Triple Crown Read online

  I went in search of Maria and found her in the tack room.

  ‘Where are the saddles?’ I asked, looking around at walls draped only with bridles on numbered hooks. There were a few metal saddle racks but all but one were empty.

  ‘Exercise riders bring their own, stupid,’ Maria said. ‘Where you been?’

  Stupid was the right word. I had really only spent any time at racing stables in England and, even then, only as a visitor or as an integrity inspector. The stable lads there not only looked after the horses’ needs in terms of bedding, feed and water, they generally rode them out to the gallops each morning as well. Hence the stable tack room had racks full of saddles, one for each of the lads plus a few spares.

  But it was getting increasingly difficult to find good stable lads who could not only ride well, but were of the right size and weight. It wasn’t only jockeys like Jimmy Robinson for whom maintaining riding weight was a problem.

  I knew that exercise riders were becoming more popular in the big English racing centres like Newmarket and Lambourn but in the United States, where the training barns were grouped together in clusters at the racetracks, the exercise riders had completely cornered the market. Here a groom could spend his whole life with racehorses and never once sit on one’s back.

  Maria showed me which of the bridles I needed.

  Each horse had his own bridle with the specific style of bit that the trainer had chosen as the most suitable. Most were simple snaffle bits, but a few were special with extended side pieces for controlling excess sideways motion of the head, or with added rings and straps that prevented the animal rearing.

  I selected the correct bridle for Paddleboat and turned to leave.

  ‘Why you desert me last night?’ Maria asked in an aggrieved tone.

  ‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself with the others,’ I replied.

  She laughed and batted her long eyelashes at me. ‘I only trying to make you jealous.’

  Surprisingly, I now realised that she had.

  More by luck than judgement, and on the dot of five-thirty, Paddleboat was ready for Victor Gomez, a 44-year-old semi-retired Venezuelan jockey who was employed as Raworth’s exercise rider. He had pitched up ten minutes earlier with his saddle over his arm. By then, I had given the horse his breakfast, brushed him down, removed his overnight bandages and picked out any muck from his feet.

  Maria helped me with the saddle, fetching me the right pad to put underneath, and assisting with girth adjustments so that everything fitted perfectly.

  ‘No tendon boots,’ she suddenly shouted when I thought that all was finished.

  ‘Tendon boots?’ I’d never heard of them.

  Maria rushed off and returned with two black padded tubes about nine inches long that she strapped to the horse’s forelegs.

  ‘Gives tendon support,’ she said. ‘Horses always wear them for exercise and racing. How come you are groom and not know of tendon boots?’

  ‘We never used them at Santa Anita,’ I said.

  I’m not sure she believed me but I didn’t wait to find out. Instead, I led Paddleboat out of his stall and round towards the office.

  Charlie Hern was there, giving Victor instructions on what work he wanted the horse to do. He broke off to inspect my handiwork. Satisfied, he gave Victor a leg-up into the saddle.

  ‘OK, Paddy,’ he said. ‘I’ll take him along to the training track. You carry on with getting the next one ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  I did as I was told and that was how the morning progressed, with only a short break for a hurried breakfast in the track kitchen at seven.

  Each of the horses went out to the track for a workout lasting about twenty to twenty-five minutes. Not that they ran fast for all that time. I leaned on the rail and watched the last of mine at exercise. Victor Gomez took him through a combination of walking and trotting, interspersed with a few fast gallops over no more than half a mile at a time.

  Meanwhile, George Raworth and Charlie Hern stood on a raised platform at the edge of the training track, Charlie with a stopwatch in his hand, recording everything in a notebook. Occasionally Victor would go over to George for further instructions before setting off again.

  When its exercise was finished, each horse was handed over to Maria who would first give it a wash to remove the sweat from its coat, and then, as her hot-walker job title suggested, she would walk the hot horse round and round the shedrow until it had cooled, giving it a drink of water every lap or two.

  There was another exercise rider also working that day for Raworth and, between him and Victor, they rode all the horses scheduled for track exercise in about two and a half hours.

  All except Fire Point.

  He was a special case and his Derby-winning race jockey, Jerry Fernando, had made the journey up from Baltimore especially to ride him after the other horses had finished. All the Raworth stable staff, including me, stood and watched as the star of the barn was led out to the track by Keith.

  We were rightly proud to have a Triple Crown contender in our midst.

  I, however, couldn’t help wondering if he’d been given a dishonest helping hand to become so.

  Not that the daily grind of a groom was over just because the horses had finished their exercise. There were still stalls to be cleaned, bedding to be laid, coats to be brushed, standing-bandages to be replaced, water to be fetched and carried, plus countless other things that needed to be done for the horses before it was time for any rest.

  And then there was the visit from one of the track veterinary surgeons to collect blood and give injections.

  I held Paddleboat’s head as five different needles were stuck into him. First, about 20ml of blood was drawn from the jugular vein in his neck. Next, a quick-acting sedative went into the same vein to keep the horse calm so that the hyaluronic acid could be injected directly into his hock joints. Finally, an intramuscular shot of Adequan went into his bottom.

  ‘What’s the blood for?’ I asked.

  ‘Regular weekly testing,’ he said. ‘We do a quick cell count at our lab here at the track. High white would indicate an infection, while low red is a sign of anaemia.’

  I wanted to ask if he also did a test for EVA antibodies but decided against it.

  Blood was taken from all the horses in the barn, and most had medications of some sort thrust into them one way or another. Two were running that afternoon and, as was usual, they would both receive their 500mg dose of Lasix four hours before race time.

  Next a delivery truck arrived, piled high with bales of straw, all of which needed to be transferred by hand from the vehicle to the bedding store, which was inconveniently situated right on top of the office, in the space below the roof rafters.

  And all the moving had to be done by the grooms, while the truck driver stood around watching.

  I was sent up to the store, climbing the wooden ladder that was attached to the wall. I then had to bend down to grab each bale in turn after it had been carried from the truck and lifted up towards me by the others. I stacked it in place before repeating the process. Over and over, it seemed to be never-ending.

  I had always tried to maintain a pretty good standard of fitness, ever since my days at the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, but by the time the last of the straw had been raised my muscles were seriously complaining, especially in my back. I obviously wasn’t quite as fit as I’d thought.

  I was looking forward to a soothing lie-down on my bunk when Charlie Hern put paid to that idea.

  ‘Paddy,’ he shouted into the barn. ‘Here. Now.’

  ‘Coming, sir,’ I shouted back, running round the shedrow to the office.

  ‘Good,’ Charlie said, seeing me. ‘Rafael claims he’s sick with flu, so you will look after Anchorage Bay today. Stall Eighteen. He runs in race four. Have him at the receiving barn on time and over at the paddock ready for saddling by two o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

&nbs
p; Flu, indeed.

  I’ll murder that bloody Rafael.

  18

  Anchorage Bay ran second in race four, pushing the winner all the way to the line but failing to get up by a neck.

  I was just glad he’d made it to the starting gate on time, and that I hadn’t somehow messed up.

  George Raworth seemed to be fairly pleased with the outcome.

  ‘I reckon he’ll win next time out,’ I heard him tell the owner after the race. I was holding the horse’s head as he was unsaddled on the track in front of the grandstand. ‘And he wasn’t claimed so we still have him.’

  The owner smiled wanly at his trainer but he was enviously eyeing those having their photographs taken in the winner’s circle. He had wanted to win this time.

  ‘Well done, Paddy,’ George said to me. ‘He looked nice.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, although the horse’s smart appearance had mostly been down to Maria.

  She had come to my rescue again, showing me where the racing bridles were kept, how to prepare the horse to look his best, and when and where I had to take him. In fact, she had stayed by my side all afternoon, walking Anchorage Bay with me through the horse tunnel that ran from the barn area under the main-entrance roadway to the paddock. She also helped take him back to Raworth’s barn afterwards.

  Even though there was no touching of hands, or lips, it was clear to both Maria and me that some sexual chemistry did exist between us. We laughed and joked as we washed Anchorage Bay, and she sprayed me playfully with the hose.

  Don’t get involved – I kept telling myself. It was far too dangerous.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said seriously, cutting short her antics. ‘Let’s get the horse back in his stall.’

  By which point it was four o’clock and time for evening stables.

  I finally finished work at six having been on the go continuously for over thirteen hours. I was exhausted.

  ‘Do we get double-rate for overtime?’ I asked Charlie Hern as I collected the feed for my horses.

  He laughed. ‘Be thankful you have a job in the first place.’

  I took that to mean that no, we didn’t.

  ‘We’re classified as agricultural workers,’ said one of the other grooms who had overheard the exchange. ‘Overtime doesn’t apply until you’ve done more than sixty hours in a single week, and then they don’t count meal breaks or time spent waiting over at the track.’

  The European Union Working Time Directive clearly didn’t apply here.

  I acquired a new-found sense of admiration for the humble stable lad.

  ‘They all travelled to Louisville separately,’ Tony said when I called him after supper. ‘Two flew in from California, but on different days and from different cities, while the third, Liberty Song, arrived by horse trailer from Keeneland racetrack in Lexington.’

  So they hadn’t become infected with EVA on the journey.

  ‘When did they arrive?’ I asked.

  ‘The two from California came the previous week, one from LA on Thursday and the other from San Francisco on Friday. The one from Lexington also arrived Friday, eight days before the Derby.’

  ‘So they had to have been infected while at Churchill Downs,’ I said. ‘It would be too much of a coincidence if all three had been infected elsewhere, especially as there have been no other cases.’

  ‘There has now,’ Tony said. ‘Another horse at Churchill fell sick today. They’re doing tests to confirm it is EVA, although it has all the signs.’

  It was Thursday. Five days since the others had first shown signs of illness.

  ‘It must be due to secondary infection from one of the original three.’

  ‘Most likely,’ Tony said. ‘The new horse that’s fallen sick had been in the next-door stall to Liberty Song up until last Saturday.’

  ‘Was that in the Stakes Barn?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Liberty Song was in his trainer’s own barn. One of the two from California was in the Stakes Barn but the other was in a separate barn right at the far end of the site that, ironically, the trainer had rented specifically to prevent his horse catching anything from others in the Stakes Barn.’

  ‘Is there any common denominator at all between the three?’

  ‘Not that I have found. As far as we can tell, they weren’t ever in the same place together. They had different training schedules so they didn’t even use the track at the same time.’

  ‘There has to be something,’ I said. ‘Assuming the incubation period was the same as for the latest case, they must have all been infected on the Sunday or Monday before the Derby.’

  ‘But how?’ Tony asked.

  ‘If there was no accidental coming together of the three,’ I said, ‘then there has to be another virus carrier that did come into contact with each of them on that Sunday or Monday.’

  ‘But other horses would surely also become sick.’

  ‘Not if it was deliberately targeted at those three,’ I said.

  ‘How?’ he asked again. ‘You can’t lead an EVA-infected horse over to three separate stalls in completely different parts of the backside and get it to snort some virus into the noses of only those three specific horses. You would have been seen and stopped for a start. And the virus doesn’t live long outside the body so, even if you could transfer the infection with nasal droplets, those would have had to come from an infected host, so where’s that horse?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said forlornly.

  It was frustrating.

  The only thing we knew for sure was that the three horses had somehow been infected – there was no doubt about that.

  ‘Anything else to report?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Other than to say that the life of a groom is bloody hard work. I ache all over.’

  He laughed.

  ‘It is not a laughing matter,’ I said.

  ‘Then let’s get a FACSA raid sorted so that you can get out of there. Have you found anything suspicious for us to search for?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve been so damned busy doing the job.’

  He laughed again.

  ‘Give me a while longer,’ I said. ‘I’ve already seen some evidence of the drug regime Raworth uses but I’m not sure if it breaks the rules. I’ll have a proper scout round and see if I can spot anything else. It would be much better if I could actually find something dodgy going on rather than you just making it up. If Raworth is tipped off about an upcoming raid, there would only be a major reaction if he was really doing something wrong.’

  ‘OK,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll do nothing yet. Will you call tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll try. If not tomorrow, then Saturday.’

  ‘Harriet and I are out to dinner with friends that night, but you can call earlier if you want. I won’t be at work Saturday.’

  I would, I thought.

  This Saturday was an important day at Belmont Park. It marked the annual running of the Man o’War Stakes, one of the major races of the year for horses aged four or over. It was named after the great champion racehorse and sire of the 1920s, and George Raworth had two runners.

  ‘Enjoy your dinner,’ I said to Tony and we disconnected.

  I had walked well away from the track kitchen to make the call and now I started to return.

  I didn’t make it.

  There were four of them and Diego was their leader.

  The Puerto Rican mob.

  ‘No toque Maria, gringo!’ Diego shouted at me. ‘Dejarla sola!’

  They didn’t wait for me to reply.

  Instead, they rushed at me before I had a chance to react, two of them grabbing me by the arms and a third placing his arm round my neck from behind. I was trying to crouch down and make the target as small as possible but the man with the headlock hauled me up straight. The two holding my arms then spread my legs wide with their feet.

  Diego ran up and kicked me hard in the groin, scoring a direct hit on the family jewels.

  The pain was e
xcruciating, running up into my abdomen and right down to my toes.

  The three men behind let go and I collapsed to the dusty ground, tucking myself up to try to ease the fire that was now raging between my legs.

  ‘La próxima vez, te mataremos,’ Diego shouted, and he drew a finger across his throat in case I hadn’t understood his Spanish.

  As a parting gesture he gave me a kick to the side of the head, then he and his friends laughed, turned away and walked off, leaving me curled up in the dirt.

  I lay on the ground for quite a while, unable to do anything other than draw up my knees and wait for the tide of pain to ebb away.

  Why people think it is funny when a cricketer or baseball player gets hit in the nuts baffles me. There’s nothing funny about it at all, especially when it has been inflicted on purpose, as in this case.

  I heard someone approaching and was worried that Diego and his chums were coming back for another go.

  ‘Estas bien?’ said a voice from above me.

  Still holding my knees, I rolled onto my back and looked up. It was Rafael and he stared down at me with deep concern in his eyes, shocked to discover that it was his roommate lying at his feet.

  ‘You OK, Paddy?’

  I tried to smile at him. ‘Yes, OK,’ I croaked.

  He held out a hand to help me up but, in spite of it still being quite early, Rafael was already the worse for wear with drink and I almost pulled him over on top of me.

  Being on my feet didn’t seem to help the pain much, and I was hardly standing upright. Instead I was crouched down on my haunches.

  Gradually the intense pain subsided, replaced only by a dull ache and a feeling of nausea that made my skin feel cold and sweaty.

  Rafael was still concerned by my appearance.

  ‘You sick,’ he said, slightly slurring the words. ‘I fetch doctor. You go hospital.’

  ‘No,’ I replied quickly. ‘No doctor. No hospital.’ I forced myself to stand up straight, and then I smiled at him. ‘I’ll be OK now.’

  Rafael didn’t look convinced by my bravado and I wasn’t entirely sure I was either. I did worry that Diego had done some real damage to my nethers, but doctors and hospital would have required such awkwardnesses as my real name and payment, neither of which I was prepared to give at the moment.