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

by Sam O'Brien

  His son looked up at him with glazed eyes. “Dad? What?”

  There was a banging sound from below, as a battering ram was used on the front door.

  Marco shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then clasped his hands together. “Your mother took the easy way out – she took an overdose. I found her, but it was too late. I got the doctor and coroner to say it was a heart attack, and I greased palms to cover it up.” He paused and looked at his son. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it happened.”

  Robert held his head in his hands. “But why, Dad? Why?” His brain spun back to the day she had held him, crying. He started to think he could guess the answer.

  “She did it because she couldn’t face the truth, but she didn’t want to leave, either.”

  “Didn’t want to, or couldn’t?”

  Marco stared coldly at his son.

  “Which was it, Dad?”

  The right fist shot out again and caught Robert on the temple. He let out a cry, put his arms over his head, and curled up into a little ball. The tears were flowing freely now.

  Marco sighed and searched his mind for something to say. “I’m sorry,” in an aggressive tone, was all he could manage.

  He put his hand out to touch his son, but the cries of the Feds and careful footsteps on the creaky wooden stairs stopped him. He withdrew it.

  “We’re clear, right?” he said. “You plead guilty, we’ll get you a deal, you’ll be out in eight-to-ten.”

  Robert just kept crying.

  Marco stood up, took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and opened the door. He put his hands in the air when he saw the first agent.

  “We’re in here and unarmed,” he said softly to the barrel of a gun.

  Four agents poured into the room brandishing assault weapons, followed by a thin, unhealthy-looking man in a grey suit.

  “Marco Romano?” he said.

  Marco nodded. “You must be Huntley. What can I do for you?”

  “I have warrants here for your arrest and the arrest of your son. I also have a warrant for the complete search of the premises. Do I need to read you your rights?”

  “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Huntley could barely suppress a smile as he watched his prisoners being driven away in the fading light of evening. He stayed behind with one agent to organise forensics and a thorough search of the whole compound. Huntley would give them orders to scour the place all night and into the next day like busy ants – for as long as it took. He had waited a long time to get access to Marco Romano’s house. After the preliminary interviews tonight, he thought he might treat himself to a beer.

  The tall skinny guy known as Jimmy the Weasel got into the car. Mike grimaced from the foul smell which followed him. This was part of the reason he earned his moniker; his breath was so bad, everybody was convinced he ate raw chicken. Coupled with his lean frame, sharp features and darting eyes, he was almost a rodent in human form.

  Mike looked at his cheap crumpled suit. “Jesus, Jimmy, you gotta change that shit sometime. You’re letting the fuckin’ side down. The boss has shot people for less, you know.”

  “He goin’ pay for it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Fuck you, Mike.”

  They both burst into fits of laughter. After a few minutes, the smiles disappeared from their faces.

  “So what’s the deal?” asked Jimmy.

  “You got your rifle?”

  Jimmy patted the bag on his lap.

  Mike looked at his watch, then the amber sky. “We don’t got much time. Fuckin’ light’s going.”

  “Long as I can see, I can shoot.”

  “Good. I got some shit to tell the terriers at the landfill near the shore in ten minutes. I’ll drop you round the back. Find a spot to watch, and if they try any fuckin’ shit, take care of it. You get one down, I’ll do the other up close.”

  “No fuckin’ problem, Mikey.” Jimmy narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. “Only thing is, they’re good fuckin’ guys. You sure about this?”

  “I gotta ask them to do a shitty job. If they do it, they get made; if not, we tidy up.”

  “Must be a fuckin’ shitty job.”

  “Enough with the questions. It comes from the top.”

  “Say no more.”

  “Keep an eye on me. I’ll smoke. If I flick the butt away, you shoot. If I drop it and stand on it, you do nothing. Got it?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Piece o’cake.”

  They arrived at a giant landfill site, which received a constant stream of barges from New York City and State. It was a vast, sprawling mess of rubbish and scavengers. Seagulls, rats and homeless people competed for the things that other people considered out of sight, out of mind.

  Marco and Mike used the place from time to time for meetings that had the potential to get messy. They had a share in the waste business, and the union workers on site had a convenient habit of forgetting anything they saw.

  Mike dropped Jimmy off near the rear entrance, and he scurried off behind a giant digger that lay idle now it was past five. Jimmy crouched, clicked open his case, and assembled his pride and joy – a small calibre, military issue, sniper rifle with a telescopic sight.

  Mike drove on and parked near the prefabricated units that served as offices. He sat on the bonnet of his car, lit a smoke and called Jimmy.

  “You see me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you make the shot?”

  “Jesus, Mikey, the light’s not great, but there’s no wind. I could put a slug up your japs eye if I wanted.”

  Mike left the cigarette in his mouth and grabbed his crotch. “Fuckin’ try it, you cocksucker.”

  They cackled at each other briefly. Five minutes and another cigarette later, the silver Toyota appeared and parked beside Mike’s Cadillac. Tomo and Tito embraced Mike in turn. Mike gave them a warm smile.

  “Hey, guys, how you doin’?”

  The terriers shrugged. They were men of few words.

  “I got a job for you. If you do it and keep your heads down and mouths shut, you’ll get made. OK?”

  Their faces lit up.

  “So what’s the job?” asked Tomo.

  “The horse shipment went bad, there’s Feds at the boss’s place. He wants you and his son to take the rap. He’ll get you out later, and you’ll be set up for life if you own up and keep quiet. Capiche? All you gotta do when they come for you is say it was you, the Irishman and Robert. You did it for extra cash and points with the boss, OK?”

  It took a few seconds for the order to sink in. Tomo looked dismayed, but he forced a smile.

  Tito opened his mouth before engaging his small brain. “Gee, Mike, it’s a big one. I got a body building comp comin’ up next month. Can’t you get someone else?”

  Mike gave him a thunderous stare. “You’re not goin’ to be asked twice. Make up your fuckin’ mind. Now.” He took a final drag on the cigarette and held it between his thumb and index finger.

  Tomo put a hand on Tito’s shoulder. “Sure thing, Mike, we’d be honoured. One for the team. No problem.”

  Mike was about to let the butt drop when Tito piped up.

  “Nah man, fuck that. I been training too fuckin’ hard for this comp. Fuck, Mike, get someone else. I can’t do this, not now.”

  The thunderous stare remained as he flicked the butt towards them.

  Tito’s chest exploded an instant before they heard the crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier. His body fell against Tomo, who screamed in shock and lost his balance. Mike had enough time to draw his pistol and empty three rounds into Tomo’s head and chest. Then he put another in Tito’s skull, just to make sure. He wiped the gun, dropped it, and drove off leisurely.

  He picked up Jimmy where he had dropped him off.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here. By the way, nice shooting for an ugly prick,” he said. “Jesus, you stink. You roll around in that shit, or what
?”

  “Yeah, with your mother when she blew me.”

  They continued like this as they took the interstate and headed for Wisconsin.

  Chapter 61

  Sitting in a small, dank interview room in a Jersey police station was not Rebecca’s idea of fun. She almost wished that she was back in the drudgery of life as a junior vet, up to her neck in blood and guts all night and taking shit from her boss. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was depressing, and as she sat alone nursing a plastic cup of tepid water, she wondered if they really were going to get away with it. The sparkle was gone from her eyes. She wanted to be with Oliver. Like Dorothy in the film, she wanted to click her heels and return to Kansas, or at least, Lexington.

  Every now and then, she shot a quizzical look at the two way mirror on the wall, wondering if anyone was watching.

  Eventually, Agent Rosen came in, slamming the door behind him. He had two cups of steaming coffee and a doughnut from a vending machine.

  He set a coffee and the doughnut down in front of Rebecca. She sipped the brown liquid and inspected the doughnut warily.

  “Sorry, it’s all I could rustle up.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. You have it.”

  He tossed it into the bin with a smile. “You must be tired.”

  “That ain’t the word.”

  He leaned in close to her conspiratorially and whispered, “OK, this won’t take long. I’m going to turn on the tapes and ask you questions. During the interview, neither you nor I will reference the fact that my colleague may have had prior knowledge of the events. You just answer the questions I ask.” He winked.

  Rebecca nodded slowly and thoughtfully. She glanced at the mirror.

  “Don’t worry, there’s nobody out there except my team.”

  Relief began to spread across her face. Rosen waved at the glass, then recited the date and time for the record. Rebecca stated her name, date of birth and address.

  After the initial questions establishing that she would waive her right to counsel for this interview, and that it was indeed her who inserted the foreign objects into the mares, Rosen produced a piece of paper, on which he had scribbled extensive notes.

  “Dr. Liddell, according to the preliminary findings of the Government veterinary surgeon who examined the ten horses after removal to a local clinic, a total of fifty tube-like containers of a substance that appears to be pure cocaine, were removed from the animals in question. Each tube weighed approximately one kilogram. That’s a lot of coke. Where’d you get it?”

  Rebecca looked at him sideways. “You said appears to be cocaine. What does that mean?”

  “We all know what it is, but we’ll have it confirmed through proper laboratory analysis. Then we won’t have to say appears any more. I say again, where did you get it?”

  “I don’t know, two guys brought it last night.”

  “And who were they?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Surely they didn’t appear out of thin air.”

  “Oliver arranged everything. I just did what I was told, no questions asked. It could have been cash or diamonds in those tubes, for all I knew.”

  They went around in circles for half an hour before Rosen, appearing to believe her story, finally said, “That will be all – for now, Dr. Liddell. You will be provided with a lawyer, unless you wish to procure one of your own. The DA will take your limited co-operation into account.”

  “Thanks. By the way, how are the horses doing?”

  Rosen looked at his notes. “The Government vet said they’re all stable and showing no ill effects after removal. They’re on antibiotics and stuff, but he says they’ll recover from their ordeal.” He paused before reading the last bit to her. “It is his opinion that whoever performed the insertion procedures was a very skilled vet, though perhaps of questionable morality.”

  She shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile.

  Rosen nodded at the glass and left the room.

  Huntley found Oliver slumped on the table, his head cradled in his arms. The agent had to prod him to wake him up.

  “You don’t exactly make yourself look very innocent, sleeping like a baby the last couple hours.”

  Oliver grunted. He was past caring. The stress had flooded out of his body; he felt desperately tired.

  “Do you ever stop being a cocky little shit?”

  “Agent Huntley, this may surprise you, but I’m really not the cocky little shit I pretended to be. It was a combination of bravado and fear. Right now, I’m just exhausted.”

  Huntley was taken aback for an instant, but he cleared his mind and came straight to the point.

  “OK, it’s like this. We’ll keep your girlfriend out of it, but you’ll have to testify that Marco personally told you to put the drugs in the horses.”

  “Can you guarantee Rebecca and I protection – and my mother in Ireland?”

  “That old chestnut again. Like I said, I can’t do shit for your mother.”

  “Then you’ll have to make do without a testimony.”

  Huntley had had enough. “Oliver, do you think it was skill, or just blind luck that we left you alone the last year or so?”

  He looked at the agent, puzzled.

  “Wake up, boy. We’ve been trying to find a way to get Marco Romano for years, and you showed me the way in. You may think that giving me a tip-off gives you a free pass, but you’re wrong. I could put you away for smuggling. Like that.” He clicked his fingers for dramatic effect.

  “So if you know everything, then you don’t need me.”

  “It’s not that easy, smartass. It’s like this. We have some audio footage of Marco telling Mike the Nail to organise the Painter and send her away, which I can now assume was the first shipment.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “He goes on to instruct him to buy some more horses – cheap ones – and to instruct you to acquire them. We also have him at a later date, giving an order to have you beaten as a reminder to do your job. We didn’t fully appreciate the significance of these matters until you came to me, but you’re still the key. Without testimony, there’s not enough clear verbal evidence to convict him, his lawyers would have a field day.”

  Oliver pricked up his ears. “Hold on a second, are you saying you bugged his house?”

  “Thanks to you.” Huntley spread a satisfied smile on his gaunt face. “It was only when we realised he let you in his house and appeared to trust you, that we got an idea for infiltration.”

  Oliver was astounded. “You’re shitting me?”

  “I never joke about my work.”

  “Why didn’t you tap his mobile?”"

  “What?”

  “Sorry – cell phone.”

  Huntley shook his head gravely. “We’re not the NSA or CIA. Besides, he’s usually careful and uses codes. We thought he’d be more relaxed in his house. Anyway, we need you to testify that he gave you the order directly.”

  “Except he didn’t. He told Mike to tell me.” Oliver cast his mind back to the day of the Preakness and the attack. “But he did assault me in the den, and there’s a direct mention of drugs in that conversation. Did you get that on tape?”

  “No,” said Huntley, with a grimace.

  “Pity,” muttered Oliver in a tone of resignation. “So I’ll have to take the stand, then?”

  Huntley heard him, but did not answer. He was thinking. After a minute, he said, “Did he mention drugs himself?”

  Oliver frowned. “Err no, wait . . . I said drugs . . . and told him I thought his idea wouldn’t work, then he went nuts, ripped my shirt off, and patted me down. Then he told me never to mention product to him ever again and to just shut up and do my job.” He looked at the wall and continued, nodding, “That’s right, he said product, but he was definitely talking about drugs, because of what I said.”

  The agent took it all in, nodding slowly, and scribbling notes on his legal pad. “Product. Hmm, I like that,” he said. “Product,” he r
epeated the word over and over to himself. “You’re going to be our star witness.”

  Oliver had a puzzled look on his face. “Do you mean to tell me that you need testimony to figure out that Marco’s code for drugs is product?” He chuckled. “Come on, Agent Huntley, it’s not brain surgery.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we might know or assume. It matters what we can convince a jury of, and if we don’t have a point of reference for his use of the word product, his lawyers will have a fucking field day. Now shut the fuck up and start getting used to the idea that you’re going to stand up in court and be a witness for the prosecution.”

  “I thought Tom was going to be the star witness. I mean, he’s the one who raised the alarm. Officially, anyway.”

  “No, he’ll be your star witness, to convince them you didn’t inform us about the shipment.”

  Oliver looked sceptically at him. “Please don’t tell me that’s your idea of protection. Marco won’t give a fuck how it happened. If I take the stand, then he’ll kill me. And I don’t want to end up like my brother.”

  “Relax, we’ll get you new identities, but your living allowance won’t be much and you’ll have to stay where we put you.” He gave Oliver an insincere grin. “But you’ll be safe.”

  “You make it sound so good . . . I was thinking that you could provide two passports for me, two for Rebecca, and two for my mother, and a plane to take us wherever we want to go, then you cut us loose. We’d be less of a burden on the US taxpayer that way and you could wash your hands of us. It makes sense, you know it does. Besides, it’ll save you money on the annual budget.”

  Huntley narrowed his eyes. He hated being told what to do by Oliver, but he did like the idea of cutting the little shit loose and letting him take his chances.

  “I’ll think about it,” was all he said.

  * * *

  The three agents sat in an empty office, while others guarded the interview rooms and the cells containing their prize catches.

  Huntley sat at a desk. He was deep in thought, which gave his wrinkled face a strained grimace. Rosen lolled in a chair and sipped cold coffee. Kimble was going through her notes.