Felix Francis - Triple Crown

I reckoned so, but I would still have to check.

Never mind the coldness of his liquid gas, maybe it was time to turn up the heat on Mr George S. Raworth.

‘What you doing?’ said an accusing voice behind me.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

‘Nothing,’ I said, turning round to find Rafael standing there. But it was pretty obvious what I’d been doing, even to Rafael.

‘You pick lock,’ he said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement and I could hardly deny it.

I had sneaked into the barn after George and Charlie had both driven away in the Jeep. Keith was in the office busily watching a film on the TV and I’d thought that all the grooms were either in the recreation hall or already in their beds.

I’d been wrong.

Rafael found me crouching down next to the feed-store lock listening for the pins to be moved into the correct position by my rake pick. He had arrived just as the door opened, his footsteps making absolutely no sound on the loose dirt floor of the shedrow.

He looked from me to the open door and then back to me again.

‘You bad man, Paddy,’ Rafael said. ‘I go tell Mr Keith. You get fired.’

He turned and started to walk away.

‘Rafael,’ I said clearly to his back. ‘If you tell Mr Keith, then I’ll also tell him that you are drunk most nights. Then we will both get fired.’

He stopped and slowly turned round to face me.

‘Why you do this?’ he said, pointing at the open feed-store door.

Think, I said to myself. Think — and fast.

‘I was only practising picking the lock,’ I said. ‘It’s my hobby.’ I pulled the door shut so it locked again. ‘Here, you have a try.’ I held out the two metal lock picks.

He hesitated.

‘You,’ he said, pointing at me.

So I opened the lock again, showing him exactly how I did it.

He was amazed when the cylinder turned once more and the feed-store door opened.

‘You thief?’ he asked seriously.

‘No. Of course not,’ I said, laughing. ‘I just like opening locks.’

I pulled the door shut again and grinned at him. He smiled back but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘Come on,’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder and forcing him away. ‘It’s high time we were in bed.’

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.

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.