Bullet Work

by Steve O'Brien

  Chapter 10

  Ginny Perino eased the Dodge Ramcharger next to Gimore’s barn. He slipped on his cowboy hat, effortlessly hoisted the scarred wooden toolbox from the back, and made his way to the stable office.

  At first glance, Ginny wasn’t an imposing figure, largely forgettable—five foot eight on his best day. Up close, his features were starkly different. He had a powerful upper body with forearms the size of a young child’s legs. His hands were large for his frame and muscular. They introduced him as a man who earned a living with his hands.

  The box contained the tools of his trade—hammers, nails, hasps, files, and aluminum shoes. The farrier was critical to the success of equine athletes. He was also a first line of defense for ailments of the hoof. He treated the types of injuries and illnesses that kept competitors in the barn, with potentially career-ending consequences.

  Ginny was a farrier.

  At least that’s what he reported to the IRS. The job kept him on the backside, where he was able to run his more lucrative operation, his much more lucrative operation.

  Ginny grew up tough. Boys in Brooklyn named Giovanni Perino either grew up tough or became doormats. Grade school playgrounds were unrelenting for boys like Giovanni, but he soon learned how to deal. Strike first, ask questions later.

  Quickly, Ginny had learned that there were two kinds of guys, the intimidator and the intimidated. He vowed early on that he would always be the former. He learned so well that he was permanently expelled from school at age fifteen. The nuns at St. Katherine’s of the Immaculate Heart were unable to control him.

  He smirked as he recalled looking down at the crumpled and unconscious eighteen-year-old who dared to ask Giovanni if he preferred dating boys over girls. The two friends who accompanied the injured senior had scattered, screaming for the police.

  Ginny held the softball bat over his head, perfectly framed below the outstretched arms of St. Katherine, high atop the school’s entrance. He gave the curled-up body one more whack across the ribs and tossed the bat into the bushes. Then he picked up his backpack, slung it onto his shoulder, and stepped over the body to begin his leisurely walk home.

  Ginny beat him good, but if he had wanted to kill the punk, he would have. The boy had it coming. Ginny just delivered it.

  His parents were distraught and grief-stricken. Not wanting to turn him out to the streets of the city, Ginny was sent to his Uncle Dale in Arkansas. It was either that or a tough love camp in Arizona, which the family had no means of affording.

  Ginny’s uncle was a farrier at Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs. They traveled the Midwest circuit—Oklahoma, Nebraska, Louisiana, and Texas. It was where he learned a marketable skill, at least one of them.

  The backside made sense to Ginny. Everything was defined by winning or losing. Competition ruled. There was no mercy shown in this business. You won enough to survive or you got run out. He quickly became adept at trimming, shoeing, and racing.

  Becoming a competent farrier was easy. Becoming the “go to” guy for top barns required some tricks and twists. At this, Ginny became the best. For the right price he could apply modified turndowns.

  A turndown was a shoe that separated slightly at the back of the hoof. It allowed a horse to dig deeper into a track, get better traction, and push off without the ground giving away as much as it would with a normal shoe. Turndowns were fairly common for racing on wet or sloppy tracks as were mud caulks. But in the right circumstances a properly applied turndown could significantly improve performance on a dry track.

  Of course, turndowns were illegal unless conditions warranted, but Ginny knew the rules and for the most part stayed within one zip code of the rules. He also used his investigative skills and managed to get dirt on most paddock judges who might otherwise call him on an illegal shoe. Except for egregious cases, he could get them to look the other way. No one wanted to tangle with Ginny.

  Yes, Ginny stayed within the rules, the rules as he manipulated them.

  Two things drove his life, winning and scheming. He’d become a capable handicapper and occasionally had inside information that was timely. But gambling was merely a hobby. Making money was his business. Betting was sport. Even the best handicappers survived on razor-thin margins.

  Ginny learned about making serious money. That included sure things and guaranteed payoffs. He lived by two rules. First, never lose money and, second, hurt anyone who interfered with rule number one.

  As with many old-timers on the backside, his Uncle Dale died from a lifetime of smoking and heavy drinking. Ginny took over his book of clients and quickly grew it into a thriving business, at least from what the IRS could tell. Ginny buried his uncle two miles from Remington Park in Oklahoma City. The grave digger, two trainers, and Ginny paid respects. His family was gone, one by death, the others by choice.

  He poked his head into the office and rousted Jake, who was writing up training schedules for his barn.

  “Hey, Ginny.”

  “Jake.”

  “Yo,” Jake shouted past Ginny. “Nino, get in here.” He then addressed Ginny. “Need you to look at Pristine Fiend. She’s getting out on the turns, and her front left don’t look right. Also, Aly Dancer will need some racing plates.” Ginny nodded and backed out of the office. Nino motioned Ginny toward the correct stall.

  “Oh, and Ginny, stop back when you’re done. I have something else I need to talk to you about.”

  Ginny knew what it was. He followed the game closer than anyone. He knew where everyone stood. Ginny smiled to himself as he lumbered behind Nino down the shedrow.

  He knew what Jake needed, and he’d be more than happy to oblige. Ginny Perino was always available for a sure thing.

  Chapter 11

  Tim Belker entered his office and elbowed the door shut. Once behind his desk, he extended and bent his left leg several times. He was able to avoid significant injuries through four years of Big Ten football, but one wicked hit in his first NFL mini-camp had left a permanent calling card.

  He took a sip from his first cup of coffee, leaned back, and cracked open the day’s racing form. He studied the entrants in the first race. Fucking goats, he thought. Disgusted, he flipped back to the eighth race, the feature on the card. Although a modest stake for Virginia bred fillies and mares, he could at least handicap a race with some quality in it.

  His Zen-like tranquility was shattered by a voice booming through the racing office.

  “Belker. Get your ass in here.”

  Despite being separated by three offices, Biggs’ voice reverberated through the office like a tsunami wave crushing a village.

  “Belker!”

  His assistant, Gail, gave him an eye roll as he exited his office. Tim made his way to Biggs’ office. Rosalind, Biggs personal assistant, gave him a sheepish, tight-lipped smile as he passed by. Biggs was seated at his desk, though he had his back to the door, concentrating on two computer screens resting on the credenza behind his desk. His pink shirt was framed by black and red checked suspenders. He spun around as Belker entered.

  “Gimme the latest.”

  “Feds are being kind of sticky,” Belker said. “Can’t see why they should waste time on a bunch of horses when there are national security concerns elsewhere.” He paused to let Biggs frame a question. When none came, Belker continued. “Got the Prince William sheriff’s department coming out here in a few hours. Going to take statements from Skelton, Daniels, and Camillo. They think—”

  “What a crock of shit,” Biggs interrupted.

  “Got the cameras going up this afternoon.” Belker ignored Biggs’ comment and kept going. “Called the temp agency, and we got coverage for twenty-four-hour presence.”

  “No fucking cops on the backside. Hear me?” said Biggs.

  “Wha—”

  “No cops. Got it?”

  “I’m not sure they’ll go for it,” Belker said.

  “I don’t care. Don’t give them a choice,” Biggs said, pointing a finge
r at Belker’s chest. “If they want to interview folks, it should be in your office, with you present.” Biggs stared out the window as horses drifted by in morning exercise. Turning back to Belker, he added, “I don’t care how you do it, but I don’t want any cops on the backside.”

  “Why? What diff—?”

  “You can bet your ass that there are some illegals on the backside.”

  “So what?” Belker said. “They don’t work for the track. They work for the stables. If anyone is in trouble, it’s the trainers, not us.”

  “Don’t matter who employs them,” said Biggs, framing “employs” with finger quotation marks. “You ever heard of Carl Lambert?”

  “Lambert? What are you, nuts? Everyone’s heard of Lambert. His colt won the Preakness and Travers last year.”

  “Yeah, well about ten years ago, as he was building his stable, I was PR director for San Antonio Downs. Lambert had about forty head on the grounds, about a dozen stakes caliber horses. Anyway, INS agents show up one day and shake down his barn. I’m sure ’cause some other trainer dropped a dime on him.”

  Biggs rose and walked to the wall of windows overlooking the track. “They cart off two of his workers. Bad deal. But the next week, they come back and shake him down again. Lambert raised holy hell with track management, and he was right.” Biggs crossed his arms and gazed out the window to the track. “I tried to help, but Cliff Gantrell said it wasn’t his problem. Was between Lambert and the INS guys. Meantime, help from all the barns starts disappearing, acting dodgy, showing up late. You get the picture.”

  Biggs turned and face Belker. “So, sure as hell, the agents come back the next week and shake Lambert down again. Know what he does?”

  “Blast track management?” asked Belker.

  “Nope. He backs up his trailers and takes every fucking horse off the track. Said ‘screw it’ and moved his stable to Louisiana Downs. Put a large hole in our entries. Never came back. Point being we don’t want to jack around our trainers by making the help edgy. Sheriff or feds want to interview someone, bring them over here. I don’t want cops on the backside.”

  Belker shrugged. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “You’ll do what I say, not what you can.” Again with the air quotations on “can.”

  Geez, thought Belker, that was ten years ago, old timer.

  Biggs went back to his seat behind the desk. “And I got that damn Jason Cregg nosing around.” Cregg was the racetrack beat reporter for The Washington Post.

  “Yeah, he called me,” said Belker. “Left a message last night.”

  “I don’t want you talking to him. Send him my way.”

  “Gladly,” said Belker, leaning back and crossing his arms.

  “Idiot wouldn’t say a nice word about us if his life depended on it. All the fucking freebies we give him, you’d think he’d show some kind of respect.”

  “He had a nice piece about Hudgins’ mare last weekend,” said Belker.

  “Oh, he writes good stuff about horses and horsemen, but he goes out of his way to trash the track and management. This extortion thing will make him wet his pants. Can’t wait to stick a knife in us. We gotta keep this under wraps. Keep everything as low key as possible.”

  “We can’t keep a lid on this,” Belker said. “Cregg will go to the trainers if we stonewall him.”

  “We can try,” Biggs shot back. “Lots of these trainers will want to keep it hush hush. Don’t want their owners to know what’s going on.”

  “Going to be hard to—”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Biggs shouted. “Do it. We only have to keep it quiet until you catch the bastard doing this. So don’t give me all the lame shit. Go do your job. Now get out of here,” Biggs said, spinning around to face his computer monitors.

  Rosalind kept her head down as Belker walked past. She’d heard everything. The whole office heard every word.

  Belker closed his office door, sat behind his desk, bent his knee several times, took a sip of cold coffee, and turned his attention back to the racing form.

  Chapter 12

  Friday morning brought Dan to the backside early. Plenty of work awaited him at the office, but passion drove him to the place he loved the most, the racetrack backside. For Dan, being an owner was more than paying bills and getting photos taken in the winners’ circle.

  He loved the process of getting horses ready to compete. He loved the smell of fresh straw being carted to the barns and the pungent liniments slathered beneath bandages on tender bones. He loved the strategy in bringing a horse up to a race, the works, the morning drills, the equipment changes.

  He studied the chalkboard outside Jake’s office. It displayed a chart for each horse’s daily activity—who would walk, who would work, who would jog the track, who would get new shoes, and who would get vet treatment. It provided the map of assignments, and as each day built on the prior, horses would be prepared to compete.

  As most owners did, Dan had started off buying a claimer. These horses were the bottom of the racing barrel. Horses that didn’t have the ability to run for large open purses such as allowance races and stakes were relegated to the claiming division, which means they ran for a price tag.

  Races were scheduled for different claiming values, and the horses could be bought or “claimed” for the stated price. These claiming values ran from $5,000 to—in some areas of the country—as much as $100,000. The ability to compete at given levels was dependent upon the horse. The price established the competitive level. Horses in the $5,000 claiming events were also called nickel claimers. If horses couldn’t win as nickel claimers, they became dog food.

  In the game, owners claimed a horse and, with the trainer’s promise ringing in their ears, tried to move up to higher claiming levels with ascending purse structures.

  Dan went “halvsies” on a nickel claimer with Pug Wheatly, a seasoned local trainer. As the old saw went, the best way to make a small fortune in horse racing was to start with a large fortune. The prize was Sasha’s Diamond. Pug was able to get her competitive for a dime, and she ran a few seconds and thirds that first year.

  The training and vet bills ate all the proceeds, plus some, but Dan was in the game, and Sasha’s Diamond ran under his blue and white silks. Dan had his own sports franchise, meager though it was.

  He learned quickly that winning wasn’t a luxury to be afforded. It was a necessity. Owners don’t want to be the last people holding the bridle on a tired claimer. Dan and Pug did what most smart owners did and ran her down their throats. Pug put her back in the $5,000 level and won. They kept running her there with the unstated intention: “Beat me or buy me.”

  It was dangerous to fall in love with a horse, given the short careers. Make money or go broke. Pug didn’t want to drop her down at first. The trainer’s job is to keep the horse in the barn making day money, but he also knew he would lose an owner if he didn’t cooperate. She was claimed from them after her third win, and Dan was happy.

  Dan learned that he didn’t want to partner with trainers in the future. The conflict of interest was too strong. They would be his horses and ultimately valued by him.

  Jake Gilmore had approached Dan about buying a yearling at auction. Young horses can be bought at auction either as yearlings or two-year-olds in training. The two in training sales mean that the horse could be ready to race in several months following the purchase. A yearling needed to be boarded and trained for a year before an owner would know whether he’s got anything.

  The selling price for a yearling was generally much lower than a two-year-old, but the carrying costs added up over time. To get a potential bargain, it made more sense for Dan to buy a yearling, if he could be patient. With a purchase at auction, there was always the dream that the horse could turn out to be stakes quality.

  When a claimer was purchased, at least the new owner had an idea how the horse could perform. But claimers rarely moved into allowance or stakes company. With a horse purchased at auction, t
he sky was the limit. It could be a performer or it could be a complete bust.

  Over the years Dan had experienced both performers and busts. The idea was to make hay with the performers and get rid of the busts as quickly as possible. If that strategy was followed, there was a chance to make money as an owner, but only a chance. Horses were an asset of uncertain value and would depreciate rapidly at some point.

  With that in mind, he was always open to selling a horse if the price was right, even a young horse that was displaying great potential. It was easy to fall in love with a horse. After all, it carried the silks and the pride of the owner’s stable. But in the crazy market of thoroughbred race horses, the upside of a promising young animal was steep.

  Everyone wanted a winner, and people were more than happy to overpay to get one. Much as it hurt emotionally, Dan occasionally made the decision to sell and never regretted it from a financial standpoint. He had been fortunate to make a little money over the years.

  His current stable consisted of four horses, a three-year-old gelding named Hero’s Echo, an unraced two-year-old filly named Aly Dancer, and two yearlings. The gelding was a solid allowance horse that couldn’t quite crack the stakes competition. He had a breathing problem, which Jake attempted to resolve through surgical intervention. Hero’s Echo would be returning to the barn today after laying up from surgery.

  The filly was by Closing Argument, a colt that came within a shadow of winning the Kentucky Derby. Her momma was Techie Becky, who placed in a Grade III stake as a three-year-old and knocked out about a quarter million bucks in her career.

  Dan was lucky to get her at auction. Buyers of bluebloods thought the filly’s legs were a little crooked. They were right about her lack of conformation. Had that not been the case, he never could have gotten her. She would have been bid through the roof.

  Like all hopeful owners, Dan thought he got a real steal but then had to put his emotions aside and wait. She was only a yearling and would have to grow up.