“I’ll page Boyd and let him know I’m coming.”
“I already told him you would. I gassed the car and plotted your route. I’ve packed your bag. Firearms included. I even called your mother in case you finish early. She’s only a little over an hour away.”
“I guess I’m taking a nap until midnight.”
“Nap, my ass. It’s called foreplay.”
CHAPTER 3
Collinsville, Illinois is located 12 miles from St. Louis, Missouri, the city where I was born in 1958 while Dad still played professional football. Home of the Brooks Catsup Bottle Water Tower. I remembered seeing it as a kid. Dad told me it was the largest catsup bottle in the world. The town is also home to Fairmount Park Racetrack, the only horse racing venue in Illinois located outside the Chicago metro area. Boyd wanted me to meet him there.
I arrived at the track shortly after one on a sunny Tuesday in August not knowing what to expect. I’d never been to a horse track before. All I knew about racetracks was what I’d seen in the movies. Seedy places full of grim-faced guys hoping to win the big one. What I saw was quite different. I couldn’t find one sweaty-faced, desperate gambling addict who looked like he lived and bathed at the track. Instead, I saw a venue with indoor and outdoor seating, several places to eat of varied price and quality, shaded areas for families to congregate, and lots and lots of kids of all ages. It looked like family fun day at the racetrack.
I found Boyd standing in an outdoor eating area watching three men located 20 yards to his right. I walked up behind him, stopping short by ten feet.
“Hey, L.T.,” he said without turning around.
“Really? What gave me away this time?”
“I saw you reflected in the glass over there,” he said with a flip of his head to the right.
I stood alongside Boyd to watch the three men Boyd was watching. “This place is busy.”
“It’s horse hooky Tuesday, a marketing ploy they started this year. You’re early.”
“I drove fast.”
“You always drive fast.”
“Which one is our target?” I asked.
“The one on the left. Nick Marino.”
“What’s his story?”
“Marino’s money comes from selling cheap, discounted furniture. I’ve been by his St. Louis store. It’s a shit hole in a shit hole part of town. His house, on the other hand, is nice...real nice.”
“Apparently, selling cheap furniture is profitable.”
“I suppose,” Boyd said. He didn’t sound convinced. “I’ve followed Marino for a couple of days hoping to find where he keeps the horses. There’s something not quite right about him.”
“How so?”
“He has a lot of meetings with guys who don’t seem to have anything to do with the furniture business. They don’t look like sales reps or advertisers. They are the kind of guys who spend an awful lot of time looking behind them if you know what I mean.”
“You mean like scanning for a tail?”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying he’s dirty?”
“He ain’t clean, that’s for damn sure.”
“Those other two gentlemen don’t look like muscle.”
“They’re not. Just two regular guys. Friends maybe.”
“They aren’t friends. The body language is off. He’s talking at them, not to them.”
Boyd was quiet for several seconds as we both watched the dynamics between Marino and the other men. They looked like they wanted something from Marino, maybe a business relationship. They did not look like muscle.
“You need to give me the whole scoop, Boyd. As in, what’s the plan? And why are we meeting at a packed racetrack?”
“I don’t have a plan yet. I was hoping you could help with that. You’re the plan guy; I’m the windup toy with the awesome Southern accent that gets shit done. I chose the racetrack because I can’t find where Marino is keeping the horses; however, I knew he had all nine of them scheduled to race today.”
“Wind up toy? I always thought of you as a really good bird dog. Besides, Bird Dog Boyd Dallas has a ring to it.”
Boyd chuckled. “Tease if you like, but if you’ve ever seen a good bird dog in action, then you’d realize that was a compliment.”
“It was meant to be,” I replied with a sincere smile. “Before I get started, I need more information, Boyd. For example, are we after the horses or the money?”
“Rutherford wants the money, not the horses. Two hundred thousand. We get 20 percent, which is 20 grand apiece.”
“Do you have any idea whether Marino can come up with 200 big ones all at once?”
“I’ve no idea. He paid the first hundred grand, then stopped paying for the horses a couple of months ago. That’s all I know. Rutherford has tried all the legal angles, but Marino has been ducking his calls and sending mail back marked as undeliverable. Even the certified mail.”
“Really? It makes me think you might be right on the mobster angle.”
“I never said he was a mobster, L.T. I merely stated he doesn’t look clean.”
“Yeah, well, it sounds like he might be paying someone off inside the post office to mark his mail as undeliverable. What are we allowed to do here? Can we take the horses if we have to, legally, I mean?”
“Yes, but Ruther—.”
“I know, he wants the money, not the horses,” I interrupted. “But if we have nothing to use against him as leverage, then how do we get him to respond to our request for money. Then again, you already knew that. It’s why you’ve been trying to locate the horses.”
“I have paperwork that will legally let me take possession of the horses.”
“Do you have the paperwork on you now?”
“Yes.”
I stared off into space in thought before looking back at Marino and his two acquaintances one last time, making sure they weren’t hired muscle. “You and me. Nine horses. Nick Marino. Two hundred thousand. Got it. And you’re sure no muscle?”
“No, muscle. All he has is an old man down at the stables with the horses.”
“Alright, Boyd, I trust you on your homework. If you say he came without any muscle, then he came without any muscle. And I like your idea of confronting him in a location where the threat of losing his horses is real. Maybe not someplace so busy but still a good idea.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t find where Marino keeps the horses stabled off track.”
“It’s okay, Boyd. Give me a few minutes while I think.”
I walked away from Boyd and surveyed the area. Hundreds of people were milling around the track, the betting areas, the eateries. Lots of kids and families. It was like Boyd had perfectly picked the worst place to confront Marino.
I continued walking until I got a good view of the stables located northwest of the racetrack. I watched as a truck pulling a horse trailer entered the stables after passing through a weak security checkpoint. That made sense. If nine thoroughbred horses could be worth 300,000, then hundreds of horses meant there was a lot of money sitting in the stables.
I started walking back to Boyd but stopped as my eyes settled on a table of six men sitting at a table sipping cold beer. Two of the men were wiry, tough-looking guys in their thirties. Dressed in denim jeans. One in cowboy boots, the other in clean work boots. Cowboy Boots was wearing a western-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled sinewy forearms. His friend wore an olive-colored Western shirt, also with the sleeves rolled up to reveal similar forearms. I swore I could see the calluses on their hands from twenty feet. The other four men were burly guys who looked as if they did physical labor for a living. They were all friends.
I walked back to Boyd, smiling.
“You have an idea,” he said. “I can see it on your face. Please share.”
“In a second. I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on Marino.”
I walked over to the table of six friends, fished around in my front pocket, and found what I needed — three crisp 100-
dollar bills I placed down in the middle of the table before removing two of them. All eyes were on me.
“That one stays for listening to what I have to say. The other two will return if you agree to help. If your help is successful, I will double the three.”
Work Boots squinted his eyes at me. “We’re listening. Shoot.”
“Name’s L.T. I’m here with my associate to collect money from someone with an outstanding debt on nine thoroughbred horses currently stabled at this racetrack. We aim to confront the man here. It would greatly help our selling point if the man thought we had a crew ready to take possession of the horses.”
“You want us to be your crew?”
“I want you to help us make him think you are our crew.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“My friend is going to talk to him in a couple of minutes. All I need you to do is stand up and look eager when he points. Better yet, eager and intimidating. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“We get the other two hundred even if we fail?”
I nodded. Cowboy Boots looked around the table at his friends, then shrugged his shoulders as to say why not. They were in.
Work Boots reached out his hand. “Name’s Ken. We’ll do it.”
I shook hands and thanked him.
“One thing, L.T. What if the man doesn’t pay?”
“We are supposed to repossess the horses.”
Ken looked at his wiry friend before they both broke into raucous laughter. Ken said, “Sir, do you know anything about horses? Cause you don’t look like the kind of guy who even owns a truck. You seem more like a sports car kind of guy to me.”
“I can tell which is the front end of a horse, but beyond that my knowledge is not above the ordinary.”
Ken’s face crinkled to reveal two deep dimples. “Mark Twain, in his biography. Only he said ‘my art’ not ‘my knowledge.’ Don’t look so surprised. My father is a college English professor. Some of it sank in. We only bring it up because you might be interested to know that my friend and I have a lot of experience with horses. Rich did professional rodeo as a younger man. You remember that if your art of persuasion isn’t as good as you hope it is.”
I nodded and smiled. “Message received loud and clear, Ken. And Rich.”
Rich pointed at the table. “Now, about the other two hundred dollars.”
I placed the money on the table and walked away smiling. We had a plan.
***
Boyd said, “You make this look too easy sometimes. But three hundred dollars to stand up. You probably could have got them to help for half that amount.”
“Whatever, Boyd. They’re in; that’s all that counts. You ready?”
“Sure. You coming with me?”
“No, I’m hanging back. I want to stay an unknown at this time in case I’m needed later on. Someone needs to keep an eye on him to make sure he does whatever you get him to agree to do.”
“You don’t trust your plan?”
“This guy has the audacity to borrow 300,000 and not pay it all back. I don’t trust him.”
“Fair enough. Wish me luck.”
Boyd approached Marino and the two men from the side. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but shortly after the introduction, Marino dismissed the other two men. Once the men were out of earshot, Marino became animated, pointing his finger in Boyd’s face. I could read lips well enough to know he called Boyd a few choice names. Marino’s aggressive behavior made me doubt my plan.
Boyd remained calm. Put his fingers to his lips to shh Marino, who looked at Boyd as if he wanted to strangle him. Boyd simply smiled and turned to point at the six men sitting at the table. All six stood up on cue and stared in Marino’s direction until Boyd motioned for them to sit.
Whatever Boyd said had the right effect. Marino’s body language abruptly changed from aggressive to defeated. Good, he believes we are here to take the horses if we don’t get paid. Boyd did most of the talking from that point while Marino nodded his head a lot. Finally, Boyd pointed to the ground and held up four fingers. I took it to mean Boyd expected him back at that spot by 4 p.m. Marino nodded and walked away.
Boyd did his part. It was time for me to do mine, meaning I had to make sure Marino followed through on his promise to pay Boyd.
Marino left the food court and walked toward the grandstands. He passed the grandstands and walked to the stables. Vehicles entering the stable area were checked, but foot traffic was free to come and go. The smell of hay, and horse, and manure permeated the area. I’m sure it smelled like money to some people; to me, it just smelled. Marino rounded a couple of corners before finding the stable he was looking for. He walked up to an older gentleman, presumably the one Boyd mentioned earlier, and engaged in a short conversation. I was too far to hear what was said, but one thing was for sure, Marino was not acting like a man on the way to the bank to get 200,000 dollars.
I felt a little better about our chances of getting paid when Marino started walking toward the parking lot. He stopped at a bank of three payphones near the parking lot and started fishing change out of his pocket. He took the phone on the far left. I took the one on the right and pretended to make a call. Marino called one number, mumbled something under his breath, and hung up. He quickly dialed another number with better luck.
“Hey, it’s me. Yeah, Marino. I need you to come to St. Louis, pronto. To the track.” He was yelling into the phone. “Some asshole is here demanding full payment on my horses, or he’s taking them back to Texas. Yes, he looks serious. He says he’s got papers, and he brought a crew. Hold on a second.” I wasn’t watching Marino directly but could tell he had pulled the phone away from his mouth. “You!” he yelled.
I turned to look at him, motioning I needed him to be quiet so I could talk on the phone.
“Scram, this is a private conversation.”
I glared at him. “Hold on a second, sweetheart,” I said to the dial tone. “You want privacy, mister, learn to whisper.”
“I’m not asking.”
“I’m not either,” I replied in a firm, unyielding tone.
“Get lost!”
I dropped the phone down to my side and stood up as tall as I could. Puffed out my chest. Basically, I looked as intimidating as possible, which I’ve been told is pretty darn intimidating. “Mister, tell me what to do again, and I’ll walk over there and plant that phone so far up your ass it will take a surgeon to remove it.” I spoke slowly, stressing every syllable.
Marino cursed me but otherwise left me alone. I knew it was a ballsy move to stand up to him like that since I was trying to follow him incognito, but I figured it made the most sense. He was in his fifties. Average height. Average build. What kind of guy my size would walk away from a guy like Marino?
“Yeah, I’m back,” he said into the phone. He was much quieter. “I had to run some guy off talking on a nearby phone. What do I want from you? I want you to come down here. It’s not your problem. If it’s my problem, then it’s your boss’s problem. And if it’s your boss’s problem, then it’s your problem. Thank you, that’s more like it. I promised the redneck payment by four today. I know that doesn’t give you much time. I’ll stall him somehow. The stables have security. It’s not like they can simply walk in there and take my horses. Thank you.”
Marino slammed the phone on the receiver and walked away toward the stables looking more confident than he did after talking with Boyd. He had a plan, and a plan always makes a guy feel better. One thing was for sure; his plan did not include paying Boyd.
Marino — a nice Italian name. Belonging to a man Boyd said was dirty. A man who had a habit of meeting with men who spent a lot of time looking behind them. It made me wonder who Nick Marino was and who he had called. From his conversation on the phone, it was obvious he wasn’t the boss of an intricate crime ring. However, he had pull with an unknown boss. The whole situation made me think he was mob-related in some manner.
I waited for Ma
rino to turn a corner before hanging up and following him to a new full-sized Lincoln in the parking lot. He put his key in the door and unlocked it. I couldn’t help but smile. He seemed so secure in the knowledge help was on the way. But sometimes life serves me up an easy one. This was one of those times.
I walked up to Marino, doing my best to look angry. He recognized me from earlier. “You again. What the hell do you want?”
I didn’t answer his question with words. Why waste time? I kept approaching. He didn’t even put his hands up.
The brain is a soft, mushy mass of neural tissue cushioned by cerebrospinal fluid and encased by the protective shell of the skull. Knocking someone unconscious requires a punch with enough force to cause the brain to slam against the inside of the skull. Every fighter knows punch placement is important when going for the perfect knockout punch. The most effective punch is the uppercut. Lots of rotation and acceleration induced by an uppercut. But you can break their jaw. I didn’t want to break his jaw. So I hit him on the left side of his head with a perfectly-placed elbow strike.
I think I knew Marino was out before he did. His eyes gave him away. The glassy distant stare and dilated pupils were something I’d seen before. Marino’s knees buckled. I reached out to grab him to avoid having to lift his dead weight off the ground. I grabbed his keys, walked him back to his trunk, opened it, and placed him inside. Rummaged his pockets for weapons and found a knife, which I used to cut a length of seatbelt from the back seat. He was starting to stir as I finished tying his feet and ankles together with the severed seat belt.
Confident he was secure, I shut the trunk lid and drove Marino out of Fairmount Park Racetrack in his own trunk.
***
If someone had told me I’d have a man with ties to organized crime tied up in a trunk on my birthday, I would have thought they were crazy. Although the way my life had gone, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Two years ago, I trapped two men in the back of a U-Haul for several days with a case of water, protein bars, and a five-gallon bucket for their necessary bodily functions. I had wanted to break all their fingers. I have this thing about never having to fight the same guys twice, and ten broken fingers meant their gun hands were out of commission. Boyd talked me out of it. The U-Haul was my compromise.
Deadly Promise Page 3