by Sam O'Brien
“Mr. Romano, really, it all just happened so quick. Anyone would’ve done what I did. And I am so sorry to hear about your wife. That must be very difficult for both of you.”
A downcast look came into the black eyes. “You look much too young to be married, but let me tell you: when you do take a wife, you don’t want to lose her.” He paused again and stared out the window with faraway eyes.
For some reason, Oliver suddenly thought that he should defend Cassie. “Also, I think Cassie was doing her best. She was trying to reason with Robert before, well, you know...”
“She said you got hurt. You OK?”
Oliver rubbed his elbow and slowly flexed his arm. “It’ll be grand. I’ve had worse knocks.”
“You’re some guy, you know that?” Marco focused his intense gaze on the young Irishman. “Oliver. I want you to fully understand what I am saying.” The man spoke very deliberately and much slower than before.
“I’m a man who likes to get things done, and I attend to details. But no amount of power or money could save my wife. My family was torn apart; now my son is my only reminder of her. He’s beyond precious to me. Without you today, I might have been preparing another funeral.”
Marco’s black eyes pierced Oliver, as if they were looking through his face, right into his head. This was all getting a bit heavy – marriage and kids, and all, never mind burying a wife or protecting a child.
“I owe you more than you can possibly imagine. If there is anything I can ever do for you, just let me know, and it’ll be done. I mean that. You understand, my man?”
Of course, he did. Helping each other out, backing up a friend, was what made the world go so much easier; but there was something about the intensity of Marco’s declaration and the look in his eyes that put the young man on edge.
“Yeah. Yes, yes, thanks. I really appreciate that.” It seemed to be all he could say.
“You know, Oliver, in this day and age, too many people look the other way and pretend not to notice when something bad is going to happen. They just don’t want to get involved.” He arched his eyebrows and a smirk almost cracked his mouth. “Now, sometimes, that’s a good thing. But sometimes it’s not. People like you are rare in New York. In America even.”
Marco then produced a card.
“This is my main business card. We have a club and a bar in Jersey, and some other interests. These numbers are my office lines.” He turned the card over. There was a handwritten number. “This is my cell. Not many people know this number. Do NOT show this to ANYONE, OK? This is just for you.”
Oliver took the card and placed it directly into his wallet.
“Good. Now that business is over, let’s eat. And tell me about yourself.”
He motioned to the waiter, who scurried over. Marco ordered for them both.
“The lobster here’s amazing, Trust me, it’s fresh from New England. And don’t be afraid to get drunk.”
Oliver enjoyed the meal and the wine flowed freely. He felt at ease once more.
Marco continued to surprise him. He would deliberately start eating his lobster, using the finger bowl and napkin constantly, then when he became engrossed in conversation, his hands would resort to ripping the crustacean apart and he would stuff a rough chunk of meat into his mouth and swill it down with a gulp of wine. The glass would hover in mid-air on the way back to the table, as if Marco had remembered something. He would swallow, clear his throat, take a deep breath and return the glass gently to the white tablecloth. Oliver found this rollercoaster ride interesting and amusing in equal part. In an effort to ignore the sideshow, he told Marco about growing up in Ireland and working in the horse business.
“Racehorses! No shit!" He leaned in over the table. "Can you give me any tips? I go to the track at Belmont or Monmouth sometimes, to meet people. It’s interesting. A friend of mine has a horse. We won a couple bucks on her once. Maybe I’ll have one myself. One day.”
“Well, the best tip I can give you is not to bet too much unless you have inside information.” Marco let out a belly laugh, “Yeah, I know, it’s a crooked game.”
“No, it’s not so bad, but when you know horses like I do, you know what can go wrong, there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”
The older man smiled and looked at the young Irishman opposite him. “Now isn’t that the truth! In life also.” He took another sip of wine, sighed, and looked out at the lights of Manhattan.
“And what do you do, Mr. Romano? You said you have a club and other interests.”
“Please, call me Marco.” He turned to face Oliver again. “I’m involved in a number of business ventures, but the two most profitable are sports betting and nightclubs. So you can see why horseracing interests me.”
“Well, yeah. But, like I said Marco, I find the best way is not to bet. Or else I’d end up like the poor eejits who give all their money to guys like you!” The wine was starting to loosen his tongue.
“Unless you have the inside information, right?” Marco smiled, and they both burst out laughing.
They continued talking and, despite the somewhat shaky start, after a couple of hours Oliver felt it was like talking to a mate, someone he’d known for a long time. It reminded him of the odd times his father used to take him and his brother out of school early on a Friday and treat them to lunch in a hotel. Except this evening, Oliver wasn’t being scolded and told to be more like his brother. He was being spoken to like an adult; an equal.
As they ate, the restaurant gradually emptied around them, the staff tidied up, and waited patiently for them to finish. Eventually, Marco stood and announced that he was leaving.
“Mike’ll take you home again. And if there’s any place you want to go on the way, just ask. He knows all the good nightclubs in the tri-state area.”
"Jesus, I haven’t a clue."
"Don’t worry about it. He’ll take care of you."
Oliver stood up and followed Marco to the door. They walked out past the staff, who were lined up and seemed to look at Marco and him with a certain mixture of awe and dread.
“Well, thanks for dinner, Marco. That was really great.”
As they got to the door, Marco turned and gripped the young man’s hand as he had done before, but this time he patted Oliver’s right shoulder with his other large palm. The gesture felt almost like a hug to Oliver and made him feel mildly embarrassed. His father had never hugged him or his brother, preferring to leave such gestures of affection to their mother.
“No, I thank you, Oliver. And I mean it. Call me or come to see me if you ever need anything. Now go on, enjoy the town.”
He released his hand and gestured towards the open door, which was held patiently and reverently by the maître’d.
This time, there were two town cars waiting on the street. Marco strode towards the nearer and sat in gracefully. The car pulled away immediately. Oliver got into the other.
“Nice dinner?” asked Mike. “Where to now?”
“I’ve no idea. Marco said you knew every club around.”
A crooked grin appeared. “Leave it to me.”
Chapter 3
They sped across the Brooklyn Bridge, back into the city and across town. Oliver was lost. “Normally I’d take you to one of the boss’s places in Jersey, but I reckon we should go to this place I know in the meat-packing district. It’s getting to be a happening part of town. Business startin’ to move there.”
“Cool, sounds good.”
The car stopped on the dark street outside a club with a long queue of people waiting to get in.
“Come on, man.” Mike tapped Oliver on the shoulder.
They both stepped onto the street and the car was whisked away by a valet. When Mike approached the entrance, the doorman nodded and let them pass without a word. Once inside, a lithe young woman engaged Mike in friendly conversation and showed them upstairs to a balcony overlooking the dance floor. They were seated in a booth and a bottle of champagne appeared on the tab
le, as if by magic.
Oliver was stunned; he had never been ushered in anywhere like a VIP. He beamed from ear to ear and looked out at the steaming mass of people, all writhing to a pumping tune. There were professional dancers in cages and men on stilts. Lexington, Kentucky, it was not.
“Yo! Oliver, my man, you like the place?” said Mike.
Oliver turned back to Mike. “This is wicked. Cool out! Spot on. Nice bubbly, too!”
Mike laughed and shook his head. “You sure are one weird guy! Anyway, you’re here to have fun, so here you go.” Mike flicked his wrist at Oliver and a small bag of white powder shot towards him and landed in his lap. Oliver’s eyes went wide.
“Is this, is this, er . . .”
“Well, it ain’t baking soda. Of course, if you don’t want it.” With that, Mike stretched out his hand again.
“No, no, I’ll try it! It’s just that I never have before, that’s all.” He held the bag in his fingers and fondled it with his thumb. The powder inside felt fine and light. He felt nervous, but curious.
“That’s serious quality stuff, man. But don’t rack up out here: that’s too messy. Go to the VIP restrooms.”
“Rack up? I make it into lines and snort it, right?”
“You live a sheltered life, or what?” he smiled mockingly. “Yeah, that’s right. But don’t do it all at once, and chop it up a little with your credit card.” He gestured towards the back of the club. “Now go on, have some fun. I’ll wait here. In fact – fuck it – I’m coming with you.”
In the restroom, they crammed themselves into a stall. Mike produced another bag from something strapped to his ankle, and prepared four lines of the white dust on the toilet cistern. He then rolled up a crisp hundred dollar bill and handed it to Oliver.
“Go for it, my man. One in each side.”
Oliver inhaled deeply through his nose. He couldn’t feel very much, apart from a numbing sensation in his throat; the high seemed to be very subtle, but as they left the restroom and the hostess from earlier asked him if he was OK, he suddenly felt on top of the world. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek.
“Easy, buddy.” She gently pushed him back. “I’ll get a friend of mine to come drink with you.”
They sat back down. He started chattering at a rate of knots, while Mike nodded and laughed at him.
“Man, you’re a good guy. But you need to calm down. It’s goin’ to be a long night!”
They talked shit for about twenty minutes, shouting over the music, before the most beautiful, tall, fit, sexy brunette Oliver had ever seen approached and sat directly on his knee. She put an arm around his neck and shouted into his ear, “Coke’s great tonight, huh?”
She turned her head. “Hey, Mike. Who’s your buddy? He’s cute.”
“I’m Oliver," he roared back into her ear. "Nice to meet you and, yeah, the coke’s amazing! It’s my first time!”
“Oh my God, I love your accent. Where you from?”
“Ireland.”
“That’s so cool.”
“You want to dance?”
“Sure.”
As he led her by the hand down to the dance floor, he really couldn’t believe his luck. And Cassie was far from his mind as they kissed amidst the seething, roaring mass of clubbers.
The night faded into a blur of cocaine, champagne, pretty girls and energetic dancing, and the best blow-job he had ever had. He couldn’t quite remember the girl’s name as he boarded his plane back to Kentucky the next day.
Chapter 4
When he arrived back at the stud near Lexington, his housemates were desperate for all the news of how he’d got on in New York. In the stud farm business, it was usual for many of the staff to live in shared accommodation on the farm, so his housemates were also his colleagues.
Kieran, Tom and Eamon were Irish, and all working in America on various visa programs. The four of them were in the same boat and had roughly the same aims in life. They all worked long, hard hours, and spent their evenings cracking jokes, drinking beers and waiting for the weekend when they would supplement the back-breaking work with partying.
That evening, he swept into the house, grabbed a beer from the fridge and plonked himself down on the sofa without saying a word. He sipped his beer and felt the others stare at him, desperate for information about his trip. They had returned to Lexington straight after the horse sales in Saratoga.
“Oh, for fuck sake, McMahon, did you get a ride or what?” said Eamon, the oldest of the bunch at twenty-five and the most focused on his desire to trade horses for a living.
“Yeah, c’mon, any birds?” asked Tom, chuckling. “I bet they’re fuckin’ beat all, up there.”
Oliver sipped his beer and spread a slow, satisfied smile across his face.
“Ya dog!” said Kieran. “Ya did!”
“No, no. Sorry, lads.”
“Go ‘way, liar. Ya did! It’s written all over your face.”
Oliver shook his head. “But I did stop a kid getting run over, had dinner with some rich businessman, and got taken to a mad club by his chauffeur.” He took another swig of beer and kept looking at the TV. After a moment of silence, he glanced at the three open mouths. Putting them out of their misery, he recounted the story of the weekend, leaving out the cocaine, which was considered quite a taboo amongst these guys.
They lapped it up. Kieran trotted out to the fridge to get more beers, Tom sat there laughing himself to tears, but Eamon thought about it for a moment before he opened his mouth.
“This rich lad; you should tee him up for a fuckin’ cleaning. Flog him a few yokes that nobody else wants.”
Oliver shot him a puzzled look.
“I’m tellin’ you, this lad sounds like he doesn’t know a horse from a dog. Sure, you could unload some pure shite on him and get a nice cut from the deal.” He winked. “Everyone loves a new lad in the game. What was his name?”
Oliver sighed. Eamon was only interested in emptying everyone else’s pockets. He never even bought beer for the house; he was well able to drink it, though. “Eamon, d’you not think it’d be better to help a man buy good horses and enjoy a bit of success? Then you’d have a client for life, instead of robbing him today.”
“Ah, you’re thinking too far ahead, McMahon. You shouldn’t be doing that. Better you clean him today, than some other fucker tomorrow.”
“Aah, Eamon, you’re an awful whore. You’d take advantage of anyone. Ha! Oliver, remind me in a few years never to buy a horse from this dodgy fucker.”
“Go fuck yourself, Tom. If I was helping you unload a yoke, you’d be kissin’ my hole.”
“In your dreams, bollix.”
Oliver finished his beer and got up to leave.
Eamon shouted after him. "Hey, McMahon! Can you work instead of me next weekend? I’ve a mission to go on.”
“Sure. No problem, Eamon,” he said. “What’re you up to?”
“Oh, I can’t be tellin’ you that.”
Oliver shook his head and laughed as he slipped off to bed.
Two weeks later he sat round a table in a bar in Lexington with Ricky, a local guy from the stud farm, and a friend of Ricky’s from University of Kentucky. Oliver had bought a few rounds and recounted the story of his New York trip, with Ricky and his friend hanging on every word. He had told them about the cocaine, sharing a joint earlier in Ricky’s car. But something stopped him from mentioning the business card with the private numbers on it. Perhaps it was Marco’s intense stare that stopped him, or maybe it was just that Oliver didn’t want to disclose every detail of the story.
The other guy – a bright chemistry major called Ted – was quiet while Ricky laughed and jibed Oliver. Then he clinked glasses with Oliver and asked, “So, have you thought about what you’re going to get Marco Romano to do for you?”
“Shit, I don’t know.” Oliver smirked. “I suppose if I need coke, girls or free entrance to a club in New York, then all I have to do is ask!” With that, he and Ricky bur
st out laughing again. But Ted kept looking at Oliver. When they calmed down, Ted spoke again.
“Dude, you really don’t know who that guy is, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Man, you horse guys are too wrapped up in your world of racing and betting, and whatever. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Only the Daily Racing Form,” replied Oliver.
Ted rolled his eyes. “This Thing of Ours,” he said in an Italian accent.
Oliver and Ricky stared blankly.
“This Thing of Ours – La Cosa Nostra – ring any bells?” he said, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head to one side.
Again, blank stares.
“Geez, you guys. It’s been on the news for weeks. The Feds are really cracking down on the mob, putting guys away this time.” He took another swig of beer for dramatic pause. “Marco Romano is the head of a family in New Jersey. Well, not the head exactly, he’s like the deputy or some shit like that. The real boss has just been put away in prison.”
Oliver’s jaw hit the ground. “You’re joking! What, you mean, he’s like a gangster?” He started shaking his head. “No way. The mob and stuff, that’s like the movies. Guys like that don’t really exist anymore, do they?”
Ted gave him an incredulous look.
Oliver thought back to the events of that night, and began to feel a little nervous and defensive. “No, no. Couldn’t be. I mean, he, he was like . . . well, I got on better with him than I did with my dad. We relaxed, talked for hours.”
Ted rolled his eyes. “That’s why he’s known as Marco ‘The Gent’ Romano. I’m telling you, dude, you had dinner with one of the most powerful, most wanted men on the eastern seaboard and you didn’t have a clue who he was. He must have thought you were either the coolest motherfucker in the world, or the dumbest asshole he ever met. Go check it out, dude, he really is a mob boss!”
Oliver thought about it and suddenly felt cold. He knew it could be true. It helped all the details make sense. What he didn’t know was how he should feel about it, or what – if anything – he should do about it. His instincts told him it might be better to stop telling this story – to anyone. He felt very sober all of a sudden, and wanted to call it a night.
