Felix Francis - Triple Crown

Paul clearly did know me better than I realised.

‘Any further word on the semen tests?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘What further word are you expecting?’

‘Is it equine semen, for a start?’

‘My biochemistry professor is still doing the DNA tests. Apparently he’s had to do a procedure called poly-something chain reaction.’

‘Poly merase chain reaction,’ I said. ‘To amplify the amount of DNA.’

‘That’s the one. It seems it takes all day.’

‘They can do it instantaneously on CSI Miami ,’ I said.

Tony laughed. ‘Yeah, and they always catch the bad guys, too. Don’t believe everything you see on TV.’

Or in the newspapers.

‘Can you ask your pet professor if he can tell what breed the semen is from, assuming it is equine? In particular, if it is Thoroughbred semen? I could then take hairs from all the horses in Raworth’s barn for comparison.’

‘Right,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll ask him. Call me again tomorrow. Same time.’

My first night at Pimlico could hardly be described as restful.

The bed was lumpy and uncomfortable and that, together with an apparent who-can-be-the-loudest-snorer contest between Keith and Diego, had me longing for nights only with the farting Mexican.

Hence I’d been wide awake and up for some considerable time prior to four o’clock, when I was expected to be at work.

With only two horses to deal with, the workload was only half what I had faced at Belmont, so it was easy. Ladybird went out first for her morning exercise, ridden by Victor Gomez, while I cleaned her stall and prepared Debenture.

When Ladybird returned from the track, I walked her round for half an hour until she had cooled, gave her a washdown, and then returned her to her stall for a feed. I repeated the routine for Debenture, thankfully without any interruptions from Diego, who was busy with his two. Meanwhile, Keith and Maria fussed around Fire Point, who was ridden out to the track by Jerry Fernando, his race jockey, under the watchful gaze of trainer George Raworth.

I was through by eight o’clock and went in search of some breakfast.

The white Jeep Cherokee was parked up against the back wall of the Pimlico track kitchen.

I had a quick look to make sure that George was still out by the track watching Fire Point and no one else was about, then I peeped inside the vehicle.

The cryogenic flask was still there behind the passenger seat exactly as before. But did it still contain the frozen semen?

I tried the Jeep’s doors. They were locked.

How I wished my trusty lock picks could open them but there was no hope. It was not even worth trying. For a start, the doors had no visible keyholes for the picks to go into. I spent a moment wondering if my ex-army corporal could open cars that were locked by remote control. Probably. But for me, short of breaking one of the windows, I had no chance of getting in.

Just as in Wagner’s Pharmacy at Louisville before the Derby, talk in the Pimlico track kitchen over breakfast was all about who was going to win the big race.

‘Fire Point will surely trot up,’ said one man sitting near me, ‘especially with those other three not running.’

The three he meant were the horses diagnosed with EVA. Two had since returned to California to recover, and the third was still in isolation at Churchill Downs.

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.

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.