Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

Trumpeter Swan by John F. Dobbyn

It’s post time.

Four years I’ve been a jockey, and it still rings my bell every time. Every nerve in my body sends its own wake-up call. I don’t think about it consciously, but my subconscious goes on full alert to the fact that one wrong shift of weight could put me under the cleats of every horse behind me. Consciously, I have just one thought. Win.

The clang of the doors of the starting gate behind me sent shivers through the body of the black three-year-old colt I was riding. I could feel him jackhammering the ground with his front feet. I grabbed a fistful of mane in case the noise of loading the horse beside me sent my colt exploding through the gate. The trainer, Marty Trait, warned me that it happened last time out. Forewarned is forearmed.

I wasn’t used to the quirks of this colt, Trumpeter Swan. I was usually up on Fair Dawn, the horse they were loading in number six. He’s another coal black three year old. The two could be brothers. They’re both owned by Mr. Fitzroy and trained by Marty. It’s what they call an “entry” when two horses of the same stable are entered in the same race.

I heard Marty tell Bobby Pastore, the other jockey, to take Fair Dawn to the lead before the first turn and set a blistering pace. He told me to hang about fifth until we reach the end of the backstretch, about three quarters of the way through the mile and an eighth course. Swan has late speed and staying power. I figured to breeze past the horses that wore themselves out trying to keep up with Dawn. It had rained the evening before, but by dawn the track had dried out and it was lightning fast.

When Marty gave me the instructions, I asked him why he switched me off of Fair Dawn and onto the Swan. He just said I have better hands than Bobby for the drive down the stretch. News to me, but I’m just the jock.

Just before I slipped the race goggles down over my eyes, I caught a look at Mr. Fitzroy holding the rail in the front of his owner’s box. Even from there, his face looked bloodless and strained. I knew how much this race meant to him and the whole stable. For one wrenching moment I let myself think of where I’d be if Mr. Fitzroy had never been born. I was determined to win that race for him if I had to carry the horse across the wire.

I heard the “All in.” Swan dropped his head. I pulled it up straight and braced. The bell screamed and sent nine horses strung tighter than piano wire firing out of the gate.

Bobby gave Dawn two quick slaps of the whip, and he catapulted with a speed that I always found miraculous to the front of the pack. He cleared the second horse by enough to rein Dawn in close to the inside rail. This is where the leader would usually settle down to a pace that kept him just ahead of the pack in a distance run, but I could see Bobby turning it on. One more smack of the whip and he hand-rode him into the first turn as if it were the home stretch.

I could see the next three horses, the major contenders, driving to prevent Bobby from getting too big a lead. I hung back a comfortable fifth. I’m thinking, “Go ahead. Knock yourselves out.”

I hit thirty yards before the first turn. I was just easing my horse to the right to get him on firmer ground a few feet off the rail. I looked up to see Bobby leaning into the turn, and then bam. One second he’s in total control, the next second he’s spilling to the left, arms and legs flailing as he’s caught in the grinder of the horses’ hooves behind him. Thank God I was far enough off the rail to be able to avoid him, but I felt a shivering sickness.

My first instinct was to rein up and run to him, but I heard the wail of the ambulance flying across the track. I knew they’d do what they could for Bobby. In the meantime, nothing stops a race.

I’m sitting in fourth place as we cruise around the turn and down the backstretch. I pass the six furlong pole, and that alarm goes off in my gut that says “Now!”

I’ve watched Bobby ride Trumpeter Swan a half dozen times, and I know what this colt’s made of. He’s half speed, half courage, and one hundred percent heart. I shift my weight low and forward until I’m practically one with his neck and give him the call.

“C’mon, Swan. Give it to me.”

I swear, he knows what I want. No need for the whip. It’s like slipping a Maserati into high gear. I have to adjust my balance for the shock of the speed.

I see a bit of daylight as the horses ahead of me go a bit wide into the final turn. I take him to the rail to save ground, and he drives. The cleats on the hooves of the horses we pass come inches from his fine-boned legs, but he gives me what I ask for. He explodes through the hole like a driving halfback.

We straighten into the homestretch on top by half a length. It’s a cruise from here to the wire. Then we hit the eighth pole. I can feel an almost imperceptible shift into a lower gear. The heart and the drive are there, but the speed is noticeably coming off.

I glance back, and the pack is coming. I go to the whip, and I can feel the Swan strain to give me more, but it just isn’t there. We go under the wire in fifth position.

I could feel my heart torn out in two directions. I couldn’t imagine what Mr. Fitz must have been feeling. I knew the stable was on a losing streak that was breaking its back. This was the purse that could have set it right. I’d have given anything to hand it to him. But a deeper concern was Bobby Pastore.

I cantered Swan back to where the groom was waiting to take him. The trainer, Marty, was with him, glowing red as a beet.

“What happened out there, O’Casey?”

“I don’t know, Marty. Bobby just went off to the left. I couldn’t see why. How is he?”

Marty flipped out.

“Never mind that. What happened to the Swan? You rode him like he was running in cement.”

I slid out of the saddle.

“He just ran out of gas.”

He was in my face, looking down from his six foot two on my five foot three.

“Maybe you ran out of gas. He never faded like that before.”

I was stunned. Marty knew me from the time I was an apprentice. He agreed to take me on as a regular stable jockey when Mr. Fitz brought me in. I rode to win, and we always got along.

“I rode according to your orders, Marty. The horse weakened. You better check with the vet.”

Marty turned on his heels and walked off.

“Marty.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Where’d they take Bobby?”

He gave a look I didn’t understand and spat out, “To the morgue.”

I had three more races to ride that afternoon for other owners. My heart was definitely not in it, but somehow I managed to pull off a win in the last race of the afternoon. Each of us has a valet assigned to take care of our equipment after a race. When Tony, my valet, met me in the winner’s circle to take my saddle, he whispered, “Billy, you heard?”

I stood next to him as he undid the girth.

“What?”

“Bobby’s dead.”

It came as a shock all over again.

“I know.”

“They arrested Mr. Fitzroy.”

I couldn’t even get the words out. He read the question in my face.

“They say it’s murder. They charged Mr. Fitzroy with murdering Bobby.”

I sat in the jockey’s room for an hour after a shower. I was too stunned and drained to move. I thought of the lowest ebb of my life, when I’d been hit with a year’s suspension as a jockey. They called it race fixing, but I was following the orders of a trainer who wanted his horse brought in out of the money to build the odds for his next race. It’s done. It’s not unheard of, but I make no excuses.

The year’s suspension was deliberately extreme. The Massachusetts Racing Commission was drowning in bad press over corruption. They went on a witch hunt to clean up their own image. I was branded a leper. There wasn’t an owner or trainer who dared to come near me for fear of being sucked into the outcast club.

During that period, the pickings were slim for the O’Casey family. My dad was a disabled police officer, and my sister and I had to scramble to keep a good beef stew on the table. Racing was all I knew at the age of twenty-six, except for a stint of investigative work in the Air Force. Since I was cut off from the former, I cashed in on the latter by picking up a private investigator’s license. I filled out the time doing low-life work for a choice collection of human specimens until I could get back on a horse.

Then Mr. Fitz got involved. He and my dad grew up together in a little bastion of Irish immigrants called South Boston. They stayed close as brothers even though they went in different directions. My dad followed his own father’s footsteps onto the Boston police force. Mr. Fitz followed his Irish love of horses. He eventually owned a stable of the best horses that ran at Suffolk Downs. He passed the gift along, because he took in any kid with a hard-luck story and not much chance of breaking out. I know because when I was sixteen, I was one of them.

Around the time I was suspended, Mr. Fitz was in Europe. When he got back and found out about my suspension and general blackballing he hit the roof smoking. I didn’t hear about it until much later. Mr. Fitz blew into the office of the racing secretary like General Patton in a tank. He had one ace. Mr. Fitz had entered the one horse that could draw a record crowd to Suffolk Downs in the Massachusetts Handicap. His horse, Captain Mack, could be another Secretariat, and the crowd loved him. Mr. Fitz laid it on the line with no compromise — my license would be restored in twenty-four hours or he’d scratch Captain Mack.

The secretary was no fool. He knew that racing in New England was on shaky ground and a great run by a horse like Mack could bring back the gate. I had my license back the next day. And to rub salt in the wound of the Racing Commission, Mr. Fitz put me up on Captain Mack.

I was a bag of nerves for that race, but Captain Mack and I won it. I’ve been riding for Mr. Fitz every day since, and thanks to him the other owners have been giving me steady mounts, too. There’s no ducking it. It was a gutsy move by Mr. Fitz. He was bucking the tightest blackball since the days of the McCarthy commie witch-hunt.

I realized sitting there that I owed Mr. Fitz more than I could ever repay by riding, but maybe there was another way. Two things I took from my private investigator experience during the suspension were a P.I. license and a crash course on the fundamentals of ferreting out information that people wanted to keep hidden. If I couldn’t give Mr. Fitz a win, maybe I could give him something else he needed.

I knew that Mr. Fitz’s first call would have been to Michael Hunter of the law firm of Devlin and Hunter. Michael was like a son to him. Michael and Mr. Devlin had pulled a number of kids in the stable through legal scrapes over the years. Again, yours truly speaks from experience.

I got to Michael’s office just as he was getting back from Mr. Fitz’s arraignment.

“What’s it look like, Mike?”

“Looks like we’ve got some work to do, Billy. Come on in.”

He waved me into the awesome office at the end of the corridor where the daunting presence of himself, Mr. Lex Devlin, riveted us with a gaze over horn-shell reading glasses. The look was a clear demand for the reason for breaking his train of concentration.

Mike waved me into a seat, which raised the Devlin eyebrows another notch. Fortunately, Mike took the lead.

“I just got back from an arraignment, Mr. D. This one should go to the top of our list.”

Michael filled Mr. Devlin in on what little he knew, which was that a jockey had been killed in a riding incident and Mr. Fitz was being charged with murder. I sensed from the concentration in Mr. Devlin’s burning eyes that Mr. Fitz was automatically at the top of his list. I also sensed an old South Boston connection.

“Who’s handling this at the district attorney’s office, Michael?”

Mr. Devlin had the number half dialed when Michael said, “Pat O’Connor.” Mr. Devlin hit the speaker button to let us hear the conversation.

The receptionist answered.

“Anne, let me speak to Pat.”

“I’ll see if he’s here, Mr. Devlin.”

“No you won’t. I haven’t got time to hold for his pleasure. Tell that old warhorse if he’s not on the line in ten seconds I’ll tell the Globe he wears his wife’s dresses.”

A scratchy male voice boomed through the speaker.

“You do, and I’ll tell ’em it’s to take you out dancing. What do you want, Lex? As if I didn’t know.”

“Patrick Francis O’Connor, have you lost the half ounce of brains the good Lord gave you? What’s this about Miles Fitzroy?”

“I have no choice, Lex. I know you two go back. I’ve known Fitz since the old Southie days, too. But I can’t overlook the evidence.”

“Which brings me to my next question.”

“I know. What’s the evidence? I’ll be straight with you, Lex. The office got a call to get out to Suffolk Downs. Anonymous, of course. It was right after that jockey, Bobby Pastore, took a fall. He was dead when the ambulance got to him. The caller said to check the stirrup strap on Pastore’s saddle. He told us where to find it. We got a search warrant for Fitz’s personal trunk in the stable tack room. We found the saddle and the strap under a pile of blankets. The left stirrup strap was cut with a knife three-quarters of the way through. It looks like it tore the rest of the way when the jockey put extra weight on it going into the first turn.”

“It could have been a plant.”

“It could. On the other hand, there’s more. We have a motive. The caller said that Pastore was blackmailing Fitz for something. We don’t know what just yet, but we will. We checked Pastore’s bank account and found deposits at the beginning of each of the last three months. They start at ten thousand dollars and climb about five thousand dollars each month.”

“And that’s your case?”

“It’s enough to get an indictment, Lex. I hate it worse than you do. Especially on this side of it. But I can’t duck it.”

“And have you thought of this, Patrick? Every time I’ve seen Fitz in the past few months he’s been more worried about losing the stable. He hit a stretch of bad racing luck. That race could have pulled him out of the hole — at least given him breathing space ahead of the creditors. Why would he kill the jockey that could have won it for him?”

“Because he could have it both ways. He had an entry. The other horse was supposed to win the race. By the time the jockey, Pastore, went over the side, his horse had already drawn out the other horses. I hate it when I’m this clever. Especially now.”

“Alright, Clarence Darrow, I’ve got one more. Pastore rode in other races today before that one. His saddle would have been in the hands of his valet or on another horse right up to the time for that race. When did he make the cut?”

“I guess you never went to the track with Fitz. It was the cowboy in him. He always did the saddling of his own horses for a race. He could have cut the stirrup strap up under the saddle where it wouldn’t show just before Pastore got on the horse.”

I missed the next part of the conversation because I grabbed Mike Hunter’s sleeve and whispered, “Mike, I have to see that saddle and strap.”

“Why so?”

“It’s a phoney. It’s planted. Mr. Fitz didn’t do this.”

Mike whispered, “How do you know?”

I gave him a look like, How could you think otherwise?

“You’d make a terrible lawyer, Billy. You’d be blindsided by half your clients.”

But he caught Mr. Devlin’s eye and passed the word. Mr. Devlin put his hand over the speakerphone and mouthed the word, “Why?”

Mike said, “Because Billy’s the only one of us who knows which side of a saddle you sit on.”

Mr. Devlin was back on the speakerphone. “Pat, I need a favor. It’s an easy one. I’m sending an investigator over right now. Billy O’Casey. I want you to let him see the saddle and strap.”

“Alright, Lex. You’d see it eventually. I shouldn’t say this, but half of me hopes he finds something.”

Michael greased our way through the district attorney’s suite of offices to the evidence room. The officer on duty brought out the saddle and handed me the stirrup strap. The cut three quarters of the way through was clear. It took me about four seconds to check it out, and we were out of there.

When we hit the street, I pulled Michael over to a quiet section of sidewalk.

“Mike, it’s a setup. I knew it before, but now I can prove it.”

He looked doubtful, but interested.

“That strap was a plant. It’s not the stirrup strap that was on Bobby’s saddle during the race.”

“How do you know?”

“Only another jockey would know this. Bobby rode ace-deuce. He always kept the left stirrup a couple of inches shorter than the right. It gave him extra leverage on the turns since they’re all to the left. Some of the jocks do it. It’s the kind of thing we talk about among ourselves.”

“And?”

“That strap is buckled to exactly the same length as the right side. Whoever planted it thought that’s how it should be.”

I checked my watch. It was a little after seven P.M.

“And that leads to another thought, Mike.”

“What’s that?”

I could see he was still weighing the effect of what I’d said.

“We need to go for a ride. Your car or mine?”

We got to the backside of the track at Suffolk Downs at about quarter of eight. The late spring sun was fading, and I knew we had to hustle to work in light. The maintenance crew had gone for the day, so we were able to drive right up to where they keep the track equipment.

“Leave your suit coat in the car and roll up your sleeves, Mike. This could be worse than mucking out stables.”

Mike Hunter looked squeamish about plodding his five hundred dollar Bally loafers through the soft dirt at the edge of the track, but by the time we got down on our knees to grovel in it, he chalked the whole outfit, shoes to tie, up to expenses.

I showed him how to get down under the six-foot-wide drags that they pull over the dirt track after every race to smooth out the surface. We had to feel all the way to the bottom of each of the dozens of tynes that dig into the dirt.

I was nearly finished checking one of the drags when Mike yelled over from the one he was checking.

“Bingo!”

I looked over at a picture I’ll remember forever. He was up on his knees, crystal white shirt and Brooks Brothers pants so full of dirt he looked like he’d been planted, grin on his face, and holding a stirrup strap over his head. I checked the length.

“That’s the one that killed Bobby Pastore, Mike.”

He hauled himself up and caught his breath.

“Now tell me how you knew it was there.”

“I didn’t, but it was a fair hunch. I wondered why someone would plant evidence on Mr. Fitz that wasn’t the real strap. It had to be because they didn’t have the real one. I figured that was because it probably fell off the saddle when it broke and got ground into the track. It was either still out there, and we’d never find it, or it got caught in the tynes of the drag after the race. We lucked out, Mike. You’re a mess. You’ve got to take better care of your clothes.”

On the ride back I had time to think. I’d been so focused on Bobby’s death and the charges against Mr. Fitz that I’d blocked out everything else. Now I began thinking that if someone was fixing the race by eliminating Bobby and Fair Dawn, they’d have had to fix Trumpeter Swan, too. A bet on one part of the entry is a bet on both. If either part of an entry wins, it pays off.

That got me to thinking about how Trumpeter Swan had faded in the homestretch. It was one more odd circumstance that caused the stable to lose a race. I’m no vet, but Swan felt like a sound horse up to the moment he faded. Maybe it wasn’t just racing luck. Maybe it all tied together. That gave birth to an exploding thought that led to a quick U-turn and a heavy foot on the gas back to the track.

I drove up to the room at the end of the track stables where the exercise riders sleep. We came in the back door and saw a group of them playing cards at the far end of the room. Manny Vasquez was the regular exercise boy for Trumpeter Swan. I only needed a second to check his boots under his bunk.

I called Manny over and told him we needed a word with him outside. Manny got a little itchy by the time we walked over to the outside rail of the track.

“Been doing a little night riding, Manny?”

“Whatcha mean, Billy?”

He was looking back and forth between us. I doubt that he could read an expression in the dark, which made it more ominous. I left a pause.

“You know it rained last night, Manny. Long about two in the morning the track must have been pretty muddy. The rain stopped at midnight, so it was dry around six when you and the boys exercise the horses, right?”

“I guess so.” He wasn’t sure what he was admitting to.

“So sometime last night before the track dried out, probably around two in the morning when no one was around, you took Trumpeter Swan out to the track. You galloped the lungs out of him, cleaned him up, and put him back. No one would know in the morning. Except during the race in the afternoon, when he hit the homestretch, his energy gave out. He was running on dead legs. That’s a neat way to fix a race, Manny.”

“You out of your mind, Billy.” He started back to the barracks.

“Hey, Manny. I’ve got your boots. They’re the only ones in there with mud in the seams. You want to talk to me or the district attorney?”

That stopped him, but it didn’t get anything out of him.

“Only we’re not talking about race fixing here, Manny. We’re talking about murder. Bobby Pastore was killed so that race could be fixed.”

I could sense the panic setting in.

“I don’t know nothin’ about Bobby. I had nothin’ to do with any of that.”

Mike added his contribution. “See, Manny, it doesn’t matter. You were in on the fix. If someone gets killed in the course of it, which Bobby did, you’re up to your ears. The charge could be murder. In for a penny is in for a pound, as they say.”

He was stone silent. I walked over to him.

“We’re not after you, Manny. We want whoever killed Bobby and laid the blame on Mr. Fitz. But so help me, if you don’t open up, I’ll turn you over.”

He was shaking now.

“Who gave you your orders, Manny?”

He was scared, confused, and frozen in silence. I thought he needed a little heat to unfreeze him. I said to Michael, “Make the call.”

Mike took the cue. He flipped open his cell phone and started punching in numbers. I have no idea whom he was calling. Mike probably didn’t either. But I’m sure it registered with Manny as the police, the D.A., or maybe immigration — whichever topped his list of fears.

Manny bolted over close to us and said in a low voice, “Mr. Trait.”

“Marty Trait, the trainer?” I wanted to be sure Michael heard it.

“Yeah.”

“Did he ever have you do that before?” I didn’t know because I wasn’t the regular jockey on Swan.

“Yeah, a few times.”

I looked at Michael. “So much for Mr. Fitz’s bad racing luck.”

I stepped closer to Manny so I could keep my voice down. “Manny, I need something else, and you better put your heart into it. Marty Trait wasn’t doing this on his own. Who was in it with him? Give me anything.”

There was silence, but this time I knew Manny was thinking, not stalling. Finally he whispered, “There’s a guy comes out to the stables about once a week. Big Cadillac. Marty always drops everything to talk to him. They go out behind the stable a few minutes. Then he leaves.”

“You ever hear a name?”

“Yeah. He got a phone call one time on the stable phone. I heard the guy who answered the phone call him Paddy Burke.”

On the drive back into Boston, Michael called Mr. Devlin. He filled him in on the events of the day and asked if he’d ever heard of a Paddy Burke. I heard Mr. Devlin make a low, slow whistle.

“We’re into the big time, gentlemen. Paddy Burke is a lieutenant, a capo, whatever the Irish equivalent is, of one Seamus Doyle. Mr. Doyle is one of those people who never seem to go to jail, but any kid in South Boston can tell you he’s the big shot in the Irish Mafia. It gets worse. Rumor, for what it’s worth, has it that he’s connected with the worst element of the IRA. They say he’s into fundraising for munitions. This is not someone to take lightly.”

Mr. Devlin was right about the Irish Mafia part. I’d been hearing the name Seamus Doyle for years around Southie. I’d never had the pleasure of meeting him, nor wanted it.

By the next day, I had the skeleton of an idea. While Michael and Mr. Devlin handled the legal moves, I figured that I’d tend to the personal side. It started with a visit to Mr. Fitz.

When he walked into the visiting room at the lockup, I thought I was looking at his father. He’d aged about a generation. I think it brightened him a little to see someone from the stable.

I spent the first ten minutes bringing him up to date on what we knew so far. He seemed pleased to hear that there was a team out there that believed in his innocence. It was counterbalanced by the shock of knowing that he was betrayed by a man he’d trust with his life, Marty Trait.

The real setback was when I told him that Marty had gone over to the camp of Seamus Doyle. In a way, though, it put fire back in the furnace. He seemed willing to give in to defeat until I mentioned Doyle’s name. The despair was consumed by anger and the will to fight back.

“Doyle has been after my stable of horses, Billy. We started this losing streak about four months ago. It got so bad that I had to borrow money to keep it going. The banks aren’t interested in a racing stable as collateral. I finally went to Doyle. I thought we’d pull out of it and I could pay him back, but it just got deeper. He started a couple of months ago offering to buy me out and cancel the debt. The amount he was offering was a joke, but the more races we lost, the less the stable was worth. I still had a little cushion, but that last race ate it up.”

That was the moment I decided to lay out my idea. In any other state of mind, he’d never have gone for it. I explained it as well as I had it thought out at that point.

Mr. Fitz’s jaw was set, his back was rigid straight, and he was back in his own generation when he said, “Billy, do whatever you think is right. You’ll have my backing.”

I got up to leave fast before he had a second to think of what I’d be doing. It wasn’t fast enough. I was nearly to the door when he called, “Billy, wait. I can’t let you do it. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. They could hurt you worse than you think.”

I came back to the table. “I’ve thought of all that, Mr. Fitz. I’ll stay out of danger. I guarantee it. The course is set now. And it’s the right course. We can’t go backward.”

That held him long enough for me to reach the door. I was through it before I could look back into those moist eyes that were filled with more conflicting emotions than he could handle.

The next stop was the one that counted. I, and everyone else in South Boston, knew that Seamus Doyle held court in a tavern that he owned on D Street called The Shamrock, wouldn’t you know? It was eleven o’clock in the morning when I walked through the door. A few of the town’s early drinkers were decorating the bar. The other five spread around the tables were sober, old-country Irish, and large. From this jockey’s point of view, they were enormous. I decided not to fight my way in.

I walked up to the one who seemed to have the most intelligence, which did not necessarily make him a candidate for Mensa, and announced that I was there to see himself.

“And would he be expectin’ ya?”

“I doubt it. Tell him two things. I’ve come from Mr. Fitzroy, and I’m here to make his day.”

I heard a laugh from the inner sanctum, and a minute later I was ushered in. The man behind the desk was not what I expected. He was not fat and dressed in Irish wools and chewing a cigar. He was in fact lean and athletic-looking. His suit was fine Italian wool, and there was not a trace of smoke in the room. His facial features could be considered handsome when at rest with a smile, but I had a sense that they could snap into the look of a stalking wolf in an instant of displeasure.

“Mr. Doyle, my name’s O’Casey.”

“I know it is. Billy O’Casey. You’ve got good hands, Billy. I’ve seen you ride.”

I figured we could hang out swapping compliments or I could get to the point.

“I’ve got a message from Mr. Fitzroy. He wants to deal.”

“Ah, you’ve seen Fitz. How is he?”

I looked around at the three figures standing against the wall behind me. They seemed a cut above the five outside in terms of the gift of brains, but again, any one of them was big enough to eat me for lunch. I looked back at Doyle.

“Don’t let the boys bother you. They know my business.” He looked over my shoulder. “Boys, relax. Listen and see how business is done. Now, Billy. Tell me about Fitz.”

“He’s curious. He wants to know if you have enough sporting blood to make one last deal.”

Doyle grinned and looked over to the three “boys.” It was just what I’d hoped for. He was playing to an audience.

“What deal is that, Billy?”

“All or nothing. He has Trumpeter Swan entered in the Fox Handicap at Suffolk in two days. He’ll put it all on the line. If Swan loses, the stable’s yours. If he wins, all debts are canceled. That’s it.”

Doyle eased back in his chair. The grin on his face spread till it lit up his eyes. He was savoring the sure thing that had just dropped into his lap and playing the big shot for the three musketeers behind me. I let him have his fun. We both knew he’d snap it up as soon as he heard it, so I could wait.

“Sporting blood, is it, Billy O’Casey? There’s never been a lack of it in this body.”

He leaned over the desk with his hand extended. I shook hands with the devil and made a mental note to wash with Lysol. I knew he couldn’t go back on the deal because he had grandstanded in front of his men.

As I headed out the door, Doyle said, “Billy.”

I turned around.

“Like I said, you can ride. Maybe someday you’ll be riding for me.”

I smiled back and winked at him. “When pigs fly, Mr. Doyle.”

The afternoon before the Fox Handicap, I got back home from the track about six P.M. There was a message on my phone recorder from Manny. In a sheepish voice, he told me that Marty had given the order to give Trumpeter Swan a heavy gallop at two in the morning.

Manny left a number. I called back and told him to follow the order. Do it just like I told him. Then clean him up well before putting him back in the stall.

At quarter of two that morning, I was standing in the dark beside the outside rail of the first turn. There was just enough light from the outlying buildings to make out figures. I saw Manny ride the big black colt onto the track. He warmed him up and then put him to a gallop that would have worn out Secretariat. He walked him a lap around the track and took him back to the stables.

During the gallop, I could just make out a faint glint of light high up in the grandstand. My guess was that it was the reflection off of binoculars in the hands of Marty Trait. He wanted to be sure that Manny carried out his orders, but the last thing he wanted was to be seen supervising it.

By post time for the Fox Handicap the track was lightning fast. With Bobby out, I was up on Trumpeter Swan. Marty had given me instructions during the saddle-up, but it didn’t matter. This was between Swan and me.

When the starter’s bell rang and that gate banged open, I gave him his head. He sprang like a pent-up lightning bolt. The horses on either side of him challenged for the first lead, but he would not be denied. We took the rail at the head of the pack going into the first turn. I could feel every muscle driving to set more and more distance between him and the followers. I checked him back slightly with pressure on the bit, not enough to break the momentum, just enough to save something for the distance.

I whispered into the ear that flicked back as if to get the signal. “Not yet, Swan. We’ll get ’em. Just cruise.”

Around the turn and through the back stretch he held the lead against the challenges of horses that would usually be frontrunners. He settled into a steady rhythm that ate up distance at a rate that took my breath away.

We went into the far turn a half-length ahead, but I could sense the challenge of the late closers that were coming fast around the outside. I leaned low and close to that flicking ear and gave him the word I think he wanted to hear. “Now, Swan. Show ’em what you got.”

I could feel those pulsing muscles strain with a new wellspring of power. His ears were straight back now. Playtime was over. The burst of speed around the turn carried him to the center of the track, but it didn’t matter. He owned every inch of the distance that lay ahead of him.

He came off the turn three lengths ahead and the lead kept growing. I could just sense Marty in the stands waiting for the exhaustion of the night gallop to bring him down. He must have been close to panic, because the Swan just kept bringing it on. Seventy yards to go and the lead was up to six lengths and climbing.

When we crossed the finish line, I couldn’t even hear the horses behind me. I stood straight up in the irons and yelled my lungs out. The Swan sensed the victory and eased off slightly, but he covered another half mile before he slowed to a canter.

We were both panting when we rode into the winner’s circle. I waved my whip to the empty box where Mr. Fitz should have been and prayed that he could feel some of this moment.

We stood as still as the Swan could for the picture. He pranced in place like he wanted to do it all over again.

There was no Marty in the winner’s circle to meet us. I saw Michael working his way through the crowd to the rail. He yelled up to me, “Meet us at the outside gate as soon as you can.”

I waved back to him and jumped off Swan. I took the saddle and went through the required weighing out at double speed. This was my last race for the day, so I could leave the jockeys’ area.

I ran to the front entrance gate of the track. There was a small cluster of people off to the side. Michael had passed on everything we knew to Pat O’Connor and asked him to meet us there. Michael was with them, as was Marty Trait in handcuffs, standing beside a police officer.

Mr. O’Connor saw me and said, “We found your friend here leaving early. I wonder why.”

I walked up next to Marty so I could look him eye to eye, with a good bit of head-tilting on my part. I could feel the heat seething out of his pores.

“How about that Swan, Marty? You must be thrilled. Or maybe just shocked after his midnight gallop.”

Marty just glared. He looked like he could spit nails, but he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. I answered the question that must have been eating him up.

“Actually there was no midnight gallop. Not for Swan anyway. That was Fair Dawn you saw Manny working this morning. I figured you couldn’t tell the difference in the dark.”

That did nothing to cool his anger. Michael stepped in.

“No comment, Mr. Trait? Well, that’s all right. That’s just race fixing. That’s peanuts compared to planting evidence of the murder of Bobby Pastore on Mr. Fitzroy.”

That brought his head around. I couldn’t resist.

“But you blew it, Marty. You planted the wrong strap. You never knew that Bobby rode ace-deuce. That means if Mr. Fitz didn’t cut that strap, it had to be you. Only four people had a chance to do it after Bobby’s previous race. Mr. Fitz, you, Bobby, and his valet. No one’s pointing fingers at the valet, and I don’t think Bobby did it.”

That bit of logic got absolutely nothing but glares out of Marty. I could see he was digging in. I decided to fire my last best shot.

“You made that anonymous call to the D.A., didn’t you, Marty? Only you twisted the facts. Bobby wasn’t blackmailing Mr. Fitz. I figure he was squeezing hush money out of the one who had him fixing races. That was you, Marty. You couldn’t let the word get out until Mr. Fitz lost the stable. That’d spoil the plan of the one who was pulling your strings. Bobby, the poor sap, didn’t know he was playing with Seamus Doyle.”

That did it. He went rigid when I mentioned Doyle’s name. The arrogance and anger turned to something that looked like terror. I knew then that we had the can opener. Michael did the follow-up.

“If you confess now, Trait, you might get a deal from the D.A. for less than the death penalty for giving up Doyle.”

I could see the thought of crossing Seamus Doyle nearly put him in a box. He was still tight as a clam. I had an idea. I asked Michael and Mr. O’Connor to let me have a word with Marty alone. They all stepped off to the side.

“I’ll be seeing Seamus Doyle tonight, Marty. We have some business to finish. My guess is he’ll be wondering what went wrong. He could be curious about how you let Trumpeter Swan win that race. It cost him the whole Fitzroy stable and a bundle of money besides. It could put him out of sorts. And it wouldn’t be hard to drop the suggestion that you double-crossed him.”

It could have been a mistake for me to talk to him alone. He could look down on the top of my head, and it gave him enough confidence to get arrogant. He whispered words that came out like venom.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when a little punk like you does business with Seamus Doyle. You’re all bluff, you little bum.”

I stepped in close to him and dropped my voice.

“You ever been in Seamus Doyle’s office, Marty?”

He looked a little blank, but he recovered. “Yeah, I have, but you haven’t.”

I dropped my voice another notch. “Don’t you love that picture behind his desk?”

He had a protective grin on now and was right in my face. “Nice try, kid. I’m calling your bluff. What’s in the picture?”

I just stood there for seven or eight seconds while his grin grew into a smirk. “I knew it, you little bum. You can’t bluff a bluffer. I’ll tell you something. You’re dead.”

I eased up next to his ear and whispered, “It’s a picture of John L. Sullivan. Full body in trunks, bare-fisted. The inscription reads, ‘John L. Sullivan. Heavyweight Champ. September 23, 1910.’ ”

I watched the smirk fall away in stages that went from shock to terror.

“I’ll paint you a picture, Marty. The D.A.’s got plenty to indict you. There’s no bail for murder one. You’ll be sitting in a cell looking at every other prisoner wondering which one was sent by Seamus Doyle.”

If sweat is any indication of what’s going on inside, Marty was a volcano about to erupt. I gave him one last nudge.

“I’d love to continue this chat, Marty, but I’ve got an appointment with Doyle. You know how he is when you’re late.”

I headed back to the jockeys’ room for an overdue shower. By the time I made it to the door, I heard Marty pleading for protective custody with a promise to rat on everyone from Seamus Doyle to Walt Disney.

The day after Mr. Fitz was released, he sent for me. I heard from Mike that Mr. Devlin had told him, probably in exaggerated terms, what I had done.

When I walked into Mr. Fitz’s office, the first thing that caught my eye was a framed blow-up of a news picture that occupied the whole space behind his desk. One of the newsies had snapped a shot just after we crossed the finish line. There was the Swan, driving like he could run the whole race again. And there I am, straight up in the irons, whip hand in the air, mouth open like a screaming idiot.

He waved me in and came around the desk to meet me. We both stood there staring at that enormous print. I think we were both trying to take in all that it meant to us.

Mr. Fitz started to speak. I could feel a speech coming, but something in his throat seemed to choke it off. I started to tell him that nothing I could ever do for him would bring us even, but that throat problem was contagious. So we both just stood there drinking all the good thoughts that were leaping off of that picture — for a long time.