TP smiled. “Told you that fuckin’ kid can ride. Need to get him some live horses.”
Milt sat down disgusted. “Eighteen to one. Shit, Danny, get here a little earlier when you have a tout like that.”
Over the years Dan had learned that Milton was a bad loser but a good friend. Inside he was happy for Dan. Of course, he’d have been happier if he had money down on Dan’s horse.
“Looks like we need some drinks.”
“Hell, yeah,” TP shouted.
Dan waved at the cocktail waitress working the section. The good ones always watched for anyone who won the previous race. They tended to get bigger tips that way. It didn’t take long in this business to figure out that losers don’t tip well. Dan pointed at each of them. No refusals.
“We need three tall beers and a black coffee,” Dan said.
Lennie was a recovering alcoholic who drank coffee all hours of the day. It made no difference whether it was ten below zero or ninety in the shade—hot black coffee. Being around drinkers didn’t bother him. In a weird way he seemed to like it.
“And a pretzel. With some of that nacho cheese stuff,” Milton shouted after her.
She turned and Dan nodded. “Bring him two pretzels. It’ll save you some steps later.”
She laughed and walked off.
“How many times you have the exacta?” Lennie asked.
Dan had forgotten that he had the one and three boxed with Hollerin Hal.
AJ’s horses ran first, second, and fourth, all at better than 12-1. He’d nearly cold-cocked a monster trifecta with no program or racing form. “I had it two and a half times.”
“Nice hit,” said TP. “You’re gonna share some with Uncle Sam.”
“What the hell, I’m a patriot.” Tickets paying more than three hundred times the value of the bet were cashed with taxes withheld on the spot.
The exacta payoff was going to be close to the line. If Dan did his record keeping right, though, he’d get the money back next April 15.
The race was declared official, and the prices flashed up on the tote board. The twenty across brought back $720, and the exacta ticket was forty bucks shy of two grand.
Hello, taxman, Dan thought. And thank you, AJ.
Chapter 9
Angry voices knifed through the air as Jake Gilmore entered the building housing the Racing Secretary’s office. About one hundred people, mostly men, were packed into the open area and hallway running past the secretary’s cluster of offices.
Large spaces of white drywall covered the walls, interspersed with an occasional winner’s photo tacked to the wall. Yellow and beige checked tiles on the floor confirmed that every expense was spared to decorate this most functional of spaces. Down a narrow hallway to the left a series of offices hid from sight. These housed the racing secretary, track president, horseman’s liaison, and track security.
The meeting was called on short notice; only a few hours after the letters had been delivered to the trainers. Word traveled fast on the backside and at the speed of light when it involved the potential to lose money.
Tim Belker, the chief of security for the racetrack, was near the far wall, motioning to several trainers to calm down. He was tall and muscular, one of those guys who looked like he could still play tight end in the NFL. Following an All-American senior year at that position with Penn State, he’d been taken in the fourth round by the New Orleans Saints. He was cut just after the third pre-season game and cut the following year by the Jets.
The game had passed by his physical attributes. He was a tight end from the 1970s, a stonewall blocker with great hands, but today’s tight ends could run a 4.5 forty-yard dash. Tim could never crack 4.7. Despite his talent, he was a relic of old-fashioned football.
He took a job as a private security guard and quickly rose through the management structure. After four years he started his own security company but didn’t have the sales ability to sustain it. The position at Fairfax Park opened up, and he jumped for the steady paycheck and the opportunity to place bets at work. That was three years ago.
Belker’s hair was dark and close-cropped, military-style. His effort to silence the teeming mass of trainers was having little effect. Allan Biggs, president of Fairfax Downs, and Chase Evert, racing secretary, were also on that side of the room, effectively making it the front of the room.
Jake had torn up his version of the note, but the message was etched in his brain. It was addressed “Dear Partners,” as if this creep was something other than an extortionist and petty criminal. It went on to describe how Emerald Stone, a gelding trained by Keith Daniels, had been poisoned and Missing Lens, a mare trained by Juan Camillo, had to be destroyed after a cannon bone fracture.
Unless an animal’s DNA carried the strains deemed desirable to carrying on a royal equine blood line, the fracture of a cannon bone was a death sentence, and it was for Missing Lens.
The note also told of the kidnapping of Exigent Lady from Hank Skelton’s barn. The movement of horses onto and off the property was a daily routine, but actually kidnapping a horse out from under a trainer’s nose was a whole new level of criminal enterprise.
Trainers were warned that future injury was inevitable for their barns unless they agreed to pay a “safety fee.” The safety fee was twenty dollars per horse per week. Trainers who agreed to pay the fee were assured that their horses would be protected from these “random acts of violence.” Those who failed to pay the fee were at risk for “unfortunate circumstances.”
Jake had come to the meeting for information only. There was no way in hell he was going to pay some damn “safety fee.” Jake didn’t want to put his owner’s horses at risk, but he needed all the day money he could get.
Jake never disclosed his financial condition to anyone, but he’d taken a beating since the start of the year. Two owners had dropped him at Delaware Park. They went with the latest pharma-trainer, who juiced the horses and got quick wins where Jake couldn’t.
Damn stews needed to crack on these guys. Winning long shots created by these pharma-crooks brought in bets, and the pricks in suits just looked the other way.
The day money from a few horses shipping to his barn this week would help, but only a little. He needed some wins—and fast. He’d tightened up on receivables as much as he could without appearing desperate. His reserve fund was gone. Payroll and vet bills spun around each week like a screen door in a tornado. He needed horses on the track and wins. That would solve everything. It had to.
Allan Biggs waved his arms, trying to silence the crowd and get its attention. Tim Belker put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle that brought the unruly group to an activity level nearing calm.
Biggs was tall and slender, with a healthy shock of white hair that was combed straight back. He was sixty-four years old and had been in the industry for nearly fifty years. He wore a black pinstriped suit with a white open-collared dress shirt.
Although he’d never worked a day on the backside, he’d run just about everything possible on the grandstand side. He was liked by some trainers and tolerated by the rest. Perhaps the best one could say about a track president was that he was tolerated on the backside.
There existed a healthy tension between the front office and the backside. The front office had to set a purse structure likely to bring in good stables. They needed to bring in quality horses to have a product on which people would want to wager, both on track and via simulcast. Tracks made money by bringing in more gambling dollars than they paid out in purses. Trainers demanded higher purses. Tracks wanted purses maintained at a level where increased gambling dollars fell to the bottom line. Trainers talked with their feet. If the purse structure was suitable and they could win at a given track, they stayed. If not, they walked.
Biggs held one hand in the air as he spoke. “Thank you all for coming in tonight on such short notice. I want to assure you that Fairfax Park is doing everything we can to ensure the safety of your stock.”
“What the hell can you do?” someone yelled from the back of the room. Several other trainers piped up in agreement.
“Please, please,” Biggs continued. “I know this is a difficult time, but please be patient. In a minute I’m going to turn this over to Tim Belker, and he’ll tell you about increased security protocols and plans for the facility. We’ll catch the person responsible for this. We’re working with local law enforcement and the FBI.”
“What are you gonna do for us?” Daniels shouted. He was standing on the other side of Belker. “I gotta dead horse. I had day money tied up and planned to run out some good money on purses. Now I got nothing but a dead animal and a whole bunch of owners who wonder how the hell something like this can happen.”
“Keith, I’m sorry about this situation,” Biggs said. “Unfortunately, the loss is something your owner will have to address with his insurance carrier.”
“Insurance?” Keith shot back. “Who do you think it was? Secretariat? There’s no insurance on that animal. Hell, probably no insurance on 95 percent of the stock back there,” he said, motioning toward the backside. “We’re just screwed. My owner’s screwed; I’m screwed. This whole place is screwed.”
Several other trainers grumbled affirmative reactions, and heads nodded around the room. “Keith, like I say, I’m sorry. Nobody saw this coming.” As though he was afraid the mob would descend on him, Biggs turned to Belker. “Tim, can you update us on security?”
Belker stepped forward slightly. “Thanks, Allan. First, I’d like to thank the management of the racetrack. In light of these tragic and horrendous attacks, management has increased the security budget by 83 percent through the remainder of the meet. This will allow us to hire two additional security officers and ensure that we have two security officers on site 24/7. The security officer on the backside will be in addition to the security guard in the shack when you drive in.”
“Tim, how the hell they steal my mare off the grounds?” Hank Skelton yelled. The volume was well beyond what was necessary as he was standing about six feet from Belker.
Skelton brushed his scruffy and uneven brown hair away from his horn-rimmed glasses. His head hadn’t been near a licensed barber in months. He was tall and lean with jeans that were about two inches too short. The cuffs on his work shirt were rolled back, exposing slender, stark white forearms attached to weathered and grime-stained hands.
They were hands that tended to animals sixteen hours a day. Thirty years at the bottom end of the circuit had stunted his patience and erased any semblance of a sense of humor. Thirty years waiting for the big horse to enter his barn and turn his life around. Thirty years of waiting for his payday to arrive.
“I mean, come on, someone can bring in a trailer, load up one of my horses, and just drive right by your fuckin’ security guard,” Skelton screamed, pointing a finger at Belker. “What the hell is that? Doesn’t do any good to have more people on site if they aren’t any smarter than the dumbshits you got now.”
“Hank, we’re investigating that right now.”
“That’s bullshit, Tim.” Shelton lunged toward Belker like he was going to take a swing. Belker stepped back into a defensive stance. Money would have been on Belker. No one knew that better than Belker. He would have dropped Skelton like a sack of horseshoes. Fortunately for Skelton, two other trainers stepped in and restrained him. Skelton didn’t offer much resistance in the scuffle.
“Easy, Hank,” said Biggs, extending an open hand toward him. “Let’s work together to get this resolved.”
Skelton jabbed his nubby finger at Belker. “They backed up a fucking trailer and took my mare right under your noses. I don’t care if you put 100 new security guards on site. What the hell difference would it make?”
“Hank, take it easy,” Biggs said. “Let Tim do his job.” Turning toward Belker, Biggs continued, “Tim?”
Belker paused for a moment to keep his composure and stepped back half a step. Then he turned his attention back to the group. “I have added a night security patrol that will run from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. We think these are the hours of involvement on the prior incidents, and it’s also the time when the fewest people are around and visible on the backside. We’ll be increasing our scrutiny of badges for people coming onto the property, including the backside. We’ll require 100 percent positive ID for people entering.”
Several men guffawed and shuffled uncomfortably.
“Please be patient with the process,” Belker continued. “Most of my men know all of you and as a result have waved you through without requiring you to furnish ID. In order to try and get better information, our checkin will require positive ID and documentation when individuals enter and leave the property. This will slow things down some but should give us a chance to catch whoever is doing this.”
“Great,” said Del Dillingham from the back of the room. “Somebody’s messing with our horses, and we’re also going to have security lines like in airports. Just fuckin’ great.”
Belker continued unfazed, “In the next few days we’ll be adding security cameras in strategic locations on the backside. It’s just a way to get more eyeballs on anything that’s happening. We’re conducting additional background checks on people licensed with Fairfax Park.”
“That include all of us?” Dillingham said. “What is this, the Gestapo?”
“Del, come on,” said Biggs. “To find the people involved, we need information. This is a way to get that.” Biggs gestured back toward Belker, giving him the floor.
“Thanks, Allan. The review will include everyone licensed—so, owners, trainers, jockeys, vets, grooms, you name it. Anyone who could have access to the backside. There’s a strong likelihood that the person or persons involved are licensed and raise no suspicion when they’re on the property. We need to track who is on the property and when.”
“Tim, this is a bunch of crap. You have no idea who’s doing this, do you?” said Skelton.
“Hank, we’re investiga—”
“You can’t guarantee us anything, can you?” Skelton said. “Other than more scrutiny of us.”
“Hank, I wish I could provide a guarantee, but you know I can’t. We’ll do everything we can to apprehend the people involved. The track management is committed to ending this as quickly as possible. The track’s reputation is at stake as well.”
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Hank said. “In the letter I’m supposed to be the drop man for the pay-off. So I’ve been co-opted into being a part of the scheme. If I play along ‘maybe’ I get my horse back.” He turned and pointed aggressively at Belker. “It’s because you and your people can’t do their damn jobs. If anything happens to my mare, I’m coming after you guys.” His face was beet red, and a vein pulsed on his forehead. He then turned and pointed the same finger at Biggs. “Allan, this is on your watch. Fairfax should pay the money to ensure the safety of the horses on the backside. It’s your facility. It’s your obligation.”
A chorus of affirmative sounds and head nods ensued.
“Hank, I know you’re upset,” said Biggs. “But the track can’t be responsible, nor will it be responsible for these payments. On behalf of track management, I can’t recommend for or against the payment. I consider it extortion of the highest order, but I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety if they choose not to be a part.”
“Well, I’ve got to pay,” said Hank. “They’ve got one of my best mares, and if I don’t pay, I lose her and maybe some others in my barn. So I’m just screwed.”
“I’m not paying,” Jake said. “Anybody coming around my barn is liable to get his ass kicked, day or night. I’m not giving in.”
“Me neither,” several others shouted.
“Hell, I’m as pissed as anyone else,” said Sid Martin. At nearly six feet tall and tipping the scales at a shade light of three hundred pounds, Martin commanded the space around him. His oversized Stetson and broad stance created the presence of a Macy’s Thanksgiving D
ay float in the flesh. “And if I catch these guys, you won’t have anything to arrest. You’ll be able to pick them up with a spatula. But twenty bucks a head isn’t worth the hassle. It’s nothing. And if my horses are safe, I sleep at night. It’s a short meet. I need to run out some money, not sit and worry about whether my horses are safe.”
“Anybody talk to their owners about this?” asked Dale Jenkins, one of the trainers who had restrained Skelton.
“This stuff is all over town already,” Martin said. “Every owner is going to know about it—probably already do. I can’t pass the expense on. Hell, I’ve got enough trouble getting bills paid as it is.” Shuffling and voices of agreement filled the air. Martin continued, “I don’t need to throw on an additional assessment. Owners are liable to yank the horses and move them someplace else. That’s why I’m going to cover it and not make the cost or risk something my owners even have to think about. The less thinking they do, the better for me.”
Several trainers nodded along with the logic.
“I’m supposed to make the drop on Monday night,” said Skelton. “If you want in, do as the letter said, give me a list of your horses and twenty bucks per head—cash—in an envelope with your name on it. I’m supposed to get a call where I’m to do the drop. I don’t give a shit if any of you are in. I don’t have a choice.”
“I’ll need to see your cell phone after the call comes in to see if we can get a trace,” said Belker. Hank stared daggers through Belker, then nodded slightly.
“Maybe we should follow Hank and see who picks up the drop,” said Jake.
“The note said I’d be watched,” Hank said. “I don’t need to get my horse killed because we got some James Bond wannabe.”
“Jake, I’ve got a plan to monitor the drop,” said Belker. “Leave that to me.”
“You get my mare killed, I’m coming after you, Belker,” said Hank.
Biggs leaned over to Belker and whispered, “I wouldn’t be too specific about the plans right now. There’s more than a slight chance that the guy we’re looking for is in this room.”
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