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his monologue, as he always did when he was trying to solve a crime.
    â€œTony Durán came with money,” Croce said. “That’s why they killed him. They got him excited about the country races and the horse from Luján.”
    â€œThey didn’t need to get him excited, he was already excited before he got here,” Madariaga said, laughing.
    Some people say that a country race was set up especially for him and that he became obsessed about it. But it would be more accurate to say that the horse race, which they had been preparing for months, was moved up so Tony could be there. And that some saw in this the hand of fate.
    Tony quickly realized that there were several kinds of very good horses in the province, basically falling into three categories: the polo ponies, very extraordinary, bred mostly in the area of Venado Tuerto; the purebred locals, from the stud farms near the coast; and the short-distance racers, which are very fast, with great pickup, flashing bursts, nervous, used to running in pairs. There are no other horses—or races—like these anywhere else in the world.
    Durán began to learn the history of the races in the area. 7 Right away he realized there was more money at play here than at the Kentucky Derby. The farmers and the ranchers bet big, the laborers gamble their entire salary. The country races are set up with much anticipation, and people round up their money for the occasion. Some horses accumulate a kind of prestige, everyone knows that they have won so many races in such and such places. Then a challenge is made.
    The town’s horse was a dapple gray that belonged to Payo Ledesma, a very good horse, retired, like a boxer who hangs up his gloves without ever having lost. A rancher from Luján with an undefeated sorrel had been trying to challenge him for some time. It seems at first Ledesma didn’t want to accept, but that hefinally rose to the challenge, as they say, and accepted the call. Which is when someone looked over and got Tony involved. The other horse, the one from Luján, was named Tácito , and he had quite a history. Tácito was a purebred that had been injured and now couldn’t run more than three hundred meters at a time. He had started out in the racetrack in La Plata and had won in the Polla de Potrillos, but then one rainy Saturday afternoon, in the fifth race at San Isidro, he’d had an accident. On one of the turns he broke his left leg and was left damaged. He was the son of one of Embrujo’s sons. They wanted to put him out to pasture and just breed him, but the horse’s jockey—and trainer—stepped in and took care of him. Until, slowly, the horse was able to run again, damaged and all. Apparently they convinced the rancher in Luján to buy him and he had won every country race in which he had raced since. That was the story everyone told about him. The horse was truly impressive, a sorrel with white feet, surly and mean. He had ears only for his jockey, who spoke to him as if he were a person.
    The horse was brought to town in an open pickup. When they let him out in the field the folks who had gathered watched from a respectful distance. A horse of great height, with a blanket on its back and one leg bandaged, spirited, surly, darting its wide eyes from fright or anger, like a true purebred.
    â€œYah,” Madariaga said. “Ledesma’s dapple gray against the undefeated sorrel from Luján. Something happened there.”

    3     Tony’s older brother had died in Vietnam. The sun reflected off of his glasses as he was crossing a stream in the forest near the Mecong Delta, making him visible to a Vietcong sniper who killed him with a single shot—fired from such a distance that it went unheard. He died in battle, but his death was so unexpected and so peaceful that we thought he had died of a heart attack , said the condolence letter signed by Colonel Roger White, the