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

by Sam O'Brien

  “Good. How’re we doing on the listening?” asked Huntley.

  “Real backed-up. It takes the guys ages to go through it and file it. There’s a lot of interference. Can we get a couple of extra bodies?”

  “I’ll ask, but don’t hold your breath.”

  Chapter 49

  They downed beers and hammered balls around the table, but neither felt like talking very much. Both had other things on their minds. The handful of other drinkers all sat at the bar watching basketball on TV.

  Robert found the click of ball-on-ball soothing, and with the steady flow of alcohol he began to relax. He needed someone to talk to, and he realized that Oliver and Rebecca were the closest thing he had to real friends. He liked his new girl, but he couldn’t share this kind of information with her.

  Oliver took a shot and missed. “Shit. I’m not really into this. Can’t focus.”

  Robert took another swig of beer and decided it was now or never. “Hey, Ollie. Do you mind if I call you Ollie?”

  “Er . . . No, it’s OK. My brother used to call me Ollie.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “No, you’re grand.”

  “Cool. It’s like this . . . Ollie, be careful with my dad, OK? This afternoon, I remembered something that happened when I was younger. It’s like . . . Aw shit, man, this is...” He buried his face in his hands.

  Oliver looked surprised at this sudden outburst, and he placed his cue on the table. “Let’s sit in a booth.”

  “That’s better,” said Robert, sliding himself into a corner seat.

  Oliver faced him, looking concerned. “Go on, have another beer, take your time.”

  Robert finished the bottle. “Thanks, man. Look, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today. One time, Rebecca asked me ‘what my deal was’ and I didn’t get it. But I think I do now. I think I’m growing up, beginning to wake up.”

  Oliver looked despondently at the table as he peeled the label off his beer bottle. “You know, I think I’m doing a bit of waking up myself,” he said absent-mindedly.

  Robert stared at him.

  “Sorry, go on,” said Oliver.

  “I guess you could say my deal is that I do what my dad says, mostly ‘cause I’m afraid of him.”

  Oliver stopped peeling the label. “But you’re his only son. He loves you. Surely you can talk to him?”

  The young Romano put up his hand. “I’ve tried. Trouble is, he doesn’t care. That whole California thing was just for show; it’s like, even if I’d graduated, he’d have found a way to get me back at his side. This whole horse thing was just a way to get me earlier.”

  “But you’re his son. You could’ve said no and stayed there, right?”

  Robert looked sceptical. “I don’t know, man. And the thing is, he’d have made me do it on my own, no more money or help. No more wheels being greased, probably just hassles from the cops. And see, it’s like, I don’t think I’m ready to be poor and free just yet. It scares me more than he does. I, like, realized about an hour ago, it’s difficult to leave a gilded cage when you love the gold more than you hate captivity. And besides, he’s never tried to get me to join the business. So all I have to do is stay with him.” His voice trailed off and he got up and went to the restroom.

  Watching him walk away, Oliver began to think that under all the bravado of youth and money, he was a frightened kid who probably badly needed his mother’s affection but got only his father’s money. Something in his own brain stirred and reminded him of his childhood.

  When Robert returned, Oliver said, “Jesus, you have done some thinking. But I don’t really know what to say. For me, I went my own way and my dad never really forgave me for it, but I did what I had to do. There was just no way I could have followed in my brother’s footsteps.” He frowned. “I’m not telling you what to do. You can do what you like, as long as you do the right thing for you and not the wrong thing for his sake.” Oliver stopped speaking suddenly.

  Why don’t I take my own advice? He wondered. He paused for a second to regain his train of thought. “I suppose I just want to do my job and be on my way.”

  In truth, Oliver was so taken aback by this conversation that he didn’t fully know how to react. It was better to play it safe. Robert wouldn’t be the first young guy to be upset with his dad, and Marco was still his father. Robert may be afraid of him, but surely he still loved him.

  Robert’s phone broke the heavy silence.

  “Hi, Mike,” he said, looking apprehensive.

  Oliver looked on, riveted. His heart suddenly beat faster.

  “We’re staying round the corner from Shads. Why?”

  “I, er, nah, it’s cool. Might just get shitfaced.” He touched his nostril with a finger and looked quizzically at Oliver, who shook his head violently.

  “Ollie’s cool, too.”

  “Thanks anyway, man.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  Oliver’s hackles were raised and he wasn’t sure why. The thought of taking a few harmless lines of coke didn’t excite him tonight. It wasn’t just recreational fun anymore; it wasn’t a seductive white powder which gave him the illusion of invincibility. It was the consumer end of a dirty business. Snap out of it, he told himself. Stay focused.

  “Fuck it,” said Robert. “I need more beer. It’s my round. Let’s try to enjoy ourselves.” He sauntered up to the bar.

  The night descended into a state of extreme inebriation and pathetic attempts at sinking pool balls. They were ushered out onto the street at two-thirty in the morning, and when they checked into the motel, they raided the vending machine in the lobby for stale chips and chocolate. Eventually, they passed out on the grubby twin beds and stayed that way until nearly noon.

  * * *

  The silver Toyota pulled up outside the motel just after nine that morning, and by eleven-thirty its occupants were getting bored. Tomo and Tito were short, heavily-muscled guys who spent every spare second lifting weights, and were ambitious enough to make their collections for Marco on time, every time. They lived spartan lives, kept a low profile, and sent a greater percentage of their take uphill. This tactic ensured that Mike and Marco took notice.

  Tito was sure they would be ‘made’ in a couple of years. Until then, they would have to put up with this kind of shitty job. Still, boring as it was, it beat driving the boss’s son around. That mission really made them sour. They didn’t want to be childminders.

  Tomo studied the motel – an L-shaped building on a corner lot. The access to the central courtyard was from the street perpendicular to them, and meant that any car entering had to pass by the window of the office. For this reason, Tomo elected to park opposite, facing the direction of traffic. They had a prime view of all the rooms and it would be easy to cross the road, do the job, and get the fuck out.

  Tito heard his stomach growl and looked at his watch. He sighed. “I hope they make a fuckin’ move soon.”

  “I’m fuckin’ starving, too,” growled Tomo.

  Oliver was sprawled on the bed and had fallen asleep open-mouthed, so his lip was stuck to the pillow. He stirred a little and managed to focus on his watch. Dehydration made his head thump, but numb to thought and emotion. He could hear the drizzle of the shower, and a minute later, Robert appeared with a towel wrapped around him. “Come on man! Grab a shower, we’ll get some breakfast.”

  “Not me,” groaned Oliver. “I’m wrecked. Can you get me some water?”

  Robert got him a tepid glassful from the tap. Oliver downed it instantly and held the glass out for a refill. He finished three glasses.

  “Shit, man, you’re in a bad way.”

  “Dying. Feel like I’m getting old. Need more sleep.” He flopped back into the pillow.

  “OK, man, I’ll go get us coffee and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Oliver, already half asleep.

  Tomo watched Robert appear, slam the door, and traverse the courtyard. “Tito, heads up.” He slapped his partner on the chest
with the back of his hand and Tito took his head out of the bodybuilding magazine.

  “Thank fuck for that.” He reached for the door handle as Robert disappeared round the corner.

  “Wait!” said Tomo. “Give him a minute, in case he forgot something. We go in and out fast. He’s probably gone to get doughnuts or some shit like that.”

  Tomo counted the seconds. “OK, let’s go,” he said, after two minutes. He sprung out of his seat and marched across the tarmac. Tito casually followed him, scanning around.

  Oliver heard the loud banging at the door and tried to ignore it. He pulled himself out of bed, cursing Robert for locking himself out. When he turned the handle, the door flew open with such force that he was knocked to the floor. Stunned, he barely saw the two short monsters burst into the room.

  “We got a message for you,” one of them spat. “Do your fuckin’ job.”

  They stood over him and started kicking. Oliver was too dazed to block the boots.

  Robert ambled back towards the motel with a bag full of steaming, microwaved pizza pockets, sodas, and two large paper cups of black sludge which masqueraded as coffee. He got to the corner of the motel, stuffing a pizza into his mouth as he walked. He was just entering the courtyard, when hot molten cheese spilt down his shirt. He stopped, pulled it off in one long string and flicked it onto the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement.

  Looking up, he saw two guys come out of his room. He pivoted and shoved his back to the wall, almost spilling the coffee. He peeked round the corner and recognised them as guys who sometimes drove him around. Robert watched them cross the road and slip into a silver car. They pulled out sedately and drove off.

  He waited until the car disappeared out of view before he considered moving. He turned the key in the door, and as it opened, he could hear a different type of groan to those Oliver had been making.

  Oliver was on the faded carpet, curled up in a foetal position. He was shaking and holding his groin. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he sobbed loudly. He was vaguely aware of Robert standing over him holding the coffees.

  Robert tossed the bag on the bed and put down the cups. He knelt down on the floor beside Oliver and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Fuck, man. You OK? What happened?”

  Oliver rolled onto his back and slowly unravelled himself. Keeping a hand clamped to his groin, he used the other to wipe the tears, sweat and snot from his face. He took a while to try and compose himself before he could speak.

  “I’m pretty damn far from OK. Two fucking thugs – I think there were two of them – burst in here and gave me a reminder to do my job.” He looked at Robert suspiciously, but the look of shock and terror on his face told Oliver that he didn’t know anything about it, at least as far as he could be sure.

  “I-I-I saw two guys leave and drive away,” he said lamely. “Here, I got you these.”

  He offered him a coffee and pizza pocket. Oliver propped himself up against the bed. A grimace contorted his face; his entire torso was on fire and screaming with pain.

  “You’ll have to help me up.”

  Robert blinked at his friend.

  Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Any time that suits you . . .”

  “Oh, sorry.” He sprang up, hooked his elbows under Oliver’s armpits, and hoisted him onto the bed in an awkward sitting position.

  The dark liquid was foul, but Oliver drank it anyway. He took little bites of the soggy pastry and stared at the carpet. A throbbing spread through his ribs.

  “Thanks for helping me up. You’re stronger than you look.”

  “Thanks. Runs in the family. Dad’s like that, too.”

  Oliver stared at Robert in an imitation of Marco’s gaze. “No. Your father looks as strong as he is. He just has a way of making you forget it . . . Until he wants to remind you.”

  “I, like, can’t believe they did this to you. I’m gonna tell Dad about it.”

  Oliver looked horrified. “No fucking way!” he said, with a sudden burst of energy. “Don’t say a bloody word. You’ll only make things worse. The best thing you can do is go home and pretend this never happened. I’ll take off to Kentucky and get things done.”

  “I could say something . . .”

  “What? What could you say that wouldn’t make things worse?” He thought for a second. “It’s occurred to me that they waited for you to leave to give me the message. Specifically so you wouldn’t see them. So, as far as you are concerned, you don’t know anything. OK?”

  Robert twirled his phone between his thumb and index finger for a while. Eventually he said, “Like, now you can see why I’m scared. I don’t want to have no money and I definitely don’t want a warning like this. I’m really sorry, man. It’s no way to treat people. You’re a good guy.”

  “I should be telling you how pissed off and wronged I feel, but it’s just business to those guys. As they say: nothing personal. Except, it feels personal when you get a kick in the nuts.”

  Robert gave him a pathetic look.

  “You’d better take off,” said Oliver, when he had finished the coffee. “I’ll try to take a bath and relax.”

  “You want some money for the room.”

  “No, I’ll cover it."

  Robert asked him again if he would be OK, and Oliver assured him that he would. On his way out, Robert paused at the door.

  “I’m starting to wonder if that’s why Dad always wants me to take a driver. It’s like, if I’m driving myself around, then he has no way to keep tabs on me.”

  Oliver didn’t reply, but thought that Robert had hit the nail on the head. The younger man slammed the door behind him.

  Oliver ran himself a bath in the small tub and gingerly eased himself into it. He dearly wanted to hug Rebecca, feel her hands on his skin. He lay there thinking, trying to soak the pain and self-loathing out of his system. After a while, he decided he needed to get lost for a bit before he could face Rebecca and reality.

  An hour later, he paid the bill and took a taxi to the train station. He caught the next train for New York and checked himself into the same fleabag hostel he had stayed in all those years before. It was still there, and owned by the same Chinese man. He paid the extra to rent one of only two private rooms. Shutting the door, he flopped onto the bed and squawked as he felt a dart of pain. He was back where it all started.

  He turned on his phone and called Rebecca. He told her that something dramatic had happened and that he needed to think.

  “My God, hon, what’s up? You sound terrible. You OK?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything face-to-face. I just need some time to think.” He sighed. “God, Bec, I miss you. I want to be in your arms, I really do. But I’ve to sort out some stuff first.”

  “Why can’t you come back? We’ll sort it together.”

  “I know, I know. I just need to be lost for a bit.”

  “Am I losing you?”

  “God, no! We’re getting married, Bec; I want to grow old with you.”

  “So you can sort out whatever it is with me. Oliver, we’ll do it together. We can get through anything together.”

  “I know that, too. I really do. It’s just . . .”

  Then it hit him. He went silent.

  “Hello? You still there?” asked Rebecca.

  How could I have been so stupid, he thought.

  “Yeah, sorry, Bec,” he said in a clearer, more direct tone. “Could you look in my things and find the card that Huntley gave me at Belmont?”

  “I suppose,” she said hesitantly. “Why?”

  “I just need to check what’s written on it.”

  She clamped the phone between her ear and shoulder as she went into their bedroom, and began rummaging through the leather folder where Oliver kept his personal things and documents relating to the horses.

  “You’re sure it’s here? You didn’t take it to Ireland?”

  “I’m positive.”

  She found it stuffed int
o an envelope with a number of other business cards.

  “You want the numbers, hon? I thought we agreed we weren’t going to call him.”

  “We’re not. Just tell me what it says after his name.”

  “Nothing, just Peter Huntley, Special Agent.”

  Oliver frowned. “What else does it say on the card?” He was sure it was written there.

  “Not much. It lists his numbers, is all. Then there’s the Bureau emblem, and DEA printed in bold capitals at the top.”

  Oliver suddenly felt very sick. And stupid. Very stupid. Drug Enforcement Agency. How could he have missed this?

  Through the receiver, Rebecca heard a stifled curse. “Are you thinking about your brother and the planes?”

  “Not really. There’s more to it than that. Don’t worry, Bec. I’ll book a flight for tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, hon. You can tell me anything, you know.”

  “I know. And I will.”

  Oliver left the hostel in the afternoon and went walking down Broadway. When he got to Times Square, the barrage of lights hit him. He felt repulsed by the vulgarity of it all; the sheer weight of neon advertising no longer left him with a sense of awe. Now it just felt wasteful and unnecessary. Shaking his head, he descended into the subway tunnel.

  As he hustled his way through the crowded corridors, he was struck by the dirt of the place. Everywhere was filthy and reeked of decay. Even the old steel support struts were rusty, and looked barely capable of stopping the city from crashing into the tunnels. He took a train for the financial district and wandered around.

  An hour later, he found himself crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot. He stopped on the walkway and scanned the Brooklyn shoreline, trying to pick out the restaurant where he had first met Marco. It felt like a lifetime ago. He could not locate the long window with the famous view. A group of runners sailed past him on the walkway. They made the floorboards creak as he watched them bound along the long span.

  He decided to turn back, retracing his steps with his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets and his eyes following the steel cables. As he passed underneath the enormous pillars, his eyes followed the cables up to their resting places atop the stone structure. The bridge was badly in need of renovation. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the Manhattan Bridge, trains rattling across its vast expanse of iron. It was looking shook, too. The old beating heart of America was aging and getting a little shabby; the cracks were definitely visible.