However, the man’s companion disagreed. ‘I think that big bay colt of Bryson’s has a good chance. What’s his name?’
‘Crackshot,’ said the first.
‘That’s it. Won the Florida Derby at Gulfstream by five lengths back in March.’
‘If he’s so good, why didn’t he run at Louisville? His win in Florida would have surely qualified him.’
‘No idea. Perhaps Bryson was saving him for the Preakness.’
‘Don’t talk garbage. No one in their right mind bypasses the Kentucky Derby in favour of the Preakness.’
‘He might have this year. There’s that new bonus being offered for winning both the Florida Derby and the Preakness. Five million bucks is a lot of money.’
‘Even so…’
The man might have been right, and Crackshot was not the only one of the ten that hadn’t lined up for the big race at Churchill Downs.
There were also Raworth’s other two, Classic Comic and Heartbeat, as well as a couple of local Maryland colts.
So only half Saturday’s expected field in the Preakness had contested the Derby at Louisville. Some had not been eligible for the Kentucky race and were simply after the big prizes on offer here. The $1.5million purse meant that this race alone was well worth winning, even without the bonuses. Even the fourth horse home would collect nearly a hundred thousand dollars for his owner.
The day dragged.
There was not even live racing to watch, as Tuesday was a dark day at Pimlico.
I lay on my lumpy bed for part of the afternoon trying to catch up on some sleep but without much success, not least because Diego had had the same idea.
He spat onto the floor when he saw me.
‘Charming,’ I said.
‘Qué?’ he replied in an aggressive tone.
‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked.
‘No comprende,’ he replied, waving a hand at me in a contemptuous manner.
But Maria had said that Diego ‘speak very good English’, much better than her.
‘Yes, Diego, you do comprende,’ I said. ‘So listen to me. You leave me alone. You don’t even talk to me. I know about you.’
He stared at me with his black eyes.
‘I know about you,’ I said again. ‘One word from me and you’ll be in the slammer for a year on Rikers Island.’
He understood that all right.
But if I thought it would shut him up, I was sorely mistaken. The look of pure hatred in his eyes caused a shiver to run down my spine.
Letting on to him that I knew about his little problem with the New York courts had clearly been a mistake.
I might need to watch my back more than ever.
23
The Preakness post-position draw took place at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon with all ten of the expected runners declared for the race.
Crackshot had been the last of the contestants to arrive at Pimlico, flying in from Florida only at lunchtime to join the other nine already in the Preakness Barn.
Fire Point had been installed as the favourite in the morning’s edition of the Daily Racing Form with Crackshot a whisker behind. All the others were outsiders in comparison.
Of the two, Fire Point certainly had the better draw. He would be out of trouble in Gate 8 while Crackshot was drawn next to the rail in Gate 1, with both Heartbeat and Classic Comic immediately outside him in Gates 2 and 3 respectively.
George Raworth was clearly delighted and had a smile on his face as big as the Grand Canyon as he was interviewed by the assembled media.
Suddenly, the Preakness roller coaster was under way and Pimlico Race Course was coming to life. Celebrities and politicians would be flying in to Baltimore from all over the country during the next two days in order to be here for the race.
It may not be quite as grand as the carnival that had surrounded the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs, but it was big enough, especially on an otherwise quiet weekend for US sports.
And the weather was set fair. Indeed, it was getting hot, with afternoon highs in the mid- to upper-eighties Fahrenheit, dropping down only into the seventies at night. It was so hot, in fact, that Keith had installed two electric fans outside Stall 40 to keep Fire Point cool.
There were no such luxuries for the grooms.
Wednesday night was completely still without a trace of breeze. Even with the door and window of our bedroom wide open, the lack of air meant that getting to sleep was difficult, the situation not helped by having ten horses stabled beneath, pumping out energy from their massive bodies like fiery furnaces.
As I tossed and turned, Diego and Keith seemed untroubled by the heat and went back to their snoring games, which only made things worse.
Eventually, at ten minutes to midnight, and wearing only a T-shirt and my boxer shorts, I took my blanket down the outside staircase and lay on the neatly mown lawn in front of the barn, curling up on the ground as I’d done so often before in the army.
I’d had to cope with higher temperatures than this in the past. July in Kandahar had a daily average well into the nineties and here, at least, I wasn’t wearing full combat kit including body armour and helmet, plus a twenty-kilo backpack and as much again in weapon and ammunition.
Lying on the grass was surprisingly comfortable. I found myself a quiet, dark spot in the shadow of a tree and settled down.
I was drifting off to sleep when I was disturbed by the arrival of a vehicle, its headlights lighting up the trees above my head. It pulled up near the end of the barn closest to me and the engine was switched off.
I rolled over onto my knees and slowly raised my head to have a look.
It was George Raworth’s white Jeep Cherokee.
What was he doing here at midnight?
I watched as he climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked over to the barn.
‘Good evening,’ I heard him say, presumably to the night guard who was out of my sight on the far side of the barn. ‘George Raworth. Here to check on my horses.’
Who was I to criticise a trainer who wanted to check his horses at any time of night? It must be worrying for him to have the favourite in his charge, especially with all the hopes of the nation riding on it as another Triple Crown champion.
I lay down once more and was drifting off again when a noise made me instantly awake.
I recognised that particular noise. I’d heard it before.
It was the sound of the cap being removed from the cryogenic flask, with the slight ‘pop’ as the excess pressure inside was released.
I again rolled onto my knees and looked towards the Jeep.
George had the rear door open behind the passenger seat. Even though there were plenty of security lights around the barn, I couldn’t actually see what he was doing as the vehicle was in the way. But why would he have opened the flask if he wasn’t either getting something out or putting something in?
He closed the Jeep and went back to the barn. In his right hand he held an electric torch and in his left what looked like a small cup.
He disappeared into the barn.
I was now curious.
I rose to my feet and moved silently forwards, making sure that I remained deep in the shadow of the trees.
At night, the lights in the barn itself were switched off to allow the horses to sleep, while the glow of those outside seemed to further deepen the darkness of the interior.
At first I could see nothing but then the glow of the torch appeared as George made the inspection of his horses.
I moved down the side of the barn to get a better view.
George spent only a couple of moments with each horse before moving along the line of stalls.