Read Online The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick - Free Book Online

good shoulder, good muscle, and well bred.”
    â€œBut?” I prompted him.
    â€œBut a lot of well-balanced, well-bred colts wind up running in claiming races.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Whenever I’m at the track, I never bet the best-bred horse in a claiming race. I figure if his owner’s willing to sell him for a few thousand bucks, and his daddy’s stud fee is up there in the stratosphere, someone has a good reason for dumping him, and that gives me just as good a reason for not betting him.”
    â€œI’ve never heard it put quite that way, but it makes sense,” said Frank.
    We reached the house—my urge is to call it the mansion, or at least the big house—in a couple of minutes. Hector opened the door for us, stepped aside as we passed through, and closed it behind us.
    The house had been as elegant as a palace once, I could see that at a glance. But the more I looked, the more I saw that the place had fallen on hard times. The carpeting was almost as threadbare as my own, and it didn’t have the excuse of Marlowe trying to bury his bones under it. The couches and chairs had seen better days, and there was even some wallpaper peeling off the wall.
    It was clear that Jeremy was right: the Bigelows had to be planning on selling out and moving away. Not just because they were dispersing their horses, but because no one who dealt in million-dollar horseflesh would live like this unless they were about to unload the place.
    â€œWe’ll go to the study,” said Standish, turning and leading me to a smaller room just as shabby as the others. “This is where he likes to talk business.” We sat on a very uncomfortable couch that had seen better days but probably no more comfortable ones and stared at an empty chair and desk.
    After a couple of minutes Travis Bigelow entered the room. He was a dapper-looking man in his sixties or seventies, with thinning white hair, a thick mustache, a fancy cane he carried but didn’t seem to need, and a dark three-piece suit with a muted tie.
    â€œHector told me you’d brought a visitor, Frank,” he said, staring at me.
    â€œRight,” said Standish, getting to his feet, and I followed suit. “This is Eli Paxton.”
    Bigelow stared at me. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr. Paxton.”
    â€œWe don’t travel in the same circles,” I said with a smile. “I’m a private detective.”
    He frowned. “Another goddamned lawsuit?”
    â€œNo, sir,” I said. “This has nothing to do with you. Or only marginally. A groom who worked for you is missing, and I’ve been hired to find him.”
    â€œOh, good,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rude or suspicious, Mr. Paxton. But when you’re as rich as I am, you get the damnedest demands from people who want to grab a piece of what you’ve got, and usually a detective or a lawyer is a harbinger of things to come.”
    â€œI understand, sir,” I said. I decided not to add that I hoped he kept it all in cash and tax-frees, because the house and barns looked a lot worse from the inside than the outside.
    â€œSo who is this missing groom?” said Bigelow.
    â€œA young man named Tony Sanders,” I said.
    â€œSanders, Sanders,” he said. “Are you quite sure? I don’t think I know the name.”
    â€œHe’d only been here a month,” I said.
    He shrugged. “You can’t expect me to know every kid who passes through here.”
    â€œNo, I can’t,” I agreed. “But since he was in charge of your three-million-dollar yearling . . .”
    â€œNonsense!” he snapped. “Frank was in charge of him. Tony just fed and cleaned him.”
    â€œThen you do know him,” I said.
    â€œI don’t know him,” he replied adamantly. “You already told me his name was Tony and that he was Tyrone’s groom.” He