Bullet Work
Steve O’Brien
A & N Publishing
Washington, D.C.
© 2011 Steve O’Brien.
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First publication 2011
ISBN 978-0-9820735-7-5
LCCN 2010913972
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To Nick and Alex
Part One
Out of
the Gate
One second changed everything.
One second altered fate for a lifetime.
The winner zigged; the loser zagged.
One glance spotted true love, the next was blocked by a city bus. The victor reacted; the vanquished hesitated. Some called it luck. Some called it a gift. But it was just the second.
The second didn’t care.
The second was relentless.
The second was waiting. It always waited, like a street mugger on a drizzly night. It waited in the shadows, emotionless.
The second was coming.
A series of seconds made a lifetime,
two billion or more. Five, maybe six of those seconds altered one’s life forevermore. Would they come in the beginning or at the end?
The second wasn’t fair; it wasn’t orderly.
It would come on its own schedule, never revealed until it was too late.
Who would be wealthy, who would be poor? Who would have fame, who obscurity?
Who would be loved, who scorned?
One moment a man cruised along a
sun-drenched highway in a sporty convertible. The second appeared, and the car careened down the canyon wall, end over end,
awaiting the explosion.
The second was unpredictable.
The second was unforgiving.
There was no bargaining with the second. It tested the strong and the weak alike.
Into each life the second would come, without warning, without hint. It could not be avoided.
It could only be endured.
Life became the response to the second.
In hindsight the second could be seen, dissected, and analyzed. Being in the second was like being in the eye of the hurricane: eerily quiet and completely beyond control. Only after the wind subsided could the story be told.
This is that story.
Chapter 1
The boy was a ghostlike creature—just a child. He and the mare circled the shedrow. Dan spotted him for an instant as he crossed the end of the barn and disappeared around the far side.
He’d be back around in about two minutes.
Dan swirled the stale coffee in his Styrofoam cup, then splashed it on the ground. He yawned and stretched his arms.
The boy wasn’t that different from most backside help. All lacked a certain degree of cleanliness. But there was something memorable about the boy. His limp wasn’t like others. He’d rotate on one side and swing his leg on the off stride. The right side was near normal; the left, a carnival ride. Nothing too striking, Dan thought—if you spent enough time around 1,200-pound thoroughbreds, one way or another, you wound up with a limp.
His was different, though. Something caught Dan’s attention. The boy wore a tattered T-shirt with ripped jeans, just a shade lighter. The cardboard edge of his baseball cap was peeking its way out between the red fabric. Maybe it was his size, so small in comparison to the mare. Perhaps it was that someone so tiny in comparison to the horse could possibly be in control of the relationship.
Walking hots was the lowest level of the food chain on the racetrack backside. Hotwalkers were just that, walkers. They stretched and paraded race horses either as the day’s regimen of exercise or to cool out after returning from a workout or race.
A good hotwalker allowed the horse to take the walk, but he’d also pause when the horse wanted, let the horse graze when it wanted, and generally kept it from harm’s way.
Hotwalking included talking, too. The best talked constantly. It calmed and reassured the horse. It also provided someone who would listen to the hotwalker.
Hotwalking was a safe harbor between dreams and reality. The steps didn’t take either participant closer to anything; they were just steps.
The boy came around again. Fourteen, maybe fifteen, he was quickly obscured by the massive mare as he crossed the end of the shedrow again. Always walk on the inside. That way, the horse can see the hotwalker while being led into the turns.
Another odd thing—he held the shank in his left hand and had his right hand on the horse’s neck, patting, stroking, sometimes just still. Certainly this wasn’t the most comfortable way to walk a hot. A bond or closeness was apparent between the two, also not uncommon on the backside.
Dan watched as the boy went by again, then turned to walk toward the backside kitchen.
Jake Gilmore came out of his stable office and fell in step alongside Dan.
“Who’s the kid?”
“Where?” Jake muttered while staring at something on his boots. He scrubbed the stubble on his neck and surveyed the area.
Gilmore stood just a shade over six feet. In the last decade of his fifty years, the once powerful upper body had melted around his waist, now supported by a sturdy leather belt and oversized rodeo buckle. Guy could give himself an appendectomy just sitting down wrong. Jake’s eyes betrayed recent sleepless nights. For those like Jake who rose well before the sun each day, it wasn’t out of the ordinary.
“The kid hotwalking the mare.” Dan nodded toward the adjacent barn.
Jake looked over. “Don’t know.” Two or three steps later: “Just some kid.” More silence. “Dick Latimer’s barn.”
“Recognize the mare?”
He looked over, turned back, and spat on the ground. “Nope. Latimer don’t have nothing in his barn. Bunch a loose-legged claimers and two-year-olds he’ll tear up ’fore the meet’s over.”
It didn’t matter whether it was true or not. Trainers had to protect their relationships with owners and feed them information that prevented the owners from even thinking of moving their stock to a competitor’s barn. It was all part of the game. Dan had learned the game.
Dan ran his fingers back through his short, dark hair and scratched the back of his neck. He was a good five inches shorter than Gilmore but significantly more athletic in tone. In contrast to the customary wardr
obe on the backside, Dan’s blue pinstriped suit pants and crisp, open-collared dress shirt said “owner.” His well-groomed, youthful appearance said “new money.” On the latter count conventional wisdom would be wrong.
A frenzy of activity dominated the backside from 5 a.m. to 11 a.m.; then, just as quickly, it became a sleepy little village. There was a system and rhythm to the chaos of the backside. Some horses going to the training track, jockeys and trainers discussed the latest workout. Jock agents hustled the latest Willie Shoemaker, just trying to get their boy a decent ride.
Vet vans parked in the roadway, with their doors hanging open, displaying the meds and appliances necessary to keep the warriors in the game. Wraps hung on a makeshift clothesline. Stable hands mucked out stalls. The dull smell of manure and urine mixed with pungent hot salve.
The ever-present sound of water running provided the soundtrack. Stable hands washed down horses, filled tubs, or simply knocked down dust in the shedrow. The clip-clop of hooves on the narrow asphalt roads signaled horses crossing to and from the track. Pickups hummed as they crept along slowly enough to hear the gravel pop and churn as it was spit out by worn tires. The breeze carried a joke, laughter, and shouts of instruction. In many corners it was reunion time.
Today was Tuesday. But it was not just any Tuesday. It was Tuesday before opening day. The backside had been empty thirty days ago. Now a vibrant community had sprung up. Three hundred small businesses occupied the backside, complete with bosses, employees, payroll, and equipment. The most important assets of the businesses rolled in on fifth-wheeled trailers.
For the past three weeks the assets had been rolling in, some coming from campaigns at other racetracks, some from training farms, some returning from injury, and, this time of year, late summer, some were babies. These were the two-year-olds who would soon learn about their new environment and routine, far from the calm, consistent life of the training farm. For them, this was the equine version of culture shock.
Dan and Jake stepped onto the wooden landing. Jake pulled open the screen door to Crok’s Kitchen. It resembled many other backside kitchens. The décor was totally utilitarian, filled with metal folding chairs and laminate-topped tables, none of which stood level to the ground. Each wobbled the direction of the newest elbow that rested on it. All random and disordered atop an uneven concrete floor.
Time stood still in backside kitchens. Revelations about cholesterol hadn’t arrived yet. A remarkable place where the taste served as the only discriminator and fat grams were ubiquitous.
Crok was a seventy-something short order cook, by choice, and kitchen manager by default. She hovered like some relic left behind in an unexplained time warp. Barely five feet on her best day, Crok graced the kitchen like a blocking dummy on legs. Her gravelly voice bounced off the walls as she barked at customers. A black net pressed her gray locks down onto her head. Smiling wasn’t her strength. All paid full fare, but she made sure those who were down on their luck had a meal. It might involve time served at a sink full of dishes, but no one was turned away if they were sincere.
The kid came in as Dan and Jake sipped coffee, surrounded by tables of similar groups, all talking about the meet, the stakes schedule, but mostly about how they were going to make money.
The boy limped through the line, filling his tray with biscuits, gravy, and grits. A large glass of milk finished the meal. Crok smiled and whispered something to him as he completed his journey through the stainless steel line. The kid didn’t spill a drop of milk as he counteracted his limp across the room to one of the only empty tables near the door.
Jake continued his explanation about the outcome of throat surgery for Dan’s three-year-old, Hero’s Echo. A release of the trapped epiglottis required six weeks of rest. That meant six weeks of vet and boarding bills with no opportunity to recover costs. The surgery was needed and would hopefully move him to the next level. Jake was mapping out the recovery process as the noise level elevated in Crok’s.
Three wiry grooms in muddy boots and weathered T-shirts had surrounded the kid as he sat alone at the table.
“Hey, retard,” the tallest one spouted. “How’s breakfast?”
The kid didn’t look up. He just stared down at his plate.
Another of the three, the shortest of the group, scraggly blonde hair and overly tight blue jeans, reached forward and slapped the kid in the back of the head with an upward movement.
“Stupid, what’s for breakfast?”
The shot wasn’t meant to inflict pain, but merely to knock the kid’s baseball cap into his plate of food. The three laughed heartily and high-fived one another. The kid still didn’t look up.
He was used to this treatment, Dan thought. It was a battle he couldn’t conceivably win, so he sat motionless, enduring the verbal and physical onslaught.
Crok flew from behind the serving counter, wielding a large metal spoon.
“You leave that boy alone.” She took a swing at the nearest boy, but he leaned backward, like Cassius Clay taunting Sonny Liston. She missed. The boy stared at his plate. The trio scoffed at Crok but continued out the door.
“See ya, retard,” the short one shouted.
“Have a nice day,” said the tallest one.
Crok swept away the kid’s plate, dusted off his ball cap, and in a matter of seconds returned with a clean, even larger plate of food. The kid said, “Thank you, ma’am”—still without looking up.
Dan watched the entire scene, glued to his chair. He just sat there. He didn’t help. He didn’t do anything. Finally, he looked down into his coffee cup.
“God, I hate myself.”
Chapter 2
Many watering holes and taverns served the racetrack crowd. Business was good during the times the track was dark, but when the twelve-week summer meet was on at Fairfax Park, in Manassas, Virginia, these places rolled in the cash. The backside traffic was like having an entire new town spring up in the area. Local businesses had more patrons and needs to satisfy.
Plenty of options existed for quenching the adult thirst of this transient community.
Clancy’s wasn’t one of them.
Clancy’s was a biker bar in Dumfries, Virginia, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a wholesale tire store in a dingy strip mall on the far side of Interstate 95. It was sixteen miles from the racetrack.
The man pulled up, parked, and turned off his headlights. He noticed the white pickup truck he’d been looking for, got out of his rusted Jeep Wrangler, and slipped on his black cowboy hat. Several motorcycles stood at ease nearest the door.
Cowboy Hat walked in and surveyed the crowd. Several men occupied prime seats at the bar, and two men stood sentry around a pool table while a third slammed home a shot and backed up the cue ball. A solitary figure in a baseball cap sat in the far booth facing him. The man from the booth nodded to Cowboy Hat. In response, Cowboy Hat poked his chin toward him and continued to the bar. After a brief discussion with the bartender, two longnecks were produced. Cowboy Hat put down some bills, grabbed the necks of the beers with one hand, and walked to the far booth.
Baseball Cap slid his empty bottle aside, took the offered beer, and poured a good portion of the new one into his mouth, then looked out the window.
“All set?” asked Cowboy Hat.
“Yep.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” Baseball Cap appeared preoccupied with tearing the paper label off the neck of his beer. To make their operation a bit more covert, the two had adopted code names. Baseball Cap was known as “Falcon.” Cowboy Hat was “Raven.” They joked that they were birds of prey—might as well carry the titles.
“Who you think will give us problems?”
Falcon shrugged. “Lot of ’em. At least at first.”
“That’s why we need to hit hard right away. Fear is a powerful motivator.” Raven stared at the man in the baseball cap. Had he picked the wrong guy? Falcon had the access and the knowledge to pull this off. He also had the need. Ra
ven was sure of that. Only question was whether the man had the stomach for it.
Falcon wadded up the label in his fingers and flicked it onto the floor. He looked at Raven for the first time and nodded in agreement.
Raven continued, “How many we hit in the first week?”
“Two tonight, then more after the note goes out.”
“Note’s ready. Twenty bucks a head. Damn reasonable, then we’ll move it up when we have their attention.”
Baseball Hat nodded and turned his label-stripping action to the larger one. “We’ll have to focus on the larger stables. If we get them, the smaller ones will go along.”
“Which ones do you need to get on board?” Raven asked.
“Probably Gilmore, Dellingham, and McDonough,” said Falcon. “They’re all tough pricks. If they go, we’ll get most of the rest.”
“We have to show them they have no options. Twenty a head is chump change for those guys.” Raven hunched forward, leaning on his elbows. He needed to get Falcon’s head in the game. Punk was way too sedate for this gig.
“It’s not about the money for them,” said Falcon. “It’s a control thing. This will piss them off.”
“We have to show them we’re more pissed off than they are,” said Raven, raising his voice. “You mess with a guy’s meal ticket, they wise up fast,” he said, pointing a finger at Falcon. Feeling that he made all the emotional progress he was going to make, Raven leaned back and relaxed. “Who you gonna hit tonight?”
Baseball Hat sat for a long time. An AC/DC tune cranked over the speaker system, and pool balls clicked in the distance. Light flickered from the juke box and cut blue and red shapes into the shadows blanketing the bare drywall. Laughter drifted from the pool table as the cue ball fell into a side pocket. Falcon’s ball cap finally rose, and he said, “Emerald Stone.”
“Hhmmm. Gelding?”
“Yep.”
“Cashed a bet or two on him over the years,” said Raven.
“Me, too.”
“Who’s the trainer?”
“Daniels.”
“He’s got better stock. Won’t miss him that much,” Raven said, smiling. “Hell, we’re doin’ the guy a favor.”
Bullet Work Page 1
