Finding missing persons is really not my particular bag, but when your boss says that a friend of his needs help finding his daughter and he wants you to supply that help as a favor to him, then you do it. It doesn’t hurt, either, if you happen to like your boss and don’t mind doing him a favor — which I did (like him) and didn’t (mind).
Now horses are my bag. If a horse was missing, I could get involved in that with some degree of confidence. As a special investigator for the N.Y.S.R.C. — The New York State Racing Club — I deal mostly with horses, horse racing and racing people.
Well, this did kind of fit in. The man who needed the help was Benjamin Hopkins, owner and trainer of Penny’s Penny, Hopkins Stables Triple Crown hopeful for 1980. The colt had been named after Benjamin Hopkins’ daughter, Penny.
“Penny won nine out of ten races as a two year old, Mr. Po,” Hopkins told me proudly. “His only loss was to Paul Lassiter’s Bold Randy — ”
“Who’s only loss as a two year old was to Penny’s Penny,” I finished for him. “I keep abreast of the thoroughbred scene, Mr. Hopkins.” Hopkins and Lassiter were chief rivals in the world of thoroughbred horse racing. “Could we get to the real reason I was asked to come here?”
We were at Island Downs, Staten Island, New York — nine races daily, including the daily double (the first and second races), 3 quinellas, 3 exactas and the ninth race triple. I had spent many a day at this two-year-old race track, usually for business but sometimes for pleasure.
This was not a pleasure.
I had disliked Benjamin Hopkins on sight, a reaction I rarely have to people. I usually give them a good chance to give me a reason to dislike them.
We were at Island Downs’ “Breakfast with the Thoroughbreds” program, where the N.Y.S.R.C. invites the fans — parking and admittance on the house — to buy breakfast and watch the thoroughbreds work out. There’s usually a young lady with a microphone, pointing out horses and jockeys of particular interest, and they offer a tour of the stable area.
Behind us I could hear the voice of the girl droning on into the microphone, for the most part unintelligibly, but then I wasn’t really listening to her.
I watched the horses as they thundered by us on the track, hooves pounding the ground, their breath rushing from their nostrils each time hoof met ground, with a force you would have to be there to believe. Just imagine the sound your breath would make escaping from your body if someone punched you in the solar plexus, then triple it.
We were standing at the rail, waiting for Penny’s Penny to appear for his morning workout.
It was September, and eight-thirty in the morning, and I was starting to wish I had brought my gloves.
“As I explained to Howard on the phone, Mr. Po,” Hopkins began, referring to my beloved leader, J. Howard Biel, president of the New York State Racing Club, “she left the house yesterday afternoon and has not yet returned. She’s never done this sort of thing before. I attempted to report her missing to the police, but they informed me that she is too old to be missing.”
Simply stated, but not entirely correct.
“What they meant is that she is between the ages of eighteen and sixty-five and therefore they cannot take a missing persons’ report on her unless there is some evidence of foul play,” I tried to explain, “or a history of mental illness.”
He waved his hand impatiently “Yes, yes, they explained all of that to me. They also suggested I hire a private investigator. I didn’t know any and did not wish to pull one at random from the phone book, so I called Howard, who is a friend. He advised me to forget that idea and allow him to put one of his investigators at my disposal. He assured me that he would send his best man.”
Good old Howard, I thought. Being considered the best “man” out of four investigators — one of whom was a woman, at that — was not really thrilling. Besides, I happened to know that I was the only one available, so I took the remark with a grain of salt.
“That’s one of mine,” he told me, changing the subject.
He was talking about a chestnut filly who had just cantered by and was turning around for her workout. She was small, probably a two year old, and she was fighting her rider, who did not appear to be an experienced jockey.
“Who’s on her?”
“Nobody. An exercise boy. It’s all she rates right now. She’s had two starts, ran second and then ran out of the money. She’s got a lot of potential but as you can see she’s not easy to handle. She’s by Dr. Fager and, with blinkers, she should win next time out.”
“Which is?”
“Two days from now, on Sunday. If she does what I think she can do, she’ll go in a baby stakes in a couple of weeks.” “Baby Stakes” was a term used for stakes races featuring two year olds.
She was loping around the track. When they reached the six furlong pole the boy would begin to run her in earnest.
“Can we get back to your daughter?” I asked.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to find her for me and bring her back,” he told me, taking out his stop watch. He was still watching the filly, concentrating on her, not me.
I waited.
When she reached the six furlong marker he clicked his watch and she was off. She seemed to run fairly easily, but she was so small. Could she really run with some of the bigger fillies?
As she came out of the turn into the stretch she was hugging the rail and the boy let her out. Thoroughbreds are beautiful animals at any time, but never more beautiful than when they are thundering down the stretch to the finish line.
As she crossed the finish line the boy stood up on her and began to ease her. Hopkins clicked his watch and cursed.
“That’s the last horse he’ll ever work for me, “he snarled.
“Why?”
He showed me the stopwatch.
“Fifty-nine and change. I told him not to work her in under a minute. That cunt,” he snapped, pointing to the girl with the microphone, “will probably tell everyone what a sparkling workout my filly had. That jerk,” he continued, indicating the rider again, “has hurt my odds already.”
The girl made a prophet out of him the next moment by announcing into the microphone, “That was Benjamin Hopkins’ Stable’s Dancing Necklace, working six-eighths of a mile in a sparkling fifty-nine and two.”
“Cunt,” he muttered.
He put the watch away and I took that as my cue to continue with business — my business.
“Your offer is very generous, Mr. Hopkins.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, a thousand dollars,” he said absently.
I went on, undaunted. “I’ll try and find your daughter, but as a favor to Howard Biel. All I can do, however, is find her. I cannot bring her back. If I find her I’ll let you know where she is and if she’s okay, but I won’t leave myself open to a kidnapping charge. Getting her to come back will be your problem.”
He didn’t like that, having someone else lay the ground rules, but he swallowed it. ‘Acceptable terms. Now, the first thing I want you to do — ”
“Whoa, hold on!” I snapped. “We’d better get something else straight before I start. I’ll look for your daughter, Mr. Hopkins, but I’ll do it my way. I don’t operate under anyone’s direction. I’m an investigator, not a puppet.”
His lips tightened and paled. He was tall and stately looking, with plenty of snow white hair, big shoulders and a barrel chest. He must have cut a hell of a figure twenty years before, but most of that barrel had since fallen into his gut. He was sixty-five and looked every day of it, but at that moment he looked like he wanted to take me on.
“I don’t think I like your attitude, young man. How would you like me to call Howard Biel — ”
“Fine, call him,” I encouraged. “He’ll tell you the same thing. It’s my arrangement with him. Now, if you want someone else on this, please feel free to call Mr. Biel and let him know.”
If there had been a phone close at hand, he might have grabbed it, but since there wasn’t he had some time to think about what I’d said.
“All right, all right, agreed, “he finally relented. “I won’t insult Howard by refusing the help he’s offered me. Do it your way.”
He checked his wristwatch. “I’ve got to meet Penny in the paddock,” he said, referring to “Penny” the horse, not his daughter. “Stick around a couple of minutes and watch her work.”
He started for the paddock and then stopped and turned around.
“Find my daughter, Mr. Po, “he said, then continued on.
The concern in his voice did not ring true to me. He must have had something for Howard Biel to call him his friend, but what it might have been completely escaped me.