by Sam O'Brien
Marco greeted them in the hall with warm embraces. Oliver was taken aback by this affability, considering the chat he had had with Mike. As Marco released him, he noticed an almost imperceptible twitch in the big man’s right eye. Mike responded with a less-than-subtle nod. The orders had come from the top.
“My man,” he said. “I hope that jockey does the right thing today.”
“Me too, Marco.”
Mike cut in. “Say, Boss, wait till you hear this. Tell him,” he said, nudging Oliver.
“Oh yeah. The Feds gave me some abuse again. The same Agent actually: guy named Huntley. He interrogated me at the airport. I think he thought if he could make me shit myself, I’d tell him everything.”
Marco cocked his head to one side and looked quizzical. “Everything? What everything?”
The eyes burned into Oliver.
“He reckons we’re fixing races. Specifically, that we threw the Derby.”
“Can you believe it? If only they knew the shit that caused us.” He laughed out loud, but stopped abruptly. “Mike, go change your clothes. Right fuckin’ now,” he said, staring at him.
“What? Oh. OK, Boss.”
Marco nodded.
Mike spun on his heel and marched out of the house. Marco threw his arm around Oliver and guided him into the TV room. “We’ll watch it in here.”
They found Robert sprawled on the sofa watching a horror film. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, his bare feet were on the coffee table. The dazed depression on his face indicated the previous night had been a long one.
“Hi, man,” he said to Oliver, without averting his gaze from the screen.
“Turn that shit off. Put the racing on,” said Marco, walking behind the bar to grab a bottle of wine and three glasses. He pointed to a platter of sandwiches that stood on the bar.
“Butler’s off: self-service today. Sit back, relax, and help yourself,” he said, installing himself on a leather recliner.
Oliver looked around the room and saw an elaborate stereo system and enormous TV, but was struck by a bizarre-looking abstract painting above the fireplace. He couldn’t help himself but stare at the violent composition of bold colours, which looked as if they had been hurled onto the canvas. The deep-pile white carpet underfoot and the over-varnished wood of the bar combined to give the room a garish feel that was in sharp contrast to the elegant serenity of Marco’s office next door.
Oliver sat on a large armchair as Robert hurriedly changed the channel.
“Shit, I totally forgot about the race,” said Robert.
“You know, I almost did myself,” said Oliver, without thinking.
Marco gave him a sharp look.
“What time’s it on?” asked Robert.
“Five-thirty.” Oliver looked at his watch. It was nearly four. The next couple of hours would be nerve-wracking. Oliver resolved to get a little tipsy to help time slip by. When Marco poured him a glass, he gulped down the Italian red.
The muted drone of TV racing pundits flooded the room. Oliver rolled his eyes. “These guys talk some awful shit,” he said.
Marco chuckled. “I thought I was the only one who thought that.”
“Oh no. Jesus, it’s boring. There’s very little informed comment, and they try to make everything into an emotional human-interest story.”
“Yeah, and what about all those guys who write their forecasts in the paper? They’re like those goddamn stock market analysts. If they really knew what was going to win, they’d just bet on it, instead of telling everyone else what to do. In fact, Robert, turn the sound off till the race starts.”
The young Romano did as he was told. He tossed the remote onto his father’s lap and helped himself to sandwiches.
Oliver felt the alcohol begin to soothe his nerves. “So, d’you do anything mad last night?” he said, picking up a sandwich.
Robert perked up. “Working on this hot chick. Smokin’ hot. Took her clubbing.” A huge grin spread over his face.
“Don’t get him started. He’s doing nothing but calling her and sending messages. Phone bill’s goin’ to be huge,” said Marco, with a smirk.
“You see what I have to put up with.” Robert cast a thumb in his father’s direction. “Hey, it’s been a while since we did anything. What do you say we go out tonight, after the race? Hopefully, we’ll have something to celebrate.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“C’mon. It’ll be fun. We’ll stay around Jersey, shoot some pool.”
Oliver shrugged. “Yeah, OK."
“Good idea,” said Marco. “In fact, book yourselves a hotel, have a blast. I don’t want you guys turning up here hammered in the middle of the night.”
“Cool, thanks, Dad.” He gave a thumbs-up sign to Oliver.
Oliver forced a smile.
Marco found a Daily Racing Form and rustled it open to the correct page. Oliver pondered the practicalities of getting any kind of foreign object into an animal in such a way that it could be retrieved again. A thought occurred to him.
Just then, Robert’s phone rang. He got up to leave as he answered it. “Hey, babe! S’up? Hold on a sec.”
Marco took his nose out of the paper. “Again? You’re like a lovesick puppy.”
Robert blushed as he padded out of the room and closed the door behind him.
“I tell you, he’s gone all soppy,” said Marco. “I don’t know. Kid’s soft like his mother, I guess.”
Oliver cocked his ear and could just about make out the soft humming of Robert’s voice behind the door.
Marco wore a distant, melancholy expression.
Oliver seized the opportunity to voice his fears.
“Marco, I need to have a serious talk with you.”
“What?” The eyes went on full beam. “What about?”
Oliver pursed his lips and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “About this new deal, new direction for Painter Girl.”
Marco’s face darkened.
Oliver averted his eyes and continued, “I’m not sure it’s even possible. We can’t put the drugs down her throat and expect her to shit them out like people do; a horse’s intestines are too complicated, they’re prone to blockages and painful spasms. And we can’t put it up her ass, because she’ll eject it. The only possibility would be to try to insert them into her uterus, but she’s never been pregnant. Our only chance is to take some time, let her relax and give her some hormones, but it’s risky. Is it really worth it?”
Marco’ face was thunderous. He stood up, glanced at the closed door and crooked his finger at Oliver, who stood to face his boss. Marco touched his finger to his lips. Then he reached out with both hands.
Oliver felt a sudden rush of adrenaline but was paralysed like an animal caught in headlights. Marco calmly opened the buttons of Oliver’s shirt and looked at his bare chest, before running his hands around the Irishman’s back and neck. Then he patted down both legs and suddenly squeezed Oliver by the balls with his right hand.
His eyes bulged as a sharp pain shot up into his guts. He saw nothing but savage anger on Marco’s face.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Marco’s voice started off as a whisper, but ascended into a roar that filled the room within a few syllables. He jabbed his left index finger at Oliver’s cheek. “Don’t you ever mention product to me again. EVER. You shut the fuck up. Stop asking stupid questions. Do what you’re fuckin’ told and everything’ll be alright. Don’t do too much thinking, or things have a habit of getting very fucked up. I mean,” he paused momentarily and shrugged. “What happened to your brother was a waste of a good businessman.”
Oliver stood staring at the black eyes. He found himself looking at a vicious thug; the kind of guy who would nail somebody to a wall to make a point. Or at least give the order to have it done. Now was not the time to think of such things. Got to stay focused.
“Calm down, Marco. Please. I’m just discussing things, like always. There’s no need to get so mad. Whatever happe
ned to relax and enjoy the ride?”
Oliver’s straightforward, innocent reply appeared to knock the wind out of Marco’s sails. It seemed to throw him; like he wasn’t used to people reacting like this. He relaxed his grip on Oliver’s testicles. Oliver supposed most guys he intimidated either panicked and began babbling, or caved in and cowered like bullied schoolboys.
“Nothing. The ride has changed, is all. You can still enjoy it, but you gotta stay relaxed. That’s important.”
Oliver let out a breath. “It really wasn’t necessary to open my shirt and grab me,” he said, reaching a hand down to cradle his crotch.
“Yeah, well, you can’t be too careful in my business. Besides, it wasn’t necessary to question me here and now about this. Make it happen. OK.”
“Consider it done.”
Marco gave him a warm smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good man. Now do up your shirt.”
Oliver shrugged resignedly. “I suppose if I was in your line of work, I’d have done the same thing,” he said, closing his buttons.
“You know, they’ve been trying to get in here for years. Nobody ever has. They can’t get a warrant, and thanks to Luigi my security guy, they can’t sneak in, either. Assholes,” he said with a satisfied grin. He replenished Oliver’s glass and sat down.
Oliver took a long swallow of wine and congratulated himself for remaining calm, but he desperately wanted Robert to return and provide a welcome diversion until the runners went to post for the Preakness.
* * *
Robert closed the door and leaned against the wall, whispering sweet nothings into his phone. God, he really liked this one. She was so cute and didn’t mind that he was Marco Romano’s son – she never asked awkward questions. He was distracted by the roar of his father’s voice behind the door.
“Hold on a sec, babe.” Jamming the phone against his stomach, he pushed his ear to the keyhole. Robert listened to his father attack Oliver, and somewhere in the back of his mind a deeply repressed memory stirred. A frown creased his forehead as he heard his father growl like a bear. He suddenly felt terribly afraid, but he couldn’t fully understand why.
Oliver’s matter-of-fact reply further jolted his memory. His father’s voice calmed. Robert’s stomach churned.
“Babe, I’m really sorry. I gotta go. I . . . I don’t feel so well. Call you later?” He wandered into the kitchen, downed a glass of cold water, and sat at the table with his head in his hands, desperately trying to arrange his memories.
After several minutes, he realized the only time he had ever heard his father shout like that was some time before his mother had died. Robert remembered hearing noises from their bedroom. Bewildered, he had trotted down the corridor to investigate. Peering through the half-open door, he saw his mother lying on the bed, his father loomed over her like an angry bear. He had his arm raised, while his words rained down in a torrent of abuse.
Robert had watched in stunned silence as his mother remained stoic and simply told her husband never to speak to her like she was one of his goons. She had a look of disgust in her eyes. Robert had wanted to go and hug his mother, but was too afraid. He retreated back to his room and took solace in the TV. Later that evening, his mother came and sat with him. She took him in her arms and cried so hard, her body shook.
Robert remained in the kitchen, thinking. Eventually, he summoned up the courage to go and sit in the same room as his father. And when he finally opened the door to the den, he did so for Oliver’s sake. Otherwise, he would simply have gone upstairs and played a computer game.
* * *
Oliver was relieved to see Robert, though the young guy looked subdued, not like someone who’d just spend half an hour on a lovey-dovey phone call. Marco had assumed command of the TV and flicked back and forth between some baseball game and the racing. Robert grabbed a cold beer from the bar, shot his father a sideways glance, and sat near Oliver. All three sat in silence, watching sports and counting the minutes until the race.
Two beers later, Robert perked up and talked continuously about where they might go that night. He said he had itchy feet all of a sudden and needed to get out.
“Holy shit, that chick’s got a spell on you,” said Marco.
Robert glanced at his father.
On the TV, the runners were making their way to the start. Marco clapped his hands together. “Here we go. Let’s see what that jockey’s made of.”
Oliver crossed his fingers and prayed. If ever things needed to go to plan, it was now. He leaned forward in his seat and ogled the television.
Pablo contrived to break slowly from an inside draw and get Boot completely covered up. He kept him boxed in against the rail, and the other jockeys were only too happy to keep the talented horse stuck in traffic until the last minute. By the time Pablo made a meal of extracting himself and swinging the horse to the wide outside to make his run, there was simply not enough time to finish any better than third. Oliver had to hand it to the Brazilian, it wasn’t the most sublime piece of stopping he had ever seen, but it got the job done and didn’t look suspicious. Pablo had even avoided hitting or upsetting the animal. He pulled him up shortly after the finish line and managed to look suitably disappointed for the cameras.
“Yes!” shouted Marco, punching the air, much to the surprise of his son.
“Only for a show in third. Everyone else thought he’d piss in. Easy money,” said Marco triumphantly.
Oliver called Claude. The banned trainer said Ricky had reported that the horse seemed relatively calm after the race. The crowd and fanfare was nothing compared to Kentucky, and they’d left the earplugs in for the whole race, which worked like a charm.
Claude said it seemed likely he would be banned for one year and ordered to pay a thirty thousand dollar fine. He would know in a couple of weeks.
Marco watched Oliver with beady eyes. “We on for the Belmont?”
“More than likely. We’ll know for sure tomorrow when he pulls out for a walk.” He told Marco about the ban.
“Pah! He got off light, if you ask me. No jail time and he can still run the business over the phone.” Marco waved his hand dismissively. “White-collar criminals getting looked after by the system. He gets caught giving some weird drugs to an animal, and he gets a rap on the knuckles. I know guys who’d get five to seven for less.”
Marco’s sense of logic didn’t necessarily give Oliver any comfort, in light of the new plan.
“Any news on the stallion deal?” asked Marco.
“Nothing concrete. We’ll have to wait till he wins the Belmont. People’ll probably blame today’s defeat on Pablo, so the horse won’t lose any face. But we need an emphatic win in New York to get the big farms interested.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem. You guys aren’t going to fuck up again, right?”
“No.”
* * *
Robert stared at his father and listened to him speak. He saw the animal that had bullied his mother all those years ago, not the charismatic teddy bear who looked after him and made sure that a driver was always available.
He felt a mixture of fear and anger that he had never experienced before. His life seemed bizarre and false. He needed to get out of here for a while.
“Hey, Oliver, I’m going to my room. Got some things to do. What do you say we leave in like an hour?”
“Ready when you are.”
Marco looked quizzically at his son. “What’ve you gotta do in your room?”
“Things, Dad. Things.” He padded out, leaving the door open behind him.
* * *
“He’ll be talking to that girl again. Anyway,” Marco raised his glass. “Well done today, you got the message across, my friend. Here’s to the Belmont and the stallion deal. How much you reckon we’ll make on that, anyway?”
“Five to six million – gross.” He decided it was better to be conservative.
“Not quite seven-to-ten, is it?” Marco said, nodding.
&
nbsp; Oliver forced a smile and gulped down more wine.
A few hours later, Oliver and Robert were playing pool in a quiet bar near Elizabeth. They had travelled in silence in the back seat of one of Marco’s Lincolns. Robert told the driver not to wait around.
“We’ve got a room at a motel round the corner from Shadows,” he said to Oliver, as they watched the car pull away from the kerb. “I’m thirsty, c’mon!”
* * *
Mike drove like a lunatic to get back to Marco’s place. He had been curtly summoned and he hurried up the steps, burst through the door, and trotted into the office. Marco was sitting by the fireplace with a poker in his hand, jabbing it at the unlit logs in the grate.
“Call that son of mine,” he said, without looking up. “Find out where they’re staying. Tomorrow morning, when they’re all hungover, send round two guys to give our Irish friend a reminder. Make sure they get him on his own. I don’t want Robert to see it. And don’t send two fuckin’ idiots who’ll get carried away and cripple him.”
Marco stared at Mike and thrust the poker up towards his chin. “He questioned me in my house. In my fuckin’ house! I thought you explained it all to him?”
Mike did not flinch, nor did he dare point out that it was Marco who had invited him to the house in the first place. “I did. I thought he took it well. A little too well, as it turns out.”
“Yeah well, make sure he gets the point.”
Mike nodded. “That all?”
Marco nodded back and withdrew the poker. Mike spun on his heel and left to make arrangements.
* * *
“That horse-guy McMahon’s at his house again,” said Rosen.