by Sam O'Brien
Oliver leaned on the paddock railing with Pat. Rebecca had gone back to the clinic to examine another horse. Painter pranced around enjoying herself, with a slightly confused look in her eye. The surge of hormones would soon be powerful enough to bring her into season and completely dominate her behaviour.
Pat watched her intently. “Didn’t I tell you those trainers pump them full of all kinds of shite? A terrible shame she had that race taken off her. She was some filly.”
“She still is, Pat. But we need her pregnant to close the deal.”
“Who was it you said made the offer?”
“I didn’t. Nice try, though.” Oliver shot him a sideways glance and a smile.
Pat winked. “Ah go on, you can tell me.”
“No, Pat, I can’t. Not till the deal is done.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. So do you reckon the big horse’ll win at Belmont this afternoon?”
“He’d better. He’d bloody well better.”
“I hear you done a deal with Marshall.”
“That’s right. It’ll be finalized after the Belmont.”
“Fair play to you. By the way, I’m sorry for your loss. It was an awful tragedy about your brother.”
Oliver looked somber, he hadn’t thought about Richard or his mother or the airline at all since the shit hit the fan with Marco.
“It was indeed. Thanks, Pat.”
“I heard the news from back home that there was some kind of drug scandal with his company.”
Oliver bristled. “Some asshole he employed, trying to be smart and got caught. It was nothing to do with my brother.”
“Jaysus, I was only making conversation.”
“Conversation or gossip?” Oliver astonished himself that he was defending his brother, and he wondered if he was doing it out of sincerity or because he was about to engage in some serious drug trafficking himself.
“He was some man to do what he did and create a thriving Irish business, taking on the big boys, and all that. You know what? You’ve done pretty well yourself. I heard about the touch you had at the sales back home with those yearlings. That brother to Wolf Spider was some score. Success must run in your family.”
Oliver thanked him, told him he would pay the full rate for Painter’s board, and drove back to the apartment. On the way, he decided he didn’t want to sit alone waiting for the race, so he stopped into a bar to watch the Belmont on their large TV.
He pushed open the creaky door to the old bar in central Lexington. It was a nice place, with cosy alcoves along one side and a long bar which ran down the other. There were tables and low stools dotted around the room, the lighting was dark, and the place almost felt like an Irish pub. The ex-pat clientele and County Meath-born owner only added to the feel. The place was full with a gang of stud farm workers, all gazing up at the huge screen and having a lively chat about the racing.
“Well, here’s the man in to watch The Boot,” announced John the owner, whose brother was a well-known jockey in Ireland. “What’ll it be, Oliver? A pint? I hope you’ve better luck today.”
“You and me both, John. A pint’d be just the job.”
“I thought you’d be in New York today.”
“Too busy. Other things to do.”
John gave him an uncomprehending look.
Oliver took his beer and slipped into a side booth, hoping nobody would turn round and see him.
Forty-five minutes later, everybody turned around, because Oliver was screaming. He jumped up with such force that he knocked over the table and his empty glass. Faces looked at him as if he was mad. Oliver didn’t care: tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Chapter 52
Concrete Boot won the 2006 Belmont Stakes by nine lengths. He simply destroyed the opposition. Pablo guided him through the field and had no choice but to let him go early, but the big horse kept straight as a die. Pablo would later say in an interview that the animal quickened with such speed that he feared he might shoot out from underneath him, or words to that effect, in his thick accent.
Oliver burst out laughing when he saw the jockey perform a flying dismount in the winner’s enclosure and leap into the arms of Ricky. The two of them danced around together, both forgetting that there was a tired, sweating horse beside them.
“He’s the man!” Ricky roared into the camera, his voice hoarse from shouting. “This is the best damn horse in the country!” He kissed the lens.
Oliver knew how Ricky felt; finally, a result after all the pressure. The stress evaporated from his body.
A couple of guys in the bar offered congratulations to Oliver, which he sheepishly accepted. Then he righted the table, ordered drinks for himself and everyone in the room, and called Rebecca.
She answered with a whoop. “Well done, cowboy! I saw it on TV at the clinic. Things are turning around, I can feel it. We’ll get through it all.”
“Yeah, Bec, we will.”
“Hey, sorry, but I gotta go. I’ve patients to treat. See you at home? Love you.”
The next call was to Claude. The line was engaged, but Oliver smiled as he looked at the screen and caught a glimpse of Ricky talking into his phone with a serious face.
Oliver waited for Ricky to step up to receive the trophy. Then he tried Claude again. The disgraced trainer was half drunk and very relieved that the horse had not only won, but also appeared to be still in one piece mentally and physically. Oliver told him about the stallion deal, and he also told the trainer that his cut would only be one percent. Claude was not best pleased.
“What the fuck is that about? I thought we agreed I’d get five as trainer.”
“That was before you fucked it all up by getting caught doping horses. I’m forfeiting my end totally, just to keep Marco happy, so you should be grateful you get anything at all. In fact, Marco may demand you give it to him.”
There was silence at the other end.
"By making this gesture, you’ll have a better chance of keeping something. Anyway, it’s still a hundred grand . . . That’ll pay your fine and then some."
“I guess you’re right.”
“Maybe Marshall will want to keep him with Ricky, I’m not sure.”
“Time will tell. I heard you took Painter away last week.”
“Yeah, got an offer from Argentina, if we get her in foal to southern hemisphere time immediately.”
“Sounds a bit weird to me.”
“I don’t care as long as we get paid.”
“I hear you.” He hung up.
Oliver didn’t feel very comfortable lying to everyone, but telling the truth was impossible, and the more he told the cover story, the more he started to believe it. He downed his beer and left John the bartender enough money to cover the round of drinks. He drove back to the apartment, stopping on the way to buy expensive fillet steak, fresh vegetables, chocolate ice cream, and a very good bottle of French wine.
He called Marco when he got in, and passed on the news about Marshall. Marco was over the moon at the result, and the stallion deal was the cherry on top.
“I think I told you one time you’d be a genius if you could make me seven figures on a horse deal.
Good going, my friend.”
“Don’t mention it, Marco. Just doing my job. Also, I’ve decided to forfeit my cut on this to make up for the Kentucky thing.”
“You’re fuckin’ shitting me. Now that’s a first! I’ve never had anyone voluntarily give up money to me before. You’ll go far, my friend. And, like I said, you’re with me now.”
“Er . . . In light of your new windfall, do you still need to go ahead with Painter?”
There was a stony silence for a few seconds.
“Damn straight. The wheels are in motion, nothings stops now, OK?”
“OK, just checking.”
“I’m sure she’ll do good in her new career.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Marco ended the call. Oliver shrugged; there was no harm in asking, but he would h
ave been amazed if Marco had changed his mind. He probably had all the calculations done and was counting his potential profit from the Painter trip, before it had even happened.
By the time Rebecca got home, she was drained after a long day. When Oliver hugged her, she felt like sleeping right away in his arms. He sat her down, poured two glasses of wine and prepared dinner. She was asleep on the sofa minutes after the meal. Oliver carried her to bed.
Five days later, the contract with Marshall was signed and the money wired to an account in Robert’s name.
As he drove away from Blackbirch Farm over to Pat’s place, Oliver cracked a smile, which developed into a fit of laughter. Until now, the sum of money had just been a figure on a piece of paper. It hadn’t actually sunk in that he had made ten million dollars; it was almost absurd. But it would keep Marco happy – for a while.
Painter was just coming nicely into season. Pat had been letting the pony stallion sniff her every morning to tease her, enhancing the effect of the hormone injection.
“She’ll be mad for it in a day or two,” he said, with a smutty cackle.
“Rebecca’ll come early in the morning to swab and check her. I’ll be here, too, so you don’t have to bother getting up,” said Oliver.
“Grand so.”
“We’ll tease her through this heat, then by the time she comes around again, we should be good to go with a plane. We’ll take the first blood for quarantine tomorrow as well.”
“No bother, sure you know this place is certified as a quarantine station. And you’re dead lucky I’ve no yearlings to prep and sell this year and no boarders. I sold everything at the January sales. I only have my own seven mares, so I put them out in the back paddocks for the summer.”
“You’re a gifted man, Pat.”
“Sure I know, I know,” he said with a wink.
“She’ll be out of your hair in about a month, I reckon.”
“Not a bother, and if you’re going to be here in the mornings, maybe I can get you to give me a hand?”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “I suppose I can, Pat. What happened to your lads?”
“José went back home for a month, and Ciaran pissed off back to Cork. Couldn’t hack it. No bother, sure it’ll save me a few bob over the summer.”
An hour later, Oliver stopped at a payphone and called Mike. He was told to wait for ten minutes, which he patiently did. Mike called him back exactly on time.
“OK. What’s the story, my man?”
“I have to call the shipping agent again tomorrow, Mike, but she says there’s a flight in four weeks out of Chicago which can take a crate just for us. No other horses on the flight. That should fit our timetable, so plan on having the stuff here a day before we fly. I’ll let you know the exact dates in a few days.”
“Why not now? What the fuck are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for a horse to ovulate, Mike. Do you guys want this done right or not? It’s not going to be amateur night, OK?”
“Don’t get cheeky, you little prick. Remember our drive together?”
“Er, yeah. Oh Mike, how big will the package be?”
“Four keys. That’s kilos to you.”
“Holy shit!”
“What holy fuckin’ shit? Like you say, it’s not fuckin’ amateur night. Deal with it.”
The line went dead.
“Holy shit!” said Rebecca.
“That’s what I said.”
“Are they insane?”
“I didn’t ask, but at this rate I’m beginning to think we may have them by the balls later on.”
"Huh, assuming we can actually pull it off.”
“We’ll do it, Bec. We have to.”
Chapter 53
It was pitch dark when Rebecca and Oliver arrived at Four Oaks Farm. Her green SUV crunched the gravel as they pulled up beside the barn, which now served as a quarantine station for Painter Girl. The pre-dawn silence reassured them and provided ideal cover for the operation.
Rebecca crossed the yard to the tack room, ran some warm water into a bucket, then returned to her vehicle and began preparing her equipment.
Oliver went to the barn, turned on the lights and led Painter from her stable, down the aisleway in the otherwise empty barn to the examination stocks, which looked like a variation of a starting stall used at a racetrack. It was used to make rectal ultrasound scanning and examinations safer for horse and vet. Painter gave a cursory sniff at the curious structure, then entered willingly behind Oliver. Rebecca placed her gear on the small table and slowly closed the half-door behind the horse’s rump.
Oliver let himself out of the front end and closed the door. He stood beside the stocks and, holding the lead rope, made calming noises to reassure Painter.
“I’ll take the blood for shipping first, then I’ll give her a tiny dose of sedative.”
She filled two vacuum tubes of blood from the horse’s jugular, then drew a millilitre of a yellow liquid into a syringe and calmly administered it intravenously.
“Easy girl,” she said, but Painter did not flinch.
“I’d say she got well used to needles at Claude’s,” said Oliver with a smirk.
As the horse’s head began to droop slightly, and her lower lip hung loosely from her jaw, Rebecca looked at her watch.
“OK, let’s go. Grab the tail, hon.”
Oliver reached back with his free hand and gently pulled the tail around Painter’s rump and along her flank, allowing the vet unimpeded access to the horse’s rectum and vagina. Rebecca pulled on an elbow-length plastic glove and squirted a liberal amount of lubricant on it.
“OK, girl. Easy now, this may feel a bit weird.”
Rebecca turned on the machine and took the probe in her gloved right hand. Applying more lubricant to the probe head, she went in. Painter flicked her ears a bit and made a groggy effort to look behind her, but decided it was not worth the trouble. Oliver kept his attention on Painter’s eyes, ready to anticipate any reaction she might have. All appeared calm in the animal’s head.
“OK, there we go.” Rebecca’s eyes were fixed on an image on the screen which resembled a cross-section of an orange. “Great uterine tone.” She moved the probe and the image changed to something that looked like a bunch of grapes. “Clusters of follicles on this ovary, and a huge egg about to burst on the other side. I’d say she’ll ovulate in about twenty-four hours.”
She withdrew her hand, stripped off the glove and began washing the rectum and vagina with cotton wool and an iodine solution. She pulled on a new glove and opened a sterile packet containing a metre long clear plastic tube. One end she took in her gloved palm and the other she attached to a four litre bag of physiological saline. With yet more lubricant, she slowly entered Painter’s vagina. With her index finger, Rebecca could feel the horse’s cervix. It was open. Very carefully, she inserted her finger through the cervix, along with the plastic tube. When this was done, she raised the bag of saline above her head with her left hand.
“So that’s how you tone your arms.”
“It’s a cheap workout.” She had a dazzling smile, even at this hour of the morning. “I’m not sure if she’ll take the whole four litres in the first go, but we’ll try. It’s basically like we’re treating an infection, but now we’re using the fluid to develop the elasticity of the uterus. I want to get it used to stretching. We need it to accommodate something big and foreign in three weeks’ time.”
The bag of fluid was nearly empty when she gave up.
“That’s most of it. It’s full to the brim in there, starting to come back at me. If we hadn’t given her the sedative, she’d be trying to contract now. The last thing we want her to do is push this out. In fact, we should keep her a bit sedated for another hour. I’ll give her another little shot.”
She gave the horse another small amount of the sedative, then took a uterine swab from her pocket, opened the packet, and wiped it in the vagina. Then she dropped it on the ground for good measure, bef
ore sealing it into its tube.
“A dirty swab should keep the lab busy and justify me coming out here to flush her through this heat and during the next one,” she giggled. “Shit, they’ll wonder how a maiden could be dirty. They’ll say I botched the swab, of course, but I’ll tell them she was rotten with fluid and infection, probably a side effect of whatever shit Claude was giving her.”
Oliver nodded. “OK, Painter, back to bed.”
He undid the latch and swung the front door open. Painter took a wobbly step forward, then another. Oliver coaxed the drunken animal back to her stall.
Rebecca already had her things cleaned up when he came back.
“I’m off. Busy day today. We’ll meet back here at seven tonight,” she said.
“Cool. I’ll hang around till Pat surfaces. I’ll need to spin him a yarn.”
“Good idea.” She kissed him and jumped into her SUV.
He watched her drive away and promised himself that he would do everything to keep her safe.
He went to the tack room, made himself a cup of coffee, and sat flicking through old stallion brochures. Just as the sun was sneaking over the treetops, Pat appeared.
“Jaysus, you’re at it early. How’s the filly?”
“Rank with fluid, would you believe? We flushed her. Can you leave her in till this afternoon, then turn her out for an hour or so.”
“I can indeed, but how in the name of God could she be dirty?”
“Probably all the shit Claude pumped into her.”
Pat considered this for a second. “You could be right there. Still, you’re lucky she’s cycling at all. Some of them come back from training so full o’ juice, they think they’ve got a dick and balls.”
Oliver rolled his eyes.
“I don’t need to remind you that all this is top secret until we get the deal done, do I?”
“What? Oh, not at all. My lips are sealed.”
