by Sam O'Brien
He waved his hand dismissively and re-rolled a dollar bill. “Don’t worry about it. It’s cool.” He finished off the coke and wiped the table with his finger, before licking the remains off it. They headed out into the night, staying clear of any mention of Marco.
* * *
A week later, Oliver was sitting with Robert and Marco in one of Richard’s jets, perched on the tarmac at Newark airport, waiting for take-off. Marco looked around at the plush carpeting, leather seats, and fine walnut panelling. There was seating for ten, and a large bathroom and galley area.
“I gotta admit,” he said, “this is a nice plane. I usually go to Vegas on one of these. The casino sends one. But this one I like. It’s smaller; a little less in-your-face. Know what I mean?”
The solitary steward informed them, in a thick Polish accent, that they would be taking off in two minutes. He was a burly guy in his mid-twenties, who looked at the floor as he spoke and seemed uncomfortable in his surroundings.
Marco watched him buckle himself into his jumpseat. “Where the hell they dig him up?”
“Lots of immigrants in Ireland now. Rich loves to work them hard. He says it costs less to train them from scratch than to pay someone with experience.”
Marco grinned. “He looks like the kind of guy I’d want on my side in a fight, but I’m not sure I want him serving my lunch.”
They braced themselves for take-off, and five hours later they touched down in driving rain at a small airfield near Dublin. The steward opened the door and let down the steps. A Customs agent hurried inside, and glanced at his rain-drenched clipboard. Water dripped off him onto the carpet.
“Alright then. How’re ye doing? Three passengers. Passports, please.”
They handed them over, gave them a cursory glance, then asked about luggage. The steward grunted and opened a locker to show three small cases.
“OK, grand job, lads. Welcome to Ireland. Hope you brought your wellies.” A little chuckle escaped through his teeth, and he raced back across the tarmac to the small building that served as a terminal.
Marco sat with a look of shock and astonishment plastered onto his face. He remained like this until they were on the motorway to Kildare. Eventually, he raised the screen between them and the driver, fixed his dark eyes on Oliver and said, “I can’t believe it. I mean, I can’t fuckin’ believe it. We just arrived in from America. A country whose law enforcement spends a fair amount of time and energy trying to piss me off, and we stroll in here with a welcome.”
Oliver looked puzzled. He had no idea if it was unusual or not. “I suppose everything checked out, I mean we’re coming on business and nobody needs a visa, and he checked the plane out, too. He did his job – we’re not exactly terrorists. Anyway, we’re famous for welcoming visitors. Céad Míle Fáilte and all that!”
“What?” said Marco.
Oliver grinned. “Welcome to Ireland!”
“I love this country already. Man, the Feds would shit if they knew.”
Oliver looked out at the rain with a puzzled look on his face.
Chapter 22
The rain lashed down for three days, as Oliver and Robert trudged the sales complex in Kildare. Marco spent his days with them and his nights in the hotel bar, taking in what he saw of the Celtic Tiger economy. The muscular tanned and well-dressed Italian who shadowed him went unnoticed amidst the horse crowd. He looked like just another foreigner trying to find an Irish horse.
Oliver was impressed by the organization and discretion with which Marco and his associates operated.
“Man, fuck this weather,” said Robert, as rain dripped down his collar.
“Ah, it’s only a shower,” said Oliver. “You’ll be fine this evening after a hot whiskey.”
Robert smiled. “Yeah cool, man.” He playfully thumped Oliver on the arm. “Hey, those Irish coffees are the best.”
Oliver chuckled, “You’re some man to down four after dinner.”
“That’s the best thing ever, man. You got me addicted – shit, it’s nearly better than Mike’s coke.”
“Nearly?” said Oliver, with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, nearly.”
They both laughed.
They spent the rest of the day looking at the weanling horses, a full year younger than those he had purchased in Kentucky. Oliver met many old friends, all of whom had read in the industry papers that he had bought some expensive horses at Keeneland. He endured the usual questions, though nobody over here seemed to have a clue who Marco was. This came as almost a disappointment to Oliver and Robert, who had quite enjoyed the spectacle a few months before.
Every now and then, Oliver’s thoughts would flood with images of Rebecca. He missed her, and his feelings surprised him; usually at a sale, he focused on horses to the exclusion of everything else. At night alone in his room, he resolved to marry her when he had made his money from this venture. His love for her calmed him, and he felt as if life was finally progressing, convinced he was on the cusp of enormous success.
At the end of the third day, Oliver was sitting in their hotel bar, going through his notes, when Marco arrived.
“Hi. OK, I’ve looked at two hundred foals, and got it down to twenty. I had them vetted by a guy who used to do the work for my old boss. We’ve about four hundred grand in Euro left. I intend to buy three horses, but for no more than three hundred, total. That leaves money in the pot for emergencies.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“There’ll be competition, so we may find it tough to buy, but on the plus side, there are plenty of horses on offer.”
“So, we take our places and do like we did in Kentucky?” said Marco.
“Exactly.” Oliver flicked his catalogue shut and briefly wondered why he hadn’t seen Gorman or Diarmuid ambling around the complex looking at horses.
* * *
In the offices of Richard McMahon’s Freefly Airlines, Martin Forrester was perusing the week’s photographs of Opulence Service passengers. He sat in his spartan office with an inventory of names, and was ticking off those who might be worth a leak to the press. When he finished, he usually had to run it past the boss, before contacting a friend in one of the tabloids. He was flicking through shots of a society wife, flying with seven dogs; a dishevelled 1990s pop star, returning from his latest stint in rehab in Arizona; and a film director’s five children coming back from a trip to Euro-Disney with their nannies.
The pop star would definitely get a front page. As he sorted the other photos into a discard pile, he thought he recognized a face in the rain. It was poor quality, due to the weather, but when he checked the passenger list, his heart nearly stopped. He gathered everything and trotted to Richard’s office. “Janine, is he in?”
“Yes, but he’s not expecting you yet. You’ll . . .”
Martin burst into the plush sanctuary. Richard was at his desk, poring over documents. “You’re early,” he said, without looking up.
“Excuse me, but I thought this photograph might interest you.” He tossed him the photograph.
Richard glanced at it. “Yeah, so? That’s a bad shot of my brother.”
“Do you recognize the man with him?”
Richard looked again. “No. I suppose he’s the guy backing him, but apart from that, I haven’t a clue.”
“Look, I know it’s a bad shot, but I’m sure this guy’s a Mafia boss called Marco Romano. He even flew here under his own name.” Martin indicated the name beside Oliver’s on the list.
Richard picked up the photo and stared at it. “A Mafia boss? I don’t think so, Martin. My brother wouldn’t know anyone like that. Get your facts straight.”
Emboldened by the success of his stealth publicity campaign, Martin took a deep breath and spoke his mind. “With respect, I know what I’m talking about, Richard. I, well, I’m a bit of an organized crime buff. I recognize this guy. I’m telling you, your brother flew into the country with a Mafia boss and another guy, a Robert Romano, who could be his son, or nephew,
or something.”
Richard raised his eyebrows at Martin. “OK, you’ve made your point. If it’s true, what do you propose to do about it?”
Martin looked puzzled. “Well, I don’t know. I just thought you’d want to know.”
He narrowed his eyes and paused for a moment. “So now I know. Do you have shots of anyone we can use?” he said, changing the subject.
Martin went through the list of possibilities. Richard ticked his approval and dismissed the accountant. He kept the shot of his brother in his hand.
“Oh, one more thing, Martin. Destroy any copies of this. Negatives, too, OK?”
“Yes, Boss.” He trotted out, closing the door behind him.
Richard sat alone and looked at the grainy image on his desk: his brother and a mafioso. He was full of admiration and just a touch of jealousy, then a sudden wave of curiosity swept over him. He wanted to meet this guy. He stood at the window and flipped open his mobile, gazing out over a grey Dublin evening.
Oliver fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen in surprise. “My brother,” he said, in an irritated tone.
“Put him on speaker,” said Marco. “I want to hear this guy.”
Oliver set the phone on the coffee table. The tinny voice echoed. “Ollie! How are things?”
“D’you know what, Rich? Things are good. All I need now is a few more horses. How’re you?”
“Great, business is booming. Did you have a good flight?”
“Yeah . . . apart from the wrestler who served our drinks. My friends were dying to know where you dig these guys up. I told them you go for slave labour.”
Richard ignored the dig. “Speaking of your friends, I was thinking it’d be nice to have you all up for dinner, before you head back. I’ll get Mother up, too. What do you think?”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the phone. “Er, no thanks, Rich, we’ve too much to do and not enough time. Plane’s already booked, remember?”
“Don’t worry about that, I can change your flight plan. Come on, it’d be great to see you.”
Oliver shook his head, looking at Marco, who shrugged. Richard was overdoing it a bit, and a family dinner was definitely something to be avoided.
“I thought you didn’t do changes or refunds?” said Oliver eventually.
“We don’t, but I can bend a few rules if I want to. Come on, Mother’d love to see you, and I’d love to meet this investor of yours.”
“Sorry, we just can’t make it.”
There was a pause on the line. “OK, well, er, why don’t I meet you guys tomorrow for a quick drink in your hotel? It’s not so far, I can be there whatever time suits.”
Marco suddenly clicked his fingers and nodded to Oliver.
“Er, that would work, I suppose. Call me after lunch, I’ll let you know.”
“Looking forward to it,” said Richard, ending the call.
He sat at his desk, staring at the photo once more, tapping his fingers on the polished wood. After a few minutes, he summoned Martin, invited him to sit down, and ordered them both coffee in an unprecedented show of civility.
“Martin, you mentioned you’re a Mafia fan.”
He looked a bit embarrassed. “Oh, ah, I’ve a passing interest in it. I’ve read a few books about the Mob. It’s intriguing. Why?”
“What’s the deal with this Marco guy?”
Martin took a deep breath, “Not so much is known about him, really. He keeps himself low profile. He’s known as ‘The Gent’, supposedly because of his cool, calm, polite persona. He took over the family when his boss was killed in prison. They reckon Marco did it, in case the old guy talked to the police to avoid dying in jail. They say he makes plenty of money in gambling and there are rumours of drugs.
“Apparently, he’s unusual inasmuch as he lets his soldiers and capos keep a slightly higher percentage than normal, to keep them loyal. If it’s true, it seems to be working. There’s no public bloodshed and his people keep their mouths shut, even if they’re put away, which is rare nowadays – according to the books I’ve read.” He sipped his coffee and shook his head. “He must be some operator to stay out of trouble like he has.” Martin had an awestruck look on his face. “A guy like that’d probably be successful at whatever he did . . . Um, bit like yourself, really.”
Richard smiled and took the remark to heart. A bit like me. Surely there was something to be learned or gained from talking to a leader like this Marco Romano. Probably no different to an Army General, or a Prime Minister, and he had met one of each in the last few years.
Eventually Richard snapped out of his reverie. “That’s quite a summary, for a passing interest. Thanks, Martin, that’ll be all.”
Oliver stared at his mobile dumbfounded.
Marco was opposite him, grinning widely. “He’s some piece of work.”
“That was bizarre; he’s never usually that nice. I bet he knows who you are, somehow.”
“I bet you’re right,” said Marco. “Anyway, it’ll be interesting.”
There was a loud cheer behind them, as a group of people popped a bottle of champagne and began celebrating loudly. Oliver looked up. There were about fifteen revellers standing in a group, and they consumed the champagne urgently. Their raucous chatter was frenzied and a bit too loud, like they really wanted to be noticed. Marco cast his sharp eyes around the bar and turned back to Oliver.
“You guys have plenty of cash now. You love to flash it about, huh? The last three nights this bar’s been packed, the restaurant, too.”
“We’ve come a long way from leprechauns and the famine,” said Oliver.
Marco leaned in close. “So, tell me: I bet there’s a shitload of drugs being done here, huh?” He winked at Oliver.
“You’re right about the quantity, but as far as I know, the quality’s shite.”
“Is that a fact? Interesting.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I gotta say, I’m looking forward to meeting this brother of yours.”
Oliver smiled.
Chapter 23
The next day, after viewing their prospective purchases again, Oliver found a place on an upper level balcony inside the circular auditorium. From this elevated position they had a clear view of everyone, but only the few others on their level could see them. The place was alive with horse dealers, who traded potential racehorses like commodities and bid hard and fast to get what they wanted. They packed themselves into every seat, corridor and viewing area available below. This was a sharper, hungrier crowd than Kentucky. They knew the angles and did their homework. Now, everybody waited for the duelling to commence, fingers on triggers like cowboy gunfighters.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” said Oliver. “In Kentucky, we were mostly bidding against rich guys flashing their cash. Here, we’re playing poker with professional gamblers.”
Marco’s eyes lit up. “That a fact? Sounds like a lot more fun.” He scanned the faces closely.
Oliver watched Marco out of the corner of his eye, and noticed how the man seemed to be far more tuned in than he had been in Kentucky, despite all the money they spent there.
The first horse came into the ring and was led out unsold, without fanfare, a few minutes later. Nobody even bothered to bid on it.
“What was wrong with that one?” asked Robert.
“Everything,” said Oliver. “Looks like it couldn’t run fast enough to warm itself, and it has an offset knee.”
Marco listened intently; Robert frowned at the horse as it left the auditorium. Directly behind it, another entered. Immediately, a buzz went through the crowd. The auctioneer announced a starting price and it was met, swiftly followed by another bid. The battle was joined; fierce bidding began, though the almost imperceptible way heads nodded or wrists twitched, made it nearly impossible to discern who was raising the price.
They stood on the same spot for the next three hours and bid on twelve without managing to buy one.
“Tough work,” said Oliver. He shot a glance a
t Marco, who looked enthralled.
“This is great – like Vegas,” he said.
“Except these guys are all counting cards and playing the percentages.”
As they ate sandwiches standing at their position, Oliver bought a horse: a colt foal, for exactly 100,000 Euro. Before the day was out, he had filled their order with two other colts: one for 90,000, and one for 10,000.
“Why was the last one so cheap?” asked Robert.
“He was too thin; that made him look unhealthy. But yesterday I asked some questions and found out he was ill before the sale. We’ll feed him well and he’ll blossom into a lovely horse next year. He’s a lovely mover. The vendor was foolish to let him go, if you ask me.”
“I hope you’re right, my friend,” uttered Marco.
“When it comes to horses, I usually am,” said Oliver. “Right, that’s it then. I reckon we go have a drink. I’ll call Rich.”
“Let’s go,” said Marco, slapping him on the back as they turned away from the viewing area.
Two hours later, Richard entered the hotel bar and scanned around for his brother. Oliver hoisted himself out of his soft armchair and waved. Richard moved – almost scurried – towards them.
“Hi, Ollie. Good to see you. And you must be Marco Romano. What a pleasure.” He thrust out his hand and Marco nearly shook it off his wrist. Richard winced before greeting Robert.
“You must be Marco’s, er, son? Nephew? Again, a pleasure.” He didn’t offer his hand, but turned to pull up a chair.
“Son.”
Marco broke into a wide smile and nudged Oliver with his elbow.
“D’you want a glass of wine,” said Oliver, pouring him one.
Richard took it. “Thanks, well, here’s to your horses. Marco, I hope you enjoyed the flight. Was the plane up to standard?”
“Plane was great, but the service was a little rough. Don’t you usually house-train gorillas before you let them near planes?”