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

by Sam O'Brien

  “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me,” said Richard, startled.

  “The guy on the plane, your trolley-dolly, he kind of lets the image down, know what I mean?” Marco grinned. “It’s like this, when I go to Vegas on a casino plane, I have strippers serving me, or proper waitresses, who look and act the part. Your guy looked like he could plough a field with his bare hands.”

  Richard thought for a second. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll make a note of it. But I have to say, none of our other clients have complained.”

  “Well, I think you should look into it.” He clapped his hand onto Oliver’s back. “So, your brother’s quite the guy at buying horses. You should join us on this little thing.”

  “No thanks, horses aren’t really my thing, Marco, but I wish you success. I’m sure Ollie knows what he’s doing.” He took a nervous sip of his drink. “So what’s your line of business?”

  Marco pierced him with that stare. “Gambling. And nightclubs. I guess you could add horse trading to that.”

  “Hey, man, like, how many planes d’you have?” asked Robert.

  “Well . . .” Richard lit up and started into a lengthy summary of his business.

  Oliver rolled his eyes; he had heard all this shit before.

  Marco stared at Richard and asked him plenty of questions about the private jets: flight routes, flexibility, range, and capability to land at small airfields.

  Some time later, when he had finished blowing his own trumpet, the elder McMahon stood and announced he had to leave.

  “It was really great to meet you, Marco. You, too, Robert. If there’s ever anything you need, you can get me through Ollie, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Marco stood as well. “Let me walk you to the door, I gotta use the restroom, anyway.”

  Oliver watched them walk away. Marco put a hand on Richard’s shoulder as the two men proceeded towards the exit.

  * * *

  Marco returned to his chair. “Interesting guy, your brother.”

  “He’s probably more interesting when you’re not his brother. I thought I was going to vomit, watching him suck up to you.”

  “That’s the thing with family. Disagreements run deeper and get more fucked up than most other things. If you ask me, your brother’s problem is he thinks like a businessman all the time.” Marco let out a long sigh. “But I guess he’s not the only one.” Another pause. “Maybe you should let it go?”

  This time, Oliver stared at Marco. “Maybe someday, but not yet.” He changed the subject. “So we have about two hundred grand left in the kitty after today. Might as well send it back to the States to pay the training fees. I’ll keep thirty grand here for expenses and trips over to see Claude and the horses. How does that sound?”

  “Could work, long as you don’t disappear.” A smile broke out on Marco’s broad face. “And it’s funny how your horse trips turn into trips to see your girlfriend. Ah, as long as you make business your priority, I’ll let that one slide. Just get me a damn good margin next year.”

  “I will, Marco. I will.” Oliver drained his glass in an effort to get the lump out of his throat.

  * * *

  Three days later, Marco and Mike sat in the office in Shadows. Music blared all around them. They sat together on the sofa and conversed in hushed tones. Marco started to outline his plan, while Mike listened intently, committing everything to memory.

  “OK, get onto the Old Country,” said the boss. “Tell ‘em we need someone young and trustworthy to go and work in Ireland. He needs to be responsible. But don’t rush: let him work for a while to suss shit out, and give our friends time to get a contact. See if the gangs in Ireland’ll work with us. We’ll charge ‘em extra, but, I mean, fuck, if we can get them a cleaner product, delivered to the doorstep, with no risk to them, what the fuck do they care? Once people realise the quality, they’ll be able to charge extra, too.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, we’ll probably get busted eventually on ground level, unless the Irish cops and Customs are complete fucking idiots.” He laughed. “By then, we’ll know the network and we can figure out another way to work together. Then everybody wins: us, our friends, and the local gangs. Later on, we could use this as a new gateway to Europe, who knows? Once the relationships are in place, it’ll be easy to find trade routes.”

  Mike nodded and smiled. “I’ll see what they come up with.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. Make sure the details for the plane guy are fake. None of this comes back to us, or our friends. And if anything does go wrong, either we get the guy outta there or he shuts up and takes the time. Or he gets tidied up. Make sure he understands that.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.”

  They stood and embraced. Mike shut the door behind him. Marco sat at the desk, lit a cigarillo, and considered his options amidst the thumping bassline.

  * * *

  Huntley and Rosen sat at one side of the table in the windowless basement room.

  The young recruit sat opposite them. “Like I said, I want to see some action, be a part of a big bust, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Huntley smiled. “Thanks, Mitch, I can use a guy like you. We’ll be in touch.”

  As he got up to leave, Rosen called after him, “Tell the next one to knock on the door in five minutes.”

  “I like him,” said Huntley. “He’s hungry.”

  Rosen smirked. “That makes two of you.”

  “OK, so assuming we take him and the guy yesterday, I’ll get the house sorted, then you tell them to get everything installed.”

  “Are you sure you have clearance for this?”

  Huntley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Leave it to me.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Who’s next?”

  Rosen looked at the file. “Monica Kimble. Young, attractive, tough as nails.”

  There was a knock, and Agent Kimble entered and perched herself opposite the two men. She was a striking, fit young woman. Her flame-coloured hair was scraped back in a ponytail. Rosen had vetted her background and qualifications carefully. He thought she was too good-looking to be an agent, but that’s what Huntley wanted. On the plus side, he knew she was straight as an arrow, almost antisocial, and spent most of her spare time in a gym, training to compete in triathlons.

  “Kimble, I’m Huntley. Rosen you’ve already met.”

  Monica nodded.

  “What do you want to do in the Bureau?”

  “I want to put away scumbags. I want to make my big bust and get ahead of all the politics and bullshit. And I want to do it ASAP.”

  Huntley looked startled. He gestured towards Rosen “He said you were tough. That’s what I need.” He produced six crime scene photos of the two men nailed to the table. “You ready for this, Kimble?”

  Monica studied them all in turn, with a matter-of-fact expression. “I’ve heard about a mob guy who likes to nail people to things.” She paused, wracking her brains. “Michelangelo Cassoto?”

  “Spot on, Kimble. I’m getting ready to take down a major mob figure. How does that grab you?”

  Monica almost let herself smile. “When do I start?”

  Huntley narrowed his eyes. “Who says you got the job?”

  Monica shot him a deadpan look.

  Rosen smirked. He was going to enjoy watching her spar with Huntley. “Relax,” he said. “You got the job. We’ll be in touch. That’ll be all, thanks.”

  Huntley gave Rosen a sideways glance. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped. Then he said, “Kimble, send in the last one on your way out.”

  “Thank you,” said Monica, looking at Rosen as she stood.

  “I think she’s great,” said Rosen, as the door clicked shut.

  “You’re probably right. Needs to lose the attitude, though.”

  That’s her best attribute, thought Rosen.

  There was a knock and a petite, shapely girl sashayed into the room. Long blonde hair bounced on he
r shoulders. She had large Bambi eyes, long nails and looked alert, but soft and spoiled.

  Huntley looked astounded, he glanced at Rosen, who shrugged and wrote she’s what you wanted on his pad.

  “OK, Wilkins. You’re still at the academy, right?”

  “Yeah, I graduate next month.”

  “Says here, you’ve applied to be a data analyst or lab admin assistant.”

  “Yeah, I don’t really see myself as a field agent. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes type.”

  “What if I said I could get you any placement you wanted, if you do a small task for me?”

  She looked directly at Huntley. “Anything I want?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So what’s the task? Must be a crappy job.”

  “A few months of undercover work. Then a lifetime behind a desk.”

  She chewed her lip and stared at the table. “Anything else you can tell me about the job?”

  “Everything, if you agree to do it.”

  “A few months: like three, right?”

  “Tops. Probably less. It depends on how soon you get a result.”

  Wilkins cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “I want the deal in writing.”

  Huntley smiled. “You got it. Welcome to the team. Rosen’ll be in touch soon. You’ll start when you graduate.”

  “Excellent, thanks.”

  As she left the room, Huntley stared at her backside. “She’s some piece of ass.” He closed his file and turned to Rosen. “Anyway, what’s your take on The Gent going to Ireland?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “What the fuck is he up to? That’s the first time he’s left the States since he went to Naples six years ago.”

  “You want me to talk to the Irish cops?”

  “Hell, no! This is my baby.” He rubbed his hands together.

  Chapter 24

  Winter in Limerick passed slowly for Oliver; 2004 inched into 2005. He spent his time at his mother’s farm, looking after the three horses he had bought at Goffs, and doing plenty of work around the place, even finding time to paint the kitchen, bedrooms, and repair all the fencing. He attacked the work with enthusiasm, whistling as he went.

  At the end of each job, he loved to see the smile on his mother’s face, her pride in the place returned. She even took an interest in Oliver’s horses, to the extent that she offered to feed them sometimes, when he took an evening off. She was used to feeding calves and chickens in her youth, so Oliver explained the horses’ routines to her and she happily went about the job.

  Oliver spoke to Claude every week; the American horses were progressing well in sunny Florida. He called Rebecca nearly every day. In springtime he planned to go out to see her and the horses. Until then, they both immersed themselves in their jobs.

  Life felt both strange and wonderful. He was working for himself now, so he was fairly sure it would pay off. This kept him in good spirits, but he missed the excitement and travelling of the last few months; he missed hanging around with Marco and Robert, and people whispering about them; he missed falling into Rebecca’s arms and her bed each night; and he missed the attention he got when he bought horses. Most of all, he was desperate for the horses to win, turn a profit, and for the good times to roll.

  In early April, Oliver asked a local farmer to help his mother with the horses, and made a trip to Florida. He stayed there less than twelve hours, watched the horses complete a morning workout, then flew up to Kentucky to spend a weekend with Rebecca. The time flew by and before he knew it, he was on the return flight to Shannon with a throbbing in his heart.

  He counted the days until his next trip in early summer, when he would spend longer with Rebecca and see the horses run their first races.

  * * *

  As the tyres thudded onto the runway at Bluegrass Airport in the June sunshine, he felt like a schoolkid returning home for Christmas. Rebecca was waiting for him when he burst out into the Arrivals lobby. She looked a vision. Her sparkling eyes slew him again, and he hugged her, lifting her off the ground and feeling her fit frame through her linen top. He kissed her and nuzzled her tan neck.

  “Good to see you, cowboy,” she said, with the giddy excitement of a teenager. “I was beginning to forget your touch.”

  “I couldn’t sleep on the plane, thinking about you.”

  “Well, you’re here now.” She eyed his pale arms. “Hmm, we need to work on your tan.”

  Oliver looked at his white skin, next to her honeyed tone. “Irish summers.”

  They chuckled and hastily made for the car park.

  Lying in bed that night, he told her of his travel plans and begged her to take time off to accompany him to New York to assess the horses.

  “I really want you there with me. I can feel something big’s going to happen. Marco and Robert’ll be there, too. Come on! Take some holidays.”

  She thought for a minute, then a smile crept across her face. “Hell, why not! The busy season’s ending at work and I haven’t taken a break for eighteen months.” She kissed him. “Fuck it! It’ll be fun to dress up and go to the races as a spectator.”

  “Spectator? You’re part of the team.”

  The following weekend, they stood on the backstretch of New York’s Belmont Park racetrack in the early morning mist, outside the barn where Claude had taken up residence for the summer season. Ricky Metcalfe was on his best behaviour, dutifully having the horses paraded for Oliver and answering his questions. He even refrained from leering at Rebecca.

  Two of the horses looked in peak athletic condition. They had changed dramatically from the raw material of the previous autumn. Now they were lean, taut, alert and businesslike. Ready for action, they were going to run in a few hours. They had since been named Painter Girl and Shadows of Jersey. Marco had personally christened them and couldn’t resist advertising his club, though Oliver felt the name might have a double meaning.

  The big colt purchased from Pat O’Malley was slower to develop; he ambled around like a sulky teenager, though Claude was convinced that when he matured mentally, he would be a talented racehorse, such was the ease with which he completed his workouts. He was named Concrete Boot, and the name was worth it just to see the shiver it sent up Claude’s spine every time he uttered it.

  Oliver loved Marco’s sense of mischief.

  “Like I said on the phone, this guy’s a serious horse,” said Claude, as he followed the animal out of the barn. “He’ll win a classic. I tell you that now.”

  “That’s a big statement. Let’s not get our hopes up.” But Oliver longed for it to be true.

  “Oh, I guarantee it, bar an accident. I’ve never trained a horse with such raw, unchannelled ability before. It’s kinda scary.” He tapped the heels of his snakeskin boots together and made a clicking sound with his mouth. “Kentucky Derby, here we come.”

  Oliver let his poker face slip and broke into a huge smile.

  “Easy now, tigers,” said Rebecca. “Don’t count your chickens. It’s nearly a year between now and next May.”

  Claude shot her a sideways glance, and Oliver reined in his smile. Neither liked to dwell on what could go wrong with such a fragile beast.

  The horse was put away, they thanked Claude, and took a train back to Manhattan.

  That afternoon, Marco’s car picked them up and returned them to Belmont to see Painter Girl prepare for race number three. On the way, Oliver filled him in on the horses. Marco nodded and absorbed the information.

  Later, Marco stood in the beautiful, tree-dotted parade ring, soaking up the timeless atmosphere of the sport of kings. He was dressed in an immaculate linen suit with a dark blue tie, and looked every inch the suave racehorse owner. Oliver, Rebecca and Robert flanked him, each dressed up for the occasion and chatting about where they might go out – hopefully to celebrate – that evening.

  The fourteen runners circled the parade paddock; their owners, trainers and jockeys dotted the central grass area in small groups, the low buz
z of tactical discussions occasionally punctuated by a whinny from one of the equine athletes. The wind rustled the leaves and churned the air to give respite from the warm day. Marco was soothed by the horses, and by the fact that he currently shared space with the genteel old moneyed families who also owned racehorses. He took a long puff on his cigar and smiled to himself.

  He was pulled out of his thoughts by a tap on the arm from Oliver.

  * * *

  “Marco, this is Claude Duvall, your trainer.”

  “My trainer?” said Marco, still smiling.

  Claude shot Oliver a sideways glance, which Marco caught as he extended his powerful arm in greeting. The two men shook hands firmly, neither wanting to end it first.

  “Marco, good to finally meet you,” said Claude, extracting his hand. “I’m not going to tell you the usual shit about how good your horses are, I’m sure he’s filled you in. Let me just say, your filly’ll win if the jockey can settle her early on, preserve her speed.” He smiled. “So, if you want to bet, get stuck in.”

  “You know what, Claude? I might do that,” Marco replied, nodding.

  Claude lit a cigarette and sucked on it hungrily, while he scanned around for his jockey. Pablo Velasquez, the pint-sized Brazilian, appeared in the paddock wearing Robert’s racing colours of black, white and grey hoops. It almost looked like an old-fashioned prison uniform and made Marco smile when he saw the jockey trotting towards them. Pablo shook hands with everybody, eyed Rebecca up and down, and kept glancing at Marco as Claude gave him his riding instructions before legging him up.

  “He looked at Dad kinda weird,” Robert whispered to Oliver, as they left the paddock.

  “Pablo’s a hell of a jockey: great hands, and he rides the pace like he has a clock in his head. He’ll be alright. Besides, I noticed a few owners and trainers giving us strange looks as we walked in here. I have to say, it gives me a buzz.”