by Sam O'Brien
Back on the street, he walked aimlessly around Chinatown. After a while, he bought a bowl of noodles and a bottle of Chinese beer, and ate them sitting outside. He watched two teenage boys at a nearby table, chattering and laughing, both eating plates of dumplings. The larger boy wore a high school football shirt and was stealing his friend’s food, while vigilantly guarding his own bowl.
Suddenly, and without warning, it all became obvious and Oliver knew exactly what he wanted to do. The plan meshed together in his mind. He had all the pieces in there all along; they suddenly just fitted together. He was euphoric and felt alive. His senses crackled, and he found himself smiling again.
Rebecca would be the judge of it. He knew it would be a lively discussion; the thought of it made him grin. Plus, her veterinary input was vital, but he knew enough about horses to be fairly sure the plan would work.
He got up and marched down the street, buzzing with a sudden energy.
“You’re gonna fall, you greedy motherfucker,” he said out loud.
An elderly Chinese man sitting on a doorstep gave Oliver a puzzled look as he strode past. The sun had gone down and darkness descended on the city, but not on Oliver. He treated himself to dinner in an up-market restaurant, drank a half bottle of expensive wine, and went back to the hostel. He felt absolutely no desire to go clubbing and get high. He had more important things to do.
Chapter 50
In the Arrivals hall of Lexington’s Bluegrass Airport, Oliver grabbed Rebecca like he never wanted to let go again. The pain in his ribs made him wince, but he pushed it out of his mind. He hugged her and smelled her hair. He was glad to be back.
Rebecca wrapped her tanned, toned arms around him. His enthusiasm reassured her.
“God, I love you, Bec. I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said, holding her face in his hands.
“You kinda had me worried. Promise me you won’t do that again? I’m here for you. You can tell me anything.”
“I know, Bec. I won’t.”
“Better not!” She playfully thumped him on the chest. He grimaced.
“Holy shit! Are you hurt?”
He took a deep breath and put his arm around her, guiding her towards the door. “I’ve got a lot to tell you. But first I need a shower and a cold beer.”
As they got into her SUV, Oliver watched a grey sedan roll past with two men in it. The passenger averted his gaze when his eyes met Oliver’s. Oliver felt cold again; grey car, grey men, Bluegrass International Airport carpark. He sat in and closed his eyes.
“Oh, that’s just the best,” he said, cautiously stretching himself out on the sofa in a large bathrobe, with an ice-cold beer in his hand. Rebecca held a bag of tortilla chips and a beer, and sat cross-legged on the coffee table facing him. “So what happened?” she said.
“I woke up, Bec. I woke up. Till now, I’d been asleep in my own world of horses and races. All this Marco gangster stuff was like a dream. Jesus, it was like comic relief watching other people’s reactions to me and him, and to Robert. Not anymore. Reality came knocking, or rather kicking, last weekend.”
He took a sip of beer and told her about Marco’s change of plan, the nail gun in Mike’s car, and how Marco had assaulted him out of the blue. He told her absolutely everything, up to the point that he and Robert took off to get drunk. She sat with a stunned look on her face.
“That’s why you wanted Huntley’s card.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t remember for sure if he was DEA.”
“So you think he’s on to you?”
“There’s no way he could know about the new deal. But he must be tracking Marco. I suppose we can assume that Marco deals drugs in a big way. I’ve no doubt any more about the whole thing with Rich and the planes. It had to be him.”
“What I can’t figure is, why would anyone want to ship drugs out of America to Ireland?”
Oliver snorted in amusement. “You know, I asked Mike that same question.”
“I don’t suppose he gave you an explanation?”
“He told me not to ask. But I’m guessing it’s one of the usual reasons – supply and demand; growth market; superior product. Money, greed. Blah, blah, blah.”
Oliver stopped and pondered. “You know, I could be wrong, but I swear Robert must have heard Marco roar at me when we were in the house.”
“What?”
“He was a bit weird for the rest of the afternoon, and later that night he got all emotional and told me to be careful with his dad. I mean, it’s possible he was standing right outside the door.”
“You’re kidding,” she said, with arched eyebrows.
“No. He started telling me about how he feels trapped, but doesn’t have the willpower to get himself out.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.”
“I don’t know, Bec. I mean, we were pretty well-oiled, but he seems to have copped on a bit.”
“What do you mean?” She hadn’t heard him use the expression before.
“He’s grown up; he’s thinking a bit. And it’s like what happened to me was the start of it.”
She looked sceptical. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Oh, you’re too kind.” He smirked at her and she returned the look.
“You know, he even said that he reckons the reason Marco always wants him to have a driver is so he can keep an eye on him.”
“Well, that’s a fair assumption,” she conceded. “Who knows? Maybe he is growing up. But you still haven’t told me why you’re acting like you got bucked off a horse.”
He froze his face in a deadpan expression. “Two horses, Bec.” He told her about Tomo and Tito’s visit to the motel room.
The humour disappeared from her face. “Fucking hell.”
She reached over and gently opened his robe. The bruises were starting to make him look like a chessboard. He covered himself up.
“There was no fucking need for that, at all, but Marco just couldn’t help himself, could he? He had to push the point. Well, now I’m pissed off.”
Rebecca shook her head despondently. “Part of me is so mad at both of us for getting involved with a gangster. For a while there, you acted like it was a game. We should’ve seen this coming.”
“I didn’t think it would go belly up like this. It all seemed like a friendly deal. I was happy; really happy. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was successful and getting recognition for it. I just wanted everything to keep sailing along. Hell, I even looked at Marco like a father figure. But that fantasy isn’t really an option anymore.” He peeled the label from his bottle.
“Bec, I realised something. All these business guys are the same. They can be nice and throw you scraps from the table when they’re making money, or when you’re making money for them, but you see their true colours come out as soon as they lose ten bloody cents.”
“You can’t call him that. Marco’s a gangster, they kill people.”
“He’s just a businessman. Only, his particular ruthlessness is against the law, but they’re all the same. They’d all kill to make a buck. You think my brother, or my first boss, would give a shit about hurting someone to make money?” He put up his hand defensively. “I’m not saying they’d shoot anyone or cut their arms off, but it’s war to those guys. They don’t give a fuck as long as profits go up, up, up.” Everything started to flow out of him. It felt good to confide in her.
“My brother wore his callousness like a badge of honour. Marco strives to cover his up, to make him seem more respectable. I mean, I’m trying to forgive Rich for the way he treated me; it’s a pity he didn’t open up before he got killed. But what really upsets me is that he was my brother. That should have made a difference. Surely that should have given us a greater bond. Shouldn’t it?”
She shrugged. “I guess it should. I don’t have brothers or sisters, so I can’t say for sure, but I suppose you guys should’ve been friends, at least.”
“Right, but we weren’t. And even if we had bee
n, that doesn’t take away from the fact he treated people like shit to exploit them and make money from them. He was an asshole bullyboy with his employees. So was Gorman to me, and it turns out Marco’s the same. They’re just thuggish businessmen. So I reckon the best way to take care of Marco is to appeal to his greed.”
“You are really angry,” she said, shocked.
“Yes, I am. And it usually takes something dramatic to make me focus. Look, Bec, we’ll get through this, but I can’t do it alone.”
“I’m here, you know that. All the way.” She looked into his eyes. “I love you.”
He returned the gaze. “Me, too, Bec. So, here’s what we do.”
Oliver laid out his plan. Rebecca took it all in and climbed onto the sofa beside him. She took his hand in hers.
“When you put it like that, I reckon we don’t have much choice,” she sighed. “And there goes my job, and my licence to practice.”
He squeezed her hand tightly. “I know. I know. Look, if you’re not in – and you don’t have to be – then I’ll call Huntley and take my chances and you can walk away . . . The problem is, Marco and Mike told me to use you, so I reckon we’ll lose a bit more than our jobs if we don’t get this done. But I can still tell Marco I’ll do it alone.”
She chewed her lip for a moment. “I’m in. I have to be. Like you said, it’s the way he wants it and you’d never manage alone. Anyway, I’m not leaving you, so we’ll do it together. Screw my job. I’m sick of the place anyway. They’re really sticking it to me for that time off I took to go racing with you. I think a few people are jealous. At least, they were until Painter failed the test. When do we start?”
“I’ll make the call tomorrow.”
“This is going to turn everything upside down, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, but better that than a cell or the alternative.”
“Another valid point.”
Rebecca looked around her apartment. It wouldn’t be a big deal to leave. After a while, she said, “So, assuming all goes well with Painter, we still won’t be able to fit very much inside her.”
“I’ve thought about that and we’ll just have to do our best. We’ll have to fit what we’re given.”
“If we do it all at Pat’s farm, he’ll get suspicious – he’s a nosey bastard and he can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“We’ll have to use his place. We don’t have the time to rent our own farm, at least not for the Painter mission. I was just going to tell him that because of her ban, we’ll ship her to Europe to visit a certain stallion for covering in September, because we’ve had an offer from Argentina for her. A confidential deal, no names involved.”
“Reckon he’ll buy that?”
“Sure, and it’ll explain away the hormones and treatment you’ll have to give her to expand her uterus. Plus, I’ll appeal to his monetary nature.”
Rebecca chuckled. “That should do it.”
They lay there for a few minutes, both thinking hard. A phone rang in the bedroom.
“Mine or yours?” said Rebecca.
Oliver cocked his ear. “Mine. Could you, please?”
She padded into the bedroom to retrieve it from his jeans pocket.
He looked at the screen with a puzzled expression. “It’s a local number.”
He was about to answer, when it stopped. Then, before he could toss it onto the cushion beside him, it started again.
“Same number . . . Hello.”
“Oliver McMahon?”
“Er, yes.”
“Hi, how’re you doing? Larry Marshall, Blackbirch. We met once at the sales.”
Oliver searched his mind, but was sure he had never met the owner of Blackbirch Farm, though he knew who he was, of course. Everybody knew Blackbirch Farm. They had thirty stallions on the roster, and divisions in Florida and California in addition to their flagship stud near Lexington, which sprawled over a thousand acres.
Larry Marshall was recognized by all in the business as a visionary when it came to stallions. He had the knowledge, funds and business acumen to buy the best prospects before they finished their racing careers. He was an old-fashioned horseman who shot straight and had no time for bull-shitters.
He had bought the father of Concrete Boot for peanuts from his Californian owner-breeder, then took the horse from his small-time trainer and sent him up to New York. There, he blossomed and won two Grade One championship races. Larry made a killing charging breeders a fortune to use the talented but unfashionably-bred horse, and by mating him with nearly two hundred mares a season.
Oliver could smell a deal.
“I’ve been better, Larry, what can I do for you?”
“I was kinda thinking we could talk about your big colt. He’s an unlucky son of a gun. You have any plans for his stud career?”
Oliver smiled at Rebecca, and she raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“The phone’s been red hot the last week, mostly agents sniffing for figures. I thought one of them was working for you.”
“Hell, no. I like to deal direct. No sense in getting all those middle men involved.”
“I quite agree.”
“Anyway, like I said, it’s a terrible shame you can’t market him as a Derby or Preakness winner, so I thought I might make you an offer and take him off you. A bird in the hand, kinda thing.”
The wheels turned in Oliver’s head: Larry thinks he’ll win the Belmont. Otherwise. he’d wait, or not call at all.
“Tell you what. Larry, you can have him lock, stock, the lot, for ten. That’ll be a hell of a deal for a Belmont winner, who should arguably be a Triple Crown winner.”
Larry whistled down the line. “That’s one heck of a figure for an unlucky horse who only won a Grade Two. I was thinking more along the lines of five to six.”
“Larry, we both know when he wins the Belmont he’ll show them all he was robbed in Kentucky and Pimlico. By the time the next breeding season rolls around, breeders are going to be knocking themselves out to send a mare to him. Then you’ll be able to charge . . . Oh, I’m guessing thirty, thirty-five grand a shot. Even if you only get 130 mares pregnant per year for the first three years, you’ll have your money back before he ever has a runner. About eleven or twelve million – minimum, off the top of my head, so ten’s a fair price.”
Larry let out a belly laugh. “Goddamn! Tell you what I’ll do. Ten million if he wins the Belmont. Five if he doesn’t; even if he loses by a whisker, got it? Either way, he’s mine after the race.”
“Sounds fair to me.”
“And I get 100 percent of him, you guys don’t get to keep shares, or lifetime breeding rights, or any other frills. You want to send a mare to him, you have to pay the fee; no special concessions. OK?”
“No problem at all.” Oliver punched the air and beamed.
“I’ll have contracts drawn up. Where can I send them to?”
Oliver gave him Rebecca’s address.
“You’re living with the lovely Dr. Liddell?”
Oliver rolled his eyes, “Yes.” As if Larry didn’t know already.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Likewise, Larry.”
Oliver flipped the phone shut and shouted, “Yes!” at his gobsmacked fiancé.
“So come on, tell me. How much?”
He told her. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“Holy shit! That was easy.” She thought for a moment. “You sure it wasn’t too easy?”
“Not with Larry. Wham-bam, thank you, ma’am. The old cowboy doesn’t like to mess around. Besides, we both know the horse’ll win and he’ll make a killing on him. So nobody loses.”
“As long as the horse doesn’t.”
Oliver shrugged. “Even if he loses, we’ll still get pretty much what I told Marco we’d get.”
“What about your cut?”
“I’m not taking a cent. I haven’t told Marco yet. I’m going to surprise him. Put it to him like it’s an apology for the
Derby loss.”
“What? Are you crazy? You’re going to voluntarily give up money to him after all the shit he’s asking you to do? Asking us to do.”
“He’s not asking. But anyway, yeah, I am. It’ll seem like a grand gesture and make him think that he still owns me. I want him to think I’m a good little soldier.”
“You are a good little soldier. My soldier.” She kissed him. “I just hope your battle doesn’t turn into a war.”
* * *
Rebecca turned her mind to the logistics and practicalities of getting a foreign object into a horse’s uterus. She went through the scenario in her mind and realized something that made her sit bolt upright.
“Hon, if we can get Painter across in one piece, we’re home and dry.”
“Hardly.”
“No, listen. It’ll be tough to get the stuff in her, but if we pull it off, you can tell Marco that we’ll buy old, barren mares at the sales for the next shipment.”
Oliver pricked his ears. “Of course!”
“They’ll be cheaper, so he’ll have to pay you less in commission and they’ll be physically perfect for our needs – I mean, Marco’s needs.”
“You’re a genius, Bec.”
“Some team,” she said, kissing him long and hard. Then she opened his robe and let her hands gently wander.
“I’m not sure I’m up to this,” winced Oliver. “I got a fair kick in the nuts.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” she said, peeling off her shirt.
Chapter 51
Two weeks later, Painter Girl was resting at Pat O’Malley’s farm. She spent the June morning sweating profusely from the injection of Prostaglandin hormone which Rebecca had given her, after an ultrasound examination revealed that she was not cycling naturally; probably due to the intense training regime and the additives she had been given by her trainer.
