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

by Sam O'Brien

  “Great. Then we should go drag Rob out of his room. I can’t believe he hasn’t appeared since we got here.”

  “Poor guy’s still lovesick. He hasn’t said it directly, but I reckon Sherry dumped him just before Marco sent him here.”

  “I can’t believe it lasted this long. Don’t tell me he didn’t see it coming?”

  “I guess he didn’t. Blinded by her eyelashes, no doubt.”

  “Oh, he was blinded by something alright, but I doubt it was her eyelashes.”

  They both chuckled.

  “I’d say you might be right there,” Oliver said, filling a bucket with water.

  Rebecca went into the small tack room and filled three buckets with feed. They made sure the horses had enough hay and bedding for the night, then shut them into their equine hotel rooms and made their way to the bar beside the auditorium.

  Oliver pushed through the owners, trainers and agents who had come from all over the world to buy Ireland’s finest thoroughbred yearlings. There was a healthy crowd of Irish, English, Italians, Germans, and the ubiquitous Arab sheiks.

  “Excellent,” he beamed to Rebecca. “Plenty of deep pockets with money burning holes in them. Rock on!” He fought his way to the bar and bought hot whiskeys. They found a corner and stood while scanning the crowd.

  “Well, Oliver. How’s it going, Boss?” said a loud voice. Oliver saw a small, skinny, red-faced man out of the corner of his eye. He took in the man’s narrow eyes and copper red hair, and recognized him as Mickey Lansdowne – a trainer based on the plains of the Curragh, Ireland’s racing and training headquarters. Oliver couldn’t remember ever talking to the man before.

  “Not bad, thanks, Mickey. Trying to keep the cold out,” he said, raising his glass.

  “I thought you’d be on the champagne full time, with the year you’re having. You and yer man from America came up out of nowhere; fair play to you, boy. Listen, if you ever want a horse in training over here or if you need anything, give me a shout. I spent two years running Claude’s stable in California before I got homesick and came back to strike out on my own.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Oliver thoughtfully. He shot a wink at Rebecca. “Thanks, Mickey, but I’m just selling this week. Come to think of it, why haven’t you been to look at my steeds? They’d be right up your alley.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. A client of mine seen ‘em alright, says he wants the brother to Wolf Spider.” He started shaking his head in a disbelieving fashion. “There’s no doubt about it, but you’re steeped in luck. You buy a cheapish sort last winter, and then his brother comes out of the blue to win three Group races as a two-year-old. Sure, he’ll go for a fortune tomorrow.”

  “Hey, Mickey. It’s not all luck, you know. I do my homework. And I’m due my turn in the spotlight. I want plenty of zeroes on the prices. So dig deep if you want them.”

  “Sure, I suppose I’ll have to.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better be off. I’d wish you luck, only I reckon you’ve enough already.”

  “You can never have too much luck,” said Rebecca.

  “In fairness, the harder you work, the luckier you get,” said Mickey.

  “Not in my book,” replied Oliver. “I spent years slaving for fuck-all. Now I’m not married to a farm anymore and actually getting more in return. Like I said, I’m due my luck.”

  “What farm was that?”

  “David Gorman’s place.”

  “Oh, you were running the show there?”

  “Mmm.”

  “And holding his hand, too, I’d say. He’s been a bit quiet this year. Haven’t seen him at the sales, either.”

  “No, come to think of it, neither have I.”

  “Right you are, then,” said Mickey. "Better move on. See ya." Then he made his way out of the bar, shaking hands, smiling at clients and prospective clients as he went. Rebecca and Oliver watched him work the crowd.

  “Those guys are like politicians, always on the lookout for more horses and clients,” she said.

  Oliver had a look on his face like he had eaten something rotten. “He only wants mushroom owners.”

  “Say what now?”

  “Mushrooms: keep them in the dark and feed them shit. Drain their wallets at the same time. Then, when a good horse comes along, its performance is all down to the trainer’s genius.”

  Rebecca smiled. “They’re all like that, even in the States. Except maybe Claude.”

  “Claude? Huh! Sure, he hates giving me the info, only he knows he can’t bullshit me. And he’s afraid of Marco. That’s why I don’t want a horse in training over here. Marco isn’t known in the Irish horse world.” He smirked. “We can’t use fear to them to keep them sharp!”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Stop with that gangster shit. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Relax, Bec! It’s a bit of a laugh.” He paused. “Seriously, though, it works on Claude. I mean, there’s no way he’d bother to make such a fuss of someone with only three horses. Not when he has two hundred to oversee, and not when he trains for the Krepner family.”

  “Still, you play with fire.”

  “It’ll be grand. Sure, we’re kicking arse.”

  “If it all goes wrong and these horses go for a loss, we’ll see how your Italian friend reacts.”

  “It’ll be grand, Bec. I thought you said they’d go like hot cakes.”

  She shot him a sideways glance that softened into a smile.

  They finished the hot drinks and went to find the lovelorn Robert, still moping in his room. They dragged him out for dinner and cheered him up with talks of the sales and hopes for serious profit.

  Next morning, they all arrived at the complex in the blustery grey dawn. Oliver was hyperactive, his body electrified with excitement. He meticulously groomed each horse, smoothing out their coats, and shining their muzzles with baby oil. He cleaned and oiled their hooves and applied hair gel to their manes and tails. Rebecca held them for him, while Robert looked on in awe.

  “Man, I can’t believe it. It’s like you’re doing their make-up for a fashion show or something,” he said.

  “Details count. If I don’t shine them up, they’ll look dull under the sale ring lights. And I want every penny I can squeeze out of the bidders. OK, it’ll go like this: we have twenty lots between each horse, just enough time to get one sold, return it to the stable, and get the next one up to the pre-sale area. Rebecca’s leading them through the ring, I’ll be on the balcony to see who’s bidding, and watch the game unfold. You stay with me.”

  “And pretty soon we’ll be kicking back, counting cash,” said Robert, grinning.

  “That’s the plan, anyway,” said Oliver. “By the way, good to see you smiling again.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Well, I’ve been a . . .”

  “Listen,” Rebecca cut in. “You’re too young to realize there’ll be a million Sherrys. Have fun, move on, and make sure the next one buys you the odd drink.”

  Robert looked stunned. “What? I can’t believe, I mean, it’s like totally . . . How the fuck did you know that? It’s like she only liked me so she could party, and get to meet my dad. Like, as soon as I brought her home, that was it. Fuck. She said she was quitting school, then she just, like, stopped taking my calls. Bitch.” He looked downcast. “I really liked her.”

  “Forget about her, Rob. Start thinking about the money we’re going to make,” said Oliver, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

  Rebecca led the first horse into the bright auditorium. It gleamed under the glare of the lights and the crowd. Its summer coat had remained, despite the changing seasons, due to the thick rugs it wore every night.

  Oliver and Robert took their places.

  “Right,” said Oliver. “Open your catalogue at the first page I marked.”

  Robert flicked the weighty book open.

  “Right, this one we bought for 100,000. He’s a very nice type; with any luck, we’ll double our money.”

  “Cool!” Robert�
�s eyes lit up.

  The auctioneer called the crowd to attention and asked for an opening bid of 300,000 Euro. It was not taken, but the bidding started at 50,000, and rapidly climbed to 150,000. Oliver scanned the crowds, but there was so much activity he failed to find all the faces involved in the rapid-fire bidding. It was only when the price reached 280,000 and the hammer cracked down as the auctioneer bellowed ‘Sold’ with a flourish, that Oliver could see who was presented with the buyer’s slip.

  “Fucking nice one!” said Robert, slapping Oliver on the back. “Who bought him?”

  Oliver scribbled the price in his catalogue. “Jim Clifton, English bloodstock agent. That tall red-faced man beside him is his best client, a banker who used to only have jump racers, but now he’s investing in the flat.” He pulled a roll of banknotes from his pocket and thrust them at Robert. “Here, dash over, shake his hand, and give him the money.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. It’s luck money – an Irish thing. Now hurry, before you lose him in the crowd. I’m going back to the stables for the changeover.”

  Robert walked towards the two Englishmen, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  An hour later, the second horse – bought for 10,000 – was sold for 80,000. “That’s like eight times what we paid,” said Robert in disbelief.

  “He was the one who looked skinny and sick, remember?”

  “Um.” He thought for a moment. “Oh yeah. Fuck, man, you were right. Nice one.”

  An hour later, Rebecca led the last of the trio into the sale ring. The auditorium was packed to capacity and Oliver had butterflies in his stomach.

  “Tell me again why this guy’s a big deal?” asked Robert.

  “You see that name in bold type in the catalogue: Wolf Spider?”

  Robert nodded.

  “Well, this season it looks like he’ll be crowned champion juvenile colt in Europe, he’s won a Group Three, and two Group Twos already.”

  “Wow, cool. And how the hell did you know that was going to happen?”

  Oliver, grinning, slapped him on the back. “I didn’t. Blind luck, my friend. But it never hurts to let them think I’ve a crystal ball!” They both laughed.

  “OK, concentrate,” said Oliver, wiping the smile from his face.

  The horse marched around calmly, gently flicking his ears at the crowds staring from their seats. Rebecca kept him going at a military pace, to show off his athletic stride. There was a hum of anticipation as the auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The style of selling was slower and more formal in Europe, and the auctioneer spoke in measured, succinct tones; it was more like a persuasive conversation, than the impersonal business drone in Kentucky.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, who will start me at one hundred thousand Euro?” he called in a theatrical voice.

  The asking price was immediately met. Heads turned. Oliver’s heart skipped a beat. Rebecca glanced up into the crowd and grinned.

  Crown Prince Marwalla – the beady-eyed and painfully thin scion of the ruling family of an oil-rich Gulf state – was the bidder. His bid was swiftly countered by Brendan Reilly, the flamboyantly dressed Irish telecommunications tycoon whose enormous bulk was matched both by his passion for racehorses and his spending power.

  “The battle’s on,” whispered Oliver.

  The Syndicate members sat in a huddle, poker-faced, waiting to see how things would unfold.

  “Rob, see those guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In Kentucky, I was praying they wouldn’t bid against me for ‘Boot, but if they decide they want this guy, anything could happen.”

  “D’you think they will?”

  “Don’t know, but they own his father, so they might want him. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”

  A third bidder nodded his head at the auctioneer. The price shot up to 160,000. Oliver poked Robert in the arm in his excitement. “That’s Mark Pilkington, trainer of Wolf Spider. Tiny in stature, huge in ego – bloody good trainer, though. Some people call him Napoleon, but not to his face. I’ve never seen him at a sale before.”

  The three-way duel progressed, the fighters trading blows of 20,000 each until 300,000 in favour of Prince Marwalla; Pilkington shook his head and turned away. The Syndicate sat motionless.

  “Sorry to lose you, Sir,” said the auctioneer. “Now, who’ll give me three-twenty? It’s against you now, Sir.” He pointed his gavel at Brendan Reilly.

  The rotund man winked at the auctioneer and raised his left hand, palm forward, fingers spread.

  “Three-fifty, I have. Over to you, Sir.” He looked at the Prince, who nodded and mouthed the word “four”.

  “Four hundred thousand I have,” said the auctioneer with a flourish.

  The crowd murmured in excitement and many whispered their predictions of the final price. “Four-fifty; five,” roared the auctioneer, as he took the rapid bids.

  At half a million Euro, Brendan Reilly took stock of the situation, glanced at his catalogue and listened to his advisor whispering into his ear. He faltered for a second, then winked again. The six members of the Syndicate vacated their seats. Oliver cursed under his breath.

  “Five-fifty I have.”

  The Prince nodded immediately.

  “Six.”

  Reilly looked at his agent, who shook his head. Both men turned away and walked out of the auditorium. The crowd moaned, deflated.

  The auctioneer stood for a second with his mouth slightly agape, then recovered his composure and banged down the gavel. “Sold. 600,000 Euro, to Crown Prince Marwalla.”

  The Prince’s entourage swarmed around him as he disappeared into the office behind the rostrum, to sign the purchase slip in privacy.

  Chapter 30

  Rebecca let out a whoop and patted the horse on the neck as she led him out, and an official slapped a sold sticker on the animal’s rump. The horse left the sale ring as it had entered – a little bewildered by the spectacle, and blissfully unaware of the value now on its head.

  “Hoo-haa!” said Robert. “Good return on a ninety grand buy.”

  “Shit,” muttered Oliver. “I thought we were on for a million, with those three battling. Still, not bad, I suppose.”

  “Not bad? Not bad?” said Robert, as he did the maths. “Those three cost 200 grand and we just sold them for nine-sixty.” He looked at Oliver. “Not bad? That’s unbelievable.”

  Oliver beamed as he realized that they had recouped a large chunk of Marco’s investment. “Come on, let’s get Bec, say goodbye to the horses, and celebrate!”

  “Oh yeah! Can’t wait to call Dad when we’re somewhere private.”

  “First, run into the office and give the Prince his luck money, if you can get near him.”

  Rebecca was just closing the latch on the stable door as Oliver rounded the corner. They looked at each other, and their smiles said it all. She ran towards him and jumped into his outstretched arms. He held her feet off the ground.

  “Congratulations, cowboy,” she said, gripping him. “Knew you’d do it.”

  “Holy shit, Bec. I thought we’d make money, but seven-sixty profit! Marco’ll never believe it. I hardly can myself.”

  “You deserve it, hon.”

  He beamed momentarily, then turned it into a frown. “You know, the funny thing is: I was disappointed when the Prince and Reilly stopped battling. I thought they’d go further. I suppose you never can tell.”

  “Don’t get greedy on me now!” she scolded him. “Hey, what was the deal with Napoleon? He didn’t last long.”

  Oliver chuckled. “Pilkington likes to train good horses, but he considers it beneath him to have to bid at public auction to get them. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him bid at a sale before.” A thought crossed his mind. “He must love Wolf Spider.”

  A voice behind them shouted, “Get a room!” It was Robert.

  “Did the Prince take the money?” asked Oliver.

  “No chance. His minder wou
ldn’t even let me near him.” He handed the roll back to Oliver.

  “Then it looks like the drinks are courtesy of the Prince,” said Rebecca, with a glint in her eye.

  “Hang on a sec,” said Oliver. He went into each stable in turn, rubbed the horses on the neck and whispered thanks in their ears.

  Robert watched him in astonishment.

  “You’re a big softy,” said Rebecca.

  Oliver blushed. “Come on, I need a drink,” he said.

  They walked through the auditorium. This time all heads turned for Oliver; people watched him as he strode along. They whispered about him. A few of the guys he nudged past called his name and congratulated him in a mixture of jealousy, curiosity and newfound respect, but this respect had little to do with his backer. This was a case of his peers acknowledging what he was doing with just a small team of horses. Oliver was making a name for himself in the business, where the ability to select the right horses was seen as the ultimate talent: the Holy Grail of the bloodstock world.

  * * *

  They went to the top floor restaurant; it was quiet in the post-lunch lull. A few groups of people sat at tables, some scanning the results on the monitor. Oliver ordered a bottle at the bar, while the others found an isolated table in a corner.

  Robert sat, flipped open his phone, and dialled. “Dad, you sitting down?” he said.

  “Why?” was the suspicious response.

  “We just sold all three for seven-sixty profit. Euro.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, Dad. We totally did it. We’re having a drink to celebrate.”

  “Pass him the phone.”

  Robert did as he was told.

  * * *

  Oliver, still standing, pressed the device to his ear and walked away from everyone. “Hello?” he said.

  “The sale was good?”

  “It was.”

  “Well done, my friend. Turns out you were right again. When do we collect?”

  “In a couple of months, usually. It’ll go into the account over here. We were helped by the health of the market. Trade’s strong, but to be honest, I thought we might get a million for the last colt, but they just stopped bidding.”