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

by Sam O'Brien

  “Well . . .” Claude’s voice was quieter this time. “Painter’ll have a run down here at Gulfstream, then I’ll send her to Keeneland for the Ashland Stakes, then the Oaks. The Boot’ll do the Florida Derby, the Bluegrass at Keeneland, then the Run for the Roses.”

  “Jesus! Are you sure? He’s only had one run as a two-year-old.”

  “One run?” Claude cut in. “He won the fuckin’ Remsen stakes by twelve lengths on his racecourse debut – that’s never been done before!”

  “I know, but are you sure you can get a horse to win the Kentucky Derby with so little experience? It’s a huge ask.”

  “Like I said, this guy don’t have many miles on the clock. Physically he’s the most magnificent athlete I’ve ever seen, but he never really matured mentally. He leaps about all over the fucking place and works himself like his life depends on it. If he has too much racing, he’ll explode, and if he ever got loose from his groom or jockey, he’d run so hard and fast he’d probably kill himself – or shatter a leg.”

  Oliver was stunned. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Then if he wins the Derby, we should secure a stallion deal as soon as possible.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.” He paused. “You sure you’re OK?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be alright, I’m kind of over the shock. So, what about Shadows?”

  “He caught some kind of viral infection, got over it OK, but training had to stop. Anyway, there’s not that many classy opportunities for three-year-old sprinters till the summer.”

  "Why don’t you try him over a mile?”

  “Oliver, this horse is pure speed, but he won’t last a yard over six eighths of a mile, that’s a fact.”

  “OK, I’ll let Marco know. I suppose I’d better convince him to insure Concrete Boot.”

  “Forget half a mill. Insure him for two at least.”

  “Steady there, Claude. D’you know how much the premiums are?”

  “Just get him covered by Mob mutual insurance – you hit us, we hit you.” He started chuckling at his own lame joke.

  Oliver felt his stomach churn. “Well, thanks, Claude. Talk soon, good luck.”

  “Yeah, you too, man. And Oliver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks, Claude, I’ll try.”

  Oliver put the receiver down and stared at Rebecca, but his mind was spinning with Claude’s feeble attempt at bonding humour. “One down, one to go. Do I have to call Rob now? I think I need to psyche myself up for it.”

  “No you don’t, hon, but hey – aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?” Oliver had a glazed look in his eye.

  “The race plans.” She gently placed her palm on his cheek. “Are you OK?”

  He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. “Yeah. Claude just made a crappy Mafia joke.” “And you don’t find them so funny now, huh?”

  He shook his head. “The good news is, he thinks we’ll kick ass with Concrete Boot and Painter. He even told me he’ll do the Derby/Oaks double. Can you imagine?”

  “I can. He did it before, you know.”

  “That’s what he said. I’d forgotten.” He glanced out the window at the rain lashing down onto the green fields. “OK, here goes.” He picked up the receiver.

  “Hey! What’s up, man? Long time no hear. Bet you’re all loved up in the Emerald Isle?”

  “Well, yeah. Bec’s here now, but . . . well I . . . I guess you didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what, man?”

  “My brother was killed a few weeks back.”

  There was a slight pause. “Holy fuck! You’re shitting me. Killed? Fuck man, I’m sorry. I, what happened?”

  Oliver took a deep breath and told him the story, or at least, the official story.

  “I am so sorry, Oliver. That’s some fucked-up shit, man. I know you didn’t like him much, but I guess he was still your brother, right?”

  “Er, right. To be honest, I don’t really know how to feel. So, you didn’t hear about it at all?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “Well, it’s been in the papers here and on the TV, but I suppose it’s not really international news.”

  “I guess not. Look, um, I don’t, it’s like . . . We’ll have to have a beer in his honour when we see each other, if you want to.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that. OK, so about the horses and the plans for racing domination.”

  “Like the sound of that, man.”

  Oliver recounted his conversation with Claude, and asked Robert to get his father to think about the insurance for Concrete Boot. Oliver’s enthusiasm about the horses put a spark in their conversation. Oliver was fairly sure the young guy knew nothing of Richard’s death. Time to wait and see, he thought, hanging up the receiver.

  “You did that well,” said Rebecca, planting an encouraging kiss on his cheek. “Hang in there.”

  “I don’t want to hang in there at all. I want out, and if Claude’s program goes to plan, we’ll sell the horses for big bucks, Marco’ll make a fortune, and I’ll bow out gracefully, keeping my mouth shut.”

  Chapter 40

  Stuck to his seat, Oliver felt as nervous now as he had when he first made the blind journey to Newark almost two years before. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since. He clutched the armrest as the plane touched down in the early April sunshine, and the old lady sitting next to him assumed it was a symptom of a fear of flying.

  “There, there. It’s all over now,” she said soothingly.

  He shot her a sideways glance and managed a grimace of a smile. If she only knew.

  Business-wise, everything was sailing along according to plan. Concrete Boot was to be insured, but only if he won the Florida Derby. The horse duly obliged by four lengths and was installed as a red-hot favourite for the Kentucky Bluegrass Stakes in ten days’ time. Painter Girl had also won her race in Florida, though less impressively than her stablemate. There was some value to be had in betting on her run this weekend. Claude was bullish about their chances and Marco was happy.

  Oliver was dreading the meeting. It worried him that Marco had not spoken to him on the phone since last year. Originally, he had promised Oliver full access, and although the Agent Huntley affair had changed things slightly, Marco seemed to use the phone less and less.

  Later, when he stood on the threshold of his house and greeted Oliver with a warm embrace and a smile, the visitor relaxed a bit.

  “So, how you been?” asked Marco, as he led the way to his study. “You see those Florida races? We kicked ass, my friend.”

  “Yeah, I suppose we did. Fingers crossed it all goes to plan. Claude’s doing some job keeping Concrete Boot sane.”

  “Long as he keeps winning.”

  “Yeah.” Oliver sat on the sofa and felt his heart trying to thump its way out of his chest. He gritted his teeth. “Marco, I suppose Robert told you, things’ve been tough at home. My brother was killed and, and . . . There was a scandal connected with his company.”

  “What?” Marco looked puzzled. “Oh, yeah. Robert told me he died and I heard about some kind of bad business going down – the airline, right?”

  “Yeah, I can hardly believe it; they say he was smuggling drugs, then just like that, he’s found dead on the street. It’s incredible,” he sobbed.

  Marco cocked his head to one side, raised his eyebrows, and said in a soft but firm voice, “Look, I’m sorry for your loss, but if he got himself into something that blew up in his face then that’s his problem.” He wagged his finger at a stunned Oliver. “It’ll do you no good to dwell on it.”

  “But he was my brother.”

  “I thought you didn’t even like the guy, anyway.”

  “Well, I didn’t, but . . .”

  “I mean it,” the big man interrupted. “You need to move on and concentrate on your mother, your fiancée – yeah, I heard about that, too – and your horses
. Shit happens—get on with your life. Just make sure that kind of shit never happens to you.”

  A wave of panic crept up Oliver’s spine. A few months ago, he might have failed to see the meaning of these words, but now he felt more awake and alert. Perhaps Martin was right. He peeled his eyes away from Marco’s, looked at the floor, silently counted to ten, shrugged his shoulders, and returned his gaze to Marco.

  “Fuck it, I suppose you’re right. What’s done is done, and like you said, I didn’t even really like him, anyway. What did he do for me?” He forced a smirk onto his face. “To be quite honest, all I really want is to win the Kentucky Derby, then we’ll sell the horse as a stallion.”

  “Now that’s more like it!” bellowed Marco, clapping his hand onto Oliver’s shoulder. “Let’s have a mint julep for luck.” He shouted for the drinks.

  “Starting to feel like springtime in Kentucky already,” lied Oliver, sipping the strong sharp bourbon. Now was not the time to tell Marco that he planned to use the profit from the stallion deal as the excuse to get out.

  He decided he would not, ever, utter a word about his inheritance to Marco or Robert. Maybe Marco had the means to find out, but if he was involved in the events in Ireland, he would not want to have any of his people caught snooping around asking questions in law firms. Anyway, Marco had no reason to suspect Richard would ever leave a penny to his younger brother – not even Oliver had expected it.

  It was essential that Concrete Boot won the Run for the Roses on the first Saturday in May, and Oliver would have a reasonable excuse to extricate himself from the deal.

  Oliver flew to Lexington the next day and told Rebecca about Marco’s reaction.

  “Holy shit, hon,” she said, stunned. “Like I said, you got to keep your head down and get out – don’t even think about trying to get even with the guy.”

  “Don’t worry, Bec, I don’t think I could if I wanted to. After all, I’ve no proof of anything, and if I make one call to the police, I’ll end up like Rich. Or worse.” There was an unnerving calmness in his voice. Rebecca hugged him.

  “You’re taking this all very well. Maybe too well. You sure you don’t want to tell me anything?”

  He chewed his lip. “As they say, nothing like a crisis to focus the mind. We’ll get through this together. We just need the horse to win.”

  Chapter 41

  A week later, the plan was still on track. Painter Girl won the Ashland Stakes, making it look more difficult than it actually was. It had poured with rain before the race and although she galloped through the sloppy track without a problem, Pablo got her boxed in and couldn’t find a gap. The fractious filly appeared to sulk under the onslaught of wet dirt pelting her head and chest, and when Pablo asked her to dart for the line, she grudgingly gave him the effort required and won by a neck. “A neck’s a good as a mile,” said Claude.

  The following Saturday, Concrete Boot duly obliged in the Bluegrass Stakes. Though he got home by only half a length – nearly stopping Oliver’s heart in the process – he appeared to merely be out for an afternoon stroll around the track. Claude had told everyone before the race that the important thing was to win in as calm a fashion as possible, to give the horse the illusion that this was only a training gallop. After the race, he jumped, kicked and bucked in the winner’s enclosure, scattering Claude, Oliver, Rebecca and Robert.

  “Fuck it, every time we race, he gets more and more wound up. Does all kinds of stupid shit like this,” said Claude, pinned to the rail with the others.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if he was more tired?” said Robert.

  “Are you fucking mad?” snapped Claude, forgetting himself. “I mean, no. He’s like a timebomb. I have to get him to use himself as little as possible, to waste as little energy and ability as possible, so we can get him to Churchill Downs in a couple weeks. Otherwise, he’ll boil over.”

  “Can’t you give him something to calm him down, like a shot of bourbon or a joint or something?” said Robert, only half-joking.

  Claude looked at him straight in the eye. “I need to channel his ability, not suppress it. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Besides, Rob,” Oliver chipped in. “That would be against the rules. Right, Claude?”

  “Yeah, kinda. I mean, they can run on certain painkillers and diuretics, and some other stuff.”

  “Shit, really?” said Robert.

  “Yep,” said Rebecca.

  “Yeah, really . . .” Claude was cut short by another flailing kick from the horse, which punched the air inches from where he stood. “Goddamn it, Ricky, get him back to the stable!” he bellowed.

  His assistant hurriedly signalled to the groom and they accompanied the distraught athlete back to the quiet sanctuary of his stall. All eyes were on Boot as he left the arena. He had just been installed as favourite for the Derby in two weeks’ time. The pressure was mounting on Claude and Oliver.

  Chapter 42

  At the beginning of May every year, Louisville, Kentucky transforms itself from a quiet provincial town into a carnival city and the focus of a nation. The streets fill with banners and an expectant buzz runs through the residents; even waitresses and university students discuss what might win the big race at the weekend. For a frantic few days, Derby fever grips everyone in the area.

  The day before the great race, Friday, is Oaks Day. Churchill Downs does a dress rehearsal for the big event; good racing and great festivities, but without the seething masses that flock to the track for the Derby. Oliver took his place in the grandstand, scanned the crowd, and reflected that this was the purist’s race-day. Only diehard race fans and those involved in the business were there.

  Oliver couldn’t bear to be in the paddock. He had a chat with Claude while he saddled Painter, then scurried away from the gaze of the TV cameras. Robert followed him up to the owners’ viewing area. Oliver found Rebecca leaning on a rail, looking down at the immaculately prepared track and the winner’s circle opposite the finishing line. She gave her widest smile as she saw him approach.

  “I was just thinking how cool it’d be to stand over there in a few minutes.”

  Oliver grimaced. “Don’t, please. If I do any more thinking, I’ll either burst into tears or throw up, I’m so nervous.”

  “And what’ll you do if she wins, hon?”

  “Both, probably.” He took her hand in his as Painter Girl was ponied onto the track and down to the starting gates. He nearly squeezed the blood from Rebecca’s hand as the horses were loaded then ejected. Oliver’s heart started pounding in rhythm with the hoof-beats as the horses thundered along the dirt track. When Painter Girl rounded the final turn in third position, the tears welled up in his eyes. He roared at the top of his lungs when Pablo switched her to the outside and dashed for the line. Oliver daren’t believe it as she tussled in a titanic battle with Jig Dance. With neither giving in, the two animals covered the dying strides of the race locked together. When they crossed the line, Oliver had lost his voice, and not even the commentator could call the winner.

  Rebecca hugged her man and said, “She got there, hon. I can feel it.”

  Oliver was ashen-faced and unable to speak. He looked behind for Claude, hoping to get a nerve-killing cigarette from him while the photo-finish shot was examined. The trainer passed over the packet when he saw the look in Oliver’s eye, then he replaced the butt in his own mouth with a fresh one and inhaled deeply.

  “I fuckin’ hate photo finishes. Never had much luck with ‘em.”

  “Now you tell me,” croaked Oliver.

  For five minutes, Churchill Downs racetrack held its breath. Oliver and Claude paced around in small circles, too afraid to go to the winner’s circle or to the unsaddling enclosure. Both Painter Girl and Jig Dance were being led about on the track by their grooms; not even the jockeys could call the result. Neither wanted to claim the winner’s circle for fear of having to exit in a few minutes.

  Finally, there was a crackle
as the announcement was made over the public address system. When they heard, “First: Number seven”, Oliver and Claude embraced and felt the stress drain from their bodies.

  Oliver turned to kiss Rebecca and she jumped into his arms. “You’re the man. And you’re my man.”

  Robert stood behind them with a beer in one hand, talking into his phone. He flipped it shut. A broad grin swept across his face. “You guys like to give us all heart attacks,” he said, grabbing Oliver’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Dad was in a sweat, too. Shit, I think he aged a year in ten minutes.”

  “I think we all did, Rob,” said Oliver.

  Claude pulled out another cigarette. “I’m still fuckin’ ageing,” he muttered.

  Oliver glanced at him, and thought how much could change on the nod of a horse’s head at the line, of how many fortunes have been won and lost on the running of a race. He threw his eyes skywards and thanked his lucky stars.

  That evening, Marco called him. “That was close, my friend, I nearly gave myself an ulcer waiting for the result. Tell Claude I like to win by more than an inch.”

  Oliver smiled. “You know, I think I prefer that myself. And with any luck, we’ll do just that tomorrow. Oh, the other thing is, if he wins tomorrow we . . .”

  “What’s this if? I don’t want to hear about if!”

  “Neither do I. You see, this horse probably only has a few races in him, so I want a stallion deal sorted as soon as possible. That way, we have our return guaranteed.”

  “OK.”

  “I’ll put the word about that he’s for sale and see who bites. We’ll have interest, alright. It just depends on the figure.”

  “Give me a ballpark.”

  “With his looks, race record and his mother’s pedigree, could be anything. He’s not by the most fashionable stallion in the world, but I reckon we’ll get away with that. The most important thing is that his temperament remains a secret, which isn’t easy in this business,” said Oliver, hedging.

  “Yeah, yeah. So what’s the figure?” snapped Marco.