Free The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick

street. I’ll share anything I can get on either kid, but you’ll do the same. We don’t need any more heroes.”
    â€œNot a problem,” I said. “Hell, I used to be a cop. I’ve never considered you guys enemies or rivals, and I’ll bet every last one of you goes to the shooting range and the gym more than I do, even the redhead who ushered me in.”
    â€œYou want to see tough?” he asked with a grin. “Her name’s Bernice. Pinch her bottom and see what happens.”
    â€œI’ll take your word for it,” I said.
    â€œYou’ll live longer if you do.”
    Then I walked out of his office and the building, wondering what the hell else I could do to earn my money.

I went back to Keeneland, planning to ask some of the other grooms, or even the uniformed guards, if Tony had said anything to them that might give a hint as to what was bothering him. I knew the odds were that he was off with a bottle or a bimbo or both, but I couldn’t help remembering how worried he was the last time I saw him—and it wasn’t just me. Nanette had sensed the same thing.
    He was going to talk to her in the morning when he’d settled his problem, or at least figured out what to do about it, and he’d said pretty much the same thing to me.
    So my first question, of course, was what was his problem?
    That led to a second question: he hardly knew me, but why couldn’t he talk to Nan, or even his parents, about it?
    And that led to the third question: he’d been fine when I went off to dinner, and an hour later he was as troubled as any kid I’ve ever seen, and the next morning he was gone without a trace. What the hell had happened during that hour?
    I hunted up the guard who had originally led me to Barn 9. He was standing just inside the aisle to Barn 7, looking pretty relaxed now that about three-quarters of the yearlings had been sold and taken to their new homes, and there was a lot less hustle and bustle.
    â€œAh, Mr. Paxton,” he said as I approached him. “How may I help you?”
    â€œStart by staying in the shade and let me join you,” I said. “That sun’s a bitch.”
    â€œThat it is, sir,” he said as I stood next to him. He stared at me for a moment. “You’re here about the young man who was rubbing the Trojan colt.” It was a statement, not a question.
    â€œYeah, that’s right.”
    â€œI heard he’d gone missing. Foolish timing, walking out the day his colt went up for sale.” He shook his head. “I don’t know who’ll hire him now, and I do know that he loved the sport, studied it more than some of the trainers you see around here.”
    â€œDid he say anything to you the last day he was here?”
    â€œHe probably said ‘Hi,’” replied the guard.
    â€œAnything else?” I said. “Especially toward evening?”
    He shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”
    â€œI spoke to him when I got back from dinner,” I continued. “He was pretty worried about something. Distressed is the word I’d use.”
    â€œI don’t think I saw him after late afternoon,” was the reply. “The auction had already begun, and I was directing people to the sales pavilion most of the night.”
    â€œHe was here when I went to bed, maybe eleven or midnight,” I said, “and he was gone in the morning. Maybe the night shift can help.”
    â€œI’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Paxton, but there isn’t a night shift.”
    â€œWith all those trillions of dollars of horseflesh on the grounds?” I said, frowning.
    â€œMaybe I should clarify that,” he said. “Of course we have a night staff, but it’s much smaller, since no owners or trainers are expected to be wandering the grounds. I think there are six men, total, and they’re more concerned with vandals at the clubhouse and the sales