Trotting in three quarters time (a novel), Part 13

by A.J. Lencroy

Chapter 1 is here.

Chapter 2 is here.

Chapter 3 is here.

Chapter 4 is here.

Chapter 5 is here.

Chapter 6 is here.

Chapter 7 is here.

Chapter 8 is here.

Chapter 9 is here.

Chapter 10 is here.

Chapter 11 is here.

Chapter 12 is here.

CHAPTER 13

The Gamble

Just after 10 a.m., Hooley entered barn 6. He found Peter Pettigrew sitting on a bale of straw a few feet inside the open door. A blue plastic bucket sat next to his feet; the trainer methodically cleaned a black leather harness with a sponge and a rag. Every buckle received his full attention.

The new familiar smell of saddle soap mixed with leather, liniment, and fresh-cut hay filled the air as Hooley walked toward the trainer.

Peter looked up from his work, smiled, and asked, “How’s retirement?”

“Forty-eight hours, no complaints. So, are we going to talk about restraining orders or about me getting involved in this sport?”

“Let’s get the restraining order off the table.”

“Okay.”

“Three days ago, you said your cousin wasn’t dangerous.”

“That was a close call, and I may have been wrong. Alex is like one of those cats where the owner always tells visitors, ‘Don’t worry, Fluffy is fine.’ The owner thinks he’s fine. Hopes he’s fine. Then somebody rubs Fluffy the wrong way or backs him into a corner, and the damn thing shreds their face.”

“What corner is he in?”

“When you were here last week, a few things were bubbling beneath the surface. On Saturday, the volcano popped.”

“Relax and go slow, I’m not the police anymore.”

Pettigrew took a deep breath and continued cleaning equipment as he talked.

“Well, as you know, we have four equal partners on Assets Accepted. She raced well enough in the four preliminary legs to qualify for a place in the Sire Stakes finals. Her last race as a 2-year-old was the season final on Saturday night. The filly was racing for a $350.000 purse.”

“Some of that is confusing, but go on.”

“Ten days earlier, before she would race in the finals, I got a phone call with an offer to buy the filly for $160,000. The deal had to close before the big race.”

Hooley said, “So, if my math is correct, each partner walks away with forty grand. No risk.”

“Yes, but we lose the horse.”

“On the other hand, if the horse wins, you get the money and keep the horse.”

“Yep, that about sums things up. In a stakes race, only the top five finishers get paid. Finish sixth or worse, and you earn nothing. Worse yet, you’ve already paid an entry fee.”

“Okay, I get it. Big-money people can make an offer that is hard to refuse for those with less money. Difficult decision. What happened?”

“We set up one of those FaceTime phone conversations with the four owners to discuss the pending offer. The question boiled down to: do we take the offer or roll the dice and keep the horse? Each partner had a vote and could make a case to the others.”

Hooley asked, “What if you tied?”

Peter shrugged. “That didn’t happen. “Alex went first. Sell immediately. Take the money. No discussion. He is not a long-term guy, plus I know that he has money problems with unpaid rent, bookies, and God knows what else.”

Hooley asked, “You? Your vote?”

“I didn’t want to sell, not for a moment, and I told them why.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Hooley, I’ve spent most of my life buying horses nobody else wanted. Now somebody was offering $160,000 for one of mine. That’s the kind of telephone call you dream about.”

“So why not sell?”

“Assets Accepted is a nice filly, a very nice filly. She earned $54,000 in seven races during her 2-year-old season, and she had a chance to push that total up if she races well in the final. But the real money for a stakes-caliber horse comes during the 3-year-old season. They are stronger, more mature, and will race maybe 20 times. Bottom line, I think she is worth more.”

“So, the best is yet to come with the filly.”

“Hopefully, but it’s always a risk. Every horse is racing on eggshells; one bad step and you have a pet instead of an ATM with four legs.”

“You got me on eggshells. What was the vote, sell or keep?”

“Keep. The Kansas City ladies are having a blast, and they don’t give a hoot about the money. Alex was ticked. He threw a bit of a hissy fit because he knew the horse could win the final. In that case, we would all have the purse money and still own the horse.”

“You rolled the dice?”

“Yes.”

“How did the horse do in the big race?”

“Not good. She broke.”

“Broke what?”

“Stride. She made a mistake halfway through the race. It happens in this game.”

“Damn,” said Hooley.

“Assets Accepted did not earn a dime. Three of the owners were disappointed and shrugged off the loss. Alex is not a good sport. He blamed us all.

“You?”

“Of course. And the ladies, and the racing industry, and I think he blames FaceTime for hosting the vote.”

Hooley leaned back, interlaced his fingers on his head, and said, “That’s a heck of a story, but what’s with the restraining order?”

“That’s part of the horror story.”

Just then, Spit Kendrick walked into the barn. He looked at Peter cleaning and asked, “Yo, Pete, anything for me?”

“Nah, just have two in the barn. I’ll be a one-man band until the sale. Check back then. We will see where we are.”

Spit turned to Hooley, smiled that strange smile, and said, “Mister policeman, you on duty? Any cases need cracking?”

Hooley snorted a laugh. “No, no, I retired. I’m thinking of buying a yearling.”

“Another one gets the fever. Pete here will ease you into the quicksand. Spit will be around and looks forward to seeing you gentlemen.” He gave a tidy salute and walked outside.

Peter clicked his fingers. “That reminds me.”

He stood and walked into his office, which was the first stall of the 10-horse barn that had been remodeled using sheets of plywood to wall off the top of the neighboring stall and half of the wall facing the aisle.

A rusty screen door with a smudged glass pane in the top allowed Hooley to see a battered desk, a mini refrigerator, an electric space heater, and old winning photos stapled to wood. Folded against the wall were the three other, now familiar, lawn chairs. Peter grabbed a large book off the desk and handed it to Hooley.

“That’s a sales catalog. You can find the same thing online. Inside are 20 Post-it notes with a number sticking out. Those are the yearlings I have marked as possible purchases. Now, I know this is gibberish to you.”

Hooley fanned the pages. “There are hundreds.”

“Yeah. When you get home, ask Google or AI to teach you how to read a harness horse sales catalog. Find a YouTube tutorial. Write down anything that confuses you. Before the sale, we will get together, and I’ll try to fill in the blanks.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. How about you fill in the blanks of the horror story with your cousin?”

“Let’s go to the track kitchen. I’ll explain the mess over breakfast.”