by Sam O'Brien
“What the fuck has that got to do with anything?”
Oliver thought he had probably gone too far, so he left the question hanging and ended the call. He sat there on the floor and waited for Rebecca to return from her shift. Five minutes later, he realised what needed to be done. He swallowed hard and punched the numbers.
“How’s it going, my friend?” said Marco.
Oliver blurted it all out as quickly as he could without sounding ridiculous. He told Marco everything, including the likely punishments for Claude and Painter. There was silence at the other end.
“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. He, er, he swears he hasn’t given anything to Boot,” offered Oliver, purely for the sake of saying something. He needed a response from the boss.
“My friend, we need to talk. Get yourself down here tomorrow morning, OK?”
“Er, what about the Preakness? I was going to fly to Baltimore tomorrow.”
“Plans change, I need you here. Besides, we’ll watch it together on TV with a bottle of wine.”
“OK.”
“Call Mike with your flight time, he’ll pick you up.”
“Will do.”
The line went dead.
Marco tossed the phone onto his desk. He had a dark look in his eyes.
“What’s up, Boss?” said Mike, standing almost to attention.
Marco studied the bookshelves, then his eyes wandered around to the fireplace. Eventually, he turned his gaze to Mike and told him the story.
“Looks like we’re going to change the plan earlier than I thought. I had an idea a while back, now’s the time to give it a go. Tomorrow, do the other thing first, but keep the tool in the car. Then pick Oliver up from the airport. Drive him somewhere quiet.”
“Then what?”
Marco told him exactly what was to happen.
Mike took it all in. Marco stood. “I’m fuckin’ starving. You want a sandwich?”
Mike shrugged and followed Marco into the kitchen. As Marco pulled things out of the fridge, Mike spoke his mind. “And if Oliver fucks it up or goes to the Feds?”
Marco stared at him. “Tidy up. He disappears. I don’t give a fuck how you do it, but I don’t want a trace of him ever found. Understand?”
Mike smirked. “I get it.”
“One more thing,” he waved a carving knife at Mike. “You don’t do shit till I give the order.”
Mike looked confused. “Sure thing, Boss. Like always.”
Chapter 47
Rebecca got home to find Oliver stretched out on the sofa, music blaring from the stereo. She kicked off her boots, padded over to the sofa, snuggled up beside him, and caressed his hair. “You still stressed about the race tomorrow, hon?”
Oliver snapped out of his trance. “What? Oh,” he looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her. “The shit’s hit the fan,” he mumbled.
She sat up and gave him a worried look. After he told her the latest events and Marco’s instructions, the look became etched on her face.
“Holy shit, that’s a big deal. The dope test, I mean. Spider and toad venom? Claude’s a tricky bastard.”
“He wouldn’t tell me much about it, or how it works, except that it can make some horses and humans go a bit nuts.”
“He actually said that?” She thought for a moment. “The toad venom is basically known as Bufotinine, which contains a by-product of dopamine. That acts in a number of ways, but basically it’s like adrenaline. The thing is, it’s also a bit like LSD. People lick toads to get high, or they collect the venom, dry it, and smoke the residue.”
Oliver sat up, looking puzzled. “Are you serious? Licking toads? I’ve heard it all now. Imagine if you were stopped by the cops and found in possession of toads!”
Rebecca chuckled nervously. “Bizarre but true. It gets the horses feeling euphoric and hypes them up; no wonder some go psychotic.”
Oliver shrugged. “I suppose we’ve all had an occasional fit of paranoia after too much indulging. I’d hate to see a horse get like that.”
“Yeah, they wouldn’t even know it was the effect of a drug, it’d just drive them nuts if they were a bit that way inclined anyway.” She shook her head. “But I can’t figure what spider venom has to do with it. That’s new – must be difficult to harvest. This is serious, hon, they’ll nail Claude to the wall for this.”
Oliver gave her a funny look; a shiver crept up his spine. “I have to admit, I’m a bit freaked out by this meeting tomorrow. Especially after being hassled by Huntley again.”
“Do you think you should call him?”
“Who, Huntley?” Oliver looked aghast. “No fucking way! I’ll just have to go and see what Marco wants to do. I’ll tell him Huntley approached me again. I have to do that. If he ever found out from someone else, I’d be screwed. That airport was way too packed, somebody might have seen me with the cops. Don’t worry, Bec, the horse’ll win the Belmont, I’ll get that stallion deal and we’ll get away from Marco. Then we’ll get married.”
She smiled. “Seriously, though. You need to get away from this guy.”
“I know, I know.”
Rebecca got up and grabbed two beers from the fridge, and they lay together sipping away in silence for a few minutes. At last she said, “When this whole thing is over, we should travel. I want to get out of Lexington – for a while, anyway. Would you be up for it?”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Would I be up for it? Damn right, Bec! I’d love to, but I thought you couldn’t get that kind of time off.”
“I’m thinking of taking a sabbatical. I’m tired of all this shit. This season’s a bitch. The only break I’ve had since January was two days for the Oaks and Derby, and nothing but politics and bullshit at work.”
“Cool, I’d love to do that, and I could afford to now, after Rich’s will.” He kissed her and stroked her hair. “I thought you couldn’t bear to leave your job?”
“We’ll take off and have an adventure! Nothing like it to clear the mind.”
“It’d be great to see India. Or New Zealand.”
They had a few more beers and talked about far-off places they would go.
* * *
At three am, the door to room 36 of a pleasant roadside motel about three miles from Pimlico racetrack was opened silently with a passkey. The tall lean man, dressed in a cheap crumpled suit, slithered into the room and eased himself into a chair facing the bed. He pulled a pistol from his jacket. His narrow, sunken eyes squinted in the darkness as he slowly screwed a silencer onto the weapon. He let the piece rest on his lap, and lit a cigarette.
* * *
Claude was alone in bed. He rarely had a girlfriend, and his wife had left him four years ago, tired of being a horse widow and frustrated by their inability to have children. His dreams were not always rosy and he rolled in his slumber and imagined that he had left a butt burning in the ashtray. The trainer scratched himself and cursed; he always needed to get up to piss during the night.
He stretched his arm out and turned on the bedside light. He groggily sat up, rubbing his eyes, and only then did it occur to him that there really was fresh smoke in the room. He looked up and saw a man who resembled a tall skinny rodent, staring at him with narrow black eyes. Claude was so startled that he threw himself back against the wooden headboard.
“Who the fuck are you?” he screamed. “What the fuck you think you’re doing?”
The man contorted his face into a grimace that was supposed to be a smile. “Chill out, man. Here, help yourself.” He tossed Claude the packet of cigarettes and let his hand fall onto the pistol. Claude noticed the silenced weapon. A feeling of panic began to engulf him. With trembling hands, he lit up and inhaled urgently.
The man began stroking the cold steel weapon as he spoke. “OK, let’s not fuck around. You don’t know me, but I bet you can guess why I’m here.”
“Concrete Boot?” he mumbled. He really hated calling the horse by his full name.
“If
that horse fucks up the plan, you can bet your ass you’ll be in a world of shit. Understand?”
Claude nodded between drags, ash from his cigarette dropping onto his bare stomach.
“Good.” The man’s fingers kept caressing the gun. “And you better make sure Concrete Boot doesn’t ever test positive. If that happens, you won’t just get nailed by the horseracing cops, know what I mean?”
Claude nodded again, far too petrified to even grunt an answer.
The man picked up the gun and made a show of fondling it, before he placed it in his inside pocket. “Keep the cigarettes,” he said, getting up to leave. “And don’t even think of calling the cops. Go back to sleep and worry about your horses.”
Claude watched him slip out and close the door without a sound. He turned out the light, went to the window and peered out of a crack in the curtains to watch the man drive off, but he couldn’t see anything. He collapsed on the bed and lay there wondering what had possessed him to agree to train for a man like Marco Romano; after all, he had heard the rumours.
He searched his mind and had to admit to himself that it was probably the same reason he backed up his considerable abilities with whatever cutting-edge illegal drugs he could get his hands on. Like he often said to his closest buddies, “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying” – and Claude wanted to win at all costs.
The three horses Oliver had picked out looked to be the best ammunition he would have that year. But this extra shit that came along with them was getting beyond a joke. Things’ll have to change after this racing season, he promised himself.
PART III
Chapter 48
Next day – the third Saturday in May 2006 – when he should have been getting himself and Rebecca to Pimlico for the Preakness, Oliver found himself alone on the noon flight to Newark. He prepared a list of the farms that might be in a position to purchase the breeding rights to Boot, and placed stars beside those that had already made enquiries.
He wanted to hold out until after the Belmont before discussing figures, but given the animal’s pedigree, ability and the fact that the whole racing world widely regarded him as the real winner of the Kentucky Derby, Oliver was beginning to think ten million dollars would not be unrealistic in the current economic climate. More importantly, it would give Marco a nice profit.
For ten million, the buyers would need to impregnate 130 odd mares every year for the first three years at a fee of thirty thousand dollars to make the money back before the horse ever had progeny running on the track. That way, even if produced bad runners, nobody would lose – except the breeders who sent mares to him, but those were the chances you took in this game. Oliver knew he could seal the deal if he won the Belmont.
Oliver pondered the idea of giving Marco his own share of the money. It was possible that Marco would demand it anyway, but by offering to concede it now, Oliver would appear to be sacrificing to give Marco more in return. It was definitely not something his brother would ever have considered, but a gesture he hoped would help to ease him out of the partnership. After all, if it was just business, then a bonus and a cancellation of all debts would surely be the end of things?
He waited outside the terminal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the white Cadillac cut another driver off, steal into a parking space, and stop abruptly. He jumped in.
Mike grunted at him.
Oliver gave him a strange look as he flicked the car into gear and pulled away. “How’s it going? I suppose you know we’ve had a couple of setbacks.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“What’s up?” said Oliver, staring at him in disbelief. He noticed a few tiny stains on Mike’s collar. It looked like he had spilt tomato sauce on his shirt.
Mike turned the radio on and they drove in silence. Oliver stared at the road. His feet touched off something in the footwell, and looking down, he saw a nail gun wrapped in clear plastic. The stains on it were definitely not pasta sauce. Oliver started to sweat.
“Mike, what’s going on? Where we going?”
No answer. He eventually pulled the car up on a leafy road in the woods. Oliver recognized it as the same spot where Mike had first told him about the cops and keeping his mouth shut. Panic crept up his spine as Mike turned off the engine but left the radio blaring. Stealers Wheel: Stuck in the Middle With You chimed from the speakers. Oliver couldn’t help himself but think of some film where a guy gets tortured with this song playing in the background. He took a deep breath and willed himself calm.
Mike turned in his seat to directly face Oliver, and leaned in so close that Oliver could feel breath on his face.
“You remember this place, don’t you?”
Oliver nodded.
“There’s been a change of plan.”
“What kind of change?”
“Nothing much. It’s like this. Painter has a new job to do, seeing as how she can’t race no more.”
“She’ll be able to race in a month or two . . .”
Mike jabbed his finger at Oliver’s face. “Shut the fuck up and listen. You gotta take her away from the track. Somewhere nice and quiet, then make arrangements to fly her to Ireland.”
Oliver frowned. "But . . .”
Mike ignored him. “So, you take her to a quiet place, book the flight, then a day before she goes, someone’ll give you a package that you’ll put inside her.”
Oliver was lost. “What?” He interrupted again. “You want me to put something inside her? What the fu–! What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Inside her!” Mike roared. “I don’t give a fuck if you stick it up her ass or shove it down her throat. Get your little vet chick to help you figure it out. Now let me finish.”
Oliver nodded gravely, trying to digest what he was being told.
“You go with her on the plane, and take the package out at the other end – again, somewhere quiet. Someone’ll take it off you. That’s all you gotta do. You make sure it goes smooth. Then you get your ass back here, go to the sales, and buy more females. Nothing too expensive.” He wagged his finger in Oliver’s face. “Then we fill ‘em up and send ‘em over. You’ll buy them for a price and you get to make commission at 15%; that’ll be your end so it’s legit on paper, OK? It’ll be cool, simple, and everybody makes money.” He smiled at a bewildered Oliver.
“Er, right. So, um, what’s in the package?”
“She’s a useless fuckin’ mule, so now we’re going to use her as one.”
“Okaay. But what’s in the package? Is it big? Heavy? Fragile?”
Mike smiled. “I figured you’d ask that, and I’m gonna fuckin’ tell you. The package is that white shit you like to put up your nose at the weekend or whenever I give it to you.”
Oliver turned pale.
“You don’t like it? Tough shit. You don’t have to know what it is, you don’t have to handle it or open the package or touch it. Just put it inside her and send her to Ireland. That’s all you gotta do.”
He could see Oliver’s jaw hanging open. “Hey, my friend, don’t worry about it. Plans change, is all. This is the new deal, but it’ll be OK. Only don’t do anything stupid, you know what I’m saying? You remember our little chat a while back? Well, we know you’re a guy that’s honest, loyal, trustable. That’s why you get an important job like this. Just don’t freak out.” He smiled warmly and clapped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Aahh, you’ll be fine. Just remember one thing: if she fails this dope test, you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
Oliver swallowed. The sweat was pouring off him.
“See that gun by your feet?”
“Yeah.”
“You could easily get nailed by one like that.”
Mike gave him a deadpan stare. Oliver closed his mouth and regained his composure. He thought now would be a good time to mention Huntley.
“Not a problem. I, I’ll get it done, but something happened which may cause a problem.”
Mike was surprised. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”<
br />
“Agent Huntley accosted me again. At the airport, last time I was flying back to Kentucky. He pulled me into a room and started asking bullshit questions like, had we fixed the Kentucky Derby. I explained the stupidity of anyone wanting to throw the Derby.” He shrugged. “That was it. I think he was just trying to scare the shit out of me to get me talking.”
“Get you talking about what?”
“Search me.”
“You said nothing?”
“There’s nothing to say. But, I did forget to mention the racing plans for today and the Belmont.” Oliver forced a smile, in an effort to relieve the tension.
Mike laughed. “You’re a smart guy, you know that? C’mon, you gotta tell the boss about that cocksucker Huntley.”
As they drove through the leafy New Jersey suburbs, Oliver thought about his new mission. There was something he couldn’t figure out.
“Mike, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t people normally trying to smuggle drugs into America?”
Mike answered in an irritated voice, without taking his eyes off the road. “Don’t do too much thinking, OK? Don’t try to make sense of things. The fuckin’ reasons don’t concern you. What concerns you is getting the job done. And if you do it properly, you’ll make money, so you got nothing to complain about. So shut the fuck up, already.”
Oliver found himself thinking about the drug scandal in his brother’s airline and the silent Italian steward. He had been so wrapped up in the racing he hadn’t even bothered to check with James Foster what was going on.
These guys never issue direct orders. They use middle men. Richard’s words echoed in his brain. Marco had definitely put the guy on Rich’s plane, and Rich either let him do it or encouraged him, and he ended up dead. Now Marco wanted pretty much the same thing from the other brother.
Oliver knew he was in deep shit, and if anything went wrong, he would share his brother’s fate. He resolved to push the illegality of the matter out of his mind and make calm rational decisions, always keeping the end goal in sight. A bit like he did at the yearling sales. Oliver would dearly have loved to spend more time mulling it over, but before he knew it, the large gates were lumbering open like a hungry mouth to admit them to the lion’s den.