by Brian Cain
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Although Flaxmead had not stepped up to higher group races his form was obvious especially to those who had witnessed him run. Neville Creighton had a lot hanging on a few horses this year more so than usual, he thought it was the best chance he had of wining a Melbourne Cup yet with talent available in his stables. Horse racing was his hobby not his main income but most of his direct friends were in the horse racing industry. Jack Prendergast was Creighton's best friend, professional breeder and race magnet he had fostered Creighton through years of fun the pair teaming up sometimes having six runners between them in major races. Flaxmead had appeared out of nowhere and was seen to be a horse that could spoil all the fun. Prendergast had seen Flaxmead run twelve hundred at Royal Randwick and was positive that if a horse was going to disrupt their plans it would be Flaxmead. The pair had a meeting in Melbourne with a third ally Geoff Leroy another leading breeder trainer. Locked away in the Chairman's Club at Flemington racecourse clear of any earshot they discussed the situation. The bouquet of expensive wine mixed with passing banquets fit for a king as waiters tended the tables.
"I'm sure this year will be the year I win the cup, my three prominent stayers are the best I've ever had," said Creighton between mouthfuls of sumptuously prepared rump steak. He put down his knife and fork and picked up his glass of red wine to clear his pallet. "I planned the horses I have around the opposition who would expect this thing to come out of nowhere. Anyway my plans are going fine this hunter valley nag is far from getting here the first Tuesday in November."
Leroy grinned at the statement. "Jack saw the horse run, said he's seen nothing like it. Is that not right Jack."
Prendergast had racing operations in Melbourne and Sydney he knew everyone, aged in his mid sixties and in poor health sighed. "If I had a surer bet on being here in November this Flaxmead has it. I've seen hundreds of horses run at Randwick but I was stirred by this thing. I got close to him in the mounting area and he just looked straight through me cock sure he was in control. God knows who trained him but it wasn't Harper in the early piece."
Creighton lowered his voice so he could only just be heard. "I've been having a look at this. The float carrying him round was bought from me by a bloke in the valley called Winston Blake. He's a pom and has his finger in a horse show near Bristol England. Its run by a bloke called Roger Palmer a horse whisperer, I sent someone in to have a look at the joint. It's crawling with top runners owned by a couple of merchant bankers. This Blake joker used to work for them."
Prendergast lifted the eyebrow of one eye. "Hornswaddle and Fothrington, they could buy the three of us many times over and still have masses of pocket money. I bought two runners from them six weeks ago in Ireland, absolute rockets they are. They own the Shangri La winery in the Hunter Valley."
"That's exactly where this float was delivered to," said Creighton.
"What's so strange about that, so they need a float. Not surprised they own swag of horses," said Leroy.
"Yeah but this one was paid for by Blake and carries this Flaxmead around," stated Creighton.
"I didn't know it was against the law to carry a horse around in a float," chuckled Prendergast.
"You don't get what I mean, there's something strange going on. The bloodline of Flaxmead lists the sire as a stallion from the Hunter Valley and a dame from the same place. The owner of the sire was Clifford Barking from Loudbark wines right next to Shangri La. The horse was born in Ireland."
Leroy looked interested. "Really, how d'ya work that out?"
"The horse has a British chip and I checked the bloodline certificate," said Creighton.
Leroy had a small concern in the Hunter Valley in addition to stables in Melbourne. He stopped eating and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "How longs it been here?"
"Not sure but the transfer was made a few months ago," replied Creighton.
"What difference does it make we need a horse that runs faster than this thing," added Prendergast.
"If something has been overlooked we can stop the thing competing we've done it before," stated Creighton.
"Yeah what if someone decides to spend a bit of time studying our affairs, look hard enough and you can shoot anyone down," suggested Leyton.
"If they have something to do with Hornswaddle and Fothrington leave it or we might end up with more problems than we need, besides I'd rather win a Melbourne Cup not steal it," added Prendergast.
"I've got a day out with the smiling assassin this week I'll bait him up and see what he says. He's in a lot of debt at the moment and he needs results to pay off his Arab mates. This thing from the Hunter Valley won't help him much, "said Creighton.
"The assassin, he'll have three runners in the cup, mixing with the likes of Taggart he's no friend of ours. If anyone boxes us in or pushes wide it'll be his blokes, you want to deal with him don't mention my name," added Prendergast.
"Feeding him some info won't do us any harm, this thing has to show up at a decent race yet anyway," barked Creighton.
Prendergast's mobile phone rang, he looked at the readout. "I'll have to take this I've been waiting on it. Hello, yeah, mm, good. Really, ahh, okay, thanks very much." He turned it off and put the phone on the table. "One of mine just made the draw for the Chairman's Handicap."
"Wow Blunderbuss?" asked Creighton.
"Yeah," replied Prendergast.
"So you're set she's a missile," remarked Leyton.
"Yeah but there's a ballistic missile made the draw too, Flaxmead. He drew gate one the press has gone mad apparently. The field will be flat out seeing which way he went in my opinion," said Prendergast.
"I was hoping Wolf Sheppard would make the draw," remarked Creighton.
"He did, this things already shut him down by twelve lengths over twelve hundred metres what will it do to us over two thousand," added Prendergast.
"The cups three thousand two hundred this Flaxmead may be a short fuse, no ones seen him race that far," insisted Leyton.
"I have it from a reliable source namely someone who's seen him run the distance in world record time," remarked Prendergast.
"Who?" asked Creighton with squinting eyes.
Prendergast had a short smile "Jimmy Cotton. Flaxmead's on the way here in November. You want to run him down find a horse that can run as fast."
"The smiling assassin gonna love all this," said Creighton.
Prendergast threw his napkin on the table and held his stomach with a look of pain for a few seconds. "The smiling assassin, started life as a car salesman the chameleon they called him. He learnt to remember people's names and smile, would rather do someone out of a hundred bucks than earn it. Sold a car to Jimmy Cotton and became interested in racing. Now we're stuck with him. At least Ned Kelly had the decency to wave a shotgun around when he robbed someone."
"I sell trucks as part of one of my business Jack come on," slurred Creighton.
"I'm dying Neville, nothing I can do about it. All the tea in china or money in the world won't save me. I won a Melbourne cup fair and square, you win some and you loose some. If I had robbed someone like Mr ten percent the smiling assassin I'd feel that I'd wasted my life. You have a family Neville so do you Geoff, you want to go the way of the assassin then I feel sorry for you. I'm happy with what I've done, the assassin hates kids. Two kids own that horse, when you talk to the assassin don't mention my name. One of my boys is like it, he had to fight for nothing now thinks it's his god given right to have everything regardless of what it takes. He's in prison for twenty years wondering what happened." Prendergast stood up and pushed his chair under the table. "Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen I have to go." He began to shuffle away from the table but was stopped by Creighton's hand on his shoulder as he passed.
"I'm sorry Jack, forgive me mate," said Creighton.
Jack Prendergast smiled and shuffled away. "See you blokes next week."
