Felix Francis - Triple Crown

Tony wasn’t finished. ‘Most grooms are Latino or African-Americans. An Englishman would surely stick out like a sore thumb.’

He was right.

‘How about an Irishman?’ I said.

I had always been good at speaking with an Irish accent. While at school, I had entertained my classmates by mimicking our headmaster, who had come from County Cork.

‘I can easily pass as an Irishmen,’ I said. ‘I’ve done it before, and I know you have Irish grooms over here. I’ve heard their banter.’

‘Will you try to work at Churchill Downs?’ Tony asked.

‘That might be a bit of a risk. Almost all of the Churchill Downs backside staff came over to Ryder’s barn to have a look at the action at one time or another today and many of them asked me what was going on.’

‘Where then?’

‘How about at Pimlico?’ I said. ‘Isn’t the Preakness run there in two weeks?’

‘It sure is,’ said Tony. ‘But Pimlico isn’t used any more as a regular training centre. Their barns are only open for seven weeks during their spring meet. Better to try Belmont in New York. That’s where the third leg of the Crown is run. There are plenty of full-time trainers at Belmont.’

‘Isn’t Belmont where the Sports Illustrated journalist thought someone was blood doping?’

‘Yes,’ Tony said. ‘Jason Connor.’

‘Right, then I’ll try there. Can you get me a list of Belmont-based trainers, especially those you may have doubts about?’

‘Sure,’ Tony said. ‘No problem. Anything else?’

‘Yes. You told me in London about a raid on a trainer who employed suspected illegal immigrants as grooms. Where was that?’

‘Aqueduct Racetrack. Also in New York, near JFK. Back in February.’

‘Is the use of illegal-immigrant grooms widespread at all tracks?’

‘Cash gambling tends to make racing a cash-rich business. Wherever cash is used to pay staff there will always be illegals working.’

‘Could you therefore send an official letter to all the trainers at Belmont advising them of the severe consequences of employing illegal immigrants?’

‘What for?’

‘If you can fix me a legal work visa, it might help provide a vacancy for me to fill.’

Tony laughed. ‘The letter would be better coming from ICE — Immigration and Customs Enforcement. It’s part of the Department of Homeland Security. They’re responsible for tracking down illegal immigrants. I know the Deputy Director, we’ve been to conferences together. I’ll get him to write the letter.’

‘Best not to tell him why.’

‘I’ll say it’s a follow-up from FACSA’s raid earlier in the year. I’ll recommend he sends the letter to all registered racehorse trainers across the country threatening them with jail for employing illegals.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘But it could happen in extreme cases.’

‘Would your man be prepared to cover the cost of sending a letter to all trainers?’

‘Sure he will,’ Tony said. ‘It’s peanuts compared to what else they spend. Their budget is over five billion a year. I’ll get it sorted straight away — have it done this week.’

‘How about the work visa?’ I said. ‘Preferably in a false name.’

‘What name?’

Think of a common Irish name. ‘How about Patrick Sean Murphy?’

‘Shouldn’t be too much of a problem,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll have a quiet word with someone I know in the State Department.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘And how are the bank statements coming along?’

‘They should be with me this evening. How shall I get them to you?’

‘Can we trust Norman?’ I asked. But it was a rhetorical question. He already knew the true purpose of me being there. If we couldn’t trust him my cover was totally blown anyway, and my future prospects were likely to be severely limited.

‘We have to,’ Tony said.

‘Then give the statements to him to pass on to me.’

‘He’ll want to know what they are.’

‘Then tell him. But best not to say that his bank statements are there too. He might not like that. In fact, you’d better remove his in case he checks, but scan them yourself first for any suspicious deposits.’

‘You don’t really trust him, do you? Not even now.’

‘I trust no one,’ I said.

‘Not even me?’ Tony asked. ‘Not even my mother,’ I said.

And she’d been dead for twenty-five years.

Back in the National Guard mess hall, Trudi Harding was being hailed as a hero.

She was applauded and cheered by the other agents when she finally arrived back after a lengthy interview with the Louisville police.

Bob Wade embraced her warmly, which didn’t particularly endear him to Steffi Dean, who looked on stony-faced.

Everyone was in good spirits, as if the whole raid hadn’t been blighted by the shooting dead of Hayden Ryder.

Some of them even thought it was a bonus.

‘Saves all the expense of a trial,’ Cliff Connell said openly with a huge grin.

The debriefing turned rapidly into a self-congratulatory celebration.

There was even a short emotional address by Norman Gibson, who thanked his staff for ‘a job well done’.

None of them seemed to entertain the notion that death had been rather an extreme penalty for Ryder’s alleged wrongdoing, even if he had been shot for attacking Bob Wade rather than giving his horses prohibited drugs.

I personally found all the backslapping and high fives a bit tasteless, what with Hayden Ryder’s body still cooling in the county coroner’s morgue.

Hence I left them to it.

Instead I went up to my room and watched as a local Louisville TV newsreader echoed the same sentiments, blatantly accusing the dead trainer of serial drug abuse and the wilful maltreatment of his horses.

I knew that freedom of speech and honest opinion were enshrined in the First Amendment of the US Constitution but, even so, the claims seemed somewhat outrageous.

I had a political journalist acquaintance who once told me that there was nothing better than finding out that some detested fat cat had died. ‘You can’t libel the dead,’ he would say, while gleefully filling his column with some lurid tales of wrongdoing that may have been mildly suspected of the deceased, but were far beyond any actual proof.

‘Do you have no compassion?’ I’d said. ‘Surely it’s disrespectful to speak ill of the recent dead?’

‘Maybe,’ he’d replied with a smile, ‘but it sells papers.’

No wonder some people tell you never to believe what you read in the newspapers.

I used the remote control to flick through the other TV news channels and found much the same fare on all of them. In the end, I lay on my bed watching a quiz show where, bizarrely, the contestants had to give the question, having been shown the answer.

It wasn’t long before it caused me to drift off to sleep.

I was woken almost immediately by someone hammering on the door.

I opened it to find Norman Gibson standing there with a large brown envelope in his hand, but he didn’t hand it over. Instead, he pushed past me and marched through into the apartment living room, where he stood in the middle of the space with his feet firmly set about eighteen inches apart as if ready for action.

He was far from a happy man. Steam was almost emanating from his ears and he had obviously been working himself up into quite a fury.

‘Now, fella,’ he said loudly, jabbing at my chest with his right index finger, ‘you had better explain to me what the fuck’s going on here.’ He emphasised the expletive with raw anger in his voice. ‘What makes you so important that you can get to see all our bank statements, while I get to look like a fool?’ He waved the brown envelope right into my face.