When he looked back at me, I could read in the lines in that old cowboy’s weathered face a determination to be on board. Now I had to harness that determination in a direction he would hate.
“You’ve got something to ask me, Mike. What?”
“I want you to give Victor a mount in tomorrow’s eighth race. You’ve got a horse entered. Brown Beauty. He’s in post position three. My guess is the morning line will have him a favorite.”
He looked at the ground. This was hurdle one. “You know I’ve already got Alan Garcia on that mount. I made the deal with his agent.”
“I know. And you know you can still change riders. Alan won’t fight it. Neither will his agent. He wants more mounts from your stable. You can tell him Victor knows the horse from the morning workouts. That’s the easy part.”
This time he looked me dead in the eye. “And what’s the hard part?”
I’d known Rick since he trained horses for my adopted father when I was spending mornings before school shoveling out stables. Subtlety and soft selling would never cut it. If he caught a whiff of deception or dilution of the hard truth, I’d be seeing the back of his boots.
“Victor’s going to promise Fat Tony Cannucci to pull your horse. It’s a fixed race.”
I could see his nostrils flare. He looked at Victor for denial. The set of Victor’s face told him there was no give there. He looked back at me with an anger that burned white hot for even suggesting it to him.
“That’s the thing we need, Rick. I can’t dress it up nice and pretty. It’s ugly. I know you hate it to the bottom of your soul. So do I. And you can imagine how Victor feels. His brother was killed that last time they pulled this.”
Our eyes were locked. I hadn’t lost him yet. But this was the moment a bullfighter would plunge the blade over the horns into the heart of the bull. This was the “momento de verdad”—the moment of truth. I had one shot. Rick would not stand still for a second.
“I also know this, Rick. Unless we can break the back of this partnership from hell, thousands of defenseless animals will die a wretched death. And they’ll be giving their lives to put an arsenal of guns on our streets and on every city street on the East Coast. And worse, heroin in the veins of more kids than I can even count. And the race fixing you and I detest will still go on until every jockey at this track has sold his soul to Fat Tony Cannucci and his bloodsuckers. Every bit of that’s the truth.”
Rick looked down at his feet, but I wasn’t finished. “Listen to me, Rick. I hate what I’m asking even more than you do. I’ve been living with it a lot longer. But I’ll be damned if I can figure another way to break this thing. It’s part of a plan.”
I’d run out of words. Rick was looking me dead in the eye to find one flicker of deception or lack of commitment. I gave him none. He turned and leaned both elbows on the track rail. It took thirty seconds while we waited in a tense silence.
“And if I do this, is whatever you’ve got planned going to work?”
I’d have given anything, up to and including my Corvette, to have said, “Yes. It’ll work.” But I couldn’t.
“I have no guarantee to give you, Rick. I have none myself. For what it’s worth, I’m putting my own self-respect—and my life—into the pot on this hand.”
That last part caused him to look back at me. Then his eyes were back on the horse that was flying past in a wide-open breeze. I could hardly hear the words, but I seized on them.
“Okay, Mike. I’m in. This once.”
THIRTY-ONE
THE DOMINOES WERE starting to tumble in line. Victor put the colt Brown Beauty through a light gallop before leaving the track. He wanted to feel the rhythm of his next mount. It also put truth behind Rick’s excuse for changing jockeys from Alan Garcia.
Victor used his cell phone to reach Fat Tony while I was still there to listen. Fat Tony jumped at it. The fix would be in for the eighth race the next day. His goons would pay calls on each of the other jockeys riding the race. Victor agreed to be on the alert for any jockey who showed signs of rebelling.
Before hanging up, Victor asked Fat Tony which horse he wanted to win the race. I heard Fat Tony’s voice on the speakerphone get tense. “None of your damn business. Just see that it’s not your horse.”
Victor swallowed what he wanted to say and left it at, “I hear you, Mr. Cannucci.”
I left Victor and Rick with the clear three-way agreement that this once, and never again, Rick’s horse would be an intentional “also-ran.”
On the way to my car, I whispered to Victor the words, “Just in case, keep an eye out for any message I might send.”
* * *
I reached the office a bit past ten. I took time to drop in and bring Mr. Devlin up to speed on what was happening at the racetrack. He had been in touch with Mr. Coyne. I held my breath while Mr. D. ran through the federal and state connections that Mr. Coyne had tapped into. With each click of another positive domino reported on, my pulse came back down another ten beats. We had apparently harnessed a wolverine in setting Mr. Coyne to the task of lining up the authorities on our team.
Our entire counterattack was, however, still in limbo when I asked about the ultimate hot button—the $900,000 in federal funds. Mr. Coyne left word that that approval had to come from the top echelon. He was still waiting for that shoe to drop.
At least the answer was not “No,” or as I rather anticipated, “Hell no!” That duck was still alive, and the rest of them on Billy Coyne’s side were now in a row.
It was time to put my last piece in place. For that, I needed the privacy of my own office. I promised Julie on my way past that I’d spend the afternoon on the phone being a traditional lawyer. The sigh of relief came from her toes. She was ready to grant any favor in return. I had just one. No interruptions from any source for the next half hour. She was so grateful, she would have stationed a Swiss Guard at my door, if she had one.
I figured it was around eight a.m. on the West Coast at the Berkeley campus of the University of California. What I knew of the habits of my closest friend from our Winthrop House roommate days at Harvard College told me that Harry Wong would be into his second cup of Oolong tea over the New York Times crossword puzzle.
Harry and I had solidified a symbiotic friendship in college as the only racial misfits on the house wrestling team. My Latino determination and his Asiatic martial arts mastery had won us a measure of acceptance from teammates with more homogenized ancestral roots. A supercilious attitude is hard to sustain when one is being pinned to the mat.
Wherever in the world Harry’s academic pursuits might have carried him during the intervening years since graduation, our annual Thanksgiving dinner at my mother’s home always blew away the cobwebs of a year’s absence in one reuniting hug. More to the point for my present needs, Harry had always answered my calls over the years to play a willing role in helping to resolve some of my more bizarre cases.
“Michael, good to hear your voice.”
“And yours, Harry.”
“I know it’s not Thanksgiving and it’s too early for your wedding. Do I dare hope you’re not about to ask me to put my life in mortal danger again for some ungrateful client?”
“Absolutely, Harry. You can always hope.”
“And will my hope come true?
“No.”
Silence.
“I have a small favor to ask, Harry.”
“Damn. And would it be presumptuous to ask when my plane leaves?”
“Three this afternoon, your time. I’ll send you the e-ticket. I just booked it. I’ll meet you at Logan Airport at seven tonight.”
“Why the hell do you always assume I’ll say ‘yes’?”
“Because we’re like two musketeers. One for both, and both for one, you might say. In other words, we’ll each do anything the other one asks.”
“Then why is it you do all the asking, Michael?”
“Because you’re in a profession of sane people. I can only wi
sh I were. Besides, admit it. You enjoy a little excitement, a little danger, as a relief from all those predictably boring algorithms.”
“I admit nothing. Let me have it. Who do you want me to be this time?”
“I think you’ll have a more enjoyable flight if I tell you when you get here. Seriously, I appreciate this more than—”
“Don’t tell me how much you appreciate it. It’ll only make me more nervous. Anything special I need to pack for?”
“Not a concern.”
“How long am I staying?”
“You’ll see when you get here. Let me just tell you this. You’ll love your accommodations.”
“That is not a comforting sign.”
“Good-bye, Harry. Safe travels.”
* * *
I picked Harry up at the airport that evening. Our first stop was an elegant dinner at the Four Seasons on Boylston Street. I kept the conversation as light and irrelevant as possible. After dinner, we dropped into the sumptuous Avery Bar in the Ritz-Carlton for drinks and more casual chitchat.
When he was sufficiently mellowed, I fielded his question, “Where actually am I staying tonight? Or am I?”
“You are, Harry. Upstairs. Here. Ritz-Carlton.”
He nearly choked on his Black Russian. “Michael, dinner and drinks in these high-end places, that was to soften me up. But if I stay here they’ll want the gold in my teeth.”
“As they used to say, ‘don’t bother your head about it.’ Come on. Follow me.”
I escorted him up to the top floor, to what Mr. Ritz and Mr. Carlton call their “Luxury Suite.” Harry hesitated to cross the threshold.
“Shall I carry you across, Harry?”
“No, save that for Terry. Michael, a straight answer. What the hell are we doing here?”
I took his arm and led him through each opulent room of the suite and showed him the magnificent view clear to Boston Harbor.
Then I sat him down on the bed. Beginning with the race in which Roberto Mendosa lost his life, I took him through every hair-raising incident up to the then present moment with no omissions. By then, the dinner drinks and Black Russians had spent most of their effect, but he was still settled enough to listen in a state of calm while I explained exactly what I was about to ask of him, and why I wanted him to get comfortable in opulent surroundings.
While he was still contemplating the level of risk, I walked him to the spacious bedroom closet. I pointed out a small but complete wardrobe of clothes that bore the signatures of world-class designers who show no shame in affixing a price tag.
“This is why you only need a toothbrush, Harry.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Your taste in clothes is, what can I say, professorial. My assistant, Julie, has high-end taste. She did the shopping. I assumed that that absurd diet of yours kept the sizes the same.”
He took it all in, and true to the heart of a musketeer, when he walked back to sit on the bed, he had just one question.
“When do we start?”
* * *
The next afternoon, I was nervous as a cat on the drive to the track. I couldn’t keep my mind from counting the ways in which this whole anticipated train of events could be derailed.
I came in just before the third race and began counting the hours and then the minutes to the start of the eighth race. When the seventh ended, I stationed myself by the saddling paddock in a spot where I could catch the attention of Victor’s valet, Lanny, as he was bringing the saddle and saddlecloth with the number 3 to the third stall.
He caught my nod and came by where I was standing.
“What’s up, Mike?”
“I need to get a message to my client, Victor Mendosa.”
Without looking at me, he took the small envelope I handed him. He almost palmed it as if it were the formula for Coca-Cola. Track security since the fixed race that had ended Roberto’s life had gone from tight to near paranoid.
“Be careful with that note, Lanny. It’s a plan to bomb the state-house and kidnap the governor. This makes you an accessory.”
Actually, I didn’t say quite that. I wasn’t sure of Lanny’s sense of humor. Even mine was running on fumes at that point. I just mumbled, “Thanks, Lanny. Have a neat day.”
His nod concluded the conversation.
* * *
Within ten minutes, the bell at the jockeys’ room rang and the colorful succession of silks came out the door. Victor never looked my way on his walk to stall three for last-minute instructions from Rick. Given the plan, the instructions were minimal.
The call for “Jockeys up!” rang out. I saw Victor take a leg up from Rick and swing aboard Brown Beauty as if he’d been riding daily. As Victor’s horse was led by the stable-hand close to my position at the rail, Victor pulled a small corner of a slip of paper out of the waistband of his pants. He gave a momentary glance at me with a question mark written all over his face.
I looked as deeply eye to eye as I could for emphasis and gave a minimal but unwavering nod, “Yes!” The envelope that Lanny delivered contained a two-dollar betting ticket on Brown Beauty. It was a ticket to win. It had just four words written in my best hand on the back: “Ride like the wind.”
Victor’s first reaction to my nod was one of stunned doubt, but as the message sank in, a smile began to crack the solemn set of his mouth. It was a full-blown grin by the time he passed through the gate onto the track. Brown Beauty began a high prancing trot in the post parade as if he were reading the body language coursing through every inch of his jockey.
The race was six furlongs, a three-quarter mile sprint. The horses were loaded in the starting gate without incident. I could see the race starter on his platform take the starting button in hand.
There was just time for one last prayer as I turned back to spot Fat Tony and his overstuffed entourage sitting in a front box in the clubhouse. The satisfied look on his face said that he and his mafia associates had managed to place high wagers with every bookmaking syndicate across the country. Victor had heard that Fat Tony had muscled his way into the animal deal for a cut of the profits. Within about one minute and eleven seconds, his fixed long-shot winner would bring in the $900,000 needed to pay Chico’s gang the second installment for the animals.
* * *
“They’re off!”
That call always sent my blood pressure into a steep climb. This time, it gave me an instant case of the chills. My eyes were glued to the springing gates of the number three chute. Brown Beauty exploded out of that gate as if he knew what was riding on his race.
It took him four giant strides to propel him a full neck ahead of the pack. Victor gave him the whip once and then crouched on his neck with the reins in both fists, pumping forward with every stride.
When they reached the turn at the end of the backstretch, Victor had driven him into a two-length lead, clear of the other racers in case Fat Tony had some backup plan for scuttling Brown Beauty.
When they were halfway around the turn, the lead was three lengths, and my worry center lit up. Was the pace too fast? Would Brown Beauty have enough left in the tank for the long homestretch?
Victor apparently did not share my worries. He drove Brown Beauty off the turn and onto the homestretch. Over the crowd tumult, I was vaguely aware of the track announcer screaming, “Here comes Brown Beauty, and Beauty is flying!”
I looked at Victor’s face as he passed the eighth pole. His left cheek was nearly touching the blowing mane of the horse, and I was sure he was yelling something at the top of his lungs.
I knew at that moment that with every foot of track Brown Beauty was consuming with his stretching stride, the greatest race I had seen in my entire life was all but in the books.
I stole one glorious look back at the twisted face of Fat Tony, contorted as it was with pure rage, and a shiver of joy ran through my entire body.
By the time Victor and Brown Beauty crossed the finish line, I was running full out for th
e winner’s circle. I nearly ran down an old track tout ripping up betting tickets when I glanced away from my path to see Victor rise, standing straight up in the irons with both fists in the air, still yelling something to the skies—perhaps to his brother, Roberto.
I stood by the rail just outside the enclosure where the jockeys have to weigh in before the race can be declared official. I knew there was a second race that had to be run. I could see Fat Tony screaming orders at the two goons in his box.
They began running to the clubhouse exit as fast as their fat bowed legs could carry them. I knew they were heading for the path Victor would take back to the jockeys’ room with guns drawn. There was no one anywhere near that path, and the crowd noise would cover up any shots fired.
I jumped the rail and grabbed Victor’s arm as soon as he came close. He was still grinning. I made time for one long overdue hug of victory, and then pulled him into a dead run. We jumped the rail on the other side of the path and ran full out to the side of the parking lot where I’d parked a nondescript rental car.
I thanked God for the map I had in my mind of every backstreet from Revere to Route 1 north of Boston. I gave Victor a ride that must have rivaled the one he had just had on Brown Beauty.
He changed into the street clothes I’d brought for him, while I apologized for keeping the change of plan from losing to winning from him until the last minute. I wanted him to be able to promise a fixed race to Fat Tony with no trace of doubt in his voice. I explained that the rest of the plan called for him to simply stay out of sight. Fat Tony’s mobsters would be scouring every corner of the city and beyond for him.
My sincere hope was that the insectos still thought the body of the homeless man found shot at Jamaica Pond was mine. That gave me room to operate as long as I stayed out of Puerto Rican haunts.
I veered off of Route 1 into the parking lot of a hotel on Newbury Street in Danvers. The choice was easy. How could I resist the Knight’s Inn?
I registered Victor under a name from a bygone era. I was sure none of the young crowd there would remember Darrel Madden, the leading jockey who rode my first winning horse at Suffolk Downs.
Fatal Odds Page 26
