A Nose in Front

By Billy Pfister

Billy French (Frenchy) is just a simple man, racehorse trainer by trade, country boy by nature, and he has enjoyed a recent abundance of good fortune in his stable of promising young horses. That is, until people within his inner circle of acquaintances start becoming victims of foul play and turning up dead.

Frenchy's inquisitive nature then gets the best of him, and he embarks on an unusual journey in search of the answers. With only his instincts and country mentality to rely on, he stumbles along an uncharted pathway of investigation, nonsensical at times and unconventional to say the least, but delivered always with his own sincere, refreshing style.

As the mystery unfolds, Frenchy just floats along with it, and his decisions land him in more dangerous and deadly situations than he cares to be in. The question becomes, Will he be able to survive long enough to uncover the truth? Or, first, will his amateur sleuthing techniques signal the death of him too?

Prepare yourself for a fun-filled ride to the very end!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636922492

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A Nose in Front

Billy Pfister

Copyright © 2021 Billy Pfister

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-63692-248-5 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63692-249-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Dedicated, posthumously, to W. G. Blackie Huffman—the best friend I ever had

Chapter 1

I despised wearing a suit and tie, but I despised being broke and out of business even more, so although I challenged the entire concept of the attire, somewhere along the line, I had reached an emotional compromise and tolerated the choking stiffness only when saddling horses in stakes races. All other horses that I trained were girthed up in the comfort of my Wranglers and polo-style shirts, accented by my snow-white Walmart tennis shoes, at everyday low price.

Today was a stakes race, and I was duty-bound to uphold the new image of a horse trainer, which had redefined itself during the past ten years into more of a business venture. I took a left on Eight Mile Road out of the parking lot of Country Club Estates headed back to Inspiration Downs, cursing under my breath and tugging at my clip-on tie. There was no particular hurry, it was only a thirty-minute drive, and I had an hour and a half to get there, so the traffic delay at the intersection of Eight Mile and Beechmont Avenue served only as an annoyance, but not nearly as much as the tie. Flagmen had both directions at a halt while a grader and a backhoe and some other heavy equipment were being unloaded and moved onto the corner lot, which was staked off for further development. I wondered what business might be springing up at this particular spot—a lazy, almost regally quiet place about a dozen miles from the mainstream of big-city activity, Cincinnati to be specific. Fast food, a gas mart, a country restaurant? It was a little far out for a pool hall or a dry cleaners, but I figured I would find out soon enough what was invading the peacefulness of the countryside, and with that thought filed into my subconscious, I drove on.

It was the second Saturday in May, and the Lord had blessed this part of the earth with an abundance of vintage spring, that most gifted of all seasons, vibrating with life, and endowed with unshaven beauty. All the pomp and flurry of the Kentucky Derby was in the books for yet another year and that electrical phenomenon, called Derby Fever, had subsided to a mere trickle, the focus on the world’s best three-year-olds having moved east to Pimlico and the Preakness.

My focus was here, Inspiration Downs on the outskirts of Cincinnati; and before I went to my stable, I pulled up to a secluded spot on the backside of the racetrack for a moment of peace, and I gazed out across the centerfield of the track. There were rows of colorful dogwoods, some red, some white, blossoming richly around a small lake, which snaked through the infield, creating a stunning transitional border between the pale blue water and the carpet of freshly cut grass. A dozen geese lounged and waddled in and out of the lake, their home, and scores of little goslings paraded behind their mothers, tooting their horns and flapping their yet featherless wings. Through a huge boundary of giant oak trees, the sun shimmered off the ripples of the Ohio River, which formed the back border of the property, and as I stood there in awe, enjoying a few moments of peace and tranquility, it became clear why Howard Van Horn, the founder, had named it Inspiration Downs some seventy-five years ago. One could not see what I was seeing, feel what I was feeling, and not be inspired.

The feature event of the day was to be the Ohio Debutante Stakes, a six-furlong dash for two-year-old fillies offering a purse of one hundred thousand dollars. I currently trained one of the participants, the number 6 horse, Golden Punch, a filly who had won her only previous start, and who, I was quite sure, was going to develop into the star of my young and growing stable.

Barn 23 was the home of the Billy French Public Racing Stable, and I pulled into my personal parking space with the sign that said Billy French on it. I had paid to have the sign made myself and put it up in the cover of darkness so no one would see me. Its validity went unquestioned, even by racetrack management, for each of the departments, racing, security, and maintenance thought one of the other departments might have authorized its placement, and no one was ever the wiser. The only person who ever parked there was my lunatic of an ex-wife, Dana, on those occasions when she could find some legitimate cause to make an appearance to aggravate me, but I hadn’t seen her for a while and prayed daily that I wouldn’t, giving thanks, with a smile, when I didn’t.

The stable and all the horses were quiet as I checked in with my faithful assistant, Jerry Bright, who was preparing the equipment we needed to send Golden Punch to the paddock for the Ohio Debutante. Jerry was my ace-in-the-hole, my anchor, the straw-boss to whom I delegated the authority to oversee the daily operation of the twenty-horse stable as he saw fit, the closer that every team needs in the bullpen, and we were a team. He had come to me early in my training career, some fifteen years ago, as a hot-walker who knew absolutely nothing about the horse business but wanted to learn, and learn he did. His diligence and loyalty earned him the position of my assistant after a couple of years, and he had remained with me up and down the ladder of success, even when times were not so fruitful, not only as a faithful employee but as a true friend. God might not always give you what you want, I had heard, but he always gives you what you need.

Golden Punch was resting in her stall, relaxed but alert, just the way a trainer likes to see a horse before the race. She had started but once, in a maiden race, and won off by herself by eight lengths, and from every indication from the time I began training her, she was going to be quite an exceptional filly. She was the kind of horse that kept people in the business, the kind every trainer dreams about training, every owner dreams about owning, every jockey dreams about riding. She gave the promising hope of developing into a champion.

Golden Punch was owned by Paul Thomas Moore, my bread-and-butter client, who owned nearly half the horses I presently trained, all bred and raised by him at his posh farm in Lexington, Kentucky. Tall, thin, and gray-haired at eighty-one years old, the wealthy business tycoon had never taken a breather in life, his tireless manner was just as distinct as it was when he had been my age, which was thirty-nine, give or take. He was gradually losing the battle against bone cancer but was not yet willing to admit it, and even though one hip had been replaced recently and he now walked with the aid of a cane, his spunk had diminished very little, nor had his explosive Irish temper. He simply refused to be conquered by his many ailments, and he continued life on full throttle, ever in command of his affairs.

He was so demanding and oriented toward success that he thought nearly every horse he owned should win every race it ran in, which simply wasn’t the nature of the horse business. To win more than 20 percent was considered exceptional if you did it on a regular basis, but that didn’t coincide with Paul Thomas Moore’s philosophy on winning, and when he lost, there were only two people to blame, the jockey or the trainer, specifically me. In the twelve years or so I had trained horses for him, he had fired me almost as many times, but that was really no disgrace within the racetrack community. There was a standing joke among horsemen on the backside that Mr. Moore changed trainers almost as often as he changed his underwear.

He was a tough man to deal with, but over the years, I had become accustomed to his ways, and he to mine; he always hired me back for the good reason that I had been substantially more successful with his horses than any other of his trainers had. He hadn’t fired me for two years now, a record for any trainer, and I believed it would stay that way for the rest of his days, as long as I didn’t get back on the sauce, as he would describe my drinking patterns, which had taken many turns in the past years.

There was another obstacle to overcome when you trained horses for P. T. Moore, aside from wondering if and when you were going to get terminated, a very big one. It was a package-deal situation, in the form of his sidekick Donna Watson, Big Donna I called her, all 230 pounds of her, who closely monitored all his negotiations and business dealings, especially where I was concerned. She reminded me of a pothole in the street, the one you continue to hit day after day after day, even though you know exactly where the hole is. On a personal level, she knew very little, but on a professional level, she knew even less.

Big Donna supported all that weight on a five-foot one-inch frame, which made her nearly as wide as she was tall, and by necessity, she walked real slow. She always wore long, flowered dresses that almost touched the ground so they looked like oversized pillowcases, and when she walked, you couldn’t see her feet moving. It looked like she was just hovering along. A flowered refrigerator on wheels, I thought to myself and smiled. Paul Thomas Moore and Big Donna together were a sight indeed.

She had some good qualities too, as all people do. After all, there is a little bit of bad in the best of us, and a little bit of good in the worst of us. She never failed to give my children birthday cards and holiday cards with ten-dollar bills in them, and she was one of those who gave fruitcakes for gifts on Christmas and Thanksgiving, and a big chocolate bunny on Easter. She did have a purpose too, serving in a double capacity to the wise old man. She helped him care for the mares, foals, and yearlings at his breeding operation in Lexington, and since Mrs. Moore passed away some years ago, she also served as his traveling companion and relief driver.

Big Donna never smiled much, except when we won a race or when she consumed just shy of a pitcher of beer. She loved her beer. Then she would get that glow on her face and start getting loud, and to me, it was hilarious, but my sense of humor didn’t always follow a straight path. My nature was also to antagonize, and as she drank, I would then tease Mr. Moore for getting her drunk so he could sleep with her, since he was too tight to rent two motel rooms and they shared the same one when they stayed over. Then his Irish temper would kick in and he would grumble and snicker and wave his cane at me in denial, and I would laugh, both at him and at the appalling notion.

She was meddlesome, she was irritating, she was the direct cause of many of the conflicts between the old man and myself over the years, but I tolerated her for three reasons: One, I understood his need for such a companion, and I believed that God had placed her when and where she needed to be for a reason. I chose to trust his wisdom on that. Two, well, I really had no choice but to tolerate her if I cared to train for Paul Thomas Moore. And three, I guess the whole truth was that we had become like family.

Mr. Moore and Big Donna met my crew and me in the paddock for the saddling ceremonies, and they had brought with them a surprise visitor for the race, introduced to me as Steve Ryerson, a business associate of the old man’s. I was unaware, at the moment, exactly what type of business associate he was. I only knew that he was from Chicago and that he was big—about six-foot-four and 275 by my guess, but his friendly, toothy smile indicated a much gentler nature than his heavy-set, muscular frame. He had full, dark hair, which capped his ears down to the lobes, thick, bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache to match, but his most captivating feature was the size of his hands. They were massive, at least twice the size of mine and my knuckles crunched with the extra firm handshake he offered, and the safeguarding mechanism in my survival instinct yearned that he should never get that hand wrapped around my neck.

The enterprising part of my character viewed him, of course, as a potential investor, and having an astounding nose for money, I recognized that he smelled richly of it. The racehorse business was not a poor man’s game, and to have clients who could actually afford it was the horse trainer’s ultimate comfort. I hoped that Golden Punch would send him home with that same smile on his face, with a little taste of what we all seek in racing, the glory of victory.

The jockeys came out for their last-minute instructions, and our jockey, Porter Riggs, greeted me with a handshake, then he greeted Mr. Moore and Big Donna before I introduced the rider to Steve Ryerson. He gave the big man a rather strange look as he shook his hand, and I thought perhaps he had popped his knuckles, as he had mine. I prayed that Steve had not hurt Porter’s whip hand before the race.

Porter Riggs rode the bulk of horses that I trained despite the constant, nagging resistance of Big Donna and sometimes Paul Thomas Moore himself. They didn’t trust him, presumably because of his past history of cocaine and alcohol abuse, but we all accumulate a little baggage from the past and Porter had been clean and sober now for several years. The real truth was that they didn’t trust him because he was a jockey, and they could never come to terms with the fact that all jockeys weren’t thieves, or that all trainers weren’t crooks.

I said the Serenity Prayer as I gave Porter a leg up, as I always did, for it was all out of my hands now, and while the fillies paraded to the post, we made our way up to Mr. Moore’s third-floor box, on the front row directly above the finish line. I stood on the right side of the old man, his elbow about my shoulder level, and Big Donna was on the left, prepared to give her unsolicited analysis. Steve, who sat behind us with Jerry, was enthralled in the excitement and splendor of the surroundings, enjoying what was obviously his first visit to the races.

I suppose I loved to win races more than anyone, and that is exactly what the Billy French Stable had been doing recently, winning seven races already at the meet from nineteen starts, placing us only one from the lead in the trainers’ standings. I felt confident about this filly’s chances, as did the betting public, who had made her the eight-to-five favorite as the fillies were lining up in single file and beginning to go behind the gate, only one minute to post time.

I wiped my moistening palms on my moderately priced suit pants as the assistant starters loaded Golden Punch, number 6 in the field of ten, and Mr. Moore and I focused our binoculars on the gate. The sweat on my eyelids caused my glasses to fog up, so I dried them on my shirt and refocused. The beads of sweat weren’t from the heat; it was a near perfect spring day, about seventy degrees. It was my competitive nature in overdrive, and I couldn’t keep from getting keyed up before a race, very much like a man standing at the altar preparing to say I do. I quivered a bit as Luke Bartholomew, long-time track announcer and race caller, shouted in his deep, dramatic voice, familiar to all who ever attended the races at Inspiration Downs, They’re at the post!

All horsemen know that a race could be won or lost at the very start, that seldom does every horse in the race break cleanly and straight, and this race was no exception as the starter punched his button opening the gates and sending the horses on their way, and Luke picked up the tempo with "They’re off and runninnnng!" The number 3 and 4 horses both broke inward and the one horse broke out, pinching the two horse back and virtually eliminating her at the start. The eighth horse lost all chance as she reared in the air, almost unseating her jockey, but all this had no effect on Golden Punch. She broke right in stride, nearly a length in front of the other nine fillies, and as the field came out of the short six-furlong chute there was already daylight between her and the rest of the field.

With practiced ease, Porter Riggs glanced over his shoulder and guided Golden Punch over to the rail, and before the field was halfway down the backside, the filly was two and a half lengths in front with the rider sittin’ chilly. Porter was sitting so still you could have set a glass of water on his back and never spilled a drop. That was his forte, securing an early, clear lead, lulling his mount into a striding relaxation with his consoling hands, meanwhile conserving a burst of strength for the final eighth of a mile. There were other jockeys better at finessing through a herd of traffic and timing their move at just the right time from the back of the pack, but on a horse with early speed, no one was better than Porter Riggs and he was my man. He knew how to leave something in the tank, as the old-timers would say.

The field continued on down the backside and past the half-mile pole, and the teletimer on the tote board flashed twenty-one and four-fifths seconds, and Golden Punch increased her lead to three lengths as they moved into the far turn.

Golden Punch still shows the way around the turn! the announcer piped in, and I nudged Paul Thomas Moore with my elbow in his side with enthusiasm, neither of us saying a word, neither of us taking our eyes off the filly. We both swelled with confidence, even after the rapid first quarter, because she was running smoothly, effortlessly, and Porter as yet had not moved a muscle or asked her for anything.

They charged past the quarter pole, the first half mile in forty-five seconds flat, and I saw Porter lean forward slightly and throw another cross in the reins and twirl his stick into the ready position. As they cut the corner into the home stretch, the confident rider reached back and tapped her lightly, only once, and the beautiful dark bay filly responded by spinning out of the turn with a four-length lead. A final look through my binoculars showed her ears laid back flat against her neck, her teeth clenched tight around the bit in her mouth, and her nostrils flared open, as if she was breathing fire. No sight was more exhilarating to a horse trainer, especially if he was the trainer of that particular horse. Another true inspiration at Inspiration Downs.

Put a ring around her! I proclaimed as I saw that victory was well in hand, and I exchanged knowing glances with Mr. Moore, adding a wink and a smile. It was all over, but the shoutin’, as they say, and Porter Riggs tucked his stick away and hand rode the filly on to an easy win.

"As they near the finish, it’s all Gooolden Punch today! finished Luke. She draaaws away from the field to win it by six lengths!" The final time for the six furlongs was one minute, ten and one-fifth seconds, an impressive performance by a two-year-old filly making her second career start, and even more so considering the easy manner in which she did it.

It was relief and jubilation amongst our little group in the box, and even Big Donna wrapped me in an affectionate bear-hug once she quite jumping up and down and screaming, which reminded me that sometimes we had to take the bitter with the sweet, then we all turned to make our way to enjoy the winner’s circle festivities and get our picture taken. The others moved toward the elevator, but as the spurt of victorious ecstasy was briefly interrupted, I went for the steps and bounded down them three at a time, then sped toward the racetrack to make sure that the filly returned in good order and injury-free.

That was a constant pressure that weighs heavily on a horseman’s mind, hoping the horse doesn’t come back after the race in distress or with any number of injuries that could be sustained during a race, or anything out of the ordinary that might affect the horse’s future training and racing regiment. It was details one needed to look for, the little things, which had been ingrained in my memory by one of my foremost mentors, well-known trainer Blackie Hoffman, for whom I had once served as assistant. His favorite saying, one of many he had, which all held true, was It’s the little things that get you beat, and after hearing it at least a million times, it stuck.

"Now returning to the winner’s circle, the announcer began, amidst a thundering round of applause from the crowd, Gooolden Punch, winner of the twenty-eighth running of the Ohio Debutante Stakes. Golden Punch is owned by the Spinwheel Farm of Paul Thomas Moore, trained by Billy French, and ridden to victory by jockey Porter Riggs!"

There was more cheering as Mark Perry, her groom, met her and led her into the designated winner’s circle for the picture and trophy presentation. Everyone beamed with pride, and I sighed with relief as I noted that she had returned from the race unscathed and appeared to be in the same perfect condition in which she had entered the race. Porter dismounted and unsaddled the filly after the cameraman snapped the photo, then the groom led her away toward the barn area, followed by Jerry and the rest of the crew, all glowing with satisfaction. There is no other feeling in the world as incredible as winning races, for the true horseman, a feeling of pride and accomplishment, the culmination of hard work and planning. It is, undeniably, inspiration from above.

Porter Riggs weighed in after the race to verify that his mount had carried the proper weight assigned, and I turned to join him in his walk back to the jockeys’ quarters.

I always preferred to get the rider’s account of the race in private, before I discussed the race further with the client, and there was a reason for that. Having been a race rider briefly and therefore knowing what went on in a race from both sides of the fence, I was aware of the gap in perspective of how a jockey looked at whatever happened and how the owner viewed it from his seat in the stands. A jockey might say some things that owners didn’t exactly understand, or more importantly, might not want to hear at all, and those things just needed a little rewording sometimes to bridge the gap. It wasn’t a case of being dishonest; it was simply to persuade the owner to do what was best for the horse in the future.

In fact, to be a successful racehorse trainer, one needs to possess an odd combination of talents. First, of course, he has to be a good horseman. Then add some degree of being a promoter of the business, an interpreter of ideas, a public relations mediator, hostage negotiator, part lawyer, and part politician, then be honest through all that and you have a winning combination. Many owners, through no fault of their own, simply don’t have a comprehensive perception of the intricacies of