Bullet Work

by Steve O'Brien

  “Kyle okay? He seemed fine, but I don’t need him getting his brains rattled a few weeks before that filly stake.”

  “Yeah, he’s fine. Sometimes you just gotta fight a guy to end the tension,” said TP. “It’s amazing. I remember punching guys and rolling around on the floor in the jock’s room when I was still riding. Then two weeks later, we’re out having cocktails. It’s a respect thing. Not that much removed from the school yard in junior high. If you don’t fight, those guys will just punk you on the racetrack every chance they get.”

  “Sounds like the mafia.”

  “Yep, it’s the code they live by. Kyle can handle himself.”

  Lennie slid back into his seat. “Four forty, went five deep in the seventh.”

  They pulled out cash and handed it to Lennie. “Hey, how ’bout that hotdog?” Milt said.

  “Oh, did you say something to me when I was going to bet? I must not have heard you,” Lennie said, smiling.

  “Great,” Milt said. “I’m gonna go play the seven here anyway. And I’ll get that hotdog I ordered.” He had his bankroll in one hand and motioned visibly to TP and Dan. “You guys need anything?”

  They waved him off. “Hey, Maj, you’re not going to make a bet with that?” Dan pointed toward the $50 bill on the outside of his bankroll.

  “Why not?”

  Lennie looked up and noticed the same thing. “Bad luck. Nobody ever cashed a ticket on a bet made with a fifty dollar bill. Where you been?”

  “That’s BS. Watch and learn, gentlemen. Watch and learn.”

  Several minutes later Magic Milt made it back to his seat, accompanied by two hotdogs, a large lemonade, and a bag of peanuts. He was just in time to see the break. His seven horse ran fifth, but Lennie’s pick won. They were alive in the pick six.

  After dramatically tossing his tickets in the air, Milt began unwrapping one of his hotdogs. “And I still say that fifty dollar bill thing is a bunch of crap.”

  “Keep trying it, Milt,” Lennie said. “Can’t beat fate. Kind of like doubling up to get even. That’s a game you can’t play unless you wear long pants. Even then, you better have some serious cash behind you.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Milt mumbled with half the hotdog in his mouth. He swallowed hard and said, “Any break on the extortion scheme on the backside?”

  “Not as far as I can tell,” Dan said. “They’ve increased security, and folks are guarding their barns like Fort Knox, but two more horses were hit this week.”

  Lennie pulled down his glasses and shook his head. “I had money on one of those. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Two horses in the same race.”

  “They autopsy either horse to see why it died?” asked Milt.

  “They don’t autopsy dime claimers,” Lennie said, then turned toward Dan. “Are there guys still holding out? I heard almost everyone was paying, at least to buy time ’til they catch this guy.”

  “Heard Dillingham was still out,” said TP. “And Jake’s out, isn’t he, Dan?”

  “Yeah, for now. I told him I’d pay for my stock, but he’s pretty pissed off about it. More trainers agreeing to pay puts a bigger bull’s eye on those who don’t. Need to catch this guy.”

  “Ya know,” said Milt. “They catch this guy, I know what to do. It’s what they talked about if they ever caught bin Laden. Don’t need a trial or any legal proceedings. Just announce the time they were going to release him at Times Square in New York. They catch this guy, they oughta just release him on the backside. The problem will take care of itself.” With that, he jammed the remainder of the hotdog into his mouth.

  “It has to be someone with a license,” said Lennie. “I mean a trainer, groom, owner, vet, someone with a license to access the backside. Can’t believe anyone in this game could harm one of these horses. Just makes me sick. This keeps up, owners and trainers are gonna pack up and go somewhere else to race.”

  “A few have,” Dan said. “But it’s tough to get stalls anywhere now that other meets are in full swing. Whoever is doing this knew the timing would be good. You either take your horse home, in which case you have no chance to make money, or you risk being here. That’s why a bunch are just paying. It gives them a chance to make some money.”

  “That’s why we’re all here,” said Lennie. “Chance to make money.”

  Emilio’s horse won in the seventh and paid $28. They all got well there, but the single in the sixth lost a photo, and they ran out in the eighth. Four winners of six didn’t pay, but it was always a good idea to be with Lennie on exotics. There was always tomorrow. Over time, he was going to win more than his share. Like he said, they were all there for the chance to make money.

  Chapter 30

  cowboy Hat wasn’t wearing it tonight. Darkness had fallen on the backside, and he smiled to himself. He was like the invisible man. He could walk anywhere on the backside and not draw attention. Many barns had sentries posted as fear gripped the backside. Raven had created the fear, and there was nothing any of the sentries could do to stop him.

  Two nights before, a raucous fight had erupted on the backside. A groom from Hudgins’ barn was caught prowling around a neighboring barn. Three stable hands jumped the guy, then beat and kicked him until he was unconscious.

  An ambulance took the victim. Prince William’s sheriff’s department took two of the assailants. The third had disappeared, yet to be seen again.

  Protecting the horses was the justification. In the backside’s court of public opinion, the beat down, though brutal, was deemed righteous. Raven smiled at the thought.

  Prior to tonight’s mission, Raven had checked the list of unprotected trainers and zeroed in on Gilmore and Tom Posten. Gilmore had that kick-ass filly that wowed everyone a few days ago. Damn, if someone got to that horse, then everyone would know that there was no protection. If Gilmore had only come clean and paid up, that filly would turn into a hell of a horse, but pride was one of the seven deadly sins. Pride would kill Gilmore’s precious filly.

  Raven wore a light jacket. The weather was sweltering, but he needed the pockets to carry his little packages. He approached Posten’s barn. A short Mexican stepped out of the shedrow. “Que pasa?”

  “Nada,” Raven said. Then he walked around the side of the shedrow out of the man’s sight. At the sixth stall he turned and leaned on the webbing slightly, just enough to retrieve the plastic baggie and empty the contents into the feed tub. He stroked the horse’s neck as he crumpled the emptied bag in the other hand.

  Raven leaned back and quickly deposited the bag into his jacket pocket. He walked back to the side of the shedrow where the Mexican was standing. “Take care, amigo.” The Mexican waved back. Raven walked to the end of the shedrow and ducked around the corner.

  Gilmore’s barn would be a little more difficult as that hot chick and some Mexican were keeping a constant vigil. Raven waited in the shadows. After several minutes he heard the babe tell Ricki Ricardo that she was going to Crok’s for a soda and did he want anything. Raven needed to get to the fifth stall on the far side of the barn. Ricki moved to a chair and leaned back on the rear legs, tipping against the outside wall of the Gilmore’s office.

  This was his opening. Raven didn’t hesitate. He zipped around the far side of the shedrow, then after scoping out the scene, he raced to the fifth stall, and as he had done at Posten’s barn, emptied the contents in the feed tub.

  “That a girl, eat it up,” he whispered, as the horse dipped its head into the blue tub. He chuckled to himself, scratched behind the horse’s ears briefly, then zipped off into the darkness.

  The substance was largely harmless and, in proper use, made a beautiful garden. Not many people knew about the more unusual properties of Taxus cuspidata. Raven was able to pick up a large plant at the nursery in Merrifield, Virginia.

  It was a gorgeous plant, but he cut it up and trimmed the piney needles from the branches. He mixed the trimmings with a little molasses to make sure the horses would lick out the tubs, hopefully cle
aning up all traces of the substance. And the horses would eat it, Raven knew. Hell, they’ll eat anything you put into their feed tub. Stupid animals.

  Yes, Taxus cuspidata was largely harmless. Funny thing, though: If ingested by a horse, it proved fatal. At the nursery the non-scientific name was Japanese yew.

  For centuries, this plant formed the centerpiece of intricate and stunning Asian gardens. The health of the plant bore directly on the beauty and stature of the garden, and as a result the face and prominence of the garden’s owner.

  Each plant told a story. Only a skilled gardener knew how to bring out the best in the plant and the unique way to trim it. Only through years of study and reflection could a master alter the growth of a Taxus cuspidata. The gardener and the plant were forever connected. An error in trimming the plant forever changed its character and, as a result, the character of the gardener.

  The amount Raven had dropped in the feed tubs would slow the horses’ heart rates, and within twelve hours, both horses would be dead. Nothing could stop it. Nature was a beautiful thing, Raven thought. The strong survived; the weak got their just desserts. Stupid bastards should have paid up.

    

  Beth walked back to the barn, carrying her plastic bottle of soda. She’d been in the business her whole life, yet she was amazed by how Jake individualized the regimen for each horse. Each horse had a personality. Each was unique, and rather than treat them like widgets on an assembly line, Jake got into the heads of each of his horses. He made them happy and confident. Happy horses trained better; confident horses won purses.

  She loved how he managed Aly Dancer’s daily experiences, from workouts with older horses to allowing dirt to be kicked in her face to changing the physical environment constantly.

  If this filly was what they thought, she would be on the move frequently. If she could compete at the top of the game, she would ship from track to track, attempting to take down big purses.

  That filly was special.

  There was nothing going to separate her from this one, nothing.

  Chapter 31

  biggs paced in his office. Jason Cregg was stopping by soon, and he pondered how to play his hand. He couldn’t keep stonewalling the guy. Biggs had ridden that strategy as long as he could.

  Normally, he would do a walking interview with a reporter and show off the customer improvements and upgrades like a used car salesman. Today the meeting would be in his office and only in his office. He didn’t know who to trust and sure as hell didn’t want to bump into a horseman or official that Cregg could latch his teeth into.

  Biggs had done his research. Cregg had been with The Washington Post for the past two years; prior to that he had been a beat writer for the Daily Racing Form, based in Southern California. He’d put out feelers on the guy with his network in the racing community. The feedback was that Cregg was fair-minded as a reporter but typically bore a bias against management. He was always angling for the little guy, and management was just a means to keep the little guy down.

  Cregg did an exposé on impoverished backside workers at San Gabriel Race Track in 2006. With that effort he’d won a nomination for an Eclipse Award. And that was the problem. The track took the hit. The legislature wanted to pull funding and made a huge human rights stink over it. In the end the backside help worked for the stables, not the track. But why address the problem when there’s a big bad corporation that can be strafed for publicity’s sake?

  How can anyone be in this business and not see management’s side? We take all the risk. We provide the purse structures. We do the advertising and promotion. We invest in structures, barns, and amenities for horsemen. In the end, we get treated like we’re the problem.

  His phone buzzed, and Rosalind came over the speaker. “Mr. Biggs? Mr. Cregg to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Biggs positioned himself behind his desk, the power spot, as the door opened. “Jason, how are you?”

  A slender thirty-something with long, uncombed blonde hair walked forward and shook Biggs’ hand. He wore a wrinkled blue polo shirt over faded jeans and muddy tennis shoes. The shoes indicated he’d been on the backside already this morning. A black satchel was slung over his shoulder, and a pad and ballpoint were gripped in the other.

  “Good, Allan, I’m good.” Cregg sunk into a side chair and crossed an ankle over the other knee.

  “Rosalind!” Biggs shouted. “We need some coffee in here.” Pointing at Cregg, he asked, “Black?”

  “Fine.”

  “Two, Rosalind, both black.”

  “Thanks for meeting with me, this morning,” said Cregg. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Always takes longer than you think. We’re making good progress, but—”

  “Allan, cut the crap. What’s going on? I was just on the backside. I watched them drag a dead horse out of Gilmore’s barn this morning. Posten woke up to a dead animal in his barns as well. Hudgins had a groom nearly beat to death a few nights ago. Guy’s still in the hospital. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Hold on,” Biggs said, extending the palm of his hand. “We think the deal with Hudgins’ groom is separate. You’ve been around. Fights break out all the time. We don’t like it, but what are you going to do? Couple of hotheads get together, and the next thing you know you gotta brawl.”

  Hudgins’ groom was a victim of the ramped-up tension on the backside. With his jaw wired shut, it would be a while before he’d be telling folks why he was in the other barn late at night.

  “That’s bull. People get in fights; they don’t send each other to the freakin’ hospital. Something’s up, and you don’t want to be covering it up, ’cause it’s coming out,” Cregg said. “May not be me, but it’s coming out somehow.”

  “What, are you trying to win that Eclipse this time?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No, Allan. I’m just trying to tell the truth. You ought to try it.” He flipped his notebook shut and glared at Biggs.

  Rosalind knocked on the door, then walked in bearing porcelain coffee cups with saucers and set them delicately on the desk.

  The pause allowed Biggs to calculate a response but also released some tension from the room. Biggs leaned forward and sipped his coffee.

  “Okay, I’m going to give it to you all. But I want a promise,” Biggs said.

  “I’m not into promises. That’s not how I work.”

  “Make an exception here,” said Biggs. Cregg nodded. It wasn’t an “I agree” nod. It was a “Let’s see what we have” nod. Biggs wasn’t going to do any better by begging, so he continued. “I don’t need to remind you that both of our jobs depend upon a strong thoroughbred industry, especially in these times.”

  Cregg nodded, the “I agree” variety this time. He reopened his notepad.

  “Okay,” Biggs said, exhaling loudly. “The night before opening day, two horses were killed and another was kidnapped. The next day someone put a note in each of the trainer’s message boxes demanding twenty bucks a horse per week protection money.”

  The pen in Cregg’s hand scribbled frantically as Biggs recounted all of the events, including the trainer list, the drops, and the barns involved.

  After several minutes Cregg collapsed back in the chair and whispered, “Jesus.” Biggs nodded.

  “I need your help. Just for a little while,” Biggs said.

  Cregg cocked his neck, as though considering the request. “This is too big,” he said finally. “This story’s getting out one way or another. Trainers and owners, you can’t count on them to keep quiet. Can’t believe they’ve held it this long. What’s the track doing? Who’s involved on the law enforcement side?”

  “Tim Belker’s our lead security guy. He’s working with local authorities, but we want to keep it low-key on the backside. Don’t want a show of police force over there.”

  “Maybe you could use it,” Cregg said.

  “We’ve increased security and carpeted the backside with
cameras. For now, we need to focus on catching this guy, not putting the backside in turmoil,” Biggs said. “Hard enough for the barns to keep their help as it is.” After a pause, he continued. “Just give us some time, Jason. You’re the only reporter I’ve given this to. And you’ll be the only one. Give us a few weeks.”

  “Few weeks? You can’t keep the top on this for that long.”

  “Okay, one week. You know what a story like this could do to our handle and attendance. I’m being straight with you. I won’t give this to anyone else—just give us some time to resolve it. If we get a break, I’ll give it to you. Just play ball on this one. Having an exclusive after we catch the guy will be better than a piece that just rips us and damages everyone.”

  Cregg nodded slowly but didn’t speak.

  “I respect you,” Biggs said. “If you feel like you’ve got to run with this, just let me know first. At least give me a shot to get our side out.”

  The reporter leaned forward and took a long sip on his coffee, then stood and walked toward the door. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Chapter 32

  Dan dialed Jake from his office. He’d timed the call to be around the mid-morning break. It was when the track was reconditioned between early and late works. If he called any other time, Jake wouldn’t pick up. He was pretty good about returning calls, but Dan knew the best times to get a hold of him, and they needed to talk.

  Now.

  Dan made a decision, either Jake was going to pay the fee, or Dan was going to yank his horses from him. He hated the decision, but he might never get a filly like Aly Dancer again and couldn’t take the risk. He’d move her to another barn or just get her off the grounds.

  It wasn’t worth it. It killed him to think that he might have to take a pass at the filly stake, but it was just one race. Just one race he desperately wanted to win.

  Jake’s only option was to accept. It was the only answer that would allow Jake to keep the horse in the barn. Dan had fired trainers before, and it was never easy. Everything was personal, but this was his money—his horse, his shot. He either agreed or that was that. The phone rang, and Dan took a deep breath. He didn’t even give him time to exchange pleasantries.