I steered him out of the barn and towards the bunkhouse.
Damn it, I thought. I’d have to have another go tomorrow.
‘Paddy,’ Keith said, ‘Paddleboat is running in the second race this afternoon, off at one-fifty. Make him look nice. The boss wants him claimed.’
It was half past four on Sunday morning and I had again reluctantly dragged myself from my bed in the darkness. How I longed for a Sunday-morning lie-in — even to only six o’clock would be bliss.
‘That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Late decision,’ Keith replied. ‘He was always entered but we had expected him to be scratched. But Mr Raworth has decided that he should run after all.’
Interesting, I thought.
Today was eight days after the Preakness. I had travelled down to Pimlico on the horse-transport truck a week last Monday — thirteen days ago.
To my sure knowledge, at that time, Paddleboat had still been getting a large dose of clenbuterol in his daily feed and had been expected to continue doing so for the rest of that week, although, to be fair, he had not been given any since my return to Belmont Park a week ago.
But that meant there had been a maximum of thirteen days since his last dose and possibly as few as seven.
The New York Racing Association rules stated that no horse could run within fourteen days of receiving clenbuterol.
Was this another mistake?
A combination of the drug and some hard work on the training track had certainly made a noticeable difference to Paddleboat. He had bulked up considerably since I’d first arrived at Belmont.
Not that it necessarily made the horse any faster. George Raworth clearly didn’t think so, not if he still wanted him claimed and out of the barn.
I did my four, mucking out the stalls and preparing Paddleboat for some light morning exercise, just a gentle pipe-opener before that afternoon’s race.
After the horse returned from the track, I washed him down and made up his bed, then I set to work making him look as beautiful as possible. If I could help in getting the old boy claimed then he might have a happier existence with a new trainer, without the continual threat of a one-way trip to the knacker’s yard hanging over him, deferred only by the application of large doses of clenbuterol and other drugs.
I polished Paddleboat’s coat, plaited his mane and combed out his tail. Then I picked out his feet, blackened his hooves, and finally brushed a checkerboard pattern onto each side of his rump using a template.
He looked like a million dollars, even if the claiming fee for the race was only twelve and a half thousand.
If Paddleboat didn’t get claimed today, he probably never would.
Rafael came to see me as I was finishing off and he was clearly impressed by my handiwork.
‘You done really good job, Paddy,’ he said.
But he hadn’t come to compliment me on my grooming.
‘No more play with locks,’ he said sternly.
‘OK, Rafael,’ I said equally seriously. ‘I promise. No more playing with locks.’
‘You give me lock picks, now,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘and then I say nothing to boss.’
I thought that Rafael was getting rather above his station, but he had been put in charge of the barn when Charlie Hern was at the Preakness, and he clearly believed he had authority over me.
I had no choice.
I put my hand into my pocket and handed over the two small pieces of metal. Rafael took them, nodded, and then turned and walked away.
Damn it and double damn it.
What the hell did I do now? New lock-picks were hardly things you could buy at the local convenience store.
28
Paddleboat finished fifth of the eight runners, which was an improvement by one position over his previous run.
And he was claimed.
I removed his race bridle and handed him over to a groom from his new barn. I had surprisingly grown quite attached to the horses in my care and, when I went back to the now empty Stall 1, it was with a heavy heart. But, I supposed, it was for the best. At least the horse hadn’t been injured or killed.
Pull yourself together, I told myself; it was only a horse, and a not very good horse at that.
I walked down the shedrow to the office to find Keith leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the desk watching a rerun of Friends on the TV.
‘Paddleboat was fifth,’ I said. ‘And he was claimed.’
He took his feet off the desk and sat forward, clapping his hands together. ‘Wow! Who by?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I just handed him over to his new groom.’
‘That’s great news.’
‘Why is it?’ I asked. ‘Surely there is one less set of training fees coming in?’
Keith shook his head. ‘Paddleboat was owned by Mr Raworth. He claimed him in January at Aqueduct on behalf of an owner who then never paid up. We’ve been trying to get rid of him ever since. I wonder which mug claimed him.’
I turned to leave but Keith called me back.
‘Hold the fort a minute will you, Paddy, while I go to the john? Saves me locking up.’
‘Sure,’ I replied.
He dashed off out the door and down the shedrow to the WCs in the centre of the barn.
The stable drug register was lying closed on the desk.
I opened it and skimmed through the recent entries, in particular looking for the drugs given to Paddleboat and Debenture.
According to the records, Paddleboat had stopped receiving clenbuterol in his feed on the Thursday before I had left for Pimlico, seventeen days ago.
I knew that to be untrue, but how could I prove it?
And, from what I could see, there was no record of Debenture ever having being given any cobalt salts. But then there wouldn’t be, would there? Cobalt was a banned substance.
Keith returned to the office but I had already closed the register and made sure it was back exactly as I’d found it.
‘Thanks, Paddy,’ Keith said, settling down again in front of the TV.
‘No problem.’
I went off in search of a quiet corner to call Tony on the non-smart phones.
‘I think it is time to start setting our trap,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Who do you communicate with on your private email?’
Tony clearly thought it was an odd question.
‘Friends and family, you know, and other private stuff.’
‘Do you ever send emails to anyone involved with FACSA using your private account?’
There was a pause while he thought.
‘I’m in touch with my predecessor as Deputy Director. I worked under him for thirteen years and we’re still friends. I occasionally email him about FACSA matters, especially if I need some advice.’
‘He’ll do very nicely,’ I said. ‘I assume you trust him?’
‘Without hesitation.’
‘Will he keep things confidential from everyone, including the others at FACSA?’
‘I am sure he will if I ask him to.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Call him, but not from your office or your home phones, and certainly not with your own cell. Use the one you’re speaking on now. Explain that you believe your emails have been compromised and you are trying to set a trap for whoever has done it. Give him as much detail as you think is necessary but make it clear to him that he should never call you, or send you anything unless you have called him first.’
‘Do you really think my phones are bugged?’
‘Probably not,’ I said, ‘but it is better to assume they are than to get caught out later. After you’ve spoken to him, send him an email saying that you are now convinced there is someone in the FACSA setup who is leaking confidential information to potential racing targets. That should get our mole’s attention.’