“He’s curious. He wants to know if you have enough sporting blood to make one last deal.”
Doyle grinned and looked over to the three “boys.” It was just what I’d hoped for. He was playing to an audience.
“What deal is that, Billy?”
“All or nothing. He has Trumpeter Swan entered in the Fox Handicap at Suffolk in two days. He’ll put it all on the line. If Swan loses, the stable’s yours. If he wins, all debts are canceled. That’s it.”
Doyle eased back in his chair. The grin on his face spread till it lit up his eyes. He was savoring the sure thing that had just dropped into his lap and playing the big shot for the three musketeers behind me. I let him have his fun. We both knew he’d snap it up as soon as he heard it, so I could wait.
“Sporting blood, is it, Billy O’Casey? There’s never been a lack of it in this body.”
He leaned over the desk with his hand extended. I shook hands with the devil and made a mental note to wash with Lysol. I knew he couldn’t go back on the deal because he had grandstanded in front of his men.
As I headed out the door, Doyle said, “Billy.”
I turned around.
“Like I said, you can ride. Maybe someday you’ll be riding for me.”
I smiled back and winked at him. “When pigs fly, Mr. Doyle.”
The afternoon before the Fox Handicap, I got back home from the track about six P.M. There was a message on my phone recorder from Manny. In a sheepish voice, he told me that Marty had given the order to give Trumpeter Swan a heavy gallop at two in the morning.
Manny left a number. I called back and told him to follow the order. Do it just like I told him. Then clean him up well before putting him back in the stall.
At quarter of two that morning, I was standing in the dark beside the outside rail of the first turn. There was just enough light from the outlying buildings to make out figures. I saw Manny ride the big black colt onto the track. He warmed him up and then put him to a gallop that would have worn out Secretariat. He walked him a lap around the track and took him back to the stables.
During the gallop, I could just make out a faint glint of light high up in the grandstand. My guess was that it was the reflection off of binoculars in the hands of Marty Trait. He wanted to be sure that Manny carried out his orders, but the last thing he wanted was to be seen supervising it.
By post time for the Fox Handicap the track was lightning fast. With Bobby out, I was up on Trumpeter Swan. Marty had given me instructions during the saddle-up, but it didn’t matter. This was between Swan and me.
When the starter’s bell rang and that gate banged open, I gave him his head. He sprang like a pent-up lightning bolt. The horses on either side of him challenged for the first lead, but he would not be denied. We took the rail at the head of the pack going into the first turn. I could feel every muscle driving to set more and more distance between him and the followers. I checked him back slightly with pressure on the bit, not enough to break the momentum, just enough to save something for the distance.
I whispered into the ear that flicked back as if to get the signal. “Not yet, Swan. We’ll get ’em. Just cruise.”
Around the turn and through the back stretch he held the lead against the challenges of horses that would usually be frontrunners. He settled into a steady rhythm that ate up distance at a rate that took my breath away.
We went into the far turn a half-length ahead, but I could sense the challenge of the late closers that were coming fast around the outside. I leaned low and close to that flicking ear and gave him the word I think he wanted to hear. “Now, Swan. Show ’em what you got.”
I could feel those pulsing muscles strain with a new wellspring of power. His ears were straight back now. Playtime was over. The burst of speed around the turn carried him to the center of the track, but it didn’t matter. He owned every inch of the distance that lay ahead of him.
He came off the turn three lengths ahead and the lead kept growing. I could just sense Marty in the stands waiting for the exhaustion of the night gallop to bring him down. He must have been close to panic, because the Swan just kept bringing it on. Seventy yards to go and the lead was up to six lengths and climbing.
When we crossed the finish line, I couldn’t even hear the horses behind me. I stood straight up in the irons and yelled my lungs out. The Swan sensed the victory and eased off slightly, but he covered another half mile before he slowed to a canter.
We were both panting when we rode into the winner’s circle. I waved my whip to the empty box where Mr. Fitz should have been and prayed that he could feel some of this moment.
We stood as still as the Swan could for the picture. He pranced in place like he wanted to do it all over again.
There was no Marty in the winner’s circle to meet us. I saw Michael working his way through the crowd to the rail. He yelled up to me, “Meet us at the outside gate as soon as you can.”
I waved back to him and jumped off Swan. I took the saddle and went through the required weighing out at double speed. This was my last race for the day, so I could leave the jockeys’ area.
I ran to the front entrance gate of the track. There was a small cluster of people off to the side. Michael had passed on everything we knew to Pat O’Connor and asked him to meet us there. Michael was with them, as was Marty Trait in handcuffs, standing beside a police officer.
Mr. O’Connor saw me and said, “We found your friend here leaving early. I wonder why.”
I walked up next to Marty so I could look him eye to eye, with a good bit of head-tilting on my part. I could feel the heat seething out of his pores.
“How about that Swan, Marty? You must be thrilled. Or maybe just shocked after his midnight gallop.”
Marty just glared. He looked like he could spit nails, but he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. I answered the question that must have been eating him up.
“Actually there was no midnight gallop. Not for Swan anyway. That was Fair Dawn you saw Manny working this morning. I figured you couldn’t tell the difference in the dark.”
That did nothing to cool his anger. Michael stepped in.
“No comment, Mr. Trait? Well, that’s all right. That’s just race fixing. That’s peanuts compared to planting evidence of the murder of Bobby Pastore on Mr. Fitzroy.”
That brought his head around. I couldn’t resist.
“But you blew it, Marty. You planted the wrong strap. You never knew that Bobby rode ace-deuce. That means if Mr. Fitz didn’t cut that strap, it had to be you. Only four people had a chance to do it after Bobby’s previous race. Mr. Fitz, you, Bobby, and his valet. No one’s pointing fingers at the valet, and I don’t think Bobby did it.”
That bit of logic got absolutely nothing but glares out of Marty. I could see he was digging in. I decided to fire my last best shot.
“You made that anonymous call to the D.A., didn’t you, Marty? Only you twisted the facts. Bobby wasn’t blackmailing Mr. Fitz. I figure he was squeezing hush money out of the one who had him fixing races. That was you, Marty. You couldn’t let the word get out until Mr. Fitz lost the stable. That’d spoil the plan of the one who was pulling your strings. Bobby, the poor sap, didn’t know he was playing with Seamus Doyle.”
That did it. He went rigid when I mentioned Doyle’s name. The arrogance and anger turned to something that looked like terror. I knew then that we had the can opener. Michael did the follow-up.
“If you confess now, Trait, you might get a deal from the D.A. for less than the death penalty for giving up Doyle.”
I could see the thought of crossing Seamus Doyle nearly put him in a box. He was still tight as a clam. I had an idea. I asked Michael and Mr. O’Connor to let me have a word with Marty alone. They all stepped off to the side.