The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page A

I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
    He shook his head. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Paxton, but anything you want to know about what’s for sale, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Bigelow.”
    â€œI’m not here to buy a horse,” I answered. “I’m a private detective, working on a missing person case.”
    â€œWho’s missing?”
    â€œA young man named Tony Sanders.”
    â€œYeah, I heard about that,” answered Standish. “Mr. Bigelow was fit to be tied, walking off when he had a three-million-dollar yearling in his care.”
    â€œI spent a little time with him before he went missing,” I said. “He seemed like a nice, responsible kid.”
    â€œHe was,” agreed Standish. “Or at least I thought so until I heard he’d taken off. I was actually thinking of getting him work with Milt Baynes in another year or so.”
    â€œMilt Baynes?” I repeated.
    â€œA local trainer. Mostly claimers and cheap allowance horses, but at least the kid could get the feel of the business.” He shook his head. “Well, they come and they go. He’d only been here a month. You’d think rubbing down a horse like Tyrone would keep them happy.” He shrugged. “Who understands kids these days?”
    â€œYou said ‘them’?” I asked.
    â€œYeah,” answered Standish. “I hired Tony because the kid who was rubbing Tyrone took a powder one night. Probably busy turning his brain to porridge in some crack house.”
    â€œWhat was the kid’s name?” I asked.
    â€œThere’s no connection,” Standish assured me. “They didn’t even know each other. One flew the coop, and I hired the other two days later, once I was sure he wasn’t coming back.”
    â€œOh, I’m sure there’s no direct connection,” I replied. “But maybe the grooms have a grapevine. You know: go to such-and-so a place for the best pot or the friendliest women, that kind of thing. I assume no one’s hired any detective to hunt for the first groom, so if I can turn up any information on him, it might lead me to Tony.”
    â€œSounds like a long shot to me,” said Standish. “But hell, this is one business where long shots do come in. Kid’s name was Billy something . . . give me a sec.” He lowered his head in thought, then looked up. “Billy Paulson, I think. Tell you what: leave me your card and I’ll hunt up his job application when I’m through making my rounds and have one of the kids drive it over to you.”
    I pulled a card out and scribbled the motel’s address on it, then handed it to him.
    â€œThanks, Frank.”
    â€œMy pleasure,” he said. “If you find where all the runaway grooms from this town are hiding, you’re gonna need a baseball stadium to hold ’em all. I mean, it’s hardly permanent work, even with a horse like Tyrone.”
    â€œHe was a nice-looking horse to my unpracticed eye,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t sell for three mil if you’ve got a case of the uglies,” said Standish. “I remember his papa as a youngster, and just between you and me and the gatepost, Tyrone was a much better-looking animal, even with that scar on his neck. I gather he got it a few weeks before I arrived; it was still healing when I got here.”
    â€œI’m surprised the breeder didn’t have an urge to keep him and race him,” I remarked.
    â€œYou mean Mr. Bigelow?” asked Standish.
    I nodded.
    â€œHe hasn’t raced in, oh, it must be fifteen years. In fact, he’s just about through breeding. Sold his interest in Trojan and a couple of other stallions, and has sold a batch of his broodmares privately.”
    â€œSo he’s getting out of it?”
    â€œHe’d better be,” replied Standish. “You don’t see it up front, but the working part of this