by Sam O'Brien
“Did Customs comment on your bag of tricks?” Oliver asked her, when she returned.
“I had to show them my licence, but apart from that, no.”
They heard a succession of clanging noises as the large hold doors and smaller passenger door were sealed.
Oliver kissed Rebecca and crossed his fingers. “Here we go.”
She tried not to think about the prison sentences for smuggling four kilograms of pure cocaine into Europe.
* * *
Monica flashed her ID at the gate and asked to be taken to the flight bound for Shannon. The guard made a call. He shook his head as he cradled the receiver. “Too late, honey. Took off a half-hour ago.”
“I’m not your honey,” she spat. “Fucking last minute shit.” She got back into the car and called Mitch.
Chapter 56
Six hours flying through the night, and another injection later, they touched down at Shannon Airport in the early morning drizzle. Oliver and Rebecca were close to jubilation. The plane taxied to a halt beside the hangar which served as a cargo terminal. Customs officials boarded and circled the hold, examining crates. Rebecca and Oliver were gazing out of the hold into the fresh Irish air. The drizzle had abated and the thick low clouds were blowing away, allowing shafts of sunlight through.
“Looks like our truck,” said Oliver, pointing to a lorry in the bright red livery of a local equine transportation firm. It was backed up to the loading ramp beside the hangar, ready and waiting.
“Discreet getaway car,” said Rebecca dryly.
“Morning to you,” mumbled the official. “Passports and papers, please.”
Oliver jumped, startled. Then handed them over.
“Grand job,” said the ruddy-skinned official, flicking through the documents and checking his clipboard. “Your transport company lodged the import certs with us already, so you’re all set.”
“Thanks,” said Oliver.
Two hours later, Painter was mooching about in her new Irish stable. Evelyn watched in amusement as the groggy animal pawed the ground and flopped herself down to roll.
“She’s getting to know her new house,” said Evelyn, smiling.
Oliver and Rebecca shot each other nervous glances. She had given Painter a shot of oxytocin on the journey from Shannon, to start the contractions.
“I think she’s a bit colicky after the trip,” Rebecca announced helpfully.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Horses’ intestines are complicated, it’s almost like they’re made by committee,” continued the vet. “They’re prone to gut pains in times of stress, and they can’t tolerate that kind of discomfort at all. Hence the continuous rolling: we call that colic.”
“Oh dear, poor thing.”
“Oliver, why don’t you take your mother inside? I’ll see to Painter.”
“Good idea, Bec. Come on, Mum, I’m dying for a proper cup of tea.”
He guided his mother across the yard towards the house.
Rebecca watched them disappear inside, then set to work with lightning speed. While Painter got down to roll again, she reached for her bag and pulled a small amount of ketamine into a syringe. When Painter was looking around at her own flank, the nimble vet squatted on the straw, found the jugular, and carefully administered the anaesthetic. Within seconds Painter drifted off into a deep sleep. Rebecca looked at her watch.
She darted across the yard to the tack room. She filled a bucket and rummaged in a cupboard to find cotton wool and iodine solution. Racing back to the stable, she glanced at the kitchen window long enough to see Oliver had positioned his mother at the table with her back to the yard.
Back inside the box, she peeled off her jumper and, pulling on a pair of long gloves, she got to work. Rebecca found one of the packages already lodged in the cervix; it was slippery, but she managed to coax it out slowly. She rinsed her glove in the bucket and went in again. She eased her wrist through the cervix and groped for another tube. Cupping her hand around the narrow end, she slowly withdrew and the tube slipped out.
Painter whinnied in a dream-like state.
“Easy, girl. Two down, two to go.”
Mercifully, after a bit of careful manipulation, the other two came out. Rebecca tossed the last one into the corner with the others, and sat back, exhausted. She stripped off the gloves and wiped the sweat from her brow. It had taken forty minutes. Painter should be waking up soon.
She crawled over to the horse’s head and cradled it in her lap.
“I’m sorry, girl. That must’ve been weird, but you’ll be OK. And you’re free now; lucky for you.” She sighed, placed Painter’s head back on the soft bed, went to her bag, drew up shots of antibiotics and painkillers, and gave them to the recovering beast. She rinsed the four cocaine-filled tubes, patted them dry and stowed them in her bag. Job done. She checked the patient’s heart rate and left the poor animal alone to recover.
Oliver gave her a concerned look when she entered the kitchen.
“She’s fine, just a little upset tummy.” She winked at her man.
Oliver relaxed his shoulders and finished his cup of tea. “You know what, Mum, I think we could both do with a proper drink, after all that.” He stood up.
“But it’s not even noon yet,” said Evelyn.
“It must be five o’clock somewhere in the world,” he said with a chuckle.
“I could use a drink, too, I’m afraid,” said Rebecca apologetically. “Join us, Evelyn. C’mon, it’s time to celebrate your son’s success.” She sat beside the older woman and gave her a playful nudge.
Evelyn was slightly taken aback, but eventually a smile broke out.
“Oh, go on then. It’s been too long since I had something to celebrate. I suppose I could have a little sherry. Oliver, you know where I keep the drink.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Rebecca, smiling.
Oliver disappeared into the dining room and found a bottle of red wine that remained since the funeral. They toasted their success around the large oak kitchen table, and Oliver was delighted to see his mother really smile for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Evelyn volunteered to cook lunch, and she shooed her son and his fiancée into the sitting room and insisted they relax after their long flight. They detoured out to check Painter, who was on her feet but still groggy. Her head and neck were droopy, and her bottom lip hung limply from her jaw, making her look ridiculous. Oliver smiled and rubbed her forehead.
“You’re a lifesaver, you know that?” he said. “Did the removal go smoothly, Bec?”
“She was great. Slept like a baby. I decided to sedate her and do it manually. But I tell you one thing. I’m glad I won’t have to go through that with ten horses next time. That’d be a total pain, that’s even if we could manage that many.”
Oliver chewed his lip for a second. “Bec, as a vet, are you OK with the plan?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Like you say, we don’t have a choice. Anyway, I’ve heard of worse being done. How ‘bout you?”
“I don’t like having to use some poor old mares as our pawns in our game, but I suppose compared to everything else we’re doing . . .” He shrugged. “Like you say, we don’t have a choice.”
He kissed her forehead, shut the stable door, and led her inside.
“Any news yet?” Marco barked into the receiver.
“No, Boss,” said Mike. “Phone’s off.”
“Well keep fuckin’ trying. Some fuckin’ Fed bitch turned up at the airport, but the plane had already gone. I need a delivery confirmation. Now.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Mike hung up, got out of his car, walked across the street to the payphone, and tried Oliver’s number again. Same message: customer unavailable.
He lit a cigarette. “I’ll kill you, you little fucker.”
Oliver woke with a start, and panic crept up his spine. He could hear the muffled sizzling of lamb chops being prepared by his mother, who was
humming to herself. Rebecca was snoring softly, her head on his lap. He carefully extricated himself and trotted up to his room. Turning on his phone, he took a deep breath and called Mike, who picked up instantly.
“Bout fuckin’ time. I’ll call you back.”
Oliver paced the floor for five gruelling minutes before the call came.
“Well?” said Mike.
“Job done. No problems. We got it out.”
“See, I told you not to worry.”
“You were right, Mike . . . Er, what happens now? I don’t want to be holding on to this stuff for long.”
“A guy’ll call you. Do what he says.”
“No problem.”
“Atta boy.”
The line went dead.
Oliver threw off his clothes, took a quick shower, and went down to the kitchen. Rebecca was already seated, looking as groggy as Painter had. Oliver placed his phone on the table and kept looking at it as he ate. Evelyn was in good form and talked of this and that; mostly local gossip. Rebecca ate mechanically and nodded politely, but was too tired to speak.
When the call came, Oliver grabbed the phone and stood up with such speed, it startled his mother.
“Call from the States, got to take it,” he said, leaving the room.
In the sitting room, he answered with a cautious hello.
“I look for Oliver,” said the rough accent that could have been eastern European.
“This is Oliver.”
“OK, we meet Harlequin Shop Centre, Limerick City. Six pm. Go to café. Wait. I call,” he growled.
The call ended before Oliver could even say yes.
He rejoined the others.
“Is there petrol in my car?” he asked his mother.
“Yes, why? You’re not going off already, are you?”
“Got to do a bit of er, shopping, this evening.” He could see Rebecca staring at him out of the corner of his eye.
At ten to six that evening, Oliver parked his car in the vast lot that surrounded Limerick’s largest shopping mall. It was a sprawling complex in the suburbs of the city, not far from his mother’s house. Oliver supposed that it had once been farmland, too, but now it had been transformed into another consumer paradise.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and nonchalantly pushed through the revolving doors into the mass of humanity. Throngs of people crowded the shops, like magpies eyeing shiny trinkets. He forged a path through the masses to the food court, and found an empty stool at the counter of the only café amidst the glut of fast-food joints. He ordered a coffee and his phone chimed. The message read: Turn around. Italian football shirt. He swiveled on his stool to scan the customers.
Amidst the tables of giggly teenagers and gossiping housewives, Oliver spotted the blue of the Italian strip on a man sitting alone, hunched over a table. He had a shaved head and his nicotine-stained fingers gripped an empty teacup. The man had a tattoo creeping up his neck like a dark tendril. He stared at Oliver. When their eyes met, he nodded to the doorway.
Oliver took a cursory sip from his cup, left some coins on the counter, and slipped away. When he got out the door, the guy followed. He grunted and tossed his head as he passed Oliver.
They slowly walked to an exit and, as they shuffled through the revolving doors together, the guy took the bag from Oliver.
“Next time, you have big amount?”
Oliver could just about tell it was a question. “Er, yes.” Apparently four kilos wasn’t a big amount.
“Not possible meet like this. I call you, tell you where.” He walked off into the rain, which had begun streaming out of the heavens.
* * *
Back at home, he let himself through the front door and could hear Rebecca and Evelyn talking in the sitting room. Rebecca was drinking wine and Oliver could tell the glass of sherry in his mother’s hand was not her first.
“Oh, there you are. We’ve been having a great chat. I’ve been hearing more about all your trials and tribulations with Concrete Boot. What a saga! But at least it had a happy ending.”
Oliver plonked himself into an armchair and tried to look delighted.
“What about the airline, Mum? Any news from James?”
His mother looked surprised. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard!”
“No, Mum, I really haven’t given it a thought since I went to America,”" he said with a sigh.
“That awful Italian will stand trial, though all the papers say he won’t say a word to the police. I mean not a single word, can you imagine? Very strange.”
She glanced at them for approval. Rebecca gazed into her glass, Oliver nodded blankly.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the company still hasn’t found a permanent successor to your brother, which is causing mayhem. Apparently the Board is continuously arguing about it and nobody seems to be able to take control.”
“You know what Rich was like; he controlled everything, ran it like a dictatorship. Of course they’re lost now he’s gone.”
Evelyn looked puzzled. Rebecca was surprised at Oliver’s insight.
“A bit like Dad was with you, really,” said Oliver, flippantly.
He saw the hurt look on his mother’s face. The insensitivity of his remark dawned on him. Rebecca gave him a withering look.
“Sorry, Mum, really. I didn’t mean . . . I’m just a bit tired after everything.”
“Not too tired to go out shopping though, are we?” said his mother.
Oliver chewed his lip, pondering for a moment then said, “Mum, I, we, are doing some things that are . . . well, a bit unorthodox.”
“Are you sure about this?” Rebecca cut in.
He put up a hand in her direction. “Don’t worry, Bec.”
Evelyn immediately became concerned. “Unorthodox? What on earth are you talking about? You sound like one of our politicians.”
“Mum, I can’t tell you more at the moment, but I just want you to know, that if anything, er . . . dramatic, should happen in the next few months, don’t worry. It’s all part of the plan.”
“Oliver, you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
“Stupid, no. Tricky, yes. But I don’t want you to worry.”
She looked as though she was sobering up fast. “When my only surviving son says something like that to me, of course I’ll worry.”
Oliver rubbed his temples with his hands. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Mum, I just want you to know that it’s part of a plan and that we’re covered, OK?”
“If you really want me to relax, you should tell me everything, or else you shouldn’t have said anything at all.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t, but if I hadn’t, then you’d only think the worst later on. Can we change the subject now?”
“You brought it up,” she said in an irate voice.
“Evelyn, it’ll be alright, I’ll make sure of it,” said Rebecca, putting an arm around her.
“Thank you, my dear.” She looked at her son. “You’re a lucky man, Oliver, I hope you realise that.”
“Lucky? I suppose I am.” He winked at Rebecca. “You know what they say, Mum. Better lucky than rich.”
Rebecca managed to get another sherry into Evelyn and regale her with more racing stories. Oliver knew how lucky he was, but he needed that luck to hold out.
The next day, he treated them to lunch in an upmarket restaurant. They all put thoughts of the future out of their minds, and enjoyed the day like a normal family. The following morning Rebecca hugged a teary-eyed Evelyn goodbye, and Oliver dropped her to Shannon Airport.
“This time, I really don’t give a shit about going back,” she said, as they embraced at the security gates. “Except without my man.”
“It’ll go quick. See you in a few weeks.”
“I know. But you’ll call me when you’ve talked to him?”
“Of course.”
She gave him one last kiss, then turned to give the g
uard her passport and boarding card. Oliver watched her go through the checks, then walked to his car and made the call.
“You see, it’s easier to do what you’re fuckin’ told,” said Mike. “Plan worked a treat. Everyone’s happy.”
“I’ll be back in a month, but you can tell him that we’ll buy the next batch at the November sales.”
“Attaboy.”
He spent the next four weeks doing up his mother’s house, and fitted new locks for all the doors. He tried his best to persuade her to go on a sunny holiday with a friend, but to no avail. Neither of them referred to the future.
Every now and then, he would pull Agent Huntley’s card out of his wallet and just hold it. The time was getting close. Two days before he left for the States, he made the call.
Chapter 57
It was a hot, sticky August evening when Oliver sat in the office at Shadows nightclub. He looked down over the floor. It was early and the place was still deserted, except for a handful of wiseguys sitting at the bar and talking shit over the music.
Marco and Mike walked in and the guys stood to attention like soldiers. Marco greeted them with a large smile and warm embraces. They watched him go up to the office with looks of reverence.
“My man!” he said, barging through the doorway with open arms. “Didn’t I tell you there was nothing to worry about? Didn’t I?”
“You did indeed,” Oliver replied, as Marco gave him a bear hug.
Marco took his place behind the desk and turned up the music. Mike went to the desk and took out the scanner. He yanked his thumb at Oliver. “You know the drill.” He ran the device over him.
“Is that necessary?” asked Oliver, his head pounding.
Mike finished. “I guess not,” he said, and sat beside Oliver
“So, my friend. What’s the go for next time?” said Marco.
Oliver leaned forward in his seat. “It’s like this. I’ll buy ten mares at the November sales in Kentucky. They’ll be cheap, but not total heaps of shit. They have to be mares that would look legit travelling to Europe.”
