by Sam O'Brien
“Couldn’t you twist their arms?” Marco said with a chuckle.
“I wish.”
“OK. I gotta go. Take your cut, then send the rest back. Nice work.” The line went dead.
Oliver sat down with the others. Robert took the phone and went to the toilet.
“Congratulations, hon.” She smiled mischievously. “So, now I am with you for your money.”
“I knew it,” he said drily.
They both laughed.
“You’re right, though, Bec. I’ve been so drunk with success. I haven’t stopped to think about my cut till Marco mentioned it just now.” He took a deep breath and stared at her. “A hundred and ninety grand.” He sat silent for a moment to let it sink in. “Fuck yeah! I did it. In fact, I should call Mum and let her know. And my asshole brother.”
“Good idea, but don’t gloat when you call him, OK? Be the better man.”
Oliver pondered this for a second. “Better yet, I won’t tell him. Besides, Mum’ll let him know.”
He punched the numbers.
“Hello?” said Evelyn, sounding frail.
“Mum, we did it! We sold all three for a serious touch.”
Her voice perked up. “Oh, well done, Oliver! I’m so proud of you. You deserve it. That’s wonderful.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“If you’re finished, come back here and bring that lovely girl with you. I hardly had a chance to say hello before you whisked her away with the horses.”
Oliver looked at Rebecca as he spoke. “You should’ve come up here with us, like I wanted you to. You’d have loved it. They were like your horses, too, you know.”
“It was nice having a bit of life about the farm, but I’d have felt out of place up there. Will you please come for a few days?”
He smiled. “Love to. We need a few days off. I’ll get the outside of the house painted, too. My treat, and the rest of the inside. How’s that sound?”
“Lovely!” she said. “And Oliver?” There was a pause. “Your father would have been proud, too.”
“Please, Mum, don’t.”
“Try to understand, Oliver.”
“Understand what? That he thought I was an eejit?”
There was another brief silence. “So I’ll expect you both tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, Mum. Bye.”
“Don’t be too hard on her,” said Rebecca.
He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Shit, you’re right . . . It’s not her I want to be hard on. Besides, more I think back, I reckon she never had a say in anything when he was alive.”
Robert reappeared and plonked himself down. They all clinked glasses.
“Here’s to the Prince!” said Oliver.
He let the stress and pressure flow out of his system. Success was beginning to sink in and he threw his mind forward to the autumn racing in America and their three runners. He was glad Rebecca would get to meet his mother properly. After that, he would figure out when and how he would ask her to marry him.
He was rudely dragged back to reality by his phone displaying his brother’s name on the screen.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” said Oliver. “I suppose you want to invest now?”
“No, Ollie, like I said, not really my thing. I wanted to congratulate you. Mother just called me so I checked the results on the web. Nice one, brother. Dad would have been proud.”
Oliver frowned. “Wait, back up a sec – you checked the results after Mum called you?”
“Yeah, wanted to see it for myself.”
“Just in case I was making it all up, to look like the big man. Fuck, Rich, you don’t change, do you?”
“Ollie, I’m delighted for you, and surprised – it was such a surprise that I wanted to see it in black and white.”
“Because my word – or Mum’s – isn’t good enough?”
“Not statistically, no.”
“Fuck off, Rich,” he said, ending the call.
Oliver sat shaking his head. “The nerve – what a dickhead,” he said to nobody in particular.
Robert and Rebecca sat in silence, searching for a way to change the subject.
Oliver’s phone chimed with a message. It read: Am happy for you. Sorry for doubting you. You did well. Hope you get fair share profit. Mind yourself. Take care. Rich.
“Too little, too late,” muttered Oliver, draining his glass.
Chapter 31
Dressed in a new tailored suit, and with his hair slicked back, Oliver stood with Rebecca, Robert and Claude, in the tree-lined parade paddock of Belmont Park racetrack in the cool November breeze.
Every seat, terrace, balcony and viewing area was packed to capacity. The crowd numbered easily one hundred thousand, not just New Yorkers, but people from all over the racing world. This was the annual Breeders Cup Thoroughbred World Championships. Held at a track in America or Canada every autumn, it was the supreme challenge for horses from all over the world and the finale of the northern hemisphere flat racing season.
Oliver had never attended the event before. Every year he had watched the thrilling races on television. To be here with a runner was a dream come true.
Painter Girl looked magnificent as she strode confidently around the paddock with the other runners for the next race: the Juvenile Fillies Championship, worth half a million dollars to the winner. Since that incredible day in June, she had won twice more very impressively, including a Grade Three contest. Then Oliver and Claude had thought it was best to give her a small break to freshen her up.
She was usually a relaxed filly, but became anxious and sweated profusely whenever Pablo mounted and took her down to the start. Today was no exception; she started to jog on her toes and her eyes bulged as soon as Claude legged Pablo onto her back. Many punters groaned at this display of nerves, taking it as a sign of energy being squandered. Others knew that it was normal behaviour for this talented filly. Pablo ignored her antics, he sat with a relaxed posture, but his face was a taut study in concentration, focused on the race ahead.
Despite the nervousness, she was still sent off favourite, with a price of 2/1, because of her unbeaten record and her trainer’s uncanny knack of having his horses spot-on for the big days.
The air was thick with anticipation and expectation. Claude was unusually quiet and he chain-smoked hungrily. Oliver soaked up the moment, feeling truly privileged to be standing there. He quietly wondered how much Marco was wagering, or if he was holding his own betting pool. All Oliver knew for sure was that Claude had told him to pass on the message that today, she was unbeatable. He hoped Claude was right, having put 10,000 dollars of his own money on her. He planned to use some of the winnings to buy an enormous diamond engagement ring for Rebecca, who stood gripping his arm in support, unaware of the large bet he had placed. He would tell her if they won.
Robert kept scanning the groups of owners and trainers, looking for the next pretty girl in his life. He had grown quite accustomed to being his father’s representative at the races and also began making an effort to dress up in suits. There had been little media interest in him.
They took the elevator up to the owners and trainers viewing area when the runners filed out onto the track. Oliver fleetingly thought of Agent Huntley, who hadn’t bothered any of them ever since – as far as he knew.
In the packed viewing area, Oliver fought to get a space and raised his binoculars. He could see Painter Girl at the start, circling, dripping with sweat and shaking her head. He cast a glance at Claude, who was watching a TV monitor with Robert and Rebecca. Claude was sweating nearly as much as the horse, and devouring cigarettes. Now was not the time for anything to go wrong.
After several frantic minutes, the cream of America’s two-year-old fillies were loaded and ready to burst into action. The bell rang and they erupted onto the track. Oliver’s heart was beating in rhythm with their hooves, as they thundered along, kicking up dirt in their wake. He calmed himself as Pablo settled Painter Girl into an even rhythm abou
t seven lengths off the suicidal pace.
The runners rounded the first turn and galloped onto the back stretch of the track. The hypnotic drone of the commentator punctuated the excited din of the crowd. As they thundered along the backstretch, Painter Girl appeared perfectly at ease, head down, poised to strike. The lead horse showed signs of tiring as she led the field into the final turn, and she dropped back and towards the outside of the track, allowing another to take the rail position as the race stepped up a gear.
Pablo changed his hands on the reins and, as they straightened into the home stretch, he nudged Painter Girl with his heels and asked her to extend her stride. The crowd began to cheer. In a matter of strides, almost in the blink of an eye, she was alongside the leader. Oliver exploded in a torrent of shouting, he willed her on. “Go, Painter! Go, Painter!”
Even Claude dropped his cigarette and pumped his fist in the air. “Get on with it, Pablo,” he roared.
Robert and Rebecca were bouncing up and down, screaming their lungs out. Pablo raised his whip hand, he twirled the stick like a baton before bringing it down once firmly on Painter Girl’s rear, and she darted into the lead. Pablo pumped both his arms on the reins, his whip stuck up in the air above his crouched body like a periscope. The stands erupted; Oliver’s screams were drowned by the roar of 80,000 people. Painter Girl ate up the remaining 300 metres with Pablo clamped to her neck, driving her on for all he was worth.
Behind her, jockeys urged their mounts on, pumping their arms, flailing their whips, desperately trying to squeeze out every last ounce of effort and energy, but to no avail. Painter Girl was across the line. Pablo stood up in his stirrups and waved his whip at the crowd.
Oliver jumped up and down shouting, then grabbed Rebecca.
“We did it, Bec! We did it!” he yelped. They leapt about as one, knocking into Claude, who looked visibly relieved. Robert was howling and punching the air like he had just scored the winning touchdown at the Superbowl. Oliver embraced Robert and Claude.
They dashed to an elevator. People parted and let them pass. Everyone recognized Claude and there were shouts of congratulations, pats on the back and whoops of delight. On ground level, they pushed their way towards the winner’s circle to greet the exhausted athlete and her ecstatic rider, who flung his goggles into the adoring crowd.
Pablo leapt clean off the animal’s back, flying into the air to the delight of the crowd, then he jumped on Robert and kissed him on both cheeks. “Well done. Thanks! She’s amazing,” he said in a thick accent. Robert looked a bit shocked by the gesture.
The heaving, blowing horse was un-tacked, covered with a sweat-sheet, and led away to the stables. The masses clapped her as she passed in front of the stands.
Oliver, Claude, Rebecca and Robert were ushered to the presentation area, to receive the trophy. Claude and Robert mounted the podium to collect their prizes as trainer and owner from the Governor of New York, who gave Robert a warm handshake and some rather nervous, obsequious banter: all but ignoring Claude.
After the brief ceremony, a television reporter accosted Claude for an interview.
“What can I say? Hell of a filly – talent to burn,” he bellowed, as Robert and the others retreated away from the cameras.
“Future plans?” drawled the reporter.
“She’ll go for the Kentucky Oaks next May, after a winter break. That’s all, thanks, buddy.”
Oliver stood beside the podium and gazed up at the rapturous crowd. His eyes scanned the faces. He noticed the flags and banners many brought to cheer on their favourites, he saw a huge gathering of Japanese, here to support their runner in the afternoon’s last race, the Classic. A warm, hazy feeling came over him: could it really get any better than this? Suddenly he realized there was something he just had to do – immediately.
He turned to Rebecca, flung his arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Will you marry me?”
Her dazzling eyes stood out on stalks, then the shock passed and she looked at her man. “Well, gee, honey, I don’t know. I’m kinda holding out for a bigshot racehorse owner.”
“Oh well, pity . . .” Oliver cocked his head, raising his eyebrows, pretending to ponder her words. “Wait a second, that would be me!”
She placed her hands on his cheeks and said, “It sure would, and I sure will.” They kissed and, for a moment, the noise of the racetrack faded into oblivion.
* * *
Oliver couldn’t see agents Huntley and Rosen gazing at him through binoculars from the press balcony at the top of the grandstand.
“Looks like it’s all still peachy-fucking-creamy for Romano’s Irishman,” said Rosen.
Huntley shook his head despondently. “Guys like that never see it coming till it’s too goddamn late.”
Chapter 32
A week later, Oliver was sprawled on a sofa in Marco’s study, waiting for him to arrive. The events at the Breeders Cup had finally sunk in, and the shock of it all had turned into a euphoric sense of satisfaction and a greater feeling of self-confidence. His daydreams of winning more big races and marrying Rebecca were interrupted by Marco’s large hand clapped on his shoulder. He stood over him, wearing a broad grin which spread up into the dark eyes and softened them. Oliver stood and Marco embraced him warmly.
“Well done, my friend,” said Marco, releasing him. “You’ve delivered.”
Oliver blushed. “Thanks, but it’s a team effort, really.”
“Don’t be modest,” he said, wagging a finger. “You had the balls to pitch the idea to me. So you might as well enjoy it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I am!”
“Good.” He sat and patted the sofa. Oliver sat beside him.
Marco pulled a fat brown envelope from his back pocket. He tossed it onto Oliver’s lap, in much the same way that Mike had tossed the little bag of cocaine at him all those years ago.
“What’s this?” said Oliver.
“Your cut of the prize money’ll go to your account, but that’s a little extra taste.” He tapped his fist gently on Oliver’s knee. “You’ve earned it.”
Oliver fondled the bulging envelope as he stuffed it into his jacket pocket. I’ve earned it, he thought. Indeed I did. A warm feeling engulfed him. He cleared his mind to prevent tears welling up. “Look, Marco. Thanks, really – for everything. You put faith in me and that gave me confidence, and it all grew from there. And we’re not done yet. You’ve got most of your investment back from the sales and we’ve three good horses to go into battle next year.”
“Some battle!” he cackled. “I gotta tell you, Oliver. I like to do new things, take chances – calculated risks. I like you and I took a chance. You came through. You’re safe. You’re with me now.”
Oliver felt a surge of emotion. His hands started to shake; he swallowed, and found himself on the verge of tears. He felt like he finally belonged.
“Horses are quite the little earners. Like taking candy from babies: you win on the betting and you win the prize money.” He slapped Oliver on the knee.
Oliver felt a warning bell sound in his brain, and he shot Marco a sideways glance. “Look, Marco, horseracing’s a rollercoaster. We’ve kicked ass so far, but they could just as easily get injured. Nothing’s guaranteed when you deal with animals.”
Marco thought for a second, then dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry so much. They’re good horses and when I’m on, they win. So relax, enjoy the ride.”
Oliver nodded in agreement and decided to do exactly that.
“You know, Oliver, I got something else to thank you for.”
He looked at Marco, whose face wore an expression that could have been sheepishness.
“The thing is, since you came along, it’s like Robert actually wants to spend more time here. So that part of the plan worked, too.”
Oliver was astonished and speechless.
“OK, let’s celebrate,” said Marco, changing the subject.
They spent the evening
talking horses and plans for the coming spring; there was even talk of the Kentucky Derby for Concrete Boot and the Kentucky Oaks for Painter Girl. Shadows would stay sprinting, and challenge for the top races after a winter break. They also discussed insurance for the horses.
Robert appeared for dinner and they laughed and toasted success.
Oliver felt at home, surrounded by people who shared a common goal and who were thankful for his talents and abilities. He had brought success to them all.
A couple of days later, Oliver sat in the reception area of Watson and Hollenbach veterinary clinic.
Oliver sat on a bench flicking through veterinary magazines. He looked at his watch and said to the young, gum-chewing brunette behind the desk, “Linda, is she going to be much longer?”
She glanced at the work schedule in front of her. “I don’t rightly know,” she drawled. “Not much on her chart, but I did see a truck come in before you got here: probably an emergency.”
So much for our lunch date, he thought, and resumed flicking through the crumpled magazines.
The entrance door was pushed open and a pretty girl in her mid-twenties with striking flame-red hair swept past him.
“Hey there, Linda! How’s it going? God, it’s cold out,” she said in a bubbly voice.
“Hey! I’m good, but, aw shoot! Are you here for the interview?”
“I sure am. We’ll run the piece about y’all in next week’s issue.”
“Well, I got bad news. Dr. Watson’s been in colic surgery the last three hours, so either you come back tomorrow or wait and see if he’s up to doing it afterwards.”
“I’ll wait, I guess,” she sighed. “There goes my day.”
She pivoted on her heels, and found a seat opposite Oliver, staring at him as she sat.
“Say, you’re the Painter Girl guy, right?”