by Sam O'Brien
Oliver felt ill and pushed the other images away without looking at them. “Jesus, I’ve only seen stuff like that in a movie.”
“The first guy was someone they suspected of stealing from the family. They nailed him to the door and sliced him with a boxcutter. They finished him with the belly slash after he gave up the goods. The coroner reckoned he was alive like this for six hours. The other one was some poor guy who couldn’t pay for his bets or his hookers. They did this to him for ten thousand dollars. After they put word of this on the street, they rarely had a problem with debtors.”
A bead of sweat was forming on Oliver’s hairline, and he wiped it with his hand. “They could be photos of any guys. You could be making all this up to scare me.”
Huntley’s exasperation was beginning to show. “Jesus H Christ. Wake up! Marco is extremely cunning, we don’t have concrete proof he did this, but we know he did. Now, I know you think everything’s gonna be hunky dory and you’re only buying horses and whatever, but I’m telling you to wake up and smell the horse manure, boy. This guy is not some client you can keep on a leash. He’s a parasite, who’ll keep taking from you until there’s nothing left.” He leaned closer to Oliver.
“Marco Romano doesn’t give a shit about anyone except himself, but his other great talent is that he can convince people he does care. That’s why he’s called The Gent. Are you with me?”
Oliver put a stunned look on his face, but fear focused his brain. His head whirled with Huntley’s information, but he had to keep his eye on the ball. He did not want to end up as a photo in a dossier. He asked for a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and took a few minutes to think. His mind had never moved as quickly, even when he was making rapid assessments of animals in full flight. He drained the paper cup, placed the butt in it, and looked at Huntley.
“Would sir like anything else?” enquired the agent.
“No thank you. I’d just like to say my piece and get on my plane, unless of course you have anything to charge me with?”
“Think you’re so fucking clever, huh?”
“No, I don’t think I’m so fucking clever. I just want to go about my business and get myself out of all this. I’m going to secure deals to retire the horses I bought for my client. That’ll conclude my business and, believe me, I’ve no intention ending up like the guys in those photos. I have never stolen anything from anyone, and I never will. So I really don’t see what you want from me.”
“What I want is your help . . .”
Oliver put his hands over his ears. “Please, don’t.”
“Yeah, well, you can either help voluntarily or we’ll put you away with your buddies. And we will get you, you can bet on that.” Huntley flicked the cup off the table, got up and opened the door. “Take him to the fucking plane,” he barked to the guards.
Oliver hesitated in the doorway and spoke over his shoulder. “Good things come to those who wait patiently, Agent Huntley.”
“What the fuck?”
Oliver headed down the corridor
* * *
Huntley shook his head as he watched the cocky little shit disappear. “You think you know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he muttered. Then he closed the door, sat down, swore at himself, pulled the voice recorder out of his pocket, listened to the meeting again and started writing his report.
Huntley felt a little more dismayed every day; race-fixing wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for Marco Romano, and even then Huntley would have to hand the case over to another agency – that was not going to happen. The smug Irishman could end up like his brother, for all Huntley cared.
* * *
Oliver fastened his seatbelt and vomited into the sickbag. The stewardess brought him water. He gulped it down and resolved never to tell anyone about the photos, not even Rebecca. He didn’t want to worry her. He would have to let Marco know about the meeting, but perhaps he would leave out the details.
He told himself it would all be fine once he got the stallion money. It was, after all, just a business deal. It was just about money. He was beginning to understand that now. He was starting to think more like his brother, though that was a realization that didn’t really appeal to Oliver.
Chapter 45
“What the hell? I don’t usually get told how to run horses by owners,” said Claude, with a measure of false bravado.
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, well that may be true when you’re dealing with yuppies, tycoons or old widows, but we both know you’re going to have to do it with this guy, so stop whining.”
They were sitting in Claude’s office on the back stretch of Churchill Downs. Oliver had called to see him an hour ago, but had to wait until Claude finished making the arrangements to transfer his operation to Belmont for the summer.
They were the only two people there. It was lunchtime and the grooms had all gone on their break; their charges were quietly munching hay and relaxing after the morning’s workouts.
“That means I’ll have to work a goddamn miracle to keep Boot sane and ship him alone to Maryland for the Preakness. Jesus, what a mess.” He sighed and lit up a smoke. “You can be a cocky fucker,” he said half-jokingly.
“Thanks, Claude. You act like this is my idea.”
“You sure it isn’t?”
“Very droll. Now listen, all we have to do is pull off the Preakness without fucking him up for the Belmont. I had three calls this morning from bloodstock agents. They’re all sniffing for a bargain deal for different farms. I told them we’ll talk after he wins the Belmont. Then we’ll do a deal, take our cut, and part company with Marco. How’s that sound?”
“Peachy fucking creamy. You sure it’ll be that easy?”
“Well, it has been so far. Right up till last Saturday, that is. By the way, where’s Pablo? I think it’s only fair to tell him what the deal is.”
“He dives to the bottom of a bottle after he rides out in the morning; does that when things get bad. He’ll sort himself out or I’ll cut his retainer. It always worked in the past.” Claude shook his head and clicked the heels of his cowboy boots together. “I shoulda known better than to take these horses. Guys like that never take the knocks and always get greedy. I got a bad feeling about this.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Claude. Your eyes lit up when I told you about these horses and how much we paid for them. I bet you’d even seen them at the sales. You just thought you’d have some easy money.” Oliver hesitated with his mouth slightly open. “But then again, I suppose I did, too.”
Claude looked up at him, surprised.
Oliver tried to be reassuring. “We’ll get out of this. Just need that stallion deal.”
Pablo leaned on the bar and cradled his head in his hands. The cigarette wedged in his fingers burned so low that it singed his skin, though in his inebriated state, it took a second for the pain to register. He sat up with a jolt, flicking his left arm out in a wild gesture, sending the butt sailing across the bar and down into an ice bucket. His wiry frame wavered on its high perch, and he grabbed the edge of the bar to steady himself.
The exasperated barman looked up from his newspaper. “Do I have to throw you out again, man?” he asked. Though both men knew he didn’t mean it.
Rick Brown was the owner of this dank, filthy little bar in a backstreet a few blocks from Churchill Downs. He was used to Pablo’s binges and actually enjoyed it when he won big and came in here with a crowd of hangers-on to blow it all on booze and girls. Today was different, though. It was always a darker vibe whenever he found the jockey alone banging on his door straight after morning workouts. But it didn’t really matter, as long as he kept drinking vodka and running up a tab.
Since the race, Pablo had hit rock bottom. He normally balanced his drinking with his extraordinary talent in the saddle, but this was the last thing he needed. The public ridicule he had endured that day, coupled with the abuse from angry punters and the mauling he took from the press, had sent him hurtling over the edge. When the
champagne wasn’t flowing, he had nobody to turn to for help or advice. Claude didn’t give a shit, unless he stopped showing up for morning work.
The jockey poured himself another shot of the sharp, clear liquid and wondered how many more he needed before he would pass out.
Rick fished the soggy butt out of the ice and flicked it into the bin. He ambled back to the storeroom, scratching his large belly and muttering to himself.
Pablo’s sozzled brain registered a creaking noise behind him, followed by shuffling feet. He turned his head and tried to focus on the two men that approached and sat at the end of the bar. Their cheap tracksuits and chain bracelets rustled as they installed their stocky frames on barstools.
“S’goin’?” said Pablo, raising his glass and throwing the contents down his neck.
The two men nodded and started talking to each other in guttural tones that were just a bit too loud.
“Pity about the Derby, lost my fuckin’ ass on that horse.”
“Pity? A fuckin’ disgrace. Lotta people lost their asses on that race. Concrete Boot? I’d like to fit that jockey up with a pair.” He let out a wheezing laugh.
His companion cackled.
Pablo’s head swayed as he stared at the four of them. A small warning light flickered at the back of his brain.
Without looking at the jockey, they continued. “If I was that fuckin’ idiot, I’d be sure not to fuck up for the, uh Preakness and um, uh, Belmont. I’d be sure to do exactly what I was told to do.”
The light started flashing brightly, causing his head to thump.
“Fuck yeah, if I was told to hold back in the Preakness and save the horse for a big win in New York, that’s exactly what I’d do.”
Both men swiveled their heads in unison and stared at the petrified Brazilian, who was sobering up fast, his heart pounding, adrenaline forcing its way around his system.
The storeroom door swung open and Rick sauntered back in, carrying a crate of sodas. He eyed the newcomers suspiciously. “You guys want a beer?”
“Say, is this Dick’s Tavern?”
Rick cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. “Sign outside says Rick’s Tavern.”
“No, the sign outside says ick’s Tavern. You a Rick or a Dick?” He cackled and nudged his friend. As they shuffled past Pablo towards the door, he added, “Must have gone off track somewhere and fucked everything up.”
“Assholes,” said Rick to the slamming door.
Pablo chain-smoked for half an hour before calling a cab. When he was alone in his apartment, he called Claude. “Are we running in the Preakness, Boss?”
“Has Oliver been talking to you?”
“No, Boss. I, I heard a rumour.”
“Sleep it off and get your ass here before evening stables. We’ve got a change in plan to deal with.” The line went dead.
Pablo lit a cigarette and flopped onto his sofa. He wondered if he should just drive straight to the Mexican border after he slept off the booze, then he remembered his car was at the track. The cigarette burned down to his fingers again as he fell into a comatose state.
* * *
Two weeks later, Claude was sitting on a borrowed horse, to give himself a better view of the morning’s workouts at Pimlico racetrack in Maryland. Racehorses milled about on the dirt, their rippling bodies throwing long shadows across the track in the sunny spring morning. Some were warming up slowly, trotting or cantering on the outside rail, others breezing down the inside rail straining their riders’ arms to the maximum. All the runners were having a final, short blowout before the Preakness tomorrow.
Concrete Boot had worked alone before the sun rose and was now safely back in his stable, but his trainer wanted to observe the opposition. When the spectacle was over and the horses walked to their barns under a fog of sweat, he followed them off the track, dismounted, and threw the reins to the animal’s owner.
“Thanks, that was worth it,” he said to the rugged, middle-aged Virginian, who made a living using his horse to escort runners to the start.
“Anytime, Claude, I reckon your ole’ hoss’ll win by a country mile.”
“You and half the State,” he muttered, walking away, his boots crunching on the gravel.
He checked on Boot, made a call to Oliver, and was about to make his way to the car park, when a golf cart whirred around the corner and stopped in front of him. The security guard driver was accompanied by the Track Manager, Bob Green.
He looked at Claude. “Mr. Duvall,” he said, with a serious tone. “Can you accompany me to my office?”
“Why so formal, Bob? What’s going on?” said Claude, sliding onto the cart.
Not another word was said until they were alone in Green’s office.
“The Kentucky Horseracing Board sent this report. It arrived by courier this morning.” He opened an A4 size envelope on his desk and took out two copies of a urine analysis report.
Claude read the horse name on the top of the sheet and instantly knew what was going to follow.
Green allowed Claude to read the report before he said his piece. “Mr. Duvall, I have been instructed to escort you from the premises, and to inform you that pending the outcome of disciplinary action by the KHRB, you are required to relinquish your trainers’ licence. Who will you nominate as your replacement?”
“Ricky’ll take over. How long will they give me?”
“I’d say it’ll be six months. The ban will apply to every State.” Green’s mask of formality began to slip. “Shit, Claude, it’s a damn shame. All you’ve done for racing the last decade.” He chewed his lip. “But I gotta tell you: the powers that be are pissed. I mean really pissed. The fine’ll be big and there’s talk they’ll try to slap you with a lifetime ban . . . Unless you tell them where you get the stuff. There’s talk that people are pushing to establish a federal body to deal with this kind of thing. They’ll want to make an example of you.”
Claude rolled his eyes and shrugged resignedly. “So, I’ll have to play ball to keep playing ball? They get one positive after ten years, and they threaten to kick me out? Well fuck, I guess you’re only as good as your last winner round here.”
“I feel for you, Claude, I really do. God knows, everyone’s giving needles to their horses, but they’ve targeted you. They got a positive and they’re freaked out. Results say this is some kind of spider venom. That’s some weird shit, Claude. Makes racing look bad.”
“That’s weird shit, alright. Maybe I had an arachnid problem in Kentucky. I always said those barns are too old and dirty.”
Green gave him a deadpan expression. Claude decided not to push his luck. He thanked Green for his candour and retreated. The security guard followed him to the car park and watched him drive through the gates. On the road, Claude called his lawyer and told him everything. Then he made another call.
Chapter 46
Oliver staggered and fell against the kitchen table in Rebecca’s apartment. The phone was still pressed to his ear. He wanted to be sick, but he summoned up the willpower to continue the conversation. He lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged on the tiles. “How did it happen? I mean, why the fuck would you take such a stupid chance with a good horse?”
“Oliver, I know what I’m doing. I don’t take stupid chances. I just want to find out how the hell they knew what to test for. I’m the only one in the world who uses this, you know. It’s cutting edge stuff.”
“Stop, Claude. I really don’t care. I can’t believe you doped Painter, especially after what I said to you about steroids.”
“What did you think? That you buy three horses and they’re all just that good?” He laughed, “Hell, I bet you thought you were that good, huh?” He thought for a second. “To be honest, you are. Boot’s the best I’ve ever trained, Shadow’s a speed machine, and Painter’s gutsy and game, but they all need a helping hand. Anyway, it’s done now. I’ve got a good lawyer on the job. I guess they’ll ban me for six months, then I’ll start up wit
h a better chemist.”
“Ban you? Ban you? Are you fucking stupid? Marco’ll do a lot more than ban you.”
There was silence on the line.
“Claude, did you give that stuff to Boot? Are we looking at another positive?”
“Boot’s clean. You have my word.”
Oliver laughed nervously. “Your word?”
“Look, that stuff is basically a cocktail: venom from some South American spider, mixed with stuff from a toad. Don’t ask me how I get it. It’s very expensive, but it’s like a narcotic painkiller on steroids. They just zip along hard and fast if you get the dose right. You only need a tiny shot and it’s untraceable, unless you’re looking for it specifically. But there’s one side effect. In some animals and humans with highly . . .”
“Wait – humans?” Oliver cut in.
“Oh, you don’t wanna know. Anyway, it can induce a kind of psychosis, sends them a bit nuts. So naturally, I never gave any to Boot. Besides, there’s not a horse in the country to beat him. Pablo’s gonna have some fuckin’ job to make second look genuine tomorrow.”
“Well, he’d better do it. Marco’s not going to be happy if we screw this one up. Hey, will they ban Painter, or just strip her of the race?”
“I’d say they’ll ban her for a few months. And we’ll lose the prize money.”
“Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. What about the betting money?”
“That usually stands. It’s too difficult to know who bet what – the money has all changed hands, and it’d be impossible to get anyone to return their winnings. Besides, nobody who bet against her would have kept a losing ticket.”
“Jesus, I hope so. Or else you and I are going to be in a world of shit. In fact, we may be already. Remember what happened to my brother?”