by Sam O'Brien
Oliver felt a rush of adrenaline; a powerful sense of authority came over him. His client was the centre of attention in Keeneland, and tomorrow when Oliver started bidding on Marco’s behalf, that would make him one of the most talked about buyers at the sale. It would instantly raise his profile in the business.
It was six-thirty that evening when they finished looking, and went to the bar in the complex to meet Rebecca.
It was half-full, with about sixty people standing around in small groups, all engrossed in discussion and only about horses. There were stud owners from Kentucky, dressed in LL Bean shirts and shorts, pressing their wares onto potential buyers; bloodstock agents from Europe on the phone to their clients; trainers from all over the country and the world; and the entourage of two Arab sheiks, taking up five tables and drinking only mineral water.
Into this buzzing mélange of cultures, strode Marco, Oliver and Robert. Joey entered a few paces after them and loitered by the door, watching everyone. Marco dispatched his son to the bar for drinks.
Rebecca was sitting alone in a corner, checking her catalogue and the findings of her examinations. Oliver pointed her out to Marco and they made their way over.
“Ma’am, are these seats taken?” Oliver said in a fake Southern accent.
She looked up, surprised. “What? Oh hi! It’s you.” Her face brightened. “How was your afternoon?”
“Interesting, good. I’d like you to meet someone.” He said, turning to usher Marco towards the table. “Rebecca, this is Marco. Marco, this is Dr. Rebecca Liddell.”
From her seated position, Marco was like a giant. His face softened into a warm smile and he extended his hand.
“Marco Romano. The pleasure is mine. You’re the vet, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re as gorgeous as he says.”
“Am I now? Why, thank you, sir.” She glanced at Oliver, who looked embarrassed.
They sat and Robert appeared with the drinks. “Hi, Rebecca,” he said, as he placed the glasses on the table. “I got you an OJ, you want something in it?”
“Vodka, please.”
“Now that’s more like it,” he said, returning to the bar.
“Right,” said Oliver. “Business first. Did you find anything strange or startling?”
“I found–” she began.
“Excuse me,” Marco interrupted. “But what do you look for? I ask because, well, I’m interested, and it seems like my man here can see into their souls.”
“Oh, sorry. I start by making routine physical exams on all of them. Lameness, general wellbeing, etc. I listen to their hearts and check their vision. Then I go to the x-ray repository at the back of this building and check their shots. All horses have a full set on file, these days. Which reminds me,” she looked at Oliver. “Do you want me to get any heart scanning done, to grade them for size and strength?”
“No. It’s a waste of time, if you ask me.”
“Okaay,” said Rebecca, her nose slightly out of joint.
“Why?” asked Marco.
“Because I can tell you that at least one Breeder’s Cup Classic winner of the last ten years was failed at this very sale by a vet who scanned his heart, claiming it was small and weak.”
“Really?” said Rebecca. “Which horse? Which vet?”
“I can’t tell you that, but suffice to say that the vet in question has given up scanning hearts.”
Rebecca started racking her brains.
“And how do you know this?” said Marco.
“Grapevine. I know someone who worked for the lady who wanted to buy the horse, but she didn’t because of the vet report.”
Marco wagged a finger at Rebecca. “He’s putting pressure on you.”
She winked. “Oh, I can handle it.”
“I bet you can,” said Marco.
Robert returned with the vodka, which he poured directly into Rebecca’s juice.
“Thanks.” She took a sip. “So, where was I? OK, of the thirty I looked at, all were clean of heart, lungs, limbs, and were all sound at a walk. Except for lot 433, he had a grade one heart murmur.”
“Bad?” said Oliver.
“No, grade one’s my lowest. But, still, I wouldn’t recommend buying into that kind of problem.”
“I agree. Next.”
Marco and Robert sat back in their chairs and watched the two horse people dissect the animals on Oliver’s list.
“Lot 287 has had operations to remove bone chips on both knees. Not a good start in life.”
“His legs are correct, though. Might not matter to him. He comes from the Weinstein’s farm in Midway. D’you know it?”
“They’re not my clients, why?”
“Do they have a lot of these kinds of problems?”
“No more than anyone else, far as I know.”
“OK, next.”
They continued like this for another twenty minutes. Marco’s gaze darted between them like a scanner.
Finally, Oliver came to the last horse on his list. “Now, what about 687, the big colt of Pat O’Malley’s, anything there?”
“No, clean as a whistle. Nice horse, too.”
“Good, and you’re right, he is.”
“I had to endure Pat’s tirade of smutty questions while I was doing the exam.” She rolled her eyes.
“We had to put up with him earlier. Till Marco shut him up.”
She turned to Marco. “I’m impressed. How’d you manage that?”
Marco shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I deal with guys like him, in my line of work. They usually take the hint.”
“And what is your line of work?” she asked.
Oliver stopped writing notes and looked up at Marco, searching his face for a displeased reaction or that look. But the big man’s expression remained affable. He smiled at Rebecca.
“I have nightclubs, bars, and a sports betting business. Your guy here persuaded me to see what life is like when you’re not just taking the bets. You horse people amaze me – really.”
“How’s that?” said Rebecca.
“You guys are talking about animals, right? But you take them apart like they’re machines.”
"That’s because we want to find the ones who are going to run like race cars. We – that’s everybody you see here – are all looking for racing machines. Right, Oliver?”
“Absolutely.” He looked deep into her eyes; she returned the gaze.
“But,” she began again, “because they’re living things, we need to try to cover as many of the variables as possible, to try to shorten the odds of actually buying a good horse.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Oliver turned to Marco. “Now, here’s my revised list.”
He moved his catalogue so it was facing Marco. “It’s down to twenty, all listed in Lot order. The stars beside some indicate priority, and the figures, their approximate value, and bidding limit. I’ll get Robert to mark it into your catalogue tonight.”
Robert looked less than enthused about this.
“OK,” said Marco. “Now, let’s all go have dinner? I’m getting hungry. Rebecca, you’ll join us?”
She thought for a second. “Sure. I’d love to. Where and when?” she said, looking at her watch.
“Nine. The Marriot,” said Marco.
Chapter 18
Over dinner, Marco ordered lavishly from the final pages of the wine list, and listened intently to the horse stories that Oliver and Rebecca regaled him with. Nonetheless, Oliver found it difficult to relax. His mind was split between the sales, getting the results Marco expected, and the distraction Rebecca posed as she sat listening to Marco’s anecdotes or holding the table’s attention with some of her own.
Sensing Oliver’s preoccupation, Marco interjected, “Hey, relax, my man. Things’re going well.” He gave the Irishman a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Chill out, enjoy the evening.”
Afterwards, Robert tried to hasten his father’s departu
re upstairs, so the three of them could have some fun, but Marco insisted that his son join him in the room. Robert rolled his eyes at Oliver as he reluctantly followed his father to the elevators.
Oliver and Rebecca moved themselves to an empty corner of the bar, with half a bottle of wine to finish, far from the crooner and his piano.
“He’s under his father’s thumb, isn’t he?” she said.
“A bit, but he’s a good guy, really. It’s weird; sometimes he says things you wouldn’t expect. I reckon he hasn’t had it as easy as you’d think, even aside from his mother’s death. We should go out for a night with him after the sale. He knows how to have fun.”
Rebecca looked sullen and stared into her glass.
"What’s up, Bec?"
They both sat looking at each other for a minute, both realizing that this was the moment to say things, but neither knowing what to say. It was Rebecca who took the plunge.
“I’m so glad I saw you in the restaurant today,” she said. “But . . . if you hadn’t seen me at the sales, would you have looked me up?”
Oliver stared into his wine glass; words almost failed him. “I don’t know, Rebecca. I wanted to, but I, well it’s been a long time. To be honest, I figured you’d be married with kids.”
“Oh, come on. You know me: work, work, work. Do you really think anyone wants to marry a woman like me?”
“I’d imagine the list is endless.” He looked at her. “I know I’m on it.”
“That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” Her whole face broke into a huge smile. “That mean you’re going to ask me out on a date?”
His confidence returned, he gave her a winning smile. “Well, possibly.”
She grinned back. “Asshole.”
“Here’s to new beginnings.” They clinked glasses.
“New beginnings.” Those stunning turquoise eyes sparkled, and he hoped that another part of his life was falling into place.
“Speaking of new things,” she said. “Your business has got off to quite the flying start. Your client is – well he’s striking; unusual. Very courteous, but scary at the same time.”
Oliver smiled. “Now, you said it. Do you recognize him at all?”
“No. Should I?”
“You didn’t hear the gossip today?”
“No.” She paused for thought. “But come to think of it, before I left the complex, a farm owner outside the bar asked me who Marco was, and what he did. I told him exactly what Marco told me.”
Oliver thought for a few seconds, drained his glass, glanced around to make sure there was nobody within earshot and said, “I have a secret, and I need you to keep this to yourself.”
“OK, sure.” She looked both concerned and curious. “This sounds juicy. I like a good secret.” She huddled closer to Oliver, conspiratorially.
“Oh, you won’t believe it,” he said. “I hardly can myself.”
He poured more wine and started from the beginning.
Rebecca was shocked. “Jesus. I can’t believe you work for him.”
“Well, it’s all true. But I work with him, not for him”
“You sure there’s a difference?” She leaned in closer still, and took his hand in hers. “Do you really know what you’re doing?”
“Yeah.” He frowned. “Come on, Bec, you know me. This is just the chance I needed. I was squandering years working for that wanker Gorman. Now I’ve got some decent cash behind me and the chance to get my name on the buyers’ list, I’ll show the bloody lot of them. And I’m not going to let you go this time, either.” He kissed her passionately.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. And I do think you’ll buy good runners, but that wasn’t what I meant.” She sighed. “Oh, Oliver, you haven’t changed. I always loved the way you persevere in seeing the best in anyone." She paused. "Are you sure this guy means what he says? He’s not going to shaft you, is he? I mean, he is a criminal. Why get involved with him, at all?”
“Like I said: success and glory. It’ll be worth it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I won’t fuck it up.”
“It’s not all down to you.”
Oliver wished she could see the good in his situation; he so wanted her to trust him and to see what a future he had ahead of him. “Listen, you’ve seen the way he is with me. He knows I know my stuff – and he treats me with respect. He thinks I’m worth listening to. Sure, it doesn’t hurt that he owes me a favour. That’s why we’re doing business together. He needs me as much as I need him. That’s how business works.”
“Wow. That doesn’t sound like the Oliver I knew. You’ve become a bit cynical during the last decade.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, well, I got tired of catching all the horseshit at the bottom of the pile. I figure if I’m going to be used, then I want to get as much as I can out of the situation. I’ll deliver for him, alright; he’ll have no reason to fuck me.” He shrugged and looked at her again. “I mean, he wants to win races and make money, right?”
“Right, I guess.”
“And you’ll get paid for all the exams and any other work you do on our horses.”
“Oh, I wasn’t referring to that,” she said. “You’ll get a bill from the practice, anyway.”
“So there you have it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry so much, Bec. Things’ll be OK.”
“I like the new you. You were always ambitious, but a bit soft. Now, you’re a bad ass!” She smiled, got up, and sat on his lap, kissing him again, long and hard.
“I suppose I’d better be going,” she said eventually. “We both have an early start.”
“When the sale’s over, we’ll take a day for ourselves,” Oliver said.
They stood and hugged. Walking her to the door, he added almost absentmindedly, “So how’re your parents doing? They still in Maine? Your dad still golfing every spare minute?”
Her face paled for an instant and she couldn’t look at him. Oliver gently touched her on the arm, breaking her reverie.
“They’re dead,” she blurted out. “Three years ago. Car accident. It’s just me now,” she said in an attempt at bravado.
“Holy shit, Bec! I’m sorry. Er, I . . .”
“Shit happens. Car was totalled, a truck hit them. They reckon my dad fell asleep at the wheel, but I can’t imagine that . . .”
“Jesus, Bec, I . . . I’m so sorry.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead and pushed through the doors into the night air.
“Thanks,” she said.
“How come you didn’t go back to Maine?”
“I had to sell the house and cash it all in to pay my student loans, because Dad had been helping me with them. Now it’s just me and my apartment here. I miss them. I even miss my dad’s golf obsession.”
“God, that’s awful.” He had only met her parents Hunter and Ashley once. Hunter had insisted he try golf and had kept smiling, no matter how many balls Oliver lost in the rough. Ashley had fresh cookies on the table when they returned, and he couldn’t forget their rib-crushing hugs when they dropped him and Bec back to the airport.
She wiped the corner of her eye. “Yeah, well, like I said: shit happens. Then you try to get on with life. I should go.”
He hailed a cab from the rank and watched her speed off into the night.
Chapter 19
The auditorium crackled with energy. It was packed full of people, their hopes, dreams, and money. Marco nodded thoughtfully as he scanned the crowd. There were the Arab sheiks, whose massive spending power was only matched by their massive entourages. Although they all wore Western dress, they had that tough, steely-eyed look of the Bedouin desert tribes. Billionaire businessmen from all over America engaged in serious conversation with their trainers and bloodstock agents. Huddles of shrewd Irishmen and Englishmen were figuring out the angles. There were at least two groups of Japanese, trying to remain unnoticed, but not succeeding; and a swarm of
Koreans, blending in with the Japanese. The atmosphere oozed with optimism and money.
One at a time, horses appeared on the small stage, led in by a groom and passed to the sales company handler, who was immaculately dressed in green blazer, black slacks and leather gloves. The auctioneer rattled through the lots, selling each one in a matter of minutes. There was no time to ponder the merits of the individual horse here; you just had to bid until you reached your limit. Oliver found the seats he had reserved for himself, Robert and Marco, and they took their places towards the back of the auditorium, directly to stage left. Joey stood behind the back row, surveying the crowd.
“We’ll get a good view of the action and can see who’s bidding from here,” said Oliver. “Our first lot’s coming through soon. But the next one in is something special. I wanted you to see this animal being sold.”
Marco opened his catalogue. “What’s so special?”
With that, the auctioneer’s hammer went down with a bang and the previous horse was led out. A new one took its place.
“Watch this,” said Oliver quietly into Marco’s ear.
The auctioneer launched into his heavy drone of preliminaries: a quick summary of the animal’s pedigree and relatives, followed by a starting price. His individual words were almost inaudible. A shout went out, indicating that one of the bid spotters patrolling the aisles had found an eager client. Heads turned; the board lit up with a starting price of five hundred thousand dollars. Immediately another shout came.
“Over there,” Oliver whispered into Marco’s ear. “In the red shirt, Sheik Ahmed of Qatar. He started, and his opposition is Mel Stone, the Florida orange magnate, sitting in row seven.”
“Where?” said Marco.
“Over there, Dad,” said Robert, indicating with an extended finger.
“For God’s sake, don’t point,” said Oliver. “You might end up making a bid.”
