But that didn’t seem to worry Frank.
A quick flash of his ‘FACSA Special Agent’ metal badge and we were welcomed into the restricted parking lot with open arms.
The same tactic allowed us not only to gain entry to the public enclosures but also to jump the sizable line, and to get in for free. It seemed that the simple words ‘security check’, together with the badge, was an automatic ‘Open Sesame’ to every cave of treasures.
‘He’s with me,’ Frank said, when one of the staff asked for my non-existent ticket. I could get used to this, I thought but, to be fair, I too had an ‘access all areas’ pass for every racecourse in Britain.
Even though it was still well before nine o’clock, Churchill Downs was beginning to fill up. The entrance gates had opened at eight and many had been queuing for several hours before that for general admission tickets. Indeed, even twenty-four hours ahead, there was already a line for Derby Day with some hardy folk staking their place early so they could be first through the gates the following morning.
General admission ticket holders did not get a seat and were not able to get much of a view of the track itself, but that didn’t seem to dampen their spirits. They were there to see, and to be seen with, the rich and famous.
‘General admission tickets also give access to the infield through the tunnel,’ Frank said. ‘About seventy thousand will cram into there tomorrow and hardly any of them will even get to see a horse, let alone the race. Most come only to drink and get laid. It’s like a big frat party. The bars open at eight in the morning and everyone’s drunk by lunchtime.’
‘It must be hell if it rains,’ I said.
‘It is hell anyway,’ Frank said, laughing. ‘When it rains the women wrestle in the mud. When it’s dry, they just wrestle. It’s a complete nightmare.’
It was far removed from my mental image of Kentucky Derby Day, with gentlemen in seersucker suits and ladies in haute couture and fine hats, all of them sipping traditional Derby mint juleps.
‘Come on,’ said Frank. ‘Let’s go check out the upper echelons.’
The metal special agent badge again worked wonders as we rose in a special VIP elevator directly to the top floor of the clubhouse, to Millionaires Row and the even-more-exclusive ‘The Mansion at Churchill Downs’, where the admission charge was so high that, if you queried the $700 tab for a single bottle of bubbly, you plainly couldn’t afford it.
We wandered round on the deep-pile carpet between the lush leather seating of the dining area, and then out onto the spectacular terrace doing our ‘security check’. The view was indeed as stunning as the price.
Frank and I completed a full sweep of the clubhouse and the grandstand without finding anything out of place.
‘Do you and the others have a specific job to do here?’ I asked as we went through the private suites on the fifth level.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘They like us to provide a presence and react if necessary. But we won’t get into these sections tomorrow. The Vice President is coming and his security is the job of the Secret Service. They’ll have the place sealed up as tight as a tick.’
‘It must be confusing having so many law-enforcement agencies all working at the same place. Is there an accepted hierarchy?’
‘Not officially, but the Secret Service act like they’re the top dogs.’
‘And are they?’
‘I suppose so. They’re here to protect the Vice President, and what they say goes. They won’t be interested in the racing, only in the people.’
‘While you’ll be busy watching the horses?’
‘I keep an eye out for everything. But the racing integrity work is the responsibility of the state racing commission. They’ll contact us only if they think anything suspicious is going on.’
‘Have they done that before?’
‘A few times. Betting matters, mostly. Especially when someone is trying to avoid paying the tax on their winnings.’
‘Are racetrack winnings taxed?’ I asked with surprise.
‘Sure are,’ Frank said. ‘All gambling winnings are considered to be taxable earnings. Even if you win a car or a trip on Wheel of Fortune, you have to pay income tax on its market value.’
‘So how do people try to avoid it?’
‘Multiple identical bets,’ he said. ‘Any payout over five thousand bucks is subject to hefty withholding tax by the track. So big bets are rare. Much more sensible to have several smaller identical bets on separate tickets. Then, if they win, you collect from lots of different windows, keeping each one below five grand, and don’t tell the IRS anything.’
‘Clever,’ I agreed.
‘Yeah, maybe it is, but it’s also dishonest. And we’re getting wise to that tactic. The IRS is busy installing cameras at the track payouts windows to record faces.’
‘Spoilsports.’
He laughed. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Not the taxman’s,’ I said, ‘that’s for sure.’
‘It’s my job,’ he said. ‘Anyway, some big gamblers now get their friends and family to collect for them so that no one individual collects more than five grand. But then those people are required to declare it on their own 1040s, or Uncle Sam might come knocking. There’s nothing as certain as death and taxes.’
‘It still seems unfair to tax a slice of good luck.’
‘Lotto and casino winnings are taxed too. You know those people who put a dollar in the big slot machines in Vegas, pull the handle, spin the reels and win a million? You see it sometimes on the TV.’
I nodded.
‘The IRS takes a quarter straight off the top, there and then. And there’s more to pay the following April fifteenth.’
I shook my head in disbelief.
‘What happens in England?’
‘There is no tax on racetrack winnings. Whatever it says on the ticket, that’s what you get. It’s the same for all gambling. All payouts are free of any form of tax.’
‘Even the lottery?’
‘Absolutely. Every sort of winnings.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll move to England.’
On Friday evening, with Frank Bannister still acting as my chaperone and mentor, I went to the Fillies and Lilies party at the Kentucky Derby Museum before moving on to one of the other Derby-eve events in downtown Louisville.
The only problem was that we couldn’t have anything to drink.
‘Not while on duty,’ Frank explained. ‘Not with this baby on my belt.’ He tapped the Glock 22C under his jacket. Although unarmed myself, I felt obliged also to be teetotal for the evening.
There were several other FACSA special agents at both events.
‘Are y’all havin’ a good time?’ Larry Spiegal asked in his deep Southern drawl at the Fillies and Lilies event.
‘Sure are,’ Frank said. ‘But there are more menfolk here in hats than I’ve seen outside a rodeo.’
I looked around and it was true. Most of the men were sitting at tables either in small narrow-brimmed straw trilbies or large ten-gallon cowboy hats. I thought it bizarre to wear hats indoors but my new colleagues thought nothing of it.
‘A true cowboy always wears his hat,’ Frank said, ‘except when greeting a lady.’
Clearly, they didn’t consider that the scantily dressed young fillies at this party were ladies.
‘But we’re inside,’ I said.
‘Inside and out,’ Frank said, ‘makes no difference.’
‘He’ll wear it even when taking a shit,’ Larry added unnecessarily.
‘Especially then,’ Frank confirmed. ‘Keeps it off the floor.’
Yet another reason why I concluded that Americans were a rum lot.
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