Daniel Farnsworth watched carefully as his groom walked his three-year-old, Easy Going, around the corral.
“What do you think, Mr. Farnsworth?” his trainer, Seamus Callaghan, asked. “How’s he look?”
“He looks damn good, Seamus,” Farnsworth said. “Take him back in.”
Callaghan waved to the groom, who immediately walked the horse back into the stables.
“You still intend to work him before the Derby?” Farnsworth asked.
“Just a light workout, boss,” Callaghan said. “I want to keep him loose.”
“Have you seen Sunday Song since he arrived?”
“No, I ain’t,” Callaghan admitted.
“Well, I have,” Farnsworth said. “He’s looking damn good. Too good.”
“Don’t worry, boss,” Callaghan said. “Easy Going is in the best shape of his life.”
Farnsworth, a businessman who had entered the horse-racing world only five years before, looked his trainer over. While he himself was sixty, and wore three-piece suits every day, the trainer—in his fifties—always looked as if he’d slept in his clothes—in the barn. Maybe that was good, that he looked like he spent all his time in the barn with his horses. So far, Callaghan had been very good at his job, training three champions for Farnsworth. But this horse, Easy Going, was easily the best horse they’d ever had. Farnsworth affectionately called the animal “Big Red,” for the color of his coat.
Farnsworth had actually found the trainer in Ireland and brought him over to condition his horses.
“I pay you a lot of money to make sure Big Red is in top condition, Seamus.”
“I know you do, sir,” Callaghan said. “Don’t you worry. Yer money’s not goin’ to waste. I’m doin’ my best work with this horse.”
Farnsworth turned and looked at the house he’d rented, along with the stables and the corral. Behind the house was a half-mile racetrack that had not been used in a while. Farnsworth had paid to have the track redone, so it would be in condition for his horse to run on safely.
“All right,” Farnsworth said, “I’ll be in the house if you need me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just remember,” the businessman said, “it’s not only the race and the purse that’s at stake. I’m going to be making a sizable bet on Big Red.”
“I understand that, boss,” Callaghan said. “Don’t worry, he’ll be ready.”
“He better be.”
Callaghan watched his boss walk up to the house, then turned and went into the barn to examine Easy Going again, just to make sure.
* * *
A few miles away, at the Two Chimneys Farm, two men were also standing, watching a horse, but these men were of comparable age, mid-forties. One was William Kingston, the owner of Sunday Song, and the other was Ollie Shoemaker, one of the finest trainers in the Thoroughbred racing world. He’d been training horses in the United States for twenty years, had trained half a dozen champions. He had already won two Kentucky Derbies.
Sunday Song was standing still, the groom holding his reins. The animal knew he was being inspected.
“Look at him, Ollie,” Kingston said.
“I am, boss,” Shoemaker said. “He looks great.”
“He is great,” Kingston said.
“He’s gonna be my third Derby champ.”
“And mine,” Kingston said. “We’re going to be the greatest owner-trainer combination in racing history.”
“Not to mention rider.”
The jockey was to be Lorenzo Capp, who had ridden all of their champions already. The little black man was considered to be one of the best, if not the best jockey in the sport.
“He’s gonna be here tomorrow, right?” Kingston asked.
“Yeah, boss,” Shoemaker said, “he’ll work the horse in the morning.”
“You think the others are working their animals before the race?”
“If I know Callaghan—and I think I do—he will be.”
“We’re lucky Two Chimneys was available for training,” Kingston said. “Best training track I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s right,” Callaghan said. “And only the best for Sunday Song.”
“Come on,” Kingston said, putting his arm around his trainer, “let’s go and get something to eat.”