the toe hit the ground. Thanked Sullivan,
and dialed his trainer. Smart guy, Eddie
Gregson: Phi Beta Kappa at Stanford. But
when Hancock asked him, he reckoned
the draw would cost them half a dozen
lengths, maybe more. Told what Sullivan
had said, Gregson retorted that he couldn't
possibly be right. Then he took out a cal-
culator himself; a pause, an exclamation.
Okay, h e w o u l d r i n g t h e o t h e r E d d i e —
D e l a houssaye—straightaway.
So they told their jock to ride cool as
you like, to work his way steadily into the
race. As luck should have it, there was a fil-
ly in the field that tore through the first
three-quarters in 1:10 and change. Hancock,
in the stands, heard a voice behind grum-
bling, "Why in the hell don't that grey horse
get in there?"
At the line they were so excited they ran
down the wrong stairs. Twice Hancock
had to hoist Staci over a fence, and then
at the winner's circle they still found their
way barred by an enormous guard.
