still there in two days we’ll get the vet in here.”
    â€œI thought all the big farms had vets in residence,” I said.
    â€œNot when they’re dispersing all their stock,” he said, standing up as she led the horse away. He turned to look at me. “Should I know you?”
    I extended my hand. “My name’s Eli Paxton.