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

by Sam O'Brien

  Richard laughed into the receiver. “No discount, but I’ll have a plane ready whenever you want it. Call Janine with the dates. As a gesture of good faith, I’ll even throw in two bottles of champagne to impress your new client.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind.”

  “I know.” Richard added seriously, “Listen, got to go. Talk soon. OK?”

  The line went dead. Oliver shook his head and thought about how leopards never change their spots.

  Back in the serenity of his compound in Jersey, Marco sat on a bench in the garden with Mike. They leaned together and spoke in whispers.

  “I’m going to Ireland in a couple of months. You’ll be in charge, OK?”

  “You don’t gotta worry, Boss,” said Mike, trying to conceal his delight.

  “I know, I know. I’ll take Robert with me. He’ll have to sign for the horses.”

  Marco cocked his head to one side pensively. “Besides, he could be useful in other ways.”

  “Boss, if you don’t mind me asking, you just buying racehorses?”

  Marco looked at Mike; a smirk crept across his face. “Call it research. See if we can expand,” he said slowly.

  “You wanna take Joey, or one of the Terriers for muscle?”

  “One of the Terriers? I thought those two little pricks were joined at the hip.”

  “Nah, they can be persuaded, besides, they’d do anything for you.”

  “That a fact,” he said, filing the information away in his brain. “Call Italy, send someone from their end, it’ll draw less attention. I’ll let you know exactly when and where I’ll be, closer to the time, but get it lined up.” He wagged his finger at Mike. “And make sure this one speaks proper English.”

  “It’s done, Boss.” Mike got up to leave and the two men embraced.

  Chapter 20

  Kentucky. October 2004

  Oliver woke to the alarm and rubbed his eyes. Six am, a dark damp autumn morning in Lexington. He stretched out an arm and found Rebecca’s soft skin. He caressed her hip and kissed her gently. She smiled; eyes still closed, and pulled his arm around her. “Don’t leave. It’s not fair, my only day off,” she whispered, groggy with sleep.

  “Got to, unfortunately. I’ve the horses ready to ride, and Pat’s going to help.”

  “Pat? Help? That’ll cost you.” Her eyes were still closed.

  “No it won’t. I can be persuasive when I want to. Besides, I think he knows who Marco is. He never says anything, but he’s a little too eager to please all of a sudden.” He sighed and dragged himself out of the bed. “Enjoy your morning off, they’re rare enough. Have a lie-in and I’ll swing by after lunch, take you to the track to meet Claude Duvall.”

  He pulled into the tree-lined avenue of Four Oaks Farm just before seven am. A small property by Kentucky standards, it was only a hundred and fifty acres or so. The paddock railings were immaculately white and the two old tobacco barns had been transformed into modern stables fit for the finest blue-blood thoroughbreds. Pat had completely transformed the place from the dilapidated old farm it was, when he’d risked every penny he had to purchase it. He had bought a mobile home and lived in it for a year while the work was being completed. Pat now lived in the small bungalow, but the caravan still remained and was now home to the staff Pat recruited from Ireland or Mexico – whichever cost him less.

  Oliver parked beside the barn and went to the tack-room to start preparing the gear. Pat appeared behind him.

  “Well? How’s things?” he said, in his usual jovial tone.

  Oliver turned. “Morning, Pat. Good, thanks. They all eat up?”

  “Oh, yeah. Not a bother.”

  “Good. I was thinking, we’d start the filly first, then tackle the colts.”

  “Grand. Who’ll ride them?”

  “Me,” said Oliver.

  Pat started to cackle. “You’re a big man to be riding small fillies. But, sure, I suppose, if you’re riding one at night, you might as well do it in the morning, too.”

  Oliver rolled his eyes. “Seriously, though. I know I’m not a jockey’s weight, but I’ll only ride them for a week or two, before I send them off.”

  “Have you any trainers in mind?”

  “I’d like to send them to Claude Duvall. He gets results and has teams all over the country.”

  "Jaysus, but you’re thinking big time."

  "They’re big time horses, Pat."

  Oliver handed him a saddle and they made their way to the stable, got the filly ready, and brought it to the covered, circular enclosure. Oliver sent the athletic animal around in circles for fifteen minutes at a trot and a canter before drawing her to a halt and handing the lead rein to Pat. Then, very carefully, he slid onto the horse’s back. When he was in place, he asked the animal to move off at a trot. It did so without any fuss, and calmly made circles, all the time twitching its eyes, ears and muscles to take in the new sensation.

  Pat was astounded. “Jaysus, the best breaking-in job I’ve seen in a while. Your three weeks of groundwork paid off. Fair play to you, you’re a horseman.”

  Oliver acknowledged the compliment with a gracious thank you. He knew he was a horseman, and a damn good one at that, but to hear Pat actually concede the fact, filled him with satisfaction.

  They worked the other two horses in the same manner.

  A couple of hours later, they sat drinking tea in the sparse kitchen of Pat’s house.

  “Listen,” said Pat, “I think these horses, particularly the other two you bought, could use a drop of juice. Give them a head start.”

  Oliver put his cup down and stared at Pat. “Steroids? You’ve got to be joking. That’ll mess them up long term.”

  “Not at all," he said, shaking his head. "And, listen, you can be sure they’ll be getting plenty when they go into training.”

  “I don’t believe that. People know the long term effects are harmful.”

  Pat cackled loudly. “Ah, will you wake up and smell the manure boy! Everybody’s at it, nearly every horse runs on some kind of medication, and steroids are legal here, so what’s the problem? Most people don’t care about the long term effects, they want winners now.”

  “I’ll tell you what the problem is, I don’t want these horses on juice, and I’ll tell the trainer that.”

  “Oh, you can tell away, and I’m sure he’ll agree with you, but mark my words, he’ll give anything he can get away with to win races.”

  Oliver had always known that American racing was more relaxed in its attitudes to certain medications, but he had trouble getting his head around this one. He drove away from Four Oaks that day in a bit of a daze. When he picked up Rebecca and mentioned it to her, she simply gave him a funny look.

  “Hon, everybody’s trying to get an edge. You know that. Do you really think they draw the line at steroids? To be honest, I’m sure there are vets and trainers giving a lot worse to horses.” She shrugged. “I mean, hell, Oliver. If I could come up with some kind of wonder drug which would increase performance without showing on a dope test, I would give it to a horse if an owner asked me to. That’s how some vets make their names. It’s like sports doctors and chemists.” She looked at him sweetly. “Don’t you realize how this game is played?”

  He stared at the road ahead and sighed. “I guess not," he muttered.

  They pulled into the Keeneland racetrack car park for their meeting with the trainer Claude Duvall. When they arrived at barn thirty, Oliver was impressed by the personal touches that had transformed the standard trackside barn into a private trainer’s domain for the duration of the race meeting. The walls had been painted a warm cream colour, and there were flowers in large tubs lining the walls and more in hanging baskets from beams outside the stable doors. Seats and a table had been placed on the grass for visitors and clients, and one stable had been converted into a kind of bar and catering area for light refreshments. Claude Duvall Racing Stables – Success Breeds Success, was written on an enormous and slightly gaudy woode
n sign, screwed into the high crossbeam in the archway, along with a list of the ninety-five Classic and Grade One winners that Claude had trained; an impressive achievement in today’s competitive world.

  Oliver caught sight of a smartly dressed man in his late twenties, with a hungry, ambitious look in his eye.

  Oliver approached and noticed the guy didn’t look at him at all. He was too busy casting a lustful eye over Rebecca, examining her as if she were a racehorse.

  “How’re you doin’, Ma’am,” he drawled. “Ricky Metcalfe, assistant trainer, what can I do for you?”

  He stuck out his hand, she shook it, and shot a glance at Oliver. He winked back.

  “Rebecca Liddell. Hi. And this is Oliver McMahon, he has an appointment with your boss.”

  His eyes and his hand switched to Oliver. “Oh, you’re the guy. OK, Claude’ll be here in about ten minutes. Please, take a seat. Can I get you coffee, doughnuts?”

  “No thanks,” said Oliver.

  They sat and Ricky scurried away.

  Exactly ten minutes later, Claude Duvall strode up to them with his arm out. He was a tall powerful man, who had played college football while studying veterinary medicine. After graduation, instead of practicing, he had focused on learning the skill and art of training racehorses. A huge shock of wavy brown hair was partially hidden under a baseball cap. Inside his open windcheater he wore a tailored shirt with his initials on it, and his jet-black jeans slid over an expensive pair of cowboy boots. He had a natural charisma, every inch the salesman.

  In just his third year as a trainer, he had broken into the big time by training the first Triple Crown winner that America had seen for twenty years. In the ten years since then, he had been unstoppable. The only blemish on his name had come six months ago, courtesy of his younger brother, Eddie – a graduate student at Massachusetts Institute of Technology – who was arrested and put on probation for hacking into the computers of the Boston City Municipality, messing up the traffic lights, and causing a massive jam. Claude had stepped in to pay the fifty thousand dollar fine. The papers and horse industry gossips had a field day.

  “Oliver, nice to meet you.” He shook Oliver’s hand firmly, before turning his attention to Rebecca. “I’ve seen you around. You’re a vet, right?”

  “Yes, with Watson and Hollenbach. Rebecca Liddell.”

  Claude nodded thoughtfully. They sat around the small table and discussed business. Claude agreed to train the horses, and they would ship to his winter base in Florida in a week. As he and Oliver shook on the deal, Claude said, “Hey, listen, can we talk in private?” he glanced at Rebecca.

  “You can say whatever you want in front of Rebecca,” said Oliver.

  “OK then. Let’s cut to the chase. I know who was with you when you bought the horses and I bet he’s the money behind you. So I can understand if you’re under pressure to succeed.” He clapped his hand on Oliver’s back. “But don’t worry, if they have any ability at all, I’ll get a result. But if things do go wrong, I don’t expect to wake up with one of their heads in my bed, or any shit like that. Make sure your boss understands that when you work with animals, the unexpected can happen.”

  Oliver narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry. Like you say, you’ll get a result.”

  Claude looked a bit stunned. They shook hands again, though this time, Oliver’s grip was firmer.

  “Oh, and Claude? I don’t want these horses’ futures ruined by a program of steroids. If you know what I mean.”

  “My horses all run clean and stay healthy. You don’t have a thing to worry about. Just leave it to me. If you know what I mean.”

  Later, in the car, Rebecca had a mischievous sparkle in her eye as she thumped him playfully on the shoulder. “You little shit,” she said. “That was a cryptic answer you gave him. Be careful with that, I don’t want you thinking you’re a gangster, ‘cause you’re not, you know.” She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

  “I know, Bec, I know. I just was just messing around, keeping Claude on his toes.”

  “You don’t need to play that game.”

  “You’re right, but if I’m learning one thing from Marco, it’s that I need to be a bit tougher, more assertive,” he grinned. “Besides, it’s fun!”

  She shot him a scolding look. “Hon, you’re a go-getter now. You’re making things happen, but don’t go too far, OK?”

  “Ah, I’m just having a laugh.”

  Chapter 21

  Two weeks later, Oliver felt his heart thumping as he watched the truck roll down the driveway of Four Oaks Farm, transporting his prized animals to Florida. His phone rang.

  “Hey man!” It was Robert. “How’s it going?”

  “Ah great, just shipped the horses to Florida. Time to relax till I head to Ireland. What’re you up to?”

  He laughed. “That’s why I called! Dad’s away for a few days, so I was kinda thinking I’d come on down and party with you guys. That’s if you’re not like an old couple, staying in and shit.”

  “Cheeky bastard. We can party with the best of them.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Next evening Oliver and Rebecca were lounging at home, drinking mojitos and watching a movie when Robert arrived. He politely kissed Rebecca on the cheek, flopped onto the sofa and tossed three small bags of white powder onto the table.

  Oliver’s eyes lit up. “How the fuck did you manage to bring that here on a plane?” he said.

  “Ask no questions, get told no lies,” he grinned. “Present from Mike.”

  “Which? The coke, or the method of smuggling?” said Rebecca.

  “Both.”

  “You didn’t stick it up your ass, did you?” she said, gingerly picking up the bag with her thumb and forefinger.

  “Fuck, no!”

  They all laughed.

  Robert pushed the veterinary books off the glass coffee table and started chopping up the white powder. “Hey, pity you guys missed my twenty-first. It was far out. We took the VIP lounge at Scream, in the city. It was off the hook.”

  “You have a big crowd?” asked Oliver.

  “Nah, only six of us . . . But Mike got us girls and some great blow; this is the last of it.” He readied three lines and offered a crisp rolled dollar bill to Rebecca. “Ladies first.”

  She looked at the table apprehensively. “Gee, I don’t know. I haven’t done drugs since I graduated. Too many gossips in the horse scene. I’d get fired if anyone found out.”

  “Go on!” said Robert. “Who’s gonna know? Besides, I bet guys you work with do shit like this. Man, drugs are everywhere.”

  Oliver eyed him. That sounded like Mike. Or his father.

  She chewed her lip. “Hmm, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to Bec,” said Oliver.

  “Yeah, I know . . . Oh fuck it. It’ll loosen me up. I could do with a buzz. But we have to clean up when we’re finished, OK?”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” said Robert.

  She inhaled deeply. “Damn, that’s good. Better than the crap we got in college.”

  Oliver and Rebecca, both sniffling, each tried to blurt out something at the same time. This reduced them to a fit of laughter.

  “No, but seriously,” she said eventually. “I bet you’re right, Rob. Can I call you Rob?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re right about drugs being everywhere, too,” said Oliver. “Ireland’s riddled with pills and all kinds of stuff. Lots of coke.”

  “No shit,” said Robert.

  “People have the money now. They want cocaine, it’s chic compared to hash. One thing’s for sure, though,” he said, pointing to the lines of dust on the table. “You can’t get stuff like that in Ireland. It’s all shite that tastes of petrol. Not that I got out much, the last few years.” He greedily took another line.

  Robert hissed. “Nasty! So they like, need better suppliers, I guess?”

  “Do I give out your number when I get home?”
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br />   They all burst out laughing. Over the next few hours, they drank two more jugs of mojito and inhaled another bag of coke. Rebecca put on some music; they were buzzing. She fixed her turquoise gaze on Robert, sniffed her nose, and asked him, “So what’s your deal? I mean, Oliver said you’re at an art school in California. You want to paint, or what?”

  “Yeah, I did, and sculpt as well, but I, like, dropped out to help my dad with this horse thing.” His eyes seemed to lose their spark.

  “So you want to be out there studying?” she said.

  Robert shrugged. “It was cool, I guess, but this horse thing could be good, too. Right?”

  “That’s the plan, anyway,” said Oliver.

  “You think you’ll go back to school someday?” asked Rebecca.

  “Yeah, I want to. But Dad doesn’t seem to care if I do, so I don’t know. Maybe. Anyway, at the moment I’ve got pretty much all I need in Jersey.” He stared at the floor.

  “Does he want you to go into his business?” asked Oliver.

  Robert chewed his lip. “Like, he’s never said that. To be honest man, I really don’t know . . . and I’m kinda afraid to ask.”

  There was a brief silence. Oliver asked the question that hung in the air. “Would you want to?”

  “I, um, I don’t know. I mean, he makes a lot of money, but I wouldn’t want to end up in jail. No way. Fuck, that’s scary.” He put his head in his hands and stared at the carpet.

  “Look,” said Rebecca, sniffling again. “All you have to ask yourself is, would you be capable of violence as a business method?”

  Robert looked up, startled. “Hey, fuck you! What’re you trying to say? Well, fuck you! He’s my dad, OK!”

  “Ah come on, easy now, both of you. Let’s not spoil the night. Enough about family shit,” said Oliver. “Rob, you’re lucky you don’t have a brother, that’s all I have to say. Bec, where do we go to shoot some pool?”

  “Gee look, I’m sorry if I crossed the line, Rob. Really. I . . .” She searched for something to say.