Free Close Call by John McEvoy

thought was the bleating of a goat.
    Sure enough, there in stall twenty-one, standing beneath the outstretched head of Jenkins’ best runner, Wicklow Brian, was a small, dirty-white, male goat, replete with horns and a bell that was tinkling rhythmically. Wicklow Brian and the goat were swaying from side to side, in unison, the big brown thoroughbred dwarfing his bearded companion poised under him. Doyle stared at them. Jenkins clicked off her phone and walked over to Doyle. “Isn’t that something?” she said ruefully.
    Jack said, “What the hell’s going on with these two?”
    Kristina said, “Wicklow Brian is a weaver.” Seeing the puzzled expression on Doyle’s face, she went to explain that “It’s a nervous habit some horses develop. Not very many, thank heavens, but some. Instead of standing still they move, or weave, shifting their weight from side to side. They do it hour after hour, day after day.”
    “What’s the problem with that?”
    Kristina said, “It’s an energy waster. Why would you want your horse to be wasting energy he could be using in a race?”
    “Well, I guess you wouldn’t. But what’s the deal with shorty there, the goat?”
    “Actually,” Kristina said, “his name is Sylvester. He’s a fairly friendly little creature. I bought him because usually the presence of a goat can calm down nervous horses like Wicklow Brian. Get them to stop their weaving. Horses and goats get along great, as you can see. Look how contented they look,” she said resignedly.
    “The problem here,” Kristina continued, “is that Sylvester not only didn’t get Wicklow Brian to stop his darned weaving, Wicklow Brian has now got Sylvester weaving right along with him.”
    They turned to look again at this synchronized odd couple.
    “You trainers have to put up with some of the damndest things,” Doyle said.
    “Tell me about it,” Kristina said.
    Fifty yards from Kristina’s barn, Doyle saw a Mexican woman meticulously raking the dirt in front of the five stalls assigned to horses trained by Tom Eckrosh. He recognized her as Rambling Rosie’s groom, the woman he had seen in the winner’s circle the previous night. She was working her rake around some sparkling clean water buckets that had been set out to dry in the morning sun. Geranium baskets hung overhead, attached under the barn eaves. Doyle could hear the hum of an electric fan in one of the horse’s stalls. The woman wore a gray tee-shirt, jeans, white running shoes. She was humming softly to herself as she worked. The muscles in her brown forearms stood out like cords as she moved the rake.
    “Excuse me,” Doyle said. “Miss?”
    The woman, deep in thought, looked up, startled, the long, dark braid down her back swinging as she turned to face him. “Yes?”
    “ Buenos dias ,” Doyle said. “I’m looking for Mr. Eckrosh.”
    “Oh,” the woman replied, her brown face transformed by a bright smile. “ Buenos dias. Si , Mr. Tom is there in his office at the end of the barn,” she said, motioning with the hand not holding the rake handle. “He may be taking a small siesta. Knock on the door, por favor .”
    Doyle said, “ Gracias ,” and nodded at the watchful horses, heads sticking out over their stall doors, as he passed them on his way to the far end of the barn.
    Eckrosh was awake when Jack poked his head in the doorway. He looked up at Doyle through thick bifocals, his battered fedora on his head. He had his feet up on the corner of the desk atop an old copy of Racing Daily and was busy fitting together a piece of horse equipment. He waited for Doyle to speak. “I’m Jack Doyle, Mr. Eckrosh. What’s that you’re working on?”
    Eckrosh said, “It’s a bit. A special one. I use it on my old hard headed gelding Editorialist. It’s called a Springsteen bit. You don’t see them around much anymore.”
    Doyle laughed. “A Springsteen bit? Not named after ‘The Boss,’ I guess.”
    Eckrosh frowned. “Whose boss? This