Bullet Work

by Steve O'Brien

  Dan waited and waited.

  Finally, AJ looked at Dan, then back down at his food. “Horse can run some.”

  Chapter 15

  Every day at a racetrack was a good day, as far as Dan was concerned. But Fridays were the best. Maybe it was the fact that the weekend had arrived. The Friday cards weren’t as strong as weekend cards, but somehow the attitude and emotion around the racetrack was different. People had fun, they drank more, they made strange pooled bets with coworkers and friends. It was casual. There was hope. For those who made it to the racetrack on a Friday, there really was a tomorrow. It was called Saturday’s race card.

  While walking across the mezzanine, Dan spotted Milt coming from a concessions counter. In one hand he had a soda about the size of a Buick with a tall straw in it. In the other he was balancing three cardboard wedges that each contained at least one slice of pizza. He was sliding sideways, trying to balance the three wedges. Dan rushed forward and grabbed the pizzas just before they toppled to the ground.

  “Gotcha, Milt.”

  “Thanks, Dan. Fuckin’ place. You’d think they’d have people here who can serve.” He hitched his pants with his free hand and took a slurp from the straw.

  “Goin’ down?” He nodded, and they made their way to the box seats.

  TP was studying the latest condition book, a publication the racing secretary released to horsemen about what types of races the track planned to schedule in coming weeks. Trainers used the condition book to find the races where their horses were eligible and had a shot at getting a purse. Agents used it to argue that their boy could ride a certain style or distance, for which a race had been written.

  Good jock agents knew every horse on the grounds and were aware who had first call and what kinds of races each horse was eligible for. A savvy jock agent could look at a condition book and know which barns and which horses were likely to enter.

  From that information, the jock agent could, with remarkable accuracy, predict which jockeys had conflicts. That was where the jockey had previously ridden two horses that would be entered in the same race. The jock could only ride one at a time, so the agent had a pitch to make to one or both trainers. Knowing the horse and the race, the agent would tailor the pitch for why his boy would be perfect for that ride.

  The agent would also get the kid over to the barn early in the mornings to shake hands, smile, laugh, and say, “Oh, your rider isn’t here yet? Let my guy work your horse this morning.”

  If the kid was presentable, respectful, and could ride worth a damn, they had a shot at getting a mount. It might also take some cold beers after the work day, but day after day, you chipped away and built relationships to get rides eventually. If the agent got his kid on a horse, he better ride hard to keep the mount, or the guy behind him got the next shot. So, despite the beautiful weather and picturesque racetrack setting, TP was working.

  So was Lennie. Milt squeezed his way into the box and over to his seat.

  “Hey, Dan-o,” said Lennie. TP scribbled some notes and threw his hand back toward Dan to shake. “Good to see Milt finally found someone to carry his food for him.”

  “Right,” Dan said. “Damn near killed an old lady with a pizza avalanche up there. Lucky I came along when I did, Milt, or I’d have to represent you for assault with a deadly pepperoni.”

  “Screw you guys.” Milt laughed. “You’re just jealous that I can eat like this and keep my girlish figure.”

  “Got that right, Maj,” said TP.

  Dan glanced at the tote; it was eleven minutes to post for the fourth race. “Lennie, you see anything in Hudgins’ horse?”

  “Funny you ask. I’ve been looking at him.”

  “Who you talking about?” Milt jumped in.

  “Film Star,” Lennie said. “He’s been off for six weeks. Likes a layoff, though. He’s got the back speed to run with these guys. Kind of interesting that Hudgins moved him from fifteen thousand to twenty. The purse differential between Delaware Park and here makes that almost a double move. One might think he’s over his head, but he’s shown he can compete.”

  Dan knew that Lennie was too much of a pro to ask whether Dan had been touted on the horse. Lennie could handicap a race without the noise of other opinions. His career had proven him right. Milt, of course, couldn’t hold back.

  “Morgan, what do you know? He’s 7-1. What’s the deal? Is the fix in?” he said, leaning forward as if Dan was about to share some unknown clue to a treasure quest.

  “Nothing big, Maj. I’ve got a friend who used to work in the barn where Film Star was claimed up at Delaware. Thinks he’s got some talent. I’m going to play him, but, Maj, take it easy. This is no mortal lock, just a friend who thinks the horse will run well today.”

  Lennie studied his sheets. “I do like him coming off a layoff. Only one work and that was okay, nothing special. At those odds, it’s worth a little action. I’m going to tie him up with the nine and twelve. The way the track’s been playing the last few days, I can’t leave those live frontrunners out.”

  They all got up and headed to the windows. At the top of the mezzanine stairs they split off and got in separate betting lines. Dan put twenty across and boxed Film Star with the nine and twelve as well. Word from Lennie was good enough for him.

  Milt made it back to the box just as the horses were loading in the gate. He had a bag of cotton candy under his arm as he balanced his racing form and program. A ballpoint pen was sticking out of his mouth.

  “Good lord, Milt,” said TP. “Pepperoni pizza and cotton candy. You going for the heart attack this afternoon?”

  “Breakfast of champions, boys. Breakfast of champions,” Milt said as he collapsed with a grunt into his box seat.

  The bell rang, and they were off. Film Star trailed the field by three lengths as they went past the grandstand the first time. Milt shot Dan a glance as if to say, What gives? Dan shrugged back in reply.

  “He’s okay,” said Lennie. “They’re going too fast up front for this bunch. Long way to go.”

  At the three-sixteenths pole Film Star still trailed, but he was in high gear, and the front runners were getting ragged. Milt jumped up. “Come on, baby. Bring it home.” Two strides later Lennie casually called out “Winner” as though he was watching a memorized segment on Jeopardy!

  Film Star got outside in the stretch and was mowing down horses with each jump. He collared the leaders with about fifty yards to go and went on to win by three parts of a length.

  Milt was up, dancing and shouting, “Yeah, baby. Yeah.” It would be the most physical exercise he would have for the week.

  Dan sat stunned and silent. He’d been touted on horses plenty of times, and he’d been around great handicappers like Lennie. But AJ’s ability to spot long shots was unbelievable.

  Film Star paid $16.40 for every $2 win bet, and the exacta with House of Joy, the twelve, paid $116. They all got healthy that race, and the cocktail waitress was most appreciative.

  Dan happily cashed the tickets, but he felt a certain emptiness inside. It felt like he was taking advantage of a friend. Despite Milt’s exuberance and his dramatic display of bowing with arms extended toward him, Dan felt bad.

  He tried to talk himself out of it. Just be happy with the big win and get more picks from AJ—but it didn’t help. By all appearances AJ lived a life of near isolation, and here Dan was celebrating with his friends, and AJ wasn’t a part of it. Dan needed to get to know that kid better.

  And not just for his ability to pick live horses.

  Chapter 16

  The Monday night crowd at Clancy’s was concentrating on ingesting as much alcohol as possible, all without the necessity of verbal interaction. A raised finger or nod to the bartender produced another bottle or glass. Words weren’t needed here.

  The man in the baseball cap walked in and ordered a beer. The non-verbal types at the bar looked his way, then back to their drinks. The one who had disturbed them moved to the booth at the far wal
l. Even the men shooting pool had little use for words. Their actions carried the game. An aimed cue stick called the next shot. Multiple jabs of the cue designed intricate combination shots. A pointed finger asked whether another beer was needed. The questioner picked up the bottles in one hand, placed them on the bar, and without a single word, the bartender replaced the empties with full bottles.

  Raven entered and ordered a beer. The patrons at the bar again looked to see who had disturbed their unspoken existence. He quickly joined the man in the baseball cap. Classic rock music pounded through the bar and made it possible for them to have a private conversation without disrupting the non-verbal ecosystem of the bar.

  “How’d we do?”

  “Just over eight grand.” Falcon pulled an envelope from his back pocket and slid it across the table. Raven quickly slipped it into his pocket without examining the contents.

  So far, so good, Raven thought. Getting Falcon to do the dirty work was the trick to the whole scam. Blood on the other party’s hands was what cemented a partnership like this. Before that it was just blind trust. Now that Falcon had done his part, some of the pressure was off. It wasn’t a complete trust, but Raven knew he owned the guy.

  “Thought we’d do better?” said Raven.

  “Hard to predict. Just the first week.”

  “We don’t have that many weeks. Need to ratchet up the fear. When do we increase?”

  “Don’t think we want to go up any ’til we got about eighty percent of them. Maybe two weeks.”

  “Who’s on the list?”

  “Which list—the paying list or the not-paying list?”

  “Only one list. The guys putting their horses at risk. Stupid bastards.”

  Falcon produced a slip of paper. On it was a list of trainers at Fairfax Park in alphabetical order. There were two rows of names that nearly covered the entire page. About a third of the names were crossed out. He examined it on the table in front of him, then spun it around so Raven could read it.

  “A kidnapping and two dead horses, and this is all we’ve got?” Raven stared at the page for a long time, memorizing the names on the list. “We need to double the take. Fast.”

  “They start seeing how this works, and a bunch will join up next week.” Falcon took a long pull off his beer, then continued. “Plus, nobody gets a pass. To get off the list, they gotta pay from the start. Ain’t no free weeks. How’s it going on your end?”

  “Lot of tough-guy talk,” said Raven. “But nothin’ I can’t cover. I know what’s happening before it happens. We just keep ’em in the dark and grind on ’em. They’ll pay. They’ll all pay.”

  Raven pushed the page back, got up, and went to the bar. He held up his empty bottle, raised two fingers, and two beers promptly showed up. He sat back down, sliding one of the beers toward Falcon. “Who’s next?”

  Falcon pointed at the list of names. “One of these three guys.” Raven smiled. Ferrare, Simpkins, or Oliver.

  “Big barns.”

  “Yep.”

  “I like it. How you gonna do ’em? Everybody’s guard will be up,” said Raven.

  “Sometimes it’s easier to have someone else do the dirty work,” said Falcon. “They’ll never see it coming.”

  Chapter 17

  “Where’s Milt today?” Dan asked as he moved into the box. Lennie had the place to himself today.

  “He’s got some kind of insurance seminar today. You know, figure out more compelling ways to sell folks something they’ll never use.”

  “Probably driving him nuts to miss an afternoon at the track.”

  “Depends.” Lennie paused and slid his reading glasses onto the top of his head. “I heard a lot of those insurance company seminars have killer buffets. Milt’s probably packing his arteries as we speak.”

  “I love the guy, but he’s a walking heart attack,” said Dan.

  “Hey, speaking of insurance, what’s the latest on the protection racket running on the backside?”

  “It’s serious. People are getting edgy over there,” Dan said. “They need to catch the guy.”

  “I don’t get it. Twenty bucks a horse? That’s hardly worth the effort, isn’t it?”

  “Well, 1,500 horses on the backside,” said Dan. “Thirty Gs per week ain’t so bad. Enough to get someone interested. The guy will probably raise the stakes once people start paying in. That’s how these things usually go. At least that’s what happens on The Sopranos.”

  “Still, not much money,” said Lennie, crossing his legs and tucking his sheets under an arm. “I mean, the guy’s killing horses. Who does that?”

  “Puts these trainers in a tough spot,” said Dan. “They charge over a hundred bucks a day per horse for training, so the twenty bucks a week seems fairly cheap, but with payroll, feed, rent, and upkeep, there isn’t much margin there. Some of the guys are turning to the owners to pay the fee. Others are afraid to mention it to their owners.”

  Lennie pulled his glasses down off his head and onto his nose. He picked up his stack of sheets and began studying. “It’s a universal truth, you know. There are two things that account for ninety-nine percent of all corruption and criminal activity.”

  “Two things, huh? What are they?”

  “The first is money.” Lennie glanced up at the tote board. “The second is people.”

  They sat in silence, each studying their racing forms and materials. Five minutes to post, Dan spoke up. “Who you like in here?”

  Lennie let out a long breath and gazed at the tote board. “Think I’m going to try Oliver’s mare here.”

  “The seven? Chesterton?”

  “Yeah, she’s dropping down in class. Had a good tightener last time out. Put Dagens up on her. This is also a horse for a course.”

  “Saw that,” Dan said.

  “Hit the board in all four outs last year, winning two,” said Lennie.

  “What’s not to like?”

  They climbed the stairs to the mezzanine to bet and had just returned to the seats when Dean Horn called them all in line.

  Chesterton broke well along with Party Tyme, the two, and Ricky Rover, the three. That trio led the field by two lengths as they entered the far turn.

  “Just what I was afraid of,” said Lennie.

  Dan turned to look at Lennie, then back to the race.

  “…coming out of the turn its Ricky Rover by a head…Party Thyme and Chesterton challenging on the outside…two back to Angler’s Angle, followed by Tipper Terry, Envelope, and Penny Vane…Bisconti Road trails…down the stretch they come, and it’s Party Thyme by half a length, Chesterton on the outside, and Ricky Rover on the rail…”

  “She’s in the death,” said Lennie.

  “In the what?”

  “In the death, the death seat.”

  The crowd stood and cheered as the two horses approached the wire. Party Thyme held sway and won by half a length. Chesterton ran second.

  “What did you say about? What was it? Death?” Dan asked.

  “It’s called being in the death or in the death seat.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “When you’ve got a known frontrunner but another speed horse is inside, you’re in the death seat.” Dan just stared. “The outside horse has to travel farther than the inside horse—just math,” said Lennie. “But when the pace is hot and your need-to-lead horse is outside a legitimate frontrunner, you’re in the death seat.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be a stalking position, just outside the leader.”

  “Depends on the pace. If you win, you were stalking. If you lose, you were in the death seat.”

  Chapter 18

  The filly stood nearly still. She looked out into the darkness beyond the stable lights and shifted her weight slightly. Her coat twitched nervously, as if shoeing off flies. Beth kept her calm, and she busily worked through her tasks.

  “That’s right, girl: You are the real deal.” Beth tenderly combed and cut the filly’s mane.

&
nbsp; “I trimmed your tail off in a block. That always looks best, and after I finish your mane, honey, I’m going to brush you down again.”

  Aly Dancer’s head nodded up and down, and she snorted in approval.

  “You moved so well on the track today. You handled your lessons at the starting gate just great. First time can be kinda scary, huh. Sometimes those guys can be hard-headed, but you were just great.”

  She hummed a tune while she swept the trimmed hair from Aly Dancer’s mane. “You and me girl, we’re gonna stick together. Yes, indeed.” She began brushing her hind quarters with the wooden hand brush. Beth stopped and gestured with the brush. “You know what, girl? Not only are you the fastest filly on the grounds, but damn, you’re good looking too.” She laughed and went back to brushing down the filly. Crouched on her haunches, she methodically stroked the lower part of Aly Dancer’s leg.

  “I’ll tell you what—”

  Before she could finish, Aly Dancer shifted backward, startled by movement ahead of her. Beth fell onto her backside. From the corner of her eye she spotted a head in the stall doorway.

  “Hey, how’s my girl?” Jim Dagens said.

  “What the—”

  Dagens gave her a toothy grin. His face was framed by brown hair cut into a mullet, as if he hadn’t heard the 80s were over. “I’m talking to the filly,” he said, patting the filly on the nose and glancing toward Beth. “But if you want to be my girl, I’ll see if I can squeeze you in.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Beth said. She scrambled to her knees and barrel rolled at his legs. She tumbled under the webbing into the path in front of the stall.

  The jockey nimbly sidestepped her and leaned back against the stall with his arms crossed. As an athlete and tireless workout freak, Dagens had the body of a power lifter, though as a jockey, his physique was contained in a travel-sized package. His cockiness wasn’t similarly confined. A receptacle hadn’t been designed that was big enough for his ego.