The Trojan Colt Read Online Free PDF Page A

he’d better report Tony’s disappearance to Ben Miller and have them get another groom over to Tyrone’s stall, because I had no idea what he ate or when, and I sure as hell wasn’t leading him into the sales ring in five more hours.
    Then I sat back and waited. Tyrone seemed calm, and if he missed his oats or any of the special things they fed him, you’d never know it to look at him. He grazed on the straw in his stall, and since there was a bit of normal commotion around the barn—yearlings being led out of their stalls to be examined by owners, trainers, and vets, plus a few older horses who were being taken to the track for their morning workouts, he stuck his head out over the half door and watched them with what I assume was interest.
    Miller showed up half an hour later with a redheaded, freckled young man of about twenty.
    â€œEli, this is Jamie Driscoll. Jamie, say hello to Eli Paxton, who will be keeping the bad guys at bay until the Trojan colt goes to someone else’s barn.”
    Jamie extended a callused hand and took mine in a firm grip.
    â€œPleasetameetcha,” he said, scrunching the greeting into a single word. He nodded his head toward the colt. “Got a name?”
    â€œTyrone,” I said.
    He smiled. “I approve.”
    â€œYou like old movies?” I asked.
    â€œYou mean black-and-white stuff?” he said contemptuously. “Never watch ’em.”
    â€œMy mistake,” I said. “When you said you liked the name . . .”
    â€œTyrone Judson,” he replied. “He’s a six-foot-ten-inch freshman on the Wildcats.”
    I stepped away from the stall door.
    â€œWell, you two will want to get acquainted,” I said.
    He shrugged. “We’re going to get unacquainted by dinnertime. He’s the headliner in this afternoon’s auction.” He entered the stall, petted Tyrone for a minute, picked up a brush and rag and began grooming him.
    â€œSo what the hell happened, Eli?” said Miller.
    I shrugged. “Beats me. The kid was here when I went to sleep and gone when I woke up.”
    â€œDid he say anything?”
    â€œSomething was bothering him, but he didn’t walk to talk about it.”
    â€œGirl trouble, probably,” said Miller. “That’s what it usually is at that age.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œBut you don’t think so?”
    â€œI don’t know. But we talked a lot the past couple of days, and he never once mentioned girls. His passion was racing.”
    â€œMaybe he was upset because in all likelihood he’d be losing Tyrone today.”
    â€œCome on, Ben,” I said. “Until they get Tyrone in a race, for all you know, you can beat him.” I started reeling off Tony’s figures about expensive yearlings who earned out their purchase prices, and he held up a hand.
    â€œOkay, okay,” he said. “My interest in horses starts and ends at the finish line. Kid probably went out to the West Coast for drugs and sex, just like all the other kids these days. He’s not our responsibility.”
    I could tell Ben wasn’t interested in talking about Tony anymore, and Jamie was busy working on Trojan, so I decided I might as well go over to the track kitchen for what I hoped would be my last meal at Keeneland.
    A couple of Striker’s men were there, but all they wanted to talk about was some owner’s sexy wife, who could probably have bought the three of us with the mad money she spent on clothes in a week. Then, since the NFL football training season had begun, the subject changed to arms. It was always arms in the summer in Cincinnati—Ken Anderson’s, Boomer Esiason’s, Carson Palmer’s, and these days Andy Dalton’s. Once they started full-contact scrimmages it would turn to knees.
    Finally they left. I sat alone with my cup of coffee and what was left of my cheese Danish, and wondered where the hell