A Sure Thing: What happens when modern racing is infected by the criminal underworld.

by Sam O'Brien

  “What? Oh, sorry.” Robert looked a bit sheepish. “So, I guess we don’t want this one, then?”

  “No. Now watch the price board.”

  Robert watched the figures change. Marco switched his eyes between the two bidders as they traded turns to buy the equine blueblood that graced the stage. It was like watching a bizarre game of tennis; shots were fired back and forth between the two parties desperately trying to out-do each other, hoping every new bid would be the decisive one.

  The bids were climbing in increments of one hundred thousand dollars. It was less than a minute before the one million mark was reached and breached. With each bid, the noise level in the auditorium decreased. At three million, it was very quiet; at four, you could hear a pin drop.

  Marco let out an awestruck whistle. “That’s incredible,” he said to Oliver in a hushed tone. The bidding began to slow after four-and-a-half million. Mel Stone was faltering. Oliver noticed his trainer sitting beside him, subtly shaking his head. Nonetheless, he fought on with two more bids before calling it quits. The only sound was a nervous whinny from the prize, oblivious to the price now on its head.

  The hammer was about to drop, when another hand went up. It belonged to a middle-aged Korean man standing at the back, with a walking stick and a long ponytail, looking like something out of a Hollywood movie. His bid topped five million. All heads turned. Marco wanted to stand up and shout, like a man watching a boxing match, but he held his tongue. Oliver enjoyed the theatrics of the occasion.

  The sheik immediately upped the bid to six million, the Korean to six-and-a-half; the sheik to seven. The Asian bidder turned his back and walked out. The hammer went down. A cheer went up.

  “You’ve just seen the sale topper being sold,” Oliver said with a flourish. “Now, imagine you were the seller.”

  He left the thought hanging in the air as he marked his catalogue.

  Robert spoke first. “Hold on, like, you’re saying the horses we buy in November and December, could make this kind of money on resale?” His eyes lit up. So did Marco’s.

  “Well, not this kind of money, but I hope we’ll be in high six figures, and if we get lucky, maybe a million for a horse that’ll have cost us much less. You see the potential?”

  Robert whistled.

  “Yeah, well it’s not that easy. In this business, you always need a bit of luck.”

  “You got to make your own luck in this world,” said Marco.

  “Yeah, but when you’re dealing with animals, you need a rub of the green, because they don’t have to conform to our plans and dreams.”

  “Whatever. Let me tell you, my friend, that’s the kind of profit I like.”

  In hushed tones, they discussed the dynamics and tactics of bidding at auction for a while, until the first horse on Oliver’s list came in. It was a handsome individual. Oliver made a few bids but was swiftly blown out of the water by a Texan oilman. The hammer went down: Nine hundred and eighty thousand.

  Oliver shrugged. “On to the next.”

  Marco said, “Jesus, I can’t believe how much people pay for an unraced horse. Maybe my million Euro won’t go far enough.”

  “That’s why I set my limits before the sale. Otherwise, the temptation is to get carried away. Look, I want to buy four horses here for about half the budget – give or take ten grand. If we’re priced out of it on everything I want, then we start again in Europe next month.”

  “And what if it’s the same thing there? Do we just settle for any old horse?”

  “No, we do not. But don’t worry. It won’t come to that. We won’t go home empty-handed here, there’s too much to choose from.”

  They bid on eighteen horses that day and failed to buy any. Their dinner that night was rather

  more subdued. Oliver went to his room early and pored over the catalogue for days three and four.

  The next morning, he dragged Robert out of bed at five. They were at Keeneland, looking at horses by six.

  “Man, this is like, totally cruel.”

  “No rest for the wicked. If we’re empty-handed today, we need to have a list ready for day three.”

  They got through a hundred and ten horses before the sale started. They then dashed to the auditorium to meet Marco and bid on two more horses, neither of which they got. Then back to the barns and more looking. Oliver drummed his pen on his catalogue, the pressure was mounting. Halfway through day two, and still nothing.

  By three in the afternoon, they had looked at everything for day three, made a list of twenty, arranged the vet exams, and trotted back to the sale ring for the final lots.

  They took their seats next to Marco, who had been content to sit and watch the action all day.

  “How’d you guys do?” he said.

  “Good, twenty on the list for tomorrow. Rebecca’s doing the exams.”

  “I watched seven horses sell for over a million dollars today. These people are crazy.”

  “Well buckle up, Marco. Because in the next hour, there are three coming through that I really want so we may get a little crazy ourselves. Not million dollar crazy, though. Don’t worry. I won’t blow it all on one horse.”

  “Damn right you won’t,” he said, giving Oliver a sideways look.

  That evening they did buy two horses. The first was a female with a very good pedigree, but slightly small in build. She cost $210,000. One of the well-dressed bid spotters brought the sale docket to Oliver, who smiled and his hand shook as he signed for the horse. His heart was pounding.

  Marco clapped him on the back. “Well done. At last we have a horse.”

  The next on the list was Oliver’s favourite, Pat O’Malley’s colt. It pranced about as it entered the ring, looking fractious. Oliver started the bidding; Mel Stone bid against him, but Oliver kept his eye on a syndicate of shrewd Irishmen who sat behind Stone. If they wanted this horse, they would have the financial muscle to blow Oliver and Stone out of the water. Oliver reminded himself that the colt was by an unfashionable stallion whose first crops of runners had never performed on the undulating turf of European racetracks. That should put the syndicate off. They only wanted horses they could turn into turf performers and, ultimately, European stallions.

  Stone and Oliver traded bids of fifty grand apiece until the price was half a million. Marco just kept staring at Stone, willing him to stop bidding. At six hundred thousand, in Oliver’s favour, Mel’s trainer whispered into his ear. Then both men stared at Marco. Marco stared back. Stone and his man shook their heads, and the hammer dropped. Oliver’s joy was incredible: this was the one he really wanted. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He started chattering excitedly. “That wasn’t cheap, but I’m glad we have him. He’ll be a serious machine, I can feel it.”

  His euphoria didn’t last long. Pat slithered up to Marco’s chair to congratulate them all.

  “You got some balls,” said Marco, raising his eyebrows at Pat. “We just gave you six hundred grand and you congratulate us. Ha! That’s a good one.”

  Pat was stunned at the outburst. “Oh, well, ah, to be sure I do, you just bought yourselves a classic winner, no doubt at all.”

  “For what it’s worth, Pat, I think you’re right,” said Oliver. “That’s why I wanted him. I’m just glad you used an unfashionable stallion to father him.”

  Pat was wrong-footed by the remark; he wasn’t sure if Oliver was serious or mocking him. “Ah, sure, glad to be of service.”

  “One more thing, Pat,” said Oliver. “Can you look after him until I get him broken in and off to a trainer?”

  “I can indeed. No problem at all.”

  “And I’m sure I don’t need to say that I expect a discount on the board. Especially as I’ll send you any other horses we buy here. Deal?” Oliver stared at the rotund man, in his own impersonation of Marco’s gaze.

  Pat shifted his eyes to the floor. “Discount? Oh, ah, well, sure, we’ll talk.”

  With that, he thanked them again and dashed off.
r />   “Tight bastard,” muttered Robert.

  “Like blood from a stone,” Oliver replied. “But he looks after his stock well and he’ll do the same for ours.”

  They bid on one more horse, but failed to get it. The evening was a frantic dash round the barns to view the horses on the new shortlist. The following day, they secured the first horse on Oliver’s list – a strong, masculine male by a new stallion. Oliver considered him a bargain at $75,000. He was a dashing beast that had caught Oliver’s eye quite by accident as he made his rounds of the barns that early morning with Robert. It was also lucky that he was for sale early in the day, in a half-empty auditorium.

  At this stage, Oliver opted to call it quits. They had paid $885,000 for three. He marched Robert to the accounts office, where the younger man provided the necessary details for the company to receive the money transfer. They would then take their commission, before paying out to the vendors.

  When they met Marco later in the bar, he was seated, looking at the catalogue pages for the purchases and their prices. “I thought you said you were going to buy ten horses?” he said with a frown.

  “Well, five here, but that’s the trouble with auctions. Demand is high for the nice ones,” said Oliver. “It’s true we’ve spent a bit more than I thought, but we have three dream horses. And with the exchange rates, we still have some 400,000 Euro to go to battle in Ireland in November.”

  “OK, my friend. You don’t think we might be putting all our eggs in one basket.”

  Oliver looked at Marco earnestly. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope so.” He slapped Oliver on the back as he said it, and told his son to get a bottle of champagne. Robert scurried away to the counter and returned with a laden tray.

  “By the way, I never did tell you. I admired the way you pitched the deal to me, for a million Euro. Still, it means we need to make more dollars to break even.”

  Oliver nodded hastily. “We’ll do it.”

  As they toasted to future success, Oliver outlined the plans for the horses.

  “So, I’ll come back here in October to break them in and place them with a trainer. Then we just have to wait and hope,” he said. “I’ll buy three or four weanling foals in Ireland in November, for resale next autumn. I want to keep some money in the pot to cover vet bills and running costs.” He paused for a second. “I think that’s it. Oh yeah, Marco, will you come to the sales in Ireland?”

  The big man thought for a moment. “You know what? Yeah, I will. I’ve never been, but I guess I should see where you live.” He smiled playfully. “And see how the place has become a European success story.” He sighed. “And I want to meet your brother.”

  “Er, great. I’ll see if I can persuade him to send a plane over. I wonder if he’ll give me a discount.” Oliver grinned at his own joke. Marco smiled back.

  Robert piped up. “I can’t wait to see Ireland. Hey, man, you’ve got to take me clubbing.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can arrange that.”

  Marco’s eyes darted around, scanning the activity in the bar. Everyone was talking deals and searching for the right horse. Eventually, he stood and announced that he and Robert would leave on the next flight to Jersey. The news seemed to be a surprise to Robert, but he did not object.

  “I guess we’ll have to go out another time,” he said to Oliver, as they shook hands. Marco was already out the door, whispering into his phone. A few people stared at him as he departed. Robert hurried after him.

  Oliver sat down heavily and allowed himself a smile of delight. Phase one complete. He finished his drink and called Pat.

  The rotund Irishman answered in a jovial tone. “My favourite client, how’re you doing?”

  Oliver resisted the urge to vomit, “Er, good Pat. Listen, I’ve two more horses that I’d like you to look after, can I send them over?”

  “Not a bother. Colts or fillies?”

  “One of each.”

  “Fine.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Vets from Watson and Hollenbach do your farm visits, don’t they?”

  “That’s correct,” Pat said warily.

  “Well, I want Dr. Liddell to do all of the work on my three. Understood?”

  “Grand, not a bother.” He let out a smutty giggle. “She’ll be nicer to look at than the other fella.”

  “Easy, Pat. You’ll have a heart attack,” said Oliver. “I’ll come back in October to break them in and get them off to trainers.”

  “I’ll keep them in good order till then.”

  “Do that, Pat. Or else the owner’ll be upset – and so will I.”

  “He’s a funny one. Kind of a nice fella, but kind of strange, wouldn’t you say?”

  Oliver smiled into the receiver. “Got to go, Pat. Thanks for everything.”

  “No, no, thank you.”

  Oliver snapped the phone shut and went through his checklist of things to do before he left Kentucky. The horses were now in order. He had one more thing to take care of. He grinned as he punched the number and felt his heart quicken.

  “Hi there,” she answered in a lively tone.

  “How’s your day, Bec?” he said, still smiling.

  “Pretty good. I saw you guys bought some more.”

  “Yep, all done. I told Pat I want you to do all the work on them. That cool with you?”

  “No problem.”

  “That way you can keep an eye on them for me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Now, more importantly, I’m free till my flight tomorrow. I was hoping to wine and dine you tonight.”

  “And take advantage of me, I suppose?”

  “Well, er, if you insist.”

  She laughed. “Tell you what: come by my place tonight. We’ll eat and catch up on lost time.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “See you at eight. I’ve a place off Harrodsburg Road. Call me when your cab passes the mall.” She hung up. He could not stop smiling.

  * * *

  “Yeah, it’s me. The Irish guy came back. He flew to Kentucky. Romano joined him there. It looks like they bought horses.”

  “Horses? What the fuck is that about?”

  * * *

  To Oliver’s surprise, they never made it out the door. She jumped into his arms when he appeared at the door of her compact, comfortable apartment. They made love right there on the floor. They cooked pasta and ate it cross-legged on the sofa with a bottle of wine, and talked about their lives.

  “After college, I got in here straight away – those summer jobs paid off,” she explained. “The work’s interesting, but it’s basically slavery. I mean, there’s a shortage of vets in the States, but instead of recruiting from overseas like other practices, they just push us harder. Like, why pay more salaries, when you can squeeze every last drop out of the vets you have? And to make matters worse, Doug Hollenbach’s a sexist motherfucker.”

  “Whoa, you’ve changed, too, Bec.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry, hon, must be the wine. I usually never talk about it. Truth is, I don’t have anyone I can talk to. All work and no play makes Bec a dull, frustrated girl.”

  Oliver sighed. “I know exactly what you mean.” He told her about the Gorman years. “Nobody cares anymore. It’s all about getting the pound of flesh – and more.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” She rubbed her temples. “I love my work and all, but it never ends. There’s always another call-out, or hospital case. It wears me down.”

  Oliver pulled her towards him, and she rested her head on his chest. “The other day, I started wondering if I could have made more of an effort to get home to my folks before . . . I mean, I’d hardly seen them since I qualified, apart from their trips here. And afterwards . . . I just worked to numb the pain. Before you know it, three years passed and I’m permanently at work.” She caressed his stomach. “You know the funny thing? I never gave it a thought till you showed up. Weird, huh?”

  “It takes a jolt to see things in a
new light.”

  “I hear you,” she stifled a huge yawn.

  “I know what you need,” said Oliver.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you do?”

  Without a word, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He gently laid her on the soft duvet, undressed her, and massaged her shoulders and back. She whimpered in delight before falling into a deep sleep. Oliver whipped off his clothes and jumped in beside her.

  They awoke entwined in each other, and Oliver found it nearly impossible to tear himself away to make his flight. Before he left, they decided he would move in when he returned in October.

  The next day, Oliver sat in the kitchen window of his mother’s house, watching the rain pelt against the glass. He decided to swallow his pride and anger. He phoned his brother.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Rich, it’s Ollie. How’re things?”

  “Good. Frantic, but good. The new opulence service is raking it in; I’m thinking of expanding. I hear things are moving for you, too.”

  “Yeah. In fact, things have never looked better, Rich.” Oliver couldn’t hide a tone of enormous satisfaction.

  “That’s great, bro, really. I always knew you could do it if you got serious enough.”

  “What? I don’t . . . Let’s not get into that now. I called because I want to talk business.”

  “OK, I’m listening.”

  “I need one of your jets for a trip in mid-November. I’ll already be in the States. I want to come back to Ireland with my client, and bring him to the sales in Kildare. Then about a week later, you can drop him back to Newark. Can you do it?”

  “I can swing that, but I warn you, it’s not cheap. I mean, it’s cheaper than anywhere else you could go for the same, but still, you sure you can afford it?”

  “I suppose a discount is out of the question?”

  “This is a business, not a charity, my brother. I thought you’d changed with your newfound drive, but you’re still begging for favours.”

  Oliver grunted, “Didn’t really expect anything, but I had to ask.”