by Sam O'Brien
She giggled and pushed him back playfully. “No, seriously. I want to know. What did you do to deserve a visit from me? I mean, you just got here a day ago, right?”
“I’m the . . .” With all the stimulants in his system, Oliver’s brain was racing and he suddenly had a vision of himself in a police cell, being beaten with a hosepipe, then another of himself bundled up, in the boot of a car. “I’m just lucky, I s’pose. Right place. Right time. And that’s it, really. Now can we either change the subject, or get back to what we were doing?”
“Why, sure! No problem at all.” Her tongue went to work on him.
* * *
Mike pulled into the dark laneway behind the row of suburban houses. He pulled on the latex gloves and a second pair over them. He checked the contents of the holdall one last time, grabbed the bag, and set off down the lane. He casually walked to the fifth house on the row, glanced over his shoulder and slipped through the gate, up the garden path and into the shadow of the back porch.
Peering through the tattered screendoor, he could see Freddie and Tony snorting cocaine off the countertop. “Dumbfucks,” he muttered, pulling a nylon swimming cap over his hair. He knocked on the door.
As the last nail slammed home, Mike put the nailgun in his bag and stood back to take in his handiwork. He looked from one man to the other. They were trying to scream through their taped-up mouths. Panicked breaths flared their nostrils. Mike sighed. He needed to work faster before they passed out from the shock. He placed the boxcutter on the table. The muffled screams became more desperate.
Mike stared at the man to his left. “Freddie, what the fuck you need to see a lawyer for?”
Freddie’s breathing slowed.
“Yeah, I know about that. Should’ve kept your mouth shut. Planning a little kiss and tell, were we?” Mike ripped the tape off his mouth.
Freddie gulped air. “Oh God, it hurts! Please, Mikey, I didn’t tell him anything, I swear. I got scared. We, we both did . . . Right, Tony?”
Tony’s eyes bulged as he shook his head violently.
Mike glanced at him and returned his attention to Freddie. “Don’t call me Mikey. Now, what the fuck you got to be scared about? I told you to chill out and everything’d be OK. I told you not to fuck things up. I told you to do your fuckin’ job!”
“Yeah, I know.” Tears began to form in his eyes. “Look, Mike, I started seeing cars around; guys I didn’t know. We were being watched, I’m sure of it. I . . .”
“You’re paranoid. I told you that shit’ll fuck you up if you do enough of it. Nobody’s watching you.”
“Mike, that’s some dodgy stuff you got us to do, I mean, we’re not wiseguys. That shit’s out of our league.”
Mike taped up Freddie’s mouth again, slowly picked up the boxcutter and stood behind him, his head down beside Freddie’s ear. “I suppose you think you got guts, huh?”
Freddie looked confused, unsure whether to nod or shake his head.
“Let’s have a look,” said Mike. He reached down and slashed the man from navel to chest.
Just before Freddie passed out, he saw his own intestines spill over his knees and onto the floor.
Mike looked at Tony, who was redfaced, hyperventilating. He ripped the tape off his mouth.
Tony started babbling, “I swear, Mike, I wasn’t worried. I told him not to go to that lawyer. He was stupid. That’s why I called you. I don’t give a shit if this is your thing on the side or if it comes from Marco Romano himself. I don’t wanna know. Makes no difference to me, man. Please, Mike, pull the nails out. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Mike raised the boxcutter and let the duct tape drop into the bag.
* * *
The next morning Mike sat alone in a diner, reading the city section of the paper. There was no mention of last night’s work, but he did not really expect there would be – not for a while, anyway. His phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Mike, it’s Candy. It’s done. I asked him, but nothing; absolutely nothing. I’ll tell you something, though, he loves to party,” she whispered.
“Thanks, Candy. Tricky as always.”
“Gee thanks. This one was fun, too. He’s a good guy. It’s none of my business, but don’t be too hard on him.”
“That’s right. It’s none of your business.” He pocketed the device and took a sip of coffee.
“Another fuckin’ lamb to the slaughter,” he muttered.
Chapter 14
It was early afternoon by the time Oliver got into Mike’s car, nursing a massive hangover. He was not expecting serious conversation.
Mike drove a few miles to a quiet, wooded area, and stopped the car. He turned to Oliver and smiled.
“So listen, my man. I need to make you aware of a few things.”
Oliver nodded and wished his head didn’t hurt so much.
“OK, as you know, the boss values discretion, honesty. He has no time for people who betray confidences, give away information. You understand me?”
Again, Oliver nodded. This sounded rehearsed.
“Good. Now, if he ever does business with anyone, that implies a level of trust from him, and he expects that trust to be honoured with the respect it deserves, capiche?”
“Sure. That makes sense.”
“You know what I like about you, my friend?”
Oliver shook his head.
“You’re discreet, honest, loyal, a real stand-up guy. You’d never do anything stupid.”
“Absolutely. I don’t like others to know my business.”
“Right, your business, or anyone else’s.”
Oliver was sobering up now. The conversation was beginning to register. He stared at Mike’s lips as they moved.
Mike continued, “Stupid people fuck things up for everyone, but especially themselves. And we don’t want that, do we?”
“No, Mike, we definitely do not want that.”
“Good. Then we understand each other. Oh, there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like this: I guess you’ve figured that once your business becomes public knowledge, certain people are going to want to take an interest in you.”
“Certain people?”
“The Feds.”
“The Feds?”
“What are you, a parrot? The FBI. Don’t tell me that hadn’t occurred to you.”
“Um, er, sure it had. Yeah.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “Well, you’d better start thinking about it, ‘cause it’ll happen. They’re a bit distracted these days, trying to catch terrorists and shit, but you can still count on them taking an interest in you. They’ll try to make you piss your pants, get you to wear a wire, and do all kinds of degrading shit. But they won’t have anything they can pin on you.” Mike jabbed his finger at him. “Your start-up money’ll be legal. Our friend won’t even own the horses on paper; everything’ll be above board. They’ll never be able to touch you, long as you don’t get stupid. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
He was fully alert now. The pain in his head had vanished.
“Good. So don’t worry about a thing. Keep your cool, and when they make contact, you tell me. OK?”
“OK, Mike. No problem. No problem at all.”
And it wasn’t a problem, he said to himself. After all, he was only buying horses. It was of no concern to him what his patron did for a living. Mike was right: they couldn’t touch him.
Later that afternoon, Oliver sat in the spring sunshine on a large wooden armchair in the garden of Marco’s mansion, with a whiskey in his hand. The terrier raced around his chair, mad for action. He sipped the drink, savouring the strong taste. This life, he could get used to.
Oliver shrugged and cast his mind back to the ecstasy of the previous night and onto Mike’s talk in the car. He downed the remainder of the drink. He was doing nothing wrong. Keep quiet, enjoy life, buy good horses, and watch the money roll in.
Marco appeared and sat oppo
site him. The butler brought refills.
“You been settling in? How many of these d’you have?”
“This is my second. And yes, thanks, I’ve been enjoying the serenity here.”
“Good.” Marco picked up his glass. “Here’s to fast horses!”
They clinked glasses.
“Robert’ll be here tonight. I want him to help you out with the business.”
Oliver smiled. "Great!”
Marco nodded enigmatically. “And I want you to stay here for the rest of the week. Hang out with him, see New York again.”
“Cool. Sounds good.” He cleared his throat. “Er, you’re very kind to invite me in like this.”
Marco swirled the ice in his drink. “I’d like you and Robert to be friends, and I know I can trust you not to take advantage of that.” He took a large gulp of bourbon. “Anyway, let’s get down to business. When do you need the money?”
“Not till late August. I’ll buy yearlings in Kentucky in September, then maybe some in Ireland in October. Then I’ll buy what we call weanling foals in November or December in Ireland.”
“OK. Here’s what I’ll do. Robert will get the money; he’ll be like your business partner. I’ll put an accountant on it, but when you need to pay for a horse, Robert’ll do it. That makes the money matters simpler. Bills will be paid in his name. That way he can go with you and learn your business as well. It also means we don’t have to worry about anybody trying to steal the money. I know you want a million Euro, but if you intend to buy in Kentucky first, we’ll see how much you spend there before I convert the rest to take to the sales in Ireland. I’m sure you’ll agree, what with the weak dollar and all that.”
“Sounds fine to me. But I, er, I thought you said Robert wanted to be an artist?”
“He does, but . . . we’ll discuss it tonight, all three of us.” He downed the rest of his drink and motioned for another. “What’re you going to do with these horses after you buy them?”
“The American purchases will need to be kept at a boarding farm in Kentucky, till I find trainers for them. As for the Irish ones: I’ll keep some at my mother’s place, but depending on how many we buy, I may have to see my brother about renting his land.”
“Renting? From your brother? You serious? You can’t just use his land?”
“What, free of charge? No chance.”
“Some piece of work! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like to make a buck as much as the next guy, but when it comes to family, some things should be done on faith. You know: family should just do things for each other. No questions asked.” He shook his head. “I’d like to meet this guy someday.”
“I’m sure I can arrange that.” A smile began to creep across Oliver’s face, which he promptly buried in his glass.
The expression was not lost on Marco. “You kids these days. You think everybody’s Vito Corleone or Tony Soprano. That wasn’t what I meant. And don’t start trying to get smart with me.” He wagged his finger at Oliver.
“Sorry, Marco.”
Oliver sheepishly looked up at Marco, who burst out laughing.
Oliver laughed nervously.
After a few more drinks and more chat about race horses, Oliver was feeling a bit drunk and he could see that Marco was a bit tipsy and loosened up. The terrier was lying in his lap now.
“You know,” said Marco, as he ran his fingers through the terrier’s smooth hair. “People think they’re small, soft dogs, but let me tell you, they’re real hunters. Vicious little fuckers when they want to be. But you probably know that, right?”
“Yeah, my dad used to breed them. They dispatch rats for sport.”
“Now that’s useful,” said Marco, with a glint in his eye. “There’s always a rat around.”
Oliver thought he got the point, but was unsure whether to laugh or remain serious. “We even used to put them into foxes’ earths to flush them out. Dad used to wait outside with a shotgun, but sometimes the dogs would fight the fox, one-on-one.”
“I can believe it.” Marco took another gulp of bourbon.
There was a pause of nearly a minute as Oliver decided to broach another subject.
“Marco, can I ask you a question?”
“This sounds serious! Sure you can.” He gave Oliver a direct look.
“Is it stressful? Your life, I mean, running your business and having to watch out for people trying to get you.”
Marco looked surprised by the question. “Let me tell you something, Oliver. Running any business successfully and staying out of trouble, is stressful. And my line of work is no different. In some ways it’s better, but in many ways it’s worse. Take the Feds, for example. They’d love to put my head on a platter. Not just mine, either; a lot of my friends are in the same situation. They make us out to be the evil core of America, then along comes a bigger threat, and they want us to be their buddies.”
Oliver frowned. “What do you mean?”
“9/11, my friend. Before that, we were Public Enemy Number One. Now they want us to report to them about dodgy Arabs in our unions.” Marco put on a whiny voice, “Anything unusual at all. We really appreciate it, they say to some of my guys, all in the name of patriotism. It’s not the first time they’ve used us, either.”
“You mean informers and stuff.”
“No, I mean when the country was at war with Hitler and Japan, they came to us for help.”
Oliver’s face was blank.
“Oh, come on. You’re a smart guy, don’t tell me you don’t know about this – don’t you read?”
“Yeah, but only horseracing books.”
Marco shot him a sideways glance. “FDR was President. He did a deal with Luciano, who was in jail. Got our friends back in the Old Country to pave the way in Sicily, and guys here to protect the shipyards. Then after the war, it all gets forgotten about. Well, fuck ‘em, is what I say. Bin Laden did us all a favour.” He wagged a finger at Oliver. “That don’t mean it was right; killing all those people – women, children, families. But he sure took the heat off us.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“Aah, why would you? It has nothing to do with you.”
Oliver shrugged. “Did you ever re-marry?”
Marco sighed. “No, never did. I didn’t feel like taking another wife. I had plenty of offers, mind you, but they just wanted to be my wife and not Robert’s mother. So I figured we’re both better off without anyone else.” He nodded his head towards the trees. “This place is big and empty these days, with just me here. Still, I suppose Robert’ll get married one day and come to live here.”
“I admire your family values, Marco. And I can’t believe the way you treat me. I mean, even all those years ago, you took me to dinner without knowing anything about me, except that I’d helped your son.”
Marco smiled wryly and looked directly at Oliver. “Oh, don’t worry, I had you checked out.”
“You did?” Oliver’s eyes bulged. “But how? I mean, you didn’t know me.”
“You gave the nanny your full name and told her you were Irish. I have some friends in Immigration so I had your passport checked out. Your J1 visa led me to the Kentucky stud farm you worked at. I knew you were who you said you were. Then, when we met, it was obvious you didn’t know me. So I had nothing to worry about.”
Oliver was astounded by this revelation, but at the same time he was in awe of the man’s efficiency: simple, discreet, and thorough. The Irishman was excited at the prospect of working with, and learning from, such a man.
“It’s a bit like making a bet, I suppose,” said Oliver. “You need to get all your ducks in a row before you put the money down.”
Marco looked at Oliver with an expression of approval and respect. “Now we’re on the same wavelength. Good.”
He looked at his watch and pushed the dog off his lap. “I got things to do. You make yourself at home. Robert gets here in an hour or two.”
Later, Oliver put his bag in a large bedroom with
an adjoining bathroom at the top of the mansion. He splashed water on his face, wandered downstairs, and found himself in Marco’s office. He was drawn to the leather-bound tomes on the shelves near the fireplace.
All of a sudden his ears twitched, and he heard the front door opening. Startled, he replaced the book and sat on a sofa.
A few minutes later, Marco entered the library with a young man the spitting image of him. Robert Romano was tall and stocky like his father, but it was all muscle. He had a crazy mop of black hair that sat around his head like a lion’s mane, and the same piercing dark eyes of his father. He wore a slim-fitting T-shirt and baggy jeans.
Oliver stood when they entered.
“Robert, Oliver.” Marco thrust his hand in Oliver’s direction. “I’m sure you guys’ll get on. Hard to believe this is the screaming kid you grabbed, eh?”
“You’ve certainly changed.” Oliver offered his hand. “Good to see you again.”
Robert shook it warmly. “Yeah, man, nice to meet you, too. Like, properly. Dad told me a lot about you.”
“I don’t think you could grab him by the shirt now, huh?” said Marco, with a smirk.
“Well, I could, but I don’t think I’d stop him.”
“I try not to run out in front of cars anymore,” said Robert, with a smirk like his father’s.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven. Marco announced they would eat in an hour. The room was beginning to darken as the sun dipped behind the trees.
They flopped onto the sofas; Marco and Robert on one, Oliver alone on the other. A bottle of champagne and three glasses appeared as the butler turned on the lights.
Marco proposed a toast. “Here’s to winning races and making money.”
He looked at Oliver as they all clinked glasses. Robert cast a glance at his father.
“So,” continued Marco. “We discussed everything on the way from the airport. He’s up for it, and things’ll proceed like I told you earlier.”
“That’s great,” said Oliver. “Can’t wait to get cracking on this.”
