Free The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page B

a dime a dozen,” he said. “But there’s only one Trojan or Secretariat or Zenyatta.”
    â€œWell, if he felt like you, I imagine he’d be training horses on the Coast and wondering why his wife left him.”
    He chuckled at that. “Yeah, maybe you got a point. Especially if his wife looked like Jenny Piccolo.”
    â€œJenny who?” I said, frowning.
    â€œYou haven’t heard of her?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œPoor bastard. She trains for a couple of big stables out West—and she also posed for some magazine’s center spread. Talk about everything in one package! Too bad Frank didn’t see her first.”
    â€œYour sympathy is heartwarming,” I said. “Now how about my sandwich?”
    He walked over to the grill and was back a few minutes later.
    â€œI don’t mean to be nosy,” he said nosily, “but why the hell are you still here?”
    â€œI’m looking for Tony Sanders.”
    â€œThe groom. Wish I could help you.”
    â€œLet me try one more name out on you,” I said.
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œBilly Paulson.”
    â€œDidn’t he used to ride at Bowie or Delaware Park?”
    I shook my head. “He’s another groom.”
    â€œSo two of them flew the coop during the sale? That’s unusual.”
    â€œNo, Paulson’s been missing for a month.”
    â€œWho knows where the hell he’s gotten to by now?” was the response.
    â€œOh, somebody must,” I said.
    â€œLotsa luck,” he said, and walked off to serve another customer.
    Problem was, luck was in short supply—or at least it was until I pulled up to the Motel 6 lot and walked in the front entrance.

I don’t know why I walked into the lobby. I already had a room; all I had to do was park in front of it. I wasn’t short of cigarettes or change, and they didn’t sell beer. Just force of habit, I guess.
    â€œHi, Mr. Paxton,” said the clerk. “Phone message for you. You can pick it up on your room’s phone, or I can give it to you right here.”
    â€œI don’t think I have any secrets worth hiding since I broke up with Pam Anderson last week,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
    He handed me a slip of paper he’d written on. His scrawl was so illegible that I couldn’t make out a word of it.
    â€œA Mr. Berger phoned and said to contact him, that he had some information for you.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what it could be. They haven’t run at Keeneland since the end of April, and the sale ended a couple of hours ago.”
    He looked at me expectantly, as if I was supposed to confide in him.
    â€œParis Hilton’s boyfriend,” I said. “Jealous as hell.”
    â€œYou private eyes do get around,” he said.
    â€œYeah,” I replied. “That’s why we all stay at Motel 6’s. Those jealous boyfriends never think to look for us here.”
    I went to my room, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and walked over to the phone. The message light was blinking, and I pressed it, then sat down to hear what Berger had to say.
    â€œHello, Eli? This is Lou Berger. It was a slow afternoon, so I had time to do a little checking in our files, and I found something I think might interest you. I’ll be here ’til eight tonight, or give me a call tomorrow.”
    I checked my watch. It was a quarter to seven, and his office was no more than seven or eight minutes away, so I hopped back into the Ford and drove over to the police station.
    Bernice the redhead gave me a welcoming smile as I entered.
    â€œWelcome again,” she said. “I assume you’re here to see Officer Berger?”
    I nodded. “That’s right. I believe he’s expecting me.”
    â€œI’ll take you there,” she said, starting to walk around the desk.
    â€œIt’s not necessary, Bernice,” I said. “I can find my own