Triple Crown (27 page)

George recovered his composure and told me to take Debenture to the testing barn as requested, and then to start preparing Heartbeat for the big race.

As Preakness race time approached, the excitement swelled towards fever pitch.

An enormous party had been going on for hours, especially in the infield where multicoloured tents of all sizes and shapes abounded, some acting as shade against the blazing sun, while others
were beer outlets providing a continuous flow of the amber nectar to quench the heat-induced thirsts of the vast crowd.

And it wasn’t only among the spectators that the anticipation was growing. Back at the Preakness Barn, there was a highly charged atmosphere of hope and expectation, with nerves beginning
to fray at the edges.

‘Are we all ready?’ George asked for at least the third time.

‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ Charlie replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

I thought they were in danger of transmitting their nervousness to the horses, and it was a great relief when a track official arrived to announce that it was time for the walkover.

The Preakness Barn was behind the grandstand, so the horses were walked right round the public enclosures and then back along the track in order to be paraded in front of the crowd.

For this race, there was a special mounting yard in the centre of the course opposite the finish line and beyond the turf track, and half the field were saddled in there, while the rest,
including Raworth’s three, went down the ramp into the indoor paddock.

‘It’s quieter inside,’ George said. ‘Helps keep them calm.’

It wasn’t the horses that needed to be kept calm, I thought.

Crackshot was also being saddled inside and I looked over to where Tyler was placidly holding the horse’s head while the trainer made him ready. There appeared to be no concern whatsoever
over his health.

Eventually all was ready.

I led Heartbeat up the ramp to the track with Maria on the other side of his head.

She ignored me completely and I didn’t speak to her. It was for the best, I thought, and safer for the both of us. It didn’t, however, stop Diego glaring at me with his cold black
eyes as he and Charlie Hern followed us up the ramp with Classic Comic. Fire Point, flanked by Keith and George, brought up the rear of the three.

Out in the mounting yard, Victor Gomez was waiting for Heartbeat, having been promoted from stable exercise rider to big-race jockey for the day.

‘Just like old times,’ he said as I gave him a leg-up. ‘It is eight years since I had a ride in the Preakness.’ He gave me a gappy-toothed grin like a kid with stolen
candy.

I watched as George Raworth tossed Jerry Fernando up onto Fire Point’s back and Charlie did likewise with the jockey riding Classic Comic. Then we led the horses back onto the dirt track
and handed them over to the outriders on their lead ponies, to take them to the start.

There was nothing more we could do. It was up to them now.

I realised that, despite my firm intention not to become emotionally involved, I was actually getting quite excited as the race time approached.

A trio of top-hatted and scarlet-coated trumpeters walked out onto the track and played the traditional ‘Call to Post’, and then everyone joined as one in singing, ‘Maryland,
My Maryland’, the official song of the state.

American sporting venues certainly knew how to wind the crowd up into a frenzy. By the time the starting gates swung open, the noise was so loud that I had absolutely no chance of hearing the
race commentary from where I stood on the grooms’ stand.

But I could see one of the big TV screens set up in the infield.

The horses broke in an even line with Crackshot on the inside rail and Heartbeat outside him. Victor Gomez immediately took Heartbeat ahead and to his left, squeezing the Florida Derby winner
for space and forcing his jockey to take a strong pull on the reins to prevent a collision. The poor horse would have been confused with a ‘go’ message as the gates opened being
followed by a ‘stop’ one only a few paces later. Not surprisingly, he dropped back sharply.

Fire Point, meanwhile, had a clear run from Gate 8 allowing him to establish a lead of some six or seven lengths over his main rival as they passed the finish line for the first time.

Crackshot’s troubles continued round the clubhouse bend as he was boxed in by both Heartbeat and Classic Comic, who seemed to have nothing else in their game plan but to thwart the
progress of the big bay colt.

By the time the lead horses were at the half-mile pole, and Crackshot had finally worked himself away from the rail and past his distractors, he was all but out of contention, having been forced
to make up ground while the others were taking a back-stretch breather.

Not that it really mattered.

Crackshot would not have won the race anyway.

The horse was clearly labouring as they straightened up for the run to the line and, when his jockey asked him for a supreme effort, there was nothing left in the tank.

Fire Point, in contrast, was having a dream race. Always well placed on the outside shoulder of the lead horse, Jerry Fernando kicked for home off the final turn and sprinted away impressively
from the pack to win by four lengths, much to the delight of George and Charlie who I could see laughing and embracing in the stands.

Crackshot trailed in a disappointing seventh, behind Classic Comic and Heartbeat, both of whom had repassed him in the final hundred yards.

The crowd were relatively subdued by the result, as no one enjoyed watching a horse finish a race in the sort of distress that Crackshot was clearly exhibiting. There was even a smattering of
boos, as some rightly disapproved of the apparent Raworth tactics, but even the least discerning of them could not seriously argue that Crackshot would have won with an uninterrupted passage.

And George Raworth certainly didn’t care.

He was smiling from ear to ear as he led Fire Point into the winner’s circle alongside the horse’s owner, who was equally delighted. Even an announcement over the public address
system that the stewards would hold an inquiry didn’t seem to bother him.

Maybe it was because he knew that, even if the stewards found Heartbeat or Classic Comic guilty of interference, they couldn’t take the race away from Fire Point just because all three
horses happened to be trained by the same man.

In the event, the stewards took no action at all, other than to give Victor Gomez a ten-day suspension for careless riding after he had admitted to accidently taking Crackshot’s ground
after the break from the starting gate. The fact that everyone knew it had not been accidental was irrelevant, there was insufficient evidence on the video footage to prove it, and the incident had
clearly not cost Crackshot the race.

I didn’t know how I felt about things. It was difficult not to be drawn into the celebrations among the staff in the Raworth camp over wins in the first two Triple Crown legs, but there
was a huge part of me that despised the man himself for cheating his way to such a position, as I was sure he had done.

I led Heartbeat back to the Preakness Barn to find that there was much veterinary activity in and around Crackshot’s stall.

‘Take that damn horse outside,’ someone shouted at me as I tried to hot-walk Heartbeat round the shedrow.

I took him back out into the hot sunshine, which wasn’t ideal, and tied him to a fence in the shade of a large tree. Then I hurried back inside to see what was going on.

Tyler was standing in the shedrow, watching three other men busy in Crackshot’s stall. There was deep worry etched on his face.

‘What’s up?’ I asked him.

‘Crackshot is sick,’ he said in his deep bass tone. ‘The veterinarians are worried that the race has affected his heart.’

I looked into the stall. The poor horse was dripping with sweat and clearly very unwell.

‘It is very hot here today,’ I said.

‘Not as hot as he’s used to in Florida,’ Tyler replied.

That was true.

‘Have they taken a blood sample?’ I asked.

Tyler nodded. ‘First thing they did.’

I wanted to tell them it wasn’t his heart that was the problem.

They should test his blood for equine viral arteritis.

‘The Test of the Champion’

A mile and a half

Belmont Park, New York

Three weeks after the Preakness

Five weeks after the Kentucky Derby

First run at Belmont Park 1905,

previously run at Jerome Park and Morris Park

racecourses in New York, since 1867

The Triple Crown jamboree moved on from Baltimore to New York but, with three whole weeks between the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, there was a slight pause for everyone to
draw breath.

Fire Point arrived back at Belmont Park on the day after his great success at Pimlico, returning to his stall like some victorious Roman general through a guard of honour provided by the
racetrack grooms, not only those from George Raworth’s barn but seemingly from every other barn on the backside as well.

The signwriter had already added
and the Preakness Stakes
to the ‘Home of Fire Point. Winner of the Kentucky Derby’ board screwed to the outside wall.

The local TV news channels were there in force to cover the homecoming, something that would do no harm at all for the marketing of the final leg. A Triple Crown contender was guaranteed to add
tens of thou- sands of extra spectators to the gate come race day.

For my part, I did not look forward to settling back into regular Belmont Park life after the excitement of the week at Pimlico. True, it was a huge improvement to be sleeping again in a room
with only the regularly drunk and flatulent Rafael, rather than with both Diego and Keith trying to out-snore one another, but, somehow, the fun had gone out of this particular assignment.

I was beginning to find the daily drudgery of a groom rather monotonous. Perhaps my enthusiasm would return as the Belmont approached, but that still seemed like a long way off.

I suppose happiness in any job has a lot to do with one’s expectation.

For Rafael, working as a groom in a top horseracing barn in New York City, where he was occasionally given overall responsibility, was the pinnacle of his ambition. He had escaped from the
dismal poverty, appalling criminality and deadly danger of a Mexican slum to share a room with what he thought was only one Irishman instead of his whole extended family. He was quite obviously a
happy individual, even when he was inebriated, smiling and singing his way through each day without a care in the world or an ounce of desire to do any better.

Diego, in contrast, was an angry young man.

No doubt he had originally travelled to the United States from Puerto Rico to seek his fortune, arriving in New York with an expectation that the streets would be paved with gold, only to have
his hopes dashed by the reality. In his eyes, ending up as a mere groom at Belmont Park was living his life as a failure. Consequently, there was not an ounce of happiness to be found anywhere in
his body.

And, sadly, after a few quieter days at Pimlico on his own, he was again supported by his Puerto Rican compatriots and thus somewhat bolder. Ever since the truck had arrived through the gates,
he had been mouthing at me what I presumed were Spanish obscenities, or threats. On the plus side, however, we had also returned to the jurisdiction of the New York courts, which meant that his
trip to Rikers Island was very much back on the cards.

I spoke to Tony Andretti on my second night back, after consuming yet another dose of Bert Squab’s extra-hot chilli con carne from the track kitchen.

‘Crackshot has got equine viral arteritis,’ Tony said. ‘It was confirmed today.’

I was not in the least bit surprised. Indeed, I would have been astounded if it had been anything else.

‘Bryson, Crackshot’s trainer, is creating merry hell and the Maryland Jockey Club are running round in ever-decreasing circles trying to determine where the infection came from.
Norman Gibson has even initiated a FACSA investigation. What do you want me to tell him?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

I could tell from a snort down the line that Tony didn’t like keeping information from his section chief.

‘And there’s more,’ Tony said at length. ‘The professor has also established that there
was
EVA virus in the semen sample, loads of it. I really think it’s
time to arrest George Raworth.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And for the same reason as before. Nothing concerning the semen sample would be admissible as evidence in court because it was removed from a locked place
without a search warrant.’

‘Let’s get a warrant now, then,’ Tony said. ‘If we can find that cryo-flask, there will surely be some trace left in it we could analyse.’

‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think the flask is even here. It’s probably still in Raworth’s Jeep. I haven’t seen that since the day after the
Preakness and the flask definitely wasn’t in the truck with the other stuff when we returned from Pimlico.’

‘But we surely have enough to get the New York Racing Association to ban him.’ Tony was getting quite angry.

‘You think so, do you?’ I said rather sarcastically. ‘Do you remember that NFL quarterback who was banned for allegedly deflating footballs?’

‘Of course. Deflategate,’ Tony said. ‘Big news. Tom Brady of the New England Patriots. FACSA was peripherally involved with the investigation.’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. The NFL thought they had a watertight case but, even so, the ban was overturned by a US federal judge due to a lack of convincing evidence that Brady himself
knew anything about it.

‘Everyone appeals to law these days, and Raworth would be no exception because there’s so much at stake. Never mind the individual race purses and the kudos of being a Triple Crown
winner, there’s also the small matter of the ten-million-dollar Triple Crown bonus, half of which goes to the winning trainer. Trust me, Raworth would fight to the death through the courts
and, without that sample being admissible as evidence, you would surely lose, and look foolish.’