This article was written by Paul Turney and originally appeared in the DAILY RACING FORM Monday, September 9, 1996.
FORT ERIE, Ontario – There’s a lot of “local colour” on the racetrack. Along with owners who are lawyers, accountants, pharmacists, union officials, retired teachers, just plain horse lovers and racing nut, there is also the shady element.
Not too many sidle back and forth, hiding in corners and puffing on cigars, although most smokers say they feel like pariahs, outcasts from another generation. They would probably qualify as local colour the way things are going. Some pull the brims of their hats down over their eyes, probably reminiscing about better times when Damon Runyon covered sports. These days, however, the hats are caps, with peaks and baseball team names or Acme Welding Co. crests pasted on the front.
Well, I finally made it into the ranks of the colourful. Thelma and Louise, Bonnie and Clyde? Hardly, and I work alone, thank you very much. However, I’m now known for my skillful theft of Justin Nixon’s white pickup truck. The dirty deed must have gone over really well with the backstretch boys because when I brought it back I received a standing ovation.
I had made arrangements to borrow trainer Chris MacDonald’s half-ton truck. I stood by the vehicle and spoke with MacDonald just prior to the heist.
“The keys are in it,” he said, “and the tank is half full.”
He proceeded to walkover to the race office. I grabbed my essentials )little black book, cell phone) from my car and went over to the white truck. As MacDonald had advised me, the key was in the ignition. I gave it a twist, a shot of gas, and was rewarded with the shake and rumble of the big six-cylinder engine. Off I went through the gates and out to the Queen Elizabeth Highway.
However, I felt there was something strange going on. The truck seemed to be running better than usual and the gas tank was just a tick above empty. I should have picked up on the clues, but the empty gas tank got to me. I love the excitement of trying to make it to the next town on fumes and the challenge simply got the better of me.
A few minutes later my cell phone rang. The phone is an integral piece of equipment for operations like this, you know. It was my belle, Michelle.
“You’ve got the wrong truck,” she said.
Uh oh.
I was almost at Netherby Road, so I used the cut off to turn around. I headed back to the track and phoned my right hand, Nancy, and asked her whose truck I had – she’s the one who had alerted Michelle to my new status as a felon.
“Who’s truck is this?” I asked her.
“It’s Justin Nixon’s, and he has a horse running at Woodbine today,” she said in her most serious voice.
“You’d better hurry.”
I drove through the gates and the security guard nodded me through. No reports of a stolen truck yet, I supposed. I figured I got back fast enough that I would beat the coppers and perhaps not too many people knew. As I parked the truck in front of the race office, however, (no one had even filled the spot yet) a crowd of horsepeople lolling under a tree jumped up and cheered. I thought they were applauding my accomplishment. Finally, when jockey Stacie Clark stopped rolling with laughter, she asked me if she could write my column the next day. I guess she thought she would be doing me a favour, seeing as how I’d probably be in the hoosegow. Fortunately, “Leaky” McKellar, head of security, wasn’t among the revellers.
Justin Nixon was calm as he got into his truck and began to drive away. I was trying to sneak back to the other white truck when he came after me on the run.
“You forgot your phone and black book,” he said.
I thanked him and warned him he’d better hit a gas station or he wouldn’t make it to Niagara Falls, let alone Toronto. He just smiled. I found out Saturday that he didn’t have a horse in at Woodbine. He just wanted his truck back, pronto.
I finally got into the right truck, which was still parked across the road, and headed out again. I’d lost a half hour and was in trouble on the home front. Uh oh.