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

by Sam O'Brien

  When Oliver pushed open the restroom door, he saw Mike standing over the attendant. “Get the fuck out,” he said, throwing a crumpled banknote at him. “And don’t let nobody else in.”

  The elderly coloured man shuffled out nonchalantly, like it was a perfectly reasonable request. When the door closed, Mike went to the sinks and turned on all the taps.

  “Tell me how those fucks harassed you.”

  Oliver took a deep breath and told Mike everything, except for Huntley’s business card.

  “I tore the bloody thing up and threw it at his feet,” he added for dramatic effect.

  Mike clamped one hand on his shoulder and jabbed his other index finger at Oliver’s face. “You sure that’s everything?”

  “Yeah, Mike. What else would there be?”

  “Good man! Sounds like you know the fuckin’ deal.” Mike slapped him lightly on the cheek. “You must’ve some Italian in you, my friend.”

  Oliver, bizarrely, felt emotional, relieved.

  Mike guided him towards the door with an arm around his shoulder. “OK, you’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

  “The day after.”

  “I’ll go see the boss. Wait for a minute before you follow me out.” With that, he gave Oliver a mock punch on the chin. “Go fuckin’ nuts tonight, OK?”

  He slipped out. Oliver turned off the taps before leaving.

  Rejoining the others, he shot Rebecca a huge grin. “OK,” he announced. “Let’s kick on out of here. Where to, Rob?”

  Robert replied without taking his eyes off the curvaceous, smiley Sherry. “I was kinda thinking we’d head straight to the meatpacking district. It’s kinda early, but I know a cool place we can chill. You wanna come?” he said to her.

  Before she answered, he shot a glance at Oliver. “Oh shit, don’t we have to wait for . . .”

  “Relax, it’s done.”

  “Cool,” said Robert with a smile.

  “I’ll totally come with you guys,” said Sherry, then looked up at Oliver and batted her false eyelashes. “So, that big dude with the weird hair who, like, stood over there.” She pointed towards the archway. “He’s like your dealer, or something?”

  Oliver and Robert exchanged glances.

  “He’s a friend of my dad.”

  “Yeah, he just wanted some betting advice,” said Oliver.

  She paused for a second with a look that could have been confusion. “OK, let’s go. I’m tired of waiting for my friend to show up. I wanna party with you guys!” She pecked Robert on the cheek.

  As they left the lobby and passed out into the sticky heat of the city at night, Oliver grinned at Rebecca and cocked his head towards Robert and Sherry.

  “Someone’s going to get lucky tonight,” he whispered to Rebecca.

  She smirked back. “I doubt it. You know, I think Sherry’s not as dumb as she looks.”

  "You might be right there, Bec."

  They hailed a cab and journeyed into the dark revelry of clubs, cocaine and alcohol.

  The following afternoon, Oliver and Rebecca were in the hotel dining room when Robert appeared. They were glad to see he looked worse than they felt.

  “You look like shit,” said Rebecca.

  “You don’t look too healthy yourself." He rubbed his eyes. "Oh man, I didn’t sleep a wink,” he sighed. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Don’t confuse sex and drugs with love, Rob,” said Rebecca, rolling her eyes.

  “I wish . . .” He looked at Oliver. “Man, she wouldn’t even let me sleep with her.”

  “Then she must like you,” said Rebecca.

  “I hope so. She’s an art major, I think. I invited her home next weekend. We’ll hang out. I’ll show her my mom’s paintings and stuff.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Oliver.

  “I put her in a cab; she has to study.” He looked at his watch. “We have to be home by five. Dad called, he wants to see you, talk racing tactics.”

  Oliver looked surprised. “I thought we were going to stay here? I fly back to Ireland from JFK.”

  Robert shrugged as he picked up a menu. “Plan’s changed, I guess.”

  Oliver felt his stomach churn.

  Chapter 27

  At precisely five pm, they sat in Marco’s library, drinking Coke. Marco smirked when he walked in and saw them sipping the sodas.

  “Got any bourbon in that?” They grimaced at the mention of whiskey.

  “Looks like you guys had a big one,” he said. “And who was the bit of tail my son had latched onto him?” he asked Oliver.

  Robert almost choked with surprise and shot Oliver a dirty look.

  “Relax. Mike told me,” said his father.

  “Dad, she’s an art major,” he blurted out. “I want to bring her here next week, hang out and stuff. Show her Mom’s paintings.”

  “First, get to know her better. What’s her name?”

  “Sherry.”

  Marco burst out laughing. “What, just Sherry? You sure she’s not a hooker?” He winked at Oliver.

  “No, Dad, she’s a student, I told you. Come on, guys,” he said to Oliver and Rebecca. “Back me up!”

  “She seemed pretty switched on to me.”

  Marco took in what Rebecca said. “You’re shitting me, my boy! You found an art student with blonde hair, big tits, and a name like Sherry? Unfuckin’ believable. Now this girl, I’ve gotta meet – when you get to know her better.” He winked at Oliver. “Come with me.”

  Oliver followed the big man across the marble tiled hall and into another wood panelled room, with a large pool table as its centerpiece. Marco leaned against it and picked up two balls, twirling them together in his left hand. Oliver stood in front of him and folded his arms.

  “Mike told me what happened at the races, but I’d like to hear it from you.” The dark eyes were set on full beam.

  Oliver wondered if he said nothing, would Marco simply read his mind? He took a deep breath and told him exactly what he had told Mike. As he spoke, he could hear the rhythmic whirring of the balls rotating in Marco’s hand.

  When Oliver had finished, Marco flicked the balls from his grip out onto the table; they flew the length of it and crashed around like a loose cannon shot. A satisfied look came over the Mafia man’s wide face. He got up and embraced Oliver fully, kissing him on both cheeks.

  Oliver was stunned by the gesture. In an instant, he felt warm, wanted and successful. He felt a bond with Marco that he wished he had had with his own cold, hard father – or even his brother.

  Marco released him, brought up his left hand, and patted Oliver on the cheek. “Keep up the good work, and remember, those fuckheads don’t have a thing to hassle you about.” He held his index finger aloft. “There’s just a small change of plan.”

  “What’s that?” asked Oliver obediently.

  “I won’t go racing anymore if it’s going to draw that kind of heat. I’ll send Robert; after all, they’re his horses on paper. You just make sure I get told when the bet’s on.”

  “Definitely. But I probably won’t go to every race, either. Just certain ones.”

  “That’s OK, long as you get me the info in advance.”

  “No problem, Marco.”

  “And do me a favour: relax. You’re doing well. Forget about the cops, and look after that girl of yours. She’s a stunner. Keep her happy and she’ll keep you happy, know what I mean?” He smiled a mischievous grin at Oliver. “Come, on.”

  Marco left the room. Oliver stood there for a minute, then shrugged. Forget the cops. Everything’s going well. He almost skipped across the hall to rejoin the others.

  Chapter 28

  Jonathon Coleman strode across the tarmac at the small windswept airport in the west of Ireland, dragging his bags behind him, their wheels rumbling on the smooth runway. His mind was full of flight details – a hop to southern Spain with the family of a famous golfer on board. He hopped up the steps, stowed his bags in the tiny cabin, and was dismayed to see an
oversized duffel taking up most of the locker. He turned to his co-pilot, who was already seated and starting his pre-flight checks. “Don’t tell me we’ve got Pietro again.”

  Pat O’Connell shrugged. “I never remember their names, but if you mean the Italian Stallion, then yes.”

  “Greasy little dago. There’s something fucking dodgy about him, and his huge bloody bag. He’s always fucking buying loads of tatty stuff, whenever we go to the sun.”

  Pat looked puzzled. “What?”

  “You know, souvenirs and shit. Fills that fucking bag.”

  Pat looked up at his flying partner. “Sure, at least he speaks decent English and treats the passengers well – not like some of ‘em.”

  “He’s up to something, I’m sure of it. Little fucker.”

  “Well, you can whinge all you like: rumour has it he was put on by the boss man himself. So you might as well piss into the wind as complain. Anyway, I reckon you’re just jealous ‘cause all the women love him.”

  With that, a deeply tanned face appeared behind them in the cockpit.

  “So ‘ow you doin’ today, Capitani?” said Pietro. With his olive oil voice, thick dark hair and chiseled features, he was very popular amongst the female employees and clients of Freefly Airlines. His darting eyes shot from Pat to Jonathon, like he knew he had been the topic of discussion. He glanced down at his bag and returned to the cabin without waiting for a reply.

  “I’m going to keep a better eye on that fucker, and have a chat to the boss next time I’m in HQ,” said Jonathon.

  Pat rolled his eyes. “Oh, but you’re a glutton for punishment,” he said, while flicking a switch.

  He paused for a second and continued, “But if you’re really sick of him, you’d be better off having a chat to Forrester. He’s the golden boy at the moment. Not as bloody scared of the boss man as he used to be, either.”

  As the passengers boarded, the pilots could hear Pietro filling their glasses and seducing them with his accent and banter.

  * * *

  Sherry sat curled up on the large sofa, gazing around the room. It was quite the bachelor’s party den: big sofas, wall-to-wall carpeting, large TV screen, music system, soft lighting and a huge, well stocked bar. She reached out for the bottle of wine on the coffee table, refilled Robert’s glass, and served herself very little. “Come back here, have another drink. You’re like, totally falling behind,” she said.

  Robert was on his feet, swaying beside the large hi-fi system, struggling to adjust the playlists on his iPod.

  “Me, fall behind? In your dreams, baby!” He staggered back towards her, grabbed his glass, downed it in one gulp, and flopped down hard on the sofa. He leaned in to kiss her, but she hesitated.

  “You sure we’re alone? Like, no one’s going to disturb us doing bad things?” she asked in a seductive whisper.

  “Yeah, babe. It’s cool. Dad won’t be back ‘fore dawn, ‘n’ the butler’s in bed. We’r’ll alone,” he slurred.

  Sherry sneaked a glance at the wall-mounted clock and hoped to God that Robert was going to pass out. She was beginning to worry that she might have to sleep with him to get the job done. She kissed him, filled both their glasses, and prayed his stamina would give out.

  He tried to get up, but decided against it. Sherry gave him his glass, and he clung to it with both hands.

  “Y’know, Sherry, can’t believe how trashed I feel. I don’t drink wed rine. I, I . . . You’re a really cool chick.” His head rolled back and melted into the cushion, the glass of wine tipped all over his shirt, but he was already unconscious.

  Sherry waited for a few minutes until he started snoring. Then she rubbed her eyes and slapped herself on the cheeks with both hands. “Focus,” she muttered.

  She grabbed her handbag and padded out of the room. Creeping across the hallway and into the library, she squinted in the dark and took a black device about three centimetres in diameter, with a thin wire extending from it, out of a zipped pocket in her bag.

  Glancing out of the windows, Sherry grabbed a chair and placed it at the bookshelves. Reaching the top shelf, and selecting the thickest book, she opened the weighty tome and slipped the small black device into the space between the spine and cover.

  With the book and chair replaced, she went into the ground level bathroom and slipped a similar device under the back of the washbasin. She relieved herself, washed her face, and took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. Tonight had been surreal. In the last few hours she had finally met Marco, The Gent, and was now planting bugs in his holy of holies – his private house.

  Sherry steeled herself for battle and returned to the party room. She chose to put the last device behind the revolting piece of abstract art hanging above the fireplace. Robert had been so eager to show her it earlier.

  Finished, she perched beside Robert and used her phone to send a blank message to a number not in her contact list. Then she sat back and gulped down a glass of wine. After a few more minutes, she drained the bottle, removed her dress, Robert’s damp shirt, jeans and the empty glass from his lap, and lay rigidly beside him.

  Eventually, her heart stopped pounding enough to let her drift off to sleep.

  The following morning, she awoke nursing a minor hangover and a foreboding feeling. She desperately hoped that the small but powerful listening devices would operate as they were supposed to. Then she could quietly slip out of Robert’s life. After two months, she was sick of being Sherry, the twenty-four-year-old airhead student. The stress threatened to crack her up at any second.

  Beside her, Robert groaned to life and put his arm around her hips. Her skin crawled.

  * * *

  Martin put down the phone and trotted along the corridor to Richard’s office.

  “Is he free, Janine?”

  She glanced at the switchboard. “Yes, I’ll let . . .”

  Martin opened the door before she could finish.

  Richard looked up from a thick file. “Don’t you knock any more, Martin?”

  “Sorry, but this is important.”

  Richard sighed and tapped his pen off the file. “Spit it out then.”

  “I just got off the phone with John Coleman. He’s complaining about the new Italian, Pietro. You know, the one you hired.”

  The pen stopped tapping. “Look, er, Coleman’s on record as a racist. What’s he saying?”

  “That the guy’s acting suspiciously. Carries a big bag on all the trips to the sun, especially Spain. He always fills it up with souvenirs and he hates people asking him questions.”

  “So what? He likes tacky shite and hates the pilots – he’s not alone on that score. Anyway, he’s the best steward on the Opulence Service; you said yourself, all the clients love him.”

  “Yes but, I have to say, it sounds a bit weird to me. I told him to come in for a chat tomorrow. I thought you’d want to get to the bottom of this.”

  The colour drained from Richard’s face. He coughed and took a long drink of water. “I’m not going to meet with a racist pilot I should’ve fired years ago, just because he’s complaining about a flight attendant. Tell him to shut the fuck up. Nobody’s interested in his bullshit.”

  “But I–”

  “But nothing.”

  “We should at least hear him out.”

  Richard jabbed his pen at Martin. “No! Right, if that’s all you have to say, you can get back to work.”

  Martin knew better than to persist. He retreated and closed the door behind him.

  Richard took another drink. “Fuckitty fuck,” he muttered. He flipped his Rolodex and started to dial his lawyer’s number. Then he cradled the receiver as he walked to the window and gazed out over Dublin. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a bead of sweat forming at his hairline.

  Chapter 29

  October 2005

  Oliver and Rebecca stood sipping soup from paper cups to keep the breezy Irish autumn out of their bones. They were leaning against a wall at the ho
rse sales complex in Kildare, watching the throngs mill about between the stable blocks. Rebecca had a cap pulled down low on her head, her turquoise eyes beaming out from under it, mesmerizing many of the people who came to assess Oliver’s horses.

  Oliver sprang to life as he noticed a successful trainer approaching with a rich Russian owner in tow. “Another looker Bec,” he said, dashing to the stable door, tossing his soup into a bin.

  They showed all three horses to the trainer and his client, who were visibly impressed. Each of the colts had matured into stunning-looking athletes. Oliver had spent every day with them for the last two months. He had walked them miles around his mother’s fields, and lunged them with side reins to build up their necks. And, of course, he had given them the best feed he could buy, and an hour of grooming each afternoon. They had been taught to stand still whilst being inspected, and to pose in a certain way, not fidget like hyperactive teenagers. The result was that they looked and behaved like professional catwalk models or bodybuilders.

  Putting the last horse away, Oliver thanked the trainer and the Russian, while Rebecca threw the stable rug onto its back.

  “Hon, I’ll say it again, they look amazing. A kick-ass job you did preparing them. We’ve been flat out showing them to people. They’ll make megabucks. Especially this one, the way his full brother raced this year.” She smiled at Oliver. “Y’know, I’m glad I’m here. Best holiday in years, despite the lack of beaches and sunshine. You’re some horseman, you know.” She finished clipping the rug straps together. “But I’m not going to blow anymore sunshine up your ass – it’ll go to your head.”

  He laughed. “Some chance of a swollen head with you around. Still, I’ll be over the moon when they’ve sold. Then we’ll catch up on beaches and sunshine.”

  They closed the stable door and Oliver scanned the complex, gauging the crowd. “It’s getting late; almost six,” he said, looking at his watch. “People’ll stop looking soon. Let’s feed up and call it a day.”