A Sure Thing: What happens when modern racing is infected by the criminal underworld.

by Sam O'Brien

  Later that night, a taxi dropped him to the town of Elizabeth and deposited him by the small parking lot at the side of the club. It was nine-fifteen. Oliver walked around the corner to the front of the two story flat-roofed building. There was a man-mountain doorman on duty, who looked Oliver up and down as he approached.

  The Irishman smiled and said hi, then paid the girl in the booth and went inside. It was a large square room with a bar down one side and a raised box for the DJ at the end. There were booths along the other side, and the dancefloor was the entire middle of the room. The place was quite dark – not much of a lightshow. It looked a lonely place without customers.

  Beside the DJ box, there was a spiral staircase that led up to a balcony. The club was almost empty, apart from three guys sitting at the bar and waitresses idling about hoping for punters. The music was ambient and soothing, the kind of thing a DJ plays when he is just killing time until the crowd arrives.

  Oliver made his way over to the bar and slid onto a stool. One of the waitresses approached him – a blonde with enormous breasts, who looked like she had seen better days.

  “How’re you doin’ today?” She smiled with her mouth but not her eyes.

  “Good, thanks. Can I have a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  The other guys at the bar all stopped talking and looked directly over at Oliver. One of them wore a cheap suit and the other two both wore nasty-looking polyester slacks with loud shirts and leather jackets that were slung over their barstools. The guy in the suit was tall and thin; he had narrow, darting eyes, like a weasel. The other two were burly-looking and thuggish. Their collective gaze unsettled Oliver.

  “Oh, and maybe a shot of whiskey, too,” he shouted to the waitress, feeling his stomach tighten. He needed some Dutch courage. Suddenly, this was real. He didn’t know who these guys were, but they seemed pretty interested in him.

  He gulped down the bourbon and took a sip of beer. “I think I’ll have another shot,” he declared.

  His heart was pounding and he hadn’t even uttered a word about Marco yet. He downed the second shot, turned to the others, raised his beer, and said, “That’s better. It’s been a long day!”

  The one in the suit cracked a sinister smile and spoke in an aggressive tone. “That ain’t a Jersey accent, where you from?”

  “Ireland. I just flew in.”

  “And how the hell you end up here? It ain’t exactly for tourists.” The others laughed.

  Oliver cleared his throat and decided it was time to go for it. “I heard about it ten years ago . . . When I was last in New York. So now I’m back, I thought I’d come in for a pint.”

  The suit stopped smiling. “And how’d you hear about it then? Like I say, we don’t get tourists in here.”

  “Well . . . The truth is, I, er, um, I met the owner and he said I should drop by if I was ever in the area. So here I am.” He took another swig of beer and felt his heart thumping in his chest.

  “You met some guy who said he owns this place? Ten years ago.” He made a grunt that was meant to pass for a laugh. “And now, here you are? What are you – on drugs?” He turned to the others. “Can you believe this guy?” They laughed again.

  “It’s the truth, really. Here, he gave me this.” Oliver pulled out his wallet, produced the card and slid it down the bar.

  The suit reached for it, examined it, and flipped it over. His eyes took in the handwritten number on the back. Startled, he turned to the others and they huddled together. There was much gesticulating and tilting of heads in Oliver’s direction.

  His mind was filling with all sorts of mad images – his head in a freezer, his body in a bath of acid. Or maybe the other way around.

  The guys finished their discussion and the suit addressed Oliver.

  “So, you know the boss, do you? Come on, let’s go up to the VIP lounge for a talk.” He got off his stool, as did the other two. One of them clicked his fingers at the waitress, who was instructed to bring up a bottle of bourbon and four glasses. Oliver was a little shocked. He stayed rooted to his seat, until the suit came over and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Come, on. It’s just up there.” He cocked a thumb towards the balcony.

  Oliver accompanied him up the stairs, while the other two followed behind Oliver. At the top, the suit crossed the balcony and led them into the lounge. It was a small room, which was really more of an office. To the left was a large window looking out over the club, which Oliver realised was actually a mirror he had seen above the dancefloor. Under the glass was a large sofa, with a coffee table set in front of it and two desks. The two thugs positioned Oliver between them on the sofa. The suit leaned on one of the desks and pressed a button, and immediately the music outside was pumped into the office at full volume. The waitress served the drinks and hurried out.

  The suit stood over Oliver. “Where the fuck did you get this card?” He had to lean close to talk through the music. Oliver could smell his foul breath. “Who gave it to you? And when? These numbers are old.”

  “Yes, I know. I tried calling them.” Oliver took a large gulp of bourbon. “This was given to me by Marco Romano. I had dinner with him in New York a long time ago. He wanted to thank me for saving his son from getting run over.”

  The suit grinned. “I gotta tell you, I hear some wild shit every day, but that’s the best fuckin’ story I’ve ever heard! So, even if you are tellin’ the truth, why you show up here, now, acting like a tourist?”

  “Well, he said that I could come and see him anytime I wanted.”

  The suit glanced down at the club, then he returned his narrow-eyed gaze to the Irishman. “Take off your fuckin’ shirt.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened, he shook his head in a gesture of incomprehension. “Excuse me?” “You heard me! Take off your shirt, then your pants. You can either do it yourself, or Sal and Vinny’ll do it for you.”

  Immediately Oliver got to his feet, shrugged off his jacket, and started undoing buttons. In seconds, he stood before them bare-chested with his jeans around his ankles, his lean frame on display for all to see. The colour had drained from his face; his heart felt as if it would start to make a whirring sound, it was pumping so quickly.

  “And your underwear,” said the suit, “down to your bare fuckin’ ass.”

  Oliver did as he was told.

  The others looked at him, then at each other, and burst out laughing.

  “Goddamn, he’s white,” roared the suit. “You ever see the sun?”

  “Don’t get me started on the Irish weather.”

  “OK, needledick, put your clothes back on. Sal, get the scanner.”

  The taller and fatter of the sidekicks stood and went to a desk drawer. Oliver was doing up his belt and about to sit down.

  “Not so fast,” said Sal. He had a small black device in his hand that looked like a metal detector wand. He passed it over Oliver from head to toe. “Now turn around.”

  Oliver did so and Sal repeated the procedure. “He’s clean.”

  The suit seemed to relax, but only a bit. “So, if you’re not wired or chipped, then I can assume, for the time being, you’re not law enforcement. But I still need to know how you got that card.”

  Oliver told them of the events on that hot August day ten years ago. He told them everything he could remember, which was everything. From the colour of Cassie’s T-shirt to what they had for dinner.

  When he had finished, the suit made a call.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he barked into the microphone. “You gotta come down to Shads. Like, as soon as you can. We got a guy here, says he met you ten years ago. You’re not goin’ to believe this shit.”

  The voice on the phone spoke. Then the call was over.

  “OK, my friend,” he crooked his lips in a hideous smile at Oliver. “You wait here. Have a drink. Sal and Vinny’ll keep you company. Someone’s coming to see you. So if you’re bullshitting, now would be the time to speak up.”

  “It�
�s all true. I promise you.”

  “Whatever.” He turned to Sal and Vinny. “You guys stay here, I gotta go. Don’t get him too drunk.” And with that, he marched down the stairs, across the floor and out.

  Sal and Vinny moved to sit at the desks, leaving Oliver alone on the sofa. All three sat in silence for over an hour, by which time the bottle of bourbon had been demolished. Sal and Vinny looked at Oliver with equal parts curiosity, jealousy, and awe. For if his story was true, this was a very interesting situation. And if it wasn’t, well, no doubt they would receive their orders.

  Oliver hoped desperately that Marco would remember him and take the time to listen to his proposal. The truth was, however, that none of them knew how the night was going to pan out.

  A trickle of revellers came in and the music cranked up a notch. If he turned his head, Oliver could see through the glass down to the main floor and even to the entrance. He scanned everybody that arrived, hoping to recognize Marco’s impressive bulk.

  An imposing, plump man in an expensive shirt and trousers appeared through the door of the club. As he crossed the floor, Sal and Vinny stood up and tried to look like soldiers on parade. The man climbed the staircase and, as the door opened and his head appeared, it occurred to Oliver that there was something familiar about his elaborately coiffed, thinning hair. Sal and Vinny both shook his hand and patted him on the back respectfully, then the new arrival focused his gaze on Oliver. A large smile spread across his face, bearing some crooked teeth.

  “Well, fuck me! If it isn’t the cocaine kid from Ireland.”

  Oliver put the voice together with the remnants of the bouffant, and instantly knew the man. “Mike! I’m glad you remember. I was getting a little worried. I know it’s a bit weird, me turning up after all these years.”

  “Damn right. So, how you doing?”

  “Er, yeah. Good.”

  “So, what brings you here?”

  “Er, I wanted to meet Marco.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, and why’s that?”

  “I have a business proposition for him.”

  Mike laughed loud and hard. Sal and Vinny joined in because they thought they should.

  Mike stared at Sal and Vinny and opened the door. They left. He sat on the sofa beside the Irishman.

  “OK. Oliver, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m going to assume that you’re not as fuckin’ green and wet behind the ears as you were back then. I’ll also assume that you realize our mutual friend has other businesses besides Shadows. Are you following me?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Good, then we can dispense with the bullshit. So what does a guy like you have, business-wise, that would interest him?”

  “I was hoping to have that conversation directly with him.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you were, and you might yet, but you’ve gotta to run it by me first.”

  Oliver took a deep breath and prepared to pitch his future at Mike. A feeling of confidence swept over him. He suddenly felt that this was all going to fall into place. He started to speak with assertiveness. “Marco said that he would do me a favour anytime I wanted it. That he owed me for saving his son. Now, I’m not going to ask for a handout, but I do want him to invest in me, in my proposal.”

  Mike nodded. “Go on.”

  “I want to buy racehorses.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “No, wait. For him; I mean, for us.” He took a deep breath. “What I mean is, I want him to front me some cash to buy racehorses for him. He will make a profit from the venture.”

  “And what makes you think he wants to own racehorses?”

  “He said so, during dinner that night. I was hoping that instead of asking for an outright favour, he might be interested in helping me set up a business for him.”

  Mike had an amused look on his face. “You’re just full of surprises, my man.” He rose to his feet and looked at his watch. “It’s late. Where are you staying?”

  “The Best Western Hotel near the airport.”

  “OK, I’ll drop you back there. I gotta do some things. You got a cell?”

  “What?”

  “A cell phone. Do you have one?”

  “Oh, right. Not on me. Are we going to see Marco?”

  “Chill out, my man. Be patient. Give me your number and I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep. Relax, OK?”

  “Sure. Grand. OK.” He gave Mike his number. "It’s an Irish phone.”

  Mike shrugged. “Let’s go!”

  They got into Mike’s white Cadillac and he drove Oliver back to his hotel. They pulled up by the front door and Oliver jumped out. Mike watched him disappear inside, before flipping open his phone and making a call.

  Oliver got to his room, turned on his phone, and put it to charge. Then he flopped onto the bed and was instantly asleep – the stress and adrenaline of the evening had finally left his body.

  * * *

  There was an old blue Chevy in the parking lot opposite Shadows. The man in it scribbled notes on a pad, then he eased out onto the road and followed the white Cadillac to the Best Western. He waited half an hour before he went inside and asked for details of the man who had just been dropped off. He returned to his car, then jotted something down before taking out his phone.

  Chapter 10

  May 2004. Dublin.

  Richard McMahon emerged from his meeting with a smile on his face. Even the stress lines on his forehead were gone. He was allowing himself a rare moment of delight, having just secured two executive jets for his new venture, at an unbelievable price – a steal, really.

  Both jets would begin flying out of a small airfield near Dublin and would mark Richard’s initial foray into luxury travel. He would start by ferrying businessmen to and from meetings around Europe, and Ireland’s new rich to exotic holiday destinations. The planes also had the range to make Trans-Atlantic flights. He knew that his proposed price rates were borderline lunacy, but he also knew it would be achievable.

  In Ireland these days, it was all about one-upmanship and flaunting wealth. Richard had made his fortune by providing low cost flights all around Europe for the many, but he knew that the country’s nouveau riche were not yet very discerning about price. There was a kind of prestige in being able to afford something, whether it was value for money or not. However, that said, he did plan to undercut the prices offered by several continental-based private jet leasing companies, because sometimes even the rich liked to make a saving.

  Oh yes, he was going to make a killing. Clicking his fingers, he walked across the hallway to his office and sat in his leather chair. Now he needed to figure out how to run the private jets as cheaply as possible to maximise his margins. He picked up the phone, and barked at his efficient, harried secretary.

  “Janine, get the whole accounts posse in here. I want ideas for the new jet service.”

  He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  An hour later, he was asking stern questions of the assembled team and not getting many fresh ideas.

  He stood at the table, gesticulating wildly. “What the fuck am I paying you for? Apart from the usual – cheap labour, overworking the flight attendants, etc., you mean to tell me you came up with nothing new? Fucking useless, the lot of you!”

  Martin Forrester, a limp, timid man who usually sat at the end of the table as far from the torrent of abuse as possible, summoned up his courage. “Well, er, excuse me, Boss, but I, well . . .”

  “Oh, spit it out, Martin, before we all get bored to death.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Well, I think we have to have some celebrity clients. We could photo them and leak the odd shot to the press, like you know, so-and-so boarding with our tailfin and logo in the background. Just one or two in the right magazines and we’ll have ‘em rushing to fly with us.”

  “Hmm . . . that’s more like it. Grow a pair of balls and open your mouth more often, Martin. Put yourself in charge of making
that happen.”

  “Alright so, Boss.”

  Richard started smiling again, and everyone in the room sat back a fraction.

  Chapter 11

  New Jersey

  It was nearly noon when Oliver woke to the ringing of his phone. He fumbled it open. “Hello?” he said, groggily.

  “You sound like shit.” It was Mike. “Get yourself together. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “OK.”

  Oliver hauled himself into the shower. He was dressed and down in the lobby as the white Cadillac eased to a halt outside the revolving front door.

  When Oliver sat in, Mike wore a crooked smile and extended a meaty hand.

  “Hope you slept well, my friend. The boss wants a sit-down with you at his place. Now.” He wagged his finger in Oliver’s face. “You should be honoured. He never does that.”

  “Great, but, could we, er, stop for something on the way? I’m starving.”

  “No. We’re eating there.”

  “Even better,” said Oliver, as a large grin spread across his face.

  They drove for about thirty minutes, leaving urban Jersey for the leafy suburbs that sprawled over so much of the garden state. Oliver stared out of the window and marvelled at the huge expanse of suburbia. Everybody had their picket-fence houses with half an acre of landscaped garden. Welcome to the American dream. Oliver’s thoughts turned back to the little box dwellings being thrown up next to his childhood home.

  The car stopped outside a large set of solid wooden gates, flanked by a three metre high wall that stretched down the road in either direction. There was a camera mounted on the wall, to the right. Mike leaned out of his window, pressed the intercom and waved at the camera. The gates opened slowly, revealing a large stone house behind them. It was an enormous mansion, with a fountain as the center piece of the forecourt. The water shot into the air from a lion’s mouth, and cascaded down with a crashing roar. To the left of the house there was a garage containing four identical black Lincoln Town Cars, and to the right was a tennis court set amongst some bushes. Immaculate, clipped lawns, dotted with trees and shrubs, covered every other inch of the three-acre compound, save for one building covered in creeper, tucked behind the tennis court. Mike nodded at the swarthy man carrying an automatic weapon, who skulked by a tree just inside the main gate. Oliver stared with his mouth open.