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

by Sam O'Brien

“I know what you mean, man.”

  The runners made their way onto the track and the spectators filed into the grandstand to take up their viewing positions. Claude escorted Marco and his entourage up to the owners’ and trainers’ viewing area. They were on the top level of the stand, with a commanding view of the winning post. Claude announced he would leave them and watch the race on the screen in the paddock. Marco handed Robert a large wad of notes and dispatched him to the nearest betting window.

  “You guys betting?” he said to Oliver and Rebecca.

  “I made my bet when I bought these horses,” said Oliver. “I rarely bet on the actual outcome of a race.”

  “And I never bet. Period,” said Rebecca.

  Marco shrugged. “If Claude’s right, this gives me an extra piece of interest. I’ll take his word for it, this time. You keep telling me he’s some kind of genius.” He took a puff from his cigar and leaned in close to Oliver’s ear, putting his hand on the Irishman’s shoulder “Next time, I want to know in advance if I should bet, understand?”

  “Er, sure. I’ll let you know.”

  “Call Robert when you get the news.”

  “Done.”

  The runners trotted down to the starting gates, accompanied by lead ponies. Within a few minutes, they were loaded. The bell rang and the gates snapped open, releasing the runners in a mass of energy, 1200 frantic metres to be covered. They thundered down the backstretch, dirt flying in kickback from the powerful hooves.

  Painter Girl was settled into sixth, four or five horse-lengths back from the leader, who set a furious pace. They rounded the home turn and she was striding comfortably, Pablo had yet to move his hands to ask for a gear change.

  Marco, Robert and Rebecca all followed the action on the large TV screen hanging from the grandstand awning.

  Oliver was glued to the action using his binoculars: he found it gave him a closer, more intimate account of the race. His heart started pounding.

  Painter Girl entered the home straight two lengths behind the lead horse. Pablo switched her to the outside and urged her on, pumping his arms in sync with the movement of her neck. She shot forward with a burst of speed that sent her past the leader in a matter of strides. Her muscles rippled and her nostrils flared, as she sucked in huge gulps of air.

  Marco was roaring, willing her on to win; the veins in his neck stood out, his skin was turning a shade of crimson. Oliver could barely contain himself, his heart was pumping like the first time he saw Rebecca all those years ago.

  Dirt flew in a hail of athletic frenzy. Other jockeys flailed their whips and pushed their mounts on with hands and heels, in a vain effort to catch her.

  As the gallant little filly flashed past the winning post, Marco shot his arm in the air and allowed himself a whoop of delight. Robert jumped in the air and embraced his father. Marco kissed his son on the cheek and said, “That’s the way to do it! Now go and collect!”

  Oliver let his binoculars hang around his neck by the strap, as he fumbled for his sunglasses to cover the tears welling up in his eyes.

  Rebecca was dumbfounded. She turned to Oliver, took his hand in hers and squeezed it hard, then kissed him and announced to everybody, “That was awesome! You guys know how lucky you are?”

  Marco released his son and looked at her, “Lucky maybe, but I tell you something, my man’s true to his word. So far, anyway.” He looked at Oliver. “Keep this up and you’re going to be a great little earner.” With that, he embraced Oliver warmly, as he had Robert. Oliver felt another rush of emotion and fought to hold his composure.

  “Just the beginning,” he croaked. “Tip of the iceberg, I’m sure of it. Now, I’ve got to go get the post-mortem from Claude.”

  “Tell him thanks, and remember what I said.”

  “Will do, Marco.” He kissed Rebecca again, then trotted off to the elevator, sporting an enormous grin.

  Down in the winner’s enclosure, Claude was chatting to Pablo and the horse was being led in small circles; her lungs were heaving for oxygen and sweat dripped down her legs. Her eyes stood out on stalks.

  Oliver eyed her up and down, waited until the jockey jogged off to weigh in, and said to Claude, “She’s a bit stressed for a horse that won so easily.”

  “What? Don’t worry about that. She’ll calm down soon enough. It’s a warm day, after all.”

  Claude narrowed his eyes. “Would you have preferred she lost?”

  Oliver glanced over both shoulders, leaned close to Claude and said, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  The trainer put his hands up, “Easy, fella, don’t get your knickers in a knot. I’m just doing the best I can for all of us. You don’t have a problem with that?”

  “Of course not, Claude. Just remember what I told you. No juice, OK?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smirk.

  Oliver looked sceptical, but offered his hand to Claude by way of agreement and congratulations.

  “Now, may I suggest,” said Claude, “that you relax, have a drink, sit out the next race, and get ready to cheer on Shadows. He’ll do us proud as well.”

  “Two for two? Unbelievable.” He was smiling again. “Hey, Claude, Marco wants to know in advance if he should bet, so if you can let me know the day before, or raceday morning at the latest.”

  “Not a problem. After all, got to keep the boss happy, right?”

  “Right.”

  Oliver left the paddock and decided to take Claude’s advice. He waded through the crowds and jumped into the elevator. Just as the doors slid closed, a hand was thrust in between, causing them to jerk open again. Two men in grey suits entered and smiled at Oliver. One was short and chubby, with a cheery look on his face; the other was stick thin with a gaunt hungry appearance, like somebody who did too much jogging and not enough eating.

  As the lift climbed slowly, the skinny man said casually, while staring at the ceiling, “Must be nice to have a winner. A boss like yours wouldn’t like to be disappointed.”

  Chapter 25

  Oliver shot him a sideways look of sheer astonishment, then glanced at his stubby partner, who was smiling pleasantly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Oliver.

  The man spoke soothingly. “Please remain calm, Sir. We’re Federal Agents.”

  He flashed an ID. Oliver bristled at the sight of it. The conversation with Mike shot through his brain.

  “We know who you are, and what you appear to do for Marco Romano.”

  “What I appear to do?” said Oliver, now suddenly feeling harassed. “I buy and sell horses for a living. My client could be the man you just referred to. So what?”

  “So,” continued the man, offering Oliver a business card. “If you ever feel uncomfortable about your client or your business, and if you ever need anyone to talk to, you can contact me at any time.”

  Oliver could feel his mouth go dry and his palms clam up. The agent stuck the card in his hand. Oliver read the name on it and said, “Leave me alone, Agent Huntley.”

  The doors opened. Agent Huntley said, “Good day to you, Sir.” Then he and his partner hurried out into the crowds.

  Oliver continued to the top floor, the card fixed in his hand and his mind racing. He wrestled over whether to tell Marco everything at the first opportunity and to give him the card as proof, or to simply ignore the whole episode. Again, he cast his mind back to Mike’s instructions.

  He stashed the card in his wallet and forced a smile onto his face as he located the others at a table overlooking the track.

  “Cheeky little shit,” said Huntley, as he and Rosen pushed through the turnstiles to the car park. “He’s way out of his depth. He’ll go down with his boss, that’s for damn sure.”

  The champagne calmed Oliver’s nerves, and he put everything out of his mind as he discussed racing tactics with a riveted Marco. They watched the next race from their table, before descending to the paddock.

  Shadows pranced about
nervously, snorting and sweating. Claude was not happy. “I was afraid of this,” he said to the assembled group. “He doesn’t like the crowds or the noise. I hope he doesn’t use up too much nervous energy in here.”

  “He looks wired to me,” said Marco.

  “What? Oh no, he’ll calm down once he gets onto the track and down to business. He’s just a little giddy, is all. Pablo has a knack of switching them off.”

  Oliver and Rebecca exchanged sceptical glances. Marco shrugged. Robert was unconcerned by the horse, and far more interested in a pretty girl standing near them. Claude gave Pablo his instructions and legged him up onto Shadows.

  As they pushed through the crowds towards the elevator, Rebecca said quietly to Oliver, “That horse is more than just nervous, if you ask me.”

  Oliver sighed heavily. “Hmm. You should’ve seen Painter after the race. She was on another planet.”

  “Weird for a horse that won so easily.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  They took the elevator to the top.

  Shadows of Jersey bolted from the starting gates like his tail was on fire. He covered the 1000 metres in pole position from pillar to post, winning by three horse-lengths. The other runners simply could not keep up with him. Marco and Robert roared their lungs out as he darted over the finish line. Robert darted off to the betting windows to collect. Rebecca whooped with delight and hugged Oliver, who was hiding behind his sunglasses again. Claude slapped Marco on the back.

  “Congratulations, Sir. And let me tell you, this is only the beginning. We’re going to kick some ass with this horse.”

  Marco shook his hand warmly. “I guess my man here was right about you. First day’s racing, I’m two for two and up by a wad.”

  Claude read the race time from the TV screen, he let out a whistle. “Goddamn!”

  “What is it?” said Marco.

  “Your horse just won his debut within two seconds of the track record. That’s incredible.”

  Oliver read the screen and checked the statistics in his race program. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief.

  “Incredible is right,” he said, a smile beginning to creep across his face. “Claude, this guy could be a top class sprinter.”

  “Damn right,” said Claude.

  Marco raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side. “Top class, you say? You mean money in the bank, right?”

  Oliver began to open his mouth, but Claude cut him off. “Oh, if he’s a champion and you guys sell him as a stallion, then you’re talking eight figures.”

  “My man!” said Marco, wrapping an arm around Oliver’s shoulder.

  The Irishman smiled as the gesture warmed his heart. Agent Huntley was far from his thoughts. After a second, he returned to reality and said, “Look, lads, let’s not get carried away. He’s only just won his maiden, and remember, if he’s going to be a champion, then he has to stay fit and sound.”

  Claude smirked at him. “You leave all that to me." He checked his watch. “I gotta run. You guys celebrate.” He stuck out an arm at Marco, who shook it hard.

  “Thanks, Claude,” he said.

  “Catch you all later,” said Claude, as he spun around and walked off.

  They had one more drink before Marco decided they should all go back into Manhattan. Later on, as the car sped across the Brooklyn Bridge, Marco dished out more praise to Oliver and pulled a roll of notes out of his pocket.

  “Here,” he said, tossing the wad onto Oliver’s lap. “We had a good day. You guys stay at the hotel and enjoy yourselves. I’m going back to Jersey.” He looked deep into Oliver’s eyes. “You’ve earned it.”

  “Well, I, er, thanks very much.” Oliver was pleased, yet startled by the large roll of notes. He stuffed them into his pocket, trying to imagine how much Marco had given him. Rebecca’s mouth hung slightly ajar.

  “Some day at the races,” said Rebecca, as they passed through the revolving door, into the lobby.

  “Yeah, man. I gotta hand it to you. All that shit you told us at the sales last year, right on so far,” said Robert, smiling. “Dad won a packet today and had a good time. I haven’t seen him that relaxed in . . . Well, never.”

  “Glad I could help. I . . .” Oliver heard a police siren outside, and the meeting with Agent Huntley flooded into his mind. He stood stock still, ashen-faced.

  The others stared at him. “What’s up?” they asked in unison.

  “Well, I, I, suddenly don’t feel well. Think I’ll go lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Aw, come on man. Bottle of bubbly’ll do the trick,” said Robert, punching his arm.

  “No, really, I um . . .”

  Rebecca looked concerned. “I’ll take you up, hon. I guess it’s all the excitement.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, something like that.”

  “Get started on those drinks, Rob, we’ll be down later,” said Rebecca.

  “You bet.” Robert made a beeline for the lounge.

  In their room, Oliver sat on the window ledge while Rebecca kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed.

  “OK. What’s up? You thinking what I’m thinking about Claude?” she said.

  Oliver stared out the window into the grey chaos of the city. “Well, if you’re thinking that Claude has some kind of wonder potion to give his horses, then yes. But like you said, if he doesn’t get caught, then who cares? Right? Except, it can’t be good for the horses.” He sighed. “I’ve kind of resigned myself to the fact that he gives them something, or many things. I don’t know. As long as he doesn’t fuck them all up.”

  “Look, if he uses anything other than skilful training, it must work. I mean he’s been champion trainer here for years.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Anyway, that’s not why I wanted to come up here.” He took a deep breath and spat it out. “Truth is, two FBI guys cornered me in an elevator today. They told me I could talk to them anytime I felt I needed to.”

  “Holy shit! You’re kidding?”

  He looked right into her lovely eyes. “No. I was on such high after the first win that I kind of told them to piss off.”

  “You didn’t! Cheeky bastard.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He paused with a frown furrowing his brow. “Look, I’ve done nothing wrong and Mike told me something like this might happen.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Well, anyway, with all the excitement, I completely forgot to tell Marco. And now he’s gone to Jersey.”

  “You sure you should tell him?”

  “Jesus, yes! If I don’t and he finds out, he’ll . . . Well, I don’t think he’ll be very pleased.” Oliver thought for a minute. “You know what, I’ll call Mike.”

  “You’re right, I guess. Best to be up-front straight away.” She stared at the wall pensively. “It’s a bit like a movie, all this cops and gangsters shit. We should plan our getaway.”

  Oliver looked downcast. “Yeah, I was thinking about that. Pity. Things were just starting to go my way . . . I’ll get him a stallion deal for Shadows or Boot, and politely bid him goodbye.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It could just be that easy – as long as the horses deliver.”

  “Be careful, hon, OK?”

  He nodded.

  “Right, I’m going to grab a quick shower.” She kissed him on the cheek and padded into the bathroom as he dialled Mike.

  The call was answered immediately. “Got any hot tips?”

  “So you heard about the winners?” said Oliver.

  “Sure did. Next time I want to know if I should bet, know what I mean?”

  Oliver sighed. “I do indeed. Look, Mike, you said to let you know if I had a visit from some guys, remember?”

  “Course I remember. And?”

  “Today, at the track.”

  “OK, stop there. I’ll come see you, where you guys goin’ tonight?”

  “No idea. Robert knows.”

  “Wherever it is, I�
�ll see you there.” The line went dead.

  Oliver smiled. That wasn’t so bad, after all. Then he flung off his clothes and joined Rebecca in the shower.

  Chapter 26

  By the time they made it down to the lounge, Robert was reclining on a large sofa, chatting to a pretty girl in a skimpy blue dress that displayed her physical assets. They had nearly finished a bottle.

  He tore his eyes away from the Bambi-eyed blonde. “What kept you guys? Resting, huh?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” said Rebecca, inspecting the champagne bottle. “Looks like you’ve been busy, too.”

  He looked back to the blonde. “This is Sherry. Like the drink.”

  Sherry giggled in a way that seemed forced. Oliver shot her a puzzled look, which broke into a smile. “I can’t believe you’ve downed all this already. We’d better start catching up.”

  And start they did. Oliver ordered, sat back, and relived the races in his head. Unbelievable. So far so good: as long as Claude didn’t get too clever, and the cops didn’t hassle him too much.

  A little later, Sherry went to the toilet. Robert leaned over and said quietly, “Mike called, he’s coming over.”

  Oliver nodded.

  An hour later, they were all buzzing. Robert was desperately trying to convince Sherry to stay with them, but she seemed determined to leave as soon as the champagne ran out, so he kept ordering. This made Rebecca smile. “I was a bit like that at college, you know,” she whispered to Oliver. “It’s how to get drunk for free. The key is knowing how and when to make an exit!”

  Oliver feigned an exasperated look, rolling his eyes comically. “You know, now that I think of it,” he said, “I can’t remember you getting many rounds back in the old days in Lexington. Crafty little thing, aren’t you?” He kissed her. “So I guess you’re only after me for my money.”

  “Sorry, hon, but you don’t have any. Remember? Except for that wad in your pocket.”

  “You know, after . . .” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mike standing by the archway separating the lobby from the lounge. He was observing them; Oliver had no idea how long he had been there. When he made eye contact, Mike flicked his head and walked to the toilets.