Saratoga Called: Book 2 in the Michael Butler Saga

Prologue

For most of the 1960’s and the first half of the 1970’s, Joseph Grasso (aka: Joey Two, because he hated being called junior) had ruled the rackets and criminal enterprises in Buffalo, N.Y. He enthusiastically embraced the life and his lifestyle and was proud to be a part of La Cosa Nostro, a phrasing he preferred over the more elementary sounding, Mafia. He refused to describe his family as a group of thugs. They were capitalists and members of a prestigious national business alliance.

Like most American crime bosses, Joey Two had ascended the hierarchal ladder following the death of his beloved padre. Not that the title was merely handed to him as the oldest son. In fact, Joey Two had more than proven that he was leadership material. He was respected and feared two crucial characteristics for success.

Nevertheless, nepotism was standard practice among the major Italian crime families throughout the country. Family always came first. The Grassos had gotten their start, as did most of the gangster elements in northern and eastern America, with prohibition. Running booze from Canada was the single biggest inspiration for the evolution of organized crime in the United States. After all, nobody cared how they got their alcohol, just that they got it.

As a major distributor of spirits up and down the East Coast, the Grasso family prospered significantly. By the time Joey Two assumed command, the family business had diversified, venturing into the gaming industry. As boss, Joey Two continued to look for new profitable opportunities and often used a heavy hand to accomplish his goals. He was brutish, ruthless, greedy, and violent, all traits that he had learned at the knees of his family forefathers.

Joey Two’s loyal henchmen were his brother Vincent Grasso and his second cousin, Theo Muscante. Joey Two ran the operations, approved the bribes, recruited the police and judges for protection, and oversaw the cash flow. Muscante handled distribution and collection, while Vincent defused personnel problems. Of course, Joey Two had a reputation for often usurping his brother’s duties. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty from time and time and rather enjoyed showing off his favorite garrote and .22 caliber handgun.

Rumor had it his only weakness was for the horses the runners or the trotters. In fact, he did travel often around the state to enjoy days and nights at the tracks. Nothing excited him more than getting a tip on a race fix. He loved it when a rider or harness driver was sand bagging for a payoff because he loved beating the system.

It’s such easy money, he often boasted. So, why can’t we do this kind of shit?

As the family empire grew, so did Joey Two’s disrespect for the laws of the land. He eventually became a target of the U.S. government, which diligently worked to build a case against him. But he’d prepared for such a time. He knew that having strategically placed informants inside the FBI would eventually pay off. Eventually, Joey Two fled the country, crossing the bridge over to Canada and then on to Italy, before the arrest warrants were even issued.

By the time he returned to his life in Buffalo almost eight years later, the statute of limitations on the charges against him suspicion of manslaughter, conspiracy, and intent to bribe a federal judge had expired. He was off the books and eager to take back what was always rightfully his.

***

February 20, 1982

Joey Two was antsy. He’d spent his first four months back on U.S. soil in Miami’s Little Havana, where he pulled together his profit plan and cautiously waited to see if his return had drawn anyone’s attention. But his patience had run out. It was time to start making money again and lots of it.

Though he’d been nearly half a world away for eight years, he’d still managed to keep track of all the new enterprises being devised, developed and implemented across the states. In his business, networking was key, and his contacts in Sicily had long tentacles. Drugs, they told him, were the new alcohol. But Joey Two just couldn’t warm up to the idea of muscling in on the establishment, too risky.

Besides, he was an innovator and prided himself on being original. He wanted in on something new and different something that he could use to reestablish his own presence, while also helping to rebuild his organization. In Miami, he’d researched a rumor that, if true, captured his imagination and fueled his ambitions.

Word soon spread quickly that he was back and he’d called a meeting to discuss his proposed new enterprise. Joey Two wanted everybody there except for the experts. They needed to remain off the FBI’s radar. As far as he was concerned, the Feds were always watching.

Muscante , Joey Two’s aide de’camp, was organizing the logistics of the get-together from his post in Syracuse. Joey Two demanded that his henchmen abide by a no phone calls policy. Such a rule required that Muscante personally hand deliver party invitations to all the guests. Though he’d retired from the rackets while Joey Two was away, the renewed activity thrilled him. He felt a sense of purpose again.

Vincent, Joey Two’s brother, handled logistics and invitations in the eastern part of the state. Vincent had spent the last few years operating a feed store that serviced Vernon Downs, the harness racing track in Vernon, New York. That he’d scratched out a living in his big brother’s absence had surprised quite a few members of the extended family. But Vincent was smarter than most gave him credit for, and he believed in Joey Two’s latest scheme. Together, they would profit handsomely.

Back in Buffalo and living at his family home, Joey Two enjoyed a quiet life for a month while Muscante and Vincent spread the word of his return and his plans among old friends and other interested parties. So far, he was very pleased with what had been accomplished.

At the same time, he was well aware that the Feds had cracked down on organized crime in Buffalo. A relentless district attorney a former U.S. Justice Department crime fighter had focused much of his energy on flushing the lawless from the city’s streets and neighborhoods. Such actions had left the city leaderless. There was no organization and no one had grabbed the reins of opportunity only hoodlums running their petty scams. But that would change soon. Joey Two was determined to take back all that was once his.

***

The meeting was scheduled for 7:00 PM on March 1, with dinner following the completion of business. Joey Two had purposely chosen to host the event at the Sons of Italy Social Club on Erie Boulevard. No directions were offered because everyone knew the location. He’d issued only one firm demand: no entourages. This meeting was only for those with a need to know. All total, Joey Two, Theo and Vincent expected eight other people to join them around the table.

An agenda, along with the basics of the overall plan had been shared with each invited guest. Early reaction had been unanimously enthusiastic. With the meeting, Joey Two would move forward with building a constituency and spreading some of the wealth.

March 1, 1982

Sons of Italy Social Club

Buffalo, NY

7:00 PM

Because Joey Two didn’t personally know all of his guests, he relied on Theo and his brother to make the proper introductions. The three hovered around the downstairs bar and warmly welcomed the attendees. Each acknowledged Joey Two’s presence and offered him the appropriate respect: a firm hand shake, a brotherly hug and a gift of Cuban cigars, expensive whiskey, extra virgin olive oil, or a large box of cured Italian sausages. Vincent displayed the gifts on a small table just a few feet from the bar.

Theo fetched drinks while Vincent collected coats.

By 7:30, all eleven men clustered together, enjoying their liquor and cocktails as well as Joey Two’s stories of his eight-year sabbatical abroad. He loved entertaining his guests with embellishments of the food, wine, and women on the island of Sicily and often flaunted his Italian to exaggerate points. Finally, he recalled for them his return to Miami and of the connections he had made. His plan, which he promised to share with them, had also taken shape there.

At 7:45, Joey Two waved everyone into the dining room just a few feet away. As his guests settled into conversations around the table, he rose from his seat and politely asked for their attention. He had a project in mind, and he was sure that they would all want to know more.

Over the next half hour, Joey Two laid out the details of his business plan like a CEO planning a hostile takeover. He told them he wanted to pilot his new idea at one location and then once that franchise was up and rolling, he would branch out across the state. To get the business started, he said he needed a commitment from each of those seated at the table a small contribution that would guarantee them a prosperous future.

Joey Two apologized for not having a written prospectus, but he assumed they all understood that the lack of a paper trail would be in their best interest. He began with the basic concept, which he knew would be very well received. However, the details were another matter and would either entice or deter those gathered.

As always, we’re gonna set this up in levels, Joey Two announced, before taking a sip of wine. You guys are level two, while I’m the top level, number one. It’s a pyramid deal. You guys pay me, and you sell the deal to your people, who are level three. And of course, everybody makes some money.

He reassured them that they had already tapped the needed experts to make this business a success. He asked Vincent to read off the names of the men who had been persuaded to join their team and to carry out the day-to-day operations. He explained that in most cases, these experts had eagerly agreed to join the business. Then again, someone with a skeleton or two in the closet or a personal weakness they’d rather keep secret really didn’t need that much convincing, he laughed. His guests reciprocated.

He was starting with a crew of six for the time being, he emphasized. The invited recognized several of the names and nodded in appreciation for the quality of the group. The business had been put through a dry run during the previous week, he added.

Everything went perfectly, he said, smiling.

Someone had a question. Joey Two didn’t typically like to be interrupted, but he understood that some might be a little reluctant to come on board. For the moment, he was willing to be patient and provide the answers they needed.

What about these experts? one of his guests asked. What if they don’t play ball? What if somebody gets wise to the deal?

The mumbling from the rest of the table indicated an obvious concern. Joey Two turned to his brother. There were no words exchanged. Grasso knew what he was being asked to do. He slowly took a sip of wine, inhaled deeply like he’d seen George Raft do so many times in the movies and shot a stare down the table.

I figli di puttana sappiamo di sapere dove sono le loro famiglie! Vincent growled, dragging an index finger across his throat like a playground bully.

Though none of the guests spoke fluent Italian, everyone understood the message: Fail to do as the boss instructs and the boss comes after your family.

The room was silent. The gentleman who had expressed worry swallowed hard and gulped the remainder of his whiskey.

Seeing that he had their attention again, Joey Two laid out the details for a special product he said was needed to help activate the scheme. He amused his guests about the product’s source; how it was gathered and prepared for shipment; how it would be transported; and finally, how it would be used. He went to great lengths to describe the product’s formula and uniqueness.

Finally, he opened the floor for questions before calling for a refill of drinks. He was pleased at the interest being shown and the level of excitement of the room. After fifteen minutes, he called the meeting back to order and launched into the final part of his presentation. He talked about initial investments, cash flow, expenses for product, remuneration for the experts, the importance of filing taxes on big makes at the tracks, and how information would be distributed.

Most important, he explained how New York State had conveniently organized and operated a system that fit perfectly with the plan. As luck would have it, any participating member of the scheme could use the system free of charge, he laughed. He asked each guest if they had an off-track betting (OTB) parlor near them. The answer was a unanimous yes. Eventually, he reassured his listeners, they could simply go to the track, or OTB outlet and participate, reminding them that winnings over six hundred dollars on any two dolar bet was subject to income tax.

Like a tent-revival evangelist, Joey Two dispensed a bit of counsel to save his colleagues from legal wrath.

If it was me, he said, gesturing to his audience, I’d make a series of smaller bets either at the track or with a few bookies and designate a couple of guys to make the collections. In other words, don’t draw any attention to yourself. Capice?

The guests nodded affirmatively.

He went on to explain what Vincent and Theo had learned about procedures at the track for a winning horse. He then offered an explanation though apologizing for his unfamiliarity with the proper medical terms for how the product they would be using would defy detection.

Seeing the dollar signs in his guests’ eyes, Joey Two issued a word of warning. " Don’t get greedy! he cautioned, adopting a fatherly tone. Remember, the more money that goes into the win pool at the track, the less we’re gonna get paid cuz the fucking odds go down. We want long-shot odds. So the greater the odds on the nag, the better the payoff."

He offered one final very important piece of advice. "We don’t want or need lots of players on this, he said. If you make more noise than is necessary, you put our entire business at risk. And if you hurt our business, I will see to it that you never have the chance to do business anywhere again."

Joey Two was silent for a second, allowing his message to sink in. If anyone had any other questions, they refrained from asking them. He smiled and then pointed out that his business plan if followed properly would insulate the assembled from prosecution.

No one but Vincent and maybe one other go-between will deliver the product and make the bets for us, he said. They will also deal directly with the experts, who won’t know anybody else involved.

Eager to get the project rolling, Joey Two made his final pitch: twenty thousand dollars for a share of the business. Buyers could then sell their shares to a selective few others to get their money back. After that, all they had to do was place their bets and collect. At 8:15, he asked for a show of hands. The vote was unanimous.

Joey Two smiled and declared it was dinnertime.

Chapter One

June 18, 1982

Michael Butler loved his job as a second trainer for Stan Hollis, a successful stable owner and trainer of harness race horses. Butler was 23, single, and made a good salary with lots of potential for advancement. During the winter, life in Florida was a pretty nice place to be, especially at Ben White raceway just outside of Orlando, where Butler worked. He really liked the city except for the blistering heat. During the summers, he looked forward to returning to Ohio, where Hollis moved his stable operation. He was especially excited for the upcoming season because Hollis had finally tapped him as a driver for the pari-mutual races at the prominent Midwestern tracks. The job also meant appearances on the lesser-regarded fair circuit, but Butler didn’t care. He knew the learning experience would get him that much closer to having his own stable of harness horses one day.

He was also willing to put in the hard work needed for such an endeavor. On this late evening he’d stayed behind to ice the swollen leg of a less than cooperative two-year-old filly. The procedure, which had extended into the wee hours of the morning, required the filly to stand still with her right hind leg submerged into a tall foam lined bucket of ice cubes and water. The filly had cost her owner nineteen thousand dollars at sale but had come up lame with a swollen hock from training, the hock being the joint at the bend of her right hind leg.

The icing had gone on for several hours, mainly because she was stubborn and made the procedure more difficult than it needed to be. She periodically stomped and kicked her right leg in an attempt to free it, and knocked the bucket over, forcing Butler to start the process all over again. Her antics seemed to only frighten her more. She’d rear up, shake her head until she’d freed herself from her cross ties, and then limp down shed row.

Despite all the commotion, which of course upset the other horses trying to get some rest, Butler had maintained his composure. He knew that showing anger and frustration would only invite more uncooperative displays. He did his best to calm his patient by stroking her neck and ears. He even sang along with a softly playing radio nearby and offered her palmfuls of sweet feed.

That he understood the animals so well made him a better trainer. He knew they could only function as race horses after months and months of repetitious training and patience. They were creatures of habit and learning to stand quietly under most circumstances was just part of the job. Teaching them how to do that was Butler’s responsibility.

His boss often told him he had the patience of Job, and at three in the morning he was certainly paying the price. In four hours, he was supposed to be back at the stable to start a day of training the dozen or so other two-year-old harness babies that Hollis had assigned to him. As he’d done many times before, Butler decided to grab the last few remaining hours of sleep he had on the cot in the stable’s tack room.

By 4:15 a.m., the swelling had all but disappeared. Butler led the filly outside to the walking ring and accompanied her around, watching for any sign of lameness. He enjoyed the coolness of the night and the stillness of the pre-dawn. Thirty minutes later, the filly was back in her stall munching quietly on a bale of hay.

At six forty-five the tack room’s phone rang stirring Butler from a groggy haze. Stan Hollis was on the line and wanted to know what he was doing there at that hour. Before Butler could answer, Hollis told him to call Paul Collins at the Racing and Wagering Board in Albany, NY. He gave him the number and said Collins would be in at seven.

***

Sunday,  June 20, 1982

Orlando, Fla. to Saratoga, NY, is at least a twenty-hour drive. The trip was exhaustingly longer when traveling in a ’75 Ford pickup with well-worn tires, a duct-taped radio antennae and a passenger side window that refused to roll down. But Michael Butler had the sneaking suspicion that life was about to get a little more complicated. The sunrise phone call two days earlier had started it. Butler hadn’t even spoken to Paul Collins since the mess in Vernon five years ago. Collins, the director of criminal investigations for New York State’s Racing and Wagering Board, had tracked Butler down at Ben White Raceway outside Orlando. Even with their history, the conversation was brief. Collins needed Butler immediately at the harness track at Saratoga and cautioned that he should plan to stay awhile. The request was unusual because the last Butler had heard, New York was still off limits to him.

But Collins reassured him that the rules had changed. He promised more details once Butler arrived. Collins also encouraged Butler to call his former boss, Frank Ervin, at home. Ervin was eager to speak to him Collins insisted, though again, Collins offered no further explanation. He’d learn more soon enough.

***

The exit off the New York Thruway just south of Albany was hardly welcoming, especially at 7:30 in the morning. Butler followed the signs to Interstate 87 North and slowed his pickup at the sight of a pay phone just outside an all-night truck stop. As he dropped coins into the machine, he rubbed at his weary eyes and scanned the lonely stretch of blacktop that paralleled the horizon.

After a few rings, Collins answered, his voice chipper from several cups of coffee. He’d been up a while, he said, and was reading yesterday’s race results from the New York State harness tracks. The men exchanged small talk a few seconds longer before Collins abruptly directed the conversation to business. He was anxious to see Butler and suggested they meet at Collins’ office just off Interstate 87, two more exits north of Albany,NY.

Butler wrote down the address and the directions.

Great, Michael. I’m really glad you agreed to come, Collins said.

Ten minutes later, Butler almost unconsciously scanned the parking lot for Collins’ gray Oldsmobile as he pulled up to the three-story office building. He shook his head, irritated with himself, acknowledging it had been a long drive….Collins drove the Oldsmobile five years ago. Not expecting to see any sign of it, he parked and headed inside to the second floor offices of the State Racing and Wagering Board. Although most of the building still appeared closed, Butler was greeted, at Collins’ office by a heavy-set black woman busy typing at her desk.

Hi, there. Are you Michael? she asked.

Butler nodded.

Go right in, she said.

Butler paused at Collins’ door and took a deep breath. Collins glanced up from the morning paper as Butler entered the wood-paneled room. The office was sparsely decorated with a few family pictures and a wilting plant. A framed black and white photo of horses and drivers streaking under a finish wire hung on the back wall. Racing forms and empty Styrofoam cups cluttered a mammoth Oak desk.

Michael! Great to see you! You must be exhausted, Collins exclaimed, gesturing toward one of the cushioned chairs in front of his desk.

Yeah, I am little beat. Long drive. Butler said.

Though he hadn’t seen Collins in nearly five years, not much had changed. His closely cropped brown hair appeared to have thinned a little, but his unimposing lanky frame still looked fit, especially for a guy, Butler guessed, in his 40s. Despite the summer heat, Collins still favored pressed dress shirts, sport coats and khakis.

You’ve filled out, Michael, Collins remarked while pouring Butler a cup of coffee. You’re not the kid I last saw. I’ve kept track of you though. You’ve been doing pretty good. Stan Hollis speaks really highly of you. Says you’re a first class horseman and that he plans to move you up to pari-mutual this year. That’s good to hear.

Although thoroughbred racing remained the most popular sport in horse racing, harness racing had garnered its own legion of fans over the years. In thoroughbred racing jockeys ride the horses, while in harness racing a driver follows behind a standardbred horse on a two-wheeled cart, called a sulky, attached to the horse’s harness. Unlike thoroughbred racing, where horses gallop to the finish line, in harness racing, horses trot or pace, depending on the race in which they are entered.

Having been born into a harness racing family, Butler never really had any choice on the life he would pursue. Not that he ever wanted to do anything else. His passion for the horses ran as deep as father’s love for them.

Collins knew the family’s history, including their relationship with Frank Ervin, whom Butler’s dad had also once worked for. Collins asked if Butler had touched base with Ervin yet.

Yes, I did. He sounded pretty old, although it’s been a couple of years since I’d last spoken to him. He wanted me to think about coming up here, but he warned that the trip wasn’t just about racing. So why am I here?

A look of worry spread over Collins face. Pushing a few newspapers around he gulped down the last of his coffee and reached inside his coat pocket for several pages of notes. Collins unfolded the pages neatly across his desk.

You were treated very unfairly and never given the credit you deserved five years ago. I, and the Sate of New York, want to apologize for that and make it right…..and we need your help again.

Butler was confused but intrigued and flattered by Collins’ remarks.

I’ll give you the highlights now and then we can talk some more in detail after you get some rest, okay?

Pointing toward the pieces of paper, Collins explained that the commissioner of the Racing and Wagering Board had gotten a phone call a couple of weeks ago from John Sampson, a trainer based at Saratoga. Sampson was one of the top trainers in the state and someone the commissioner respected and knew to be an even-tempered man. But on this day, Sampson was furious. For weeks, he’d silently watched as a select group of also-rans took home winner’s purses….some right out of his own mouth. Sampson suspected the horses were being juiced, injected with a performance enhancing drug, but he had not proof.

He was pretty specific about a few races where horses were performing a little better than they probably should have, Collins said.

What class? Butler asked.

Collins said, colts and geldings non-winners of $1,500 in their last five races; pacers and non-claiming horses.

Total earnings and wins determined the various classes or groupings in which horses raced. Such groupings enabled horses of roughly the same ability to race together in class. The goal was to handicap each race to a potential dead heat with multiple betting possibilities. The staggered starting positions behind the mobile start gate from down on the rail outward created different scenarios. Racing from the six hole or sixth position was potentially more difficult than from the second position because the horse starting sixth theoretically had farther to race.

So, you’re talking about aged horses, probably not three-year-olds? Butler said.

Yes, Collins said, nodding emphatically, and all were stabled at Saratoga. None were shipped in.

All supposedly tested clean, he added. Every winning horse must have a urine test for drugs immediately after each race, and every sample is double-checked.

Unfortunately, doping had become a profitable business in harness racing. New drugs that couldn’t be detected were regularly being developed and discovered. The practice frustrated honest, hardworking trainers, not only for the unfair advantage it offered the doped-up horses and connections (owner, trainer, driver, etc) but for the increasing cloud of suspicion it cast over the entire sport.

What did the winners pay? Butler asked.

Collins pulled the sheets toward him and ran his right index finger down the columns of numbers.

The three races in question paid fifteen something, eighteen something, and then a few nights ago, twenty and change for a standard two dollar bet, he said. But here’s the kicker all the winners finished at least a full second quicker than their previous best time.

Butler groaned.

Saturday night, a horse that went off at seventeen to one won the second half of the daily double at Saratoga, Collins continued. The horse was a full second faster than his previous best and the double paid two hundred something, Collins drew a breathe and pointed at Butler, " and the horse is with the same stable that won one of the other races. He came out of the six hole and led wire to wire. He’s a five-year-old with almost forty starts. None of his other few wins had ever been close to that time. That horse just ain’t that good."

As Butler suspected, the horse had also tested clean.

Several tickets were cashed at two different off-track betting parlors in Buffalo, Collins said. The winning ticket holders had selected just the eventual winner in the second race but had combined it with every horse in the first race as their daily double bets. There was no doubt, Collins added, that somebody knew the horse was a ringer. It was a fix! he declared in a disgusted tone.

Fortunately, the racing board had been able to identify all the bigger winners because federal law required that a W2 form be signed upon cashing the winning tickets in races if winning bets of two dollars or more amounted to more than six hundred dollars in pay off. In this case, six people had pocketed a couple thousand apiece, Collins said.

But that’s still small change, Butler said, What about Saratoga? Any tickets paid out there?

Yeah, five. Two of them have a quasi-connection to the winning driver of the second race but not enough that we want to pursue anything right now. And you’re right, Michael. It is a small payout, but I think they’re testing the waters. Trying to see how far they can take this.

Butler asked, What do the lab guys think?

Collins in a disgusted tone said, You know those guys. They don’t watch the races. They just test what’s handed to them. They have no idea how fast or slow a race goes or who the horse is for that matter. They simply follow procedures: Run the tests, declare the results, and go home.

Butler stifled a yawn. Although he had plenty of other questions, he also needed something to eat and a bed soon. Sensing Butler’s exhaustion, Collins suggested he check in at the motel and get some rest. A room had already been purchased in Butler’s name.

Michael, you’re the only person I could think to ask to help us with this. You’re unknown, you’re a top horseman, we owe you for what you’ve already done for New York racing, and I know you are passionate about the integrity of the sport. I need your help again, Collins said, a look of earnestness held on his face as he stared at Butler.

Butler just nodded, too tired to think of anything more to say.

Let’s meet back here tomorrow morning at the same time and then we’ll get down to business, Collins offered.

Butler nodded in agreement

Collins offered a parting thought, and Michael, do me a favor on this. Don’t make any calls, and don’t let anyone know where you are or what we’re talking about. If you agree to work with us on this, you’re going undercover. So the fewer people who know where you are and what you’re up to, the better.

Chapter Two

After nearly eight hours sleep Butler had hoped to feel a little more focused and energized. But at that moment, his head and body ached as if he were nursing a hangover. His stomach growled for attention. The motel bed was warm and beckoned his tired limbs to stay a little while longer. He shook off the temptation and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He needed a good meal and some time to think. After a few splashes of water over his face, he pulled on his T-shirt and jeans and wandered a few blocks down to a diner for a burger and milkshake.

Settling into a booth near a bank of windows, Butler placed his order and then retrieved the Collins’ notes from his back pocket. He spread the pages out across the Formica tabletop and studied over the details, trying to make some sense of the morning conversation.

Sampson, the trainer who had filed the complaint, was well known around tracks up and down the East coast. He spent his winters in Pinehurst, North Carolina and typically hauled about twenty-five horses north to Saratoga every summer. He also shared a history with the men who had helped guide Butler’s entry into horse racing: Frank Ervin, Stan Hollis and Butler’s father, John. All four had started out together racing harness horses on the Midwest fair circuits in the forties. They were fierce competitors but long-time friends who favored cold beers and lingering debates over great races won just by a nose. Sampson was just starting his own stable when Butler’s dad went to work for Ervin. Though he never said so, Butler knew his father was proud of him after hearing that Stan Hollis had hired his son as a driver.

That Butler and Sampson would now be working together was no coincidence. Collins knew how to take advantage of a relationship when necessary, Butler thought while dabbing the last bite of a burger into a ketchup puddle on his plate. Still, just how much of his past did Sampson know? Had he heard about Vernon? Probably.

Butler pushed his empty plate to the side of the table and skimmed over more of Collins’ notes. Sampson had horses of his own entered in the races he’d complained about. Of the four races that Collins had mentioned, three drivers had walked away as winners. All were catch drivers, guys who weren’t regulars with the stables but who picked up a race or two from trainers in need of a temporary driver. The pay wasn’t bad: $50 for the race and ten percent of any winnings. As far as Butler could tell, none of the three suspected were considered a top driver. Collins had listed each with their stats: the number of wins, places (or came in second) and shows (or came in third):

Jim Fairchild: from Canada, 29, races at Saratoga/Vernon/Yonkers

1981: 120 starts (21 wins, 28 place, 23 show)

1982: 40 starts (8 wins, 6 place, 11 show)

Thomas Wainwright, from Pennsylvania, 28, races at Saratoga/Vernon/Yonkers

1981: 98 starts (11 wins, 14 place, 9 show)

1982: 34 starts (6 wins, 3 place, 5 show)

John Sturgis:from Saratoga, 25, races at Saratoga/Vernon/Yonkers

1981: 86 starts (10 wins, 7 place, 9 show)

1982: 35 starts (6 wins, 5 place, 6 show)

The drivers were all under thirty with no previous misconduct, or even inquiries, and all had respectable