racecourses in New York, since 1867
26
The Triple Crown jamboree moved on from Baltimore to New York but, with three whole weeks between the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, there was a slight pause for everyone to draw breath.
Fire Point arrived back at Belmont Park on the day after his great success at Pimlico, returning to his stall like some victorious Roman general through a guard of honour provided by the racetrack grooms, not only those from George Raworth’s barn but seemingly from every other barn on the backside as well.
The signwriter had already added and the Preakness Stakes to the ‘Home of Fire Point. Winner of the Kentucky Derby’ board screwed to the outside wall.
The local TV news channels were there in force to cover the homecoming, something that would do no harm at all for the marketing of the final leg. A Triple Crown contender was guaranteed to add tens of thou- sands of extra spectators to the gate come race day.
For my part, I did not look forward to settling back into regular Belmont Park life after the excitement of the week at Pimlico. True, it was a huge improvement to be sleeping again in a room with only the regularly drunk and flatulent Rafael, rather than with both Diego and Keith trying to out-snore one another, but, somehow, the fun had gone out of this particular assignment.
I was beginning to find the daily drudgery of a groom rather monotonous. Perhaps my enthusiasm would return as the Belmont approached, but that still seemed like a long way off.
I suppose happiness in any job has a lot to do with one’s expectation.
For Rafael, working as a groom in a top horseracing barn in New York City, where he was occasionally given overall responsibility, was the pinnacle of his ambition. He had escaped from the dismal poverty, appalling criminality and deadly danger of a Mexican slum to share a room with what he thought was only one Irishman instead of his whole extended family. He was quite obviously a happy individual, even when he was inebriated, smiling and singing his way through each day without a care in the world or an ounce of desire to do any better.
Diego, in contrast, was an angry young man.
No doubt he had originally travelled to the United States from Puerto Rico to seek his fortune, arriving in New York with an expectation that the streets would be paved with gold, only to have his hopes dashed by the reality. In his eyes, ending up as a mere groom at Belmont Park was living his life as a failure. Consequently, there was not an ounce of happiness to be found anywhere in his body.
And, sadly, after a few quieter days at Pimlico on his own, he was again supported by his Puerto Rican compatriots and thus somewhat bolder. Ever since the truck had arrived through the gates, he had been mouthing at me what I presumed were Spanish obscenities, or threats. On the plus side, however, we had also returned to the jurisdiction of the New York courts, which meant that his trip to Rikers Island was very much back on the cards.
I spoke to Tony Andretti on my second night back, after consuming yet another dose of Bert Squab’s extra-hot chilli con carne from the track kitchen.
‘Crackshot has got equine viral arteritis,’ Tony said. ‘It was confirmed today.’
I was not in the least bit surprised. Indeed, I would have been astounded if it had been anything else.
‘Bryson, Crackshot’s trainer, is creating merry hell and the Maryland Jockey Club are running round in ever-decreasing circles trying to determine where the infection came from. Norman Gibson has even initiated a FACSA investigation. What do you want me to tell him?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’
I could tell from a snort down the line that Tony didn’t like keeping information from his section chief.
‘And there’s more,’ Tony said at length. ‘The professor has also established that there was EVA virus in the semen sample, loads of it. I really think it’s time to arrest George Raworth.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘And for the same reason as before. Nothing concerning the semen sample would be admissible as evidence in court because it was removed from a locked place without a search warrant.’
‘Let’s get a warrant now, then,’ Tony said. ‘If we can find that cryo-flask, there will surely be some trace left in it we could analyse.’
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think the flask is even here. It’s probably still in Raworth’s Jeep. I haven’t seen that since the day after the Preakness and the flask definitely wasn’t in the truck with the other stuff when we returned from Pimlico.’
‘But we surely have enough to get the New York Racing Association to ban him.’ Tony was getting quite angry.
‘You think so, do you?’ I said rather sarcastically. ‘Do you remember that NFL quarterback who was banned for allegedly deflating footballs?’
‘Of course. Deflategate,’ Tony said. ‘Big news. Tom Brady of the New England Patriots. FACSA was peripherally involved with the investigation.’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. The NFL thought they had a watertight case but, even so, the ban was overturned by a US federal judge due to a lack of convincing evidence that Brady himself knew anything about it.
‘Everyone appeals to law these days, and Raworth would be no exception because there’s so much at stake. Never mind the individual race purses and the kudos of being a Triple Crown winner, there’s also the small matter of the ten-million-dollar Triple Crown bonus, half of which goes to the winning trainer. Trust me, Raworth would fight to the death through the courts and, without that sample being admissible as evidence, you would surely lose, and look foolish.’
‘So what can we do?’ Tony said in exasperation.
‘Nothing. Not yet. We watch and wait and hope he makes a mistake.’
There was silence from the far end, as if Tony was digesting that rather unpleasant pill.
‘In the meantime can you check on something for me,’ I said. ‘Debenture was selected for a random drug test after the Maryland Sprint Handicap at Pimlico on Saturday. Raworth seemed quite concerned about it. Can you find out the result of the test from the Maryland Racing Commission and keep it from being publicised?’
‘Why?’ Tony asked. ‘Surely, if the test is positive, we can use that to ban Raworth.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But if it’s a positive for, say, steroids or clenbuterol then, even with his record, the Maryland Commission will ban him for only a month or two at best, and only then after lengthy appeals. I want to nail him for something far more serious than a bit of doping and, in the meantime, I don’t want him put on the defensive.’
‘OK,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll have a quiet word with their commissioner, but if the test is positive he’ll want to do something about it.’
‘Convince him otherwise,’ I said. ‘After all, the horse didn’t win anything. It came seventh out of eight.’
‘OK,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll do my best. Anything else?’
‘How about the Texas ranch?’ I said. ‘Did you find out anything?’
‘I haven’t yet but I’ve asked the chief of our Colorado Springs office to do some digging for me. Don’t worry. I explained that it was to be confidential to him alone. He normally deals with corruption in the pro rodeo circuit and they use Quarter Horses so it’s his area of expertise.’
‘Pro rodeo circuit?’ I said. ‘Is there such a thing?’
‘There certainly is. It’s big business. There are hundreds of events each year and even a national final each December to decide the World Champion All-Around Cowboy. There’s millions of dollars at stake and it is broadcast live on CBS.’