Doyle cringed as he recalled how he’d become indignant on behalf of the teaser-much to Pedro’s astonishment, Pedro having been long aware of such a traditional breeding practice. When Doyle realized he had revealed a huge gap in his knowledge of animal husbandry, he’d attempted to pass it off as a joke, slapping Pedro on the back and laughing. “Pulled your leg pretty good there didn’t I, amigo?” Doyle said. Pedro had responded by looking at Doyle with the impassive expression many Latino busboys reserve for the gringo customers in upscale American restaurants.
Engel and Tirabassi had asked Doyle to report to them at least twice a week. “And if anything looks like it’s going to break, call us right away, any time,” Damon had emphasized. “This number is good twenty-four hours a day. And always use a public phone.”
As he cupped the receiver in his hand, Doyle looked across the store’s crowded parking lot. It was filled primarily with pickup trucks, some owned by workers Doyle recognized from Willowdale. They emerged from the store carrying packages of groceries, or six-packs of beer, or both. They then drove off in the direction of the farm, where they lived either in the two-story dormitory on the north side of the property or, if they had families, in one of the small wooden cottages near the east border.
This was Doyle’s fourth telephoned report to the agents in Chicago, and it was as uninspiring as those preceding it.
The calls had begun at the end of Doyle’s second full day at Willowdale, a day he had spent in the good-natured and informative company of Aldous Bolger. Putting his best efforts into first creating, then teaching, a crash course in farm management, Bolger had given Doyle a tour of nearly every yard of Willowdale’s six hundred acres and most of the structures thereon.
There had been capsulized descriptions of the roles of the employees, from top to bottom. Bolger showed him grooms at work, described the various aspects of breeding season “in case anybody brings it up,” Bolger had emphasized. “We’re past the real breeding season now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the time to trot you around the place like I’m doing.”
Other topics touched were the horse sales held at various times each year, and the preparation of horses to be sold; the function of the on-site laboratory and its adjacent X-ray facility. Doyle was shown the feed barns, stallion barns, broodmare barns; the tool and machinery sheds; even the lake stocked with fish and home to a pair of swans. Doyle shook hands with dozens of people whose names he attempted to memorize.
Toward the end of the tour, Bolger led Doyle over to the railing of Willowdale’s one-mile training track, a meticulously manicured strip of loam that lay just outside an equally neat turf course.
“Not many places in the country have training tracks the quality of these on their property,” Bolger said.
Doyle watched as a lone horse headed into the homestretch of the dirt course. He was going very fast, very smoothly. The rider was hunched down on the bay horse’s withers, hands still. When horse and rider sped past the spot where he and Bolger stood, Doyle was very surprised to see that the rider of the brown colt was Willie Arroyo-City Sarah’s jockey. Doyle ducked behind Bolger. “Let’s get out of here,” he said urgently. “I don’t want that jock to see me here. He could recognize me.” Bolger and Doyle then walked rapidly back toward Bolger’s office.
“You know Willie Arroyo?” Bolger asked as they hurried up the road.
“Kind of,” Doyle said. “I won’t bore you with the details. But it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to see me here. He might think something was going on, and he might talk about it. I don’t want to take the chance.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Bolger replied as they entered the air-conditioned haven of his office, “there’s something ‘off’ about that colt we just saw. Rexroth is very interested in that colt’s workouts. Everybody around here calls the horse Boomer. I know that can’t be his real name, but I’ve not been able to find any record of him in the farm’s files.
“He’s a big, strong youngster, and from what I’ve seen of him, he can run like hell. But I don’t see that much of him, and that’s another strange thing.”
Doyle said, “What do you mean, you don’t see much of him?”
“You know that piece of the property I told you about called the Annex?” Bolger said. “It’s a couple of hundred acres about five miles west of here. That’s where Rexroth keeps his oldest mares and, for some reason, this horse you just saw working out. He’s got him hidden out there back of beyond.
“I don’t know bugger all about this Boomer-why he isn’t up with the racing stable, why he’s being kept here,” Bolger said. “I asked Rexroth about this. Twice, I did. Both times, he said that it was a matter of no concern to me. The second time he made it quite clear that he didn’t want to be asked again.
“So,” Bolger said, “I don’t know what the hell’s going on with him. The jock flies all the way down here from Chicago to work him at least once a week. But Arroyo won’t talk about Boomer, either. One day I tacked up the horse myself and had him ready for Arroyo when he drove in. Willie just nodded pleasant like at me and, when I asked something about how the horse felt to him, he motioned for me to give him a leg up to the saddle and trotted off, as if he hadn’t heard my question. S’truth, Jack, there’s something wonky going on with this horse.”
Doyle sat back in the leather chair, holding a half-finished can of beer. He let thoughts of the brown colt drift away as he attempted to review everything he’d seen that busy day. Then he said to Bolger, “If I remember a tenth of what I’ve heard and seen today, we’ll both be lucky.”
Bolger smiled at Doyle. “I know, it’s far too much to take in completely. And that’s for anybody, not just a city creature like yourself.
“The major piece of advice I can offer you, Jack,” Bolger continued, “is keep your mouth shut as much as possible. That will both enhance your learning and conceal your ignorance. No offense meant, by the way.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” Doyle responded glumly. “If I can pull off this caper, masquerade successfully as a knowledgeable horseman, well, I’ll deserve an Academy Award.”
“You deserve another cold lager just for listening to me all day,” said Bolger. “C’mon, lad, let’s go up to my place and put our feet up on the porch railing.”
Now, standing in the convenience store parking lot, Doyle wondered if the exasperation he felt was evident in his voice as he said, “There’s been no sign of anything out of the ordinary.”
He heard the click of another extension, then Damon’s voice. “Jack, you can’t rush this sort of thing. Just take it easy. Do the work that Bolger gives you to do. As I understand it, a lot of it will be clerical work and phone calls, done in his office-stuff you can easily handle. I know Bolger’s told his workers that you’ve been brought in to ease his burden of paperwork.
“Just go about your business quietly, with a strong hold on that Irish temper of yours,” Damon advised.
Doyle held the phone receiver away from his face. He looked at the setting sun, which had ribboned the invading dark with bold streaks of deep gold. He took a deep breath.
“If I need a lecture on rage-control, and I don’t think so, I wouldn’t ask for one from a representative of one of God’s most hotheaded tribes. Talkin’ to you, Tirabasssi,” Doyle said.
Karen said, “Jack, take it easy, we’re just.…”
“I’m doing the talking right now, lady,” Doyle said, still seething. “You’re up there in civilization, hundreds of miles from the inaction. Don’t lay this ‘take it easy’ crap on me.” He paused to exhale, then took another deep breath. There was silence on the other end.
“All right. Okay,” Doyle said. “Maybe that was a little harsh. But what you’ve got to keep in mind is, this is getting real old in a big hurry. Remember, I’m a city boy. Down here, the only bright lights are over the barn entrances. You hear what I’m saying, Damon?