A Sure Thing: What happens when modern racing is infected by the criminal underworld. Read online

  Rich

  Oliver’s head was spinning. How had it all come to this?

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  New York City. August 1994

  Oliver McMahon strolled through the crowds on Sixth Avenue, soaking up the summer sun and lamenting the lack of adventure during the weekend. The young Irishman was trying to stay cool despite the summer heat, but not succeeding. His straggly mop of dark hair was plastered to his tanned forehead, while the green polo shirt he wore was stuck to his tall, lean frame. His jeans felt so hot he wanted to take them off right there on the street.

  He had finished work at the thoroughbred horse sales in Saratoga and headed to New York alone the day before; none of the other Irish lads wanted to come with him. He was partly glad of this, as he needed some time alone to get over his girlfriend, Rebecca, who was returning to university in Colorado. They had told each other it was better to end their relationship – she was planning to stay in America after graduation, while Oliver was intent on working his way around the horseracing globe.

  Oliver’s first mission in New York had been to visit Giants stadium, to witness the scene of the Irish triumph over the Italians in their opening game of the World Cup campaign two months before.

  After that, he had found a succession of dark bars and had a few laughs playing pool and talking to strangers, but he didn’t manage to pick up a girl. He found himself unable to get Rebecca out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. He had just turned twenty-one and could have a legal drink to drown his sorrows, but now the thumping behind his eyes reminded him he had possibly overdone it. If Rebecca had been with him, he would have drunk less and had more fun.

  In his hungover state, he walked all the way to Central Park Zoo to watch the animals for signs of boredom or unhappiness that most people failed to notice. Oliver sat on a bench beside a thin, sprightly old lady, fanning herself with a magazine and watching the elephants shifting their weight from one foot to another in a nervous tick. She tutted, shook her head and muttered. “Poor things, so bored.”

  Oliver smiled and shot the woman a sideways glance. “I bet they’d love a run in the park,” he said.

  The pensioner inspected him with a mischievous smile. “Gee, now that’d be a sight.” She got up to walk away and dropped her sunglasses as she put the magazine in her bag. Oliver picked them up and gave them back to her.

  “Why, thank you, young man.”

  Oliver smiled through his throbbing head. “Not a bother, you’re welcome.”

  “That’s not a New York accent. Where you from?”

  “I’m Irish . . . and to be honest, I’m not really feeling the best. I think I need something to eat.”

  The woman smiled again and Oliver turned on his heel and headed out onto the street. He found a nearby cafe and wolfed down a burger, fries and a Coke, to kill the hangover.

  Feeling renewed, he set off walking back down Sixth Avenue, headed south, with no particular plan in his head. The humidity was starting to get to him. The city seemed to generate its own heat from the sheer amount of energy created and consumed here. He put a hand up to push his hair back from his forehead, and noticed an ice-cream vendor on the sidewalk.

  He bought a cone and stood eating it, when his eye was drawn to a very pretty blonde girl in a tight T-shirt and long, flowery skirt, who was desperately trying to persuade a child to hold her hand and walk calmly down the street.

  The boy, who looked about nine or ten – but then Oliver was never sure how old kids were – was screaming.

  “No. No!”

  “God, Robert. You’re not running loose in the city, OK? Too many people, too much traffic.”

  She looked worn out. Oliver gazed at her figure and thought she looked too young for the child to be hers, but then you could never be totally sure.

  The girl spotted the ice-cream vendor, and an expression of relief replaced her frown.

  “Jeez, Robert, if I buy you an ice cream, will you calm down?”

  “Maybe,” he replied with a grin that was part delight and part mischief.

  She turned to the stall and ordered. She let go of the boy’s hand to give him his cone and get money from her bag. He took the cone and bolted.

  Oliver watched as the kid came straight for him. He dodged past pedestrians and tried to run away up the edge of the footpath, inches from the bustling traffic. He made one more step before his foot slipped off the edge, sending him headlong into the road, arms flailing, trying to break his fall.

  The kid hit the asphalt, narrowly missing the rear of a delivery van. He lay sprawled on the road like an insect on its back, waiting to be squashed. It seemed nobody else had noticed. Oliver could see a taxi heading straight towards the boy. Instinctively, he dropped his ice cream and dived into the road. As he bent to scoop up the kid, the taxi was close enough for Oliver to see the driver in a heated exchange with the passenger.

  The girl started to scream “Robert” in a panicky voice.

  Oliver grabbed the kid by the neck of his T-shirt then pivoted on his heels, flinging the child onto the footpath. He overbalanced, staggered, and just knew the car would hit him even before he felt the thump of the wing mirror on his elbow. It spun him round and toppled him backwards. He hit the pavement beside the kid. The taxi didn’t even slow down; the ice cream cone moulded itself into the tyre.

  The boy lay in a heap, shocked and choking, his shirt tight around his neck, his breathy moans seemed to merge with the girl’s frantic shrieks.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God! Robert!” she dashed over to him. "You’ll be the end of me! Why d’you got to keep doing this stuff?”

  Robert fell into the girl’s arms, sobbing and coughing.

  Oliver picked himself up, then rubbed and stretched his elbow. Nothing broken, but it would probably throb like hell in a few hours.

  A few onlookers had stopped to take in the scene, but for most people bustling down the avenue, it was as if nothing at all had happened. The girl, however, looked different: pale, scared and shaking.

  She looked at Oliver for the first time. Her eyes were wide with fear, tears welling up, almost like someone about to face a firing squad. “Holy shit!” she said. “Are you OK?”

  Oliver flexed his elbow again. “Grand. It’ll probably be a bit sore later on, but I’ve had worse kicks from horses. Nothing a hot whiskey won’t cure!”

  She looked incredulous. “Did . . . did you pull him off the street?”

  “Yeah, well, ah sure, I just . . . he ran past me and kind of tripped onto the road. That taxi nearly hit him . . .” Oliver trailed off as he saw the depth of fear in her eyes, and felt he should offer some consolation.

  “You’ve got your hands full there. He’s a wild one.”

  “You should meet his dad,” she muttered. “It sucks being a nanny. Mr. R’ll go nuts when he finds out about this. It’s not the first time, either.”

  “I knew you looked too young to be his mother.” Oliver gave her his best smile and turned up his Irish accent. “Hey, it can’t be that bad. I can always vouch for you.”

  She half-smiled. Still gripping the sobbing Robert, she tilted her head to one side.

  “You know what? I might take you up on that. I’m Cassie and this is Robert.”

  She turned the boy around to face his saviour.

  “And I’m Oliver McMahon,” he said to them both.

  “Look, can I get your number or something? Really, I owe you, and so does he.”

  She looked down at the child. “Thank the nice man, Robert. He saved your life. Those cars would have hit you. D’you get that?”

  The anxiety in her voice was starting to diminish.

  The boy looked up, wiped the tears from his eyes and started rubbing his throat.

  “Thanks, I guess, Mister,” he sobbed, in an accent that Oliver could not place.

  Charming, thought Oliver. Pretty girl, pity about the obnoxious brat.

  “That’s really not necessary, you know. I
’m just here for the weekend, doing the tourist thing.”

  “Where’re you staying?”

  “At a hostel near Times Square. Not exactly the Waldorf Astoria, but it’s OK.”

  “Then give me the name and your room number.”

  Oliver beamed confidently. He pictured himself in a bar with Cassie. “Well, it’s the Linehouse Hostel and it’s room two; more of a dorm, actually. No room service.”

  Cassie rooted in her bag with one hand, keeping the other firmly gripped to Robert’s wrist. She drew out a pen and paper and handed them to Oliver.

  “Can you write that down, please?”

  He did.

  “Now, we got to get back to the car. Thanks again, Oliver. I’ll be in touch.” She smiled and shook his hand.

  “Come on, Robert, the driver’ll be waiting and we’ve had enough excitement.”

  She turned away and the kid meekly went with her. Her hand latched onto his wrist.

  Oliver watched her lovely figure fade into the mass of people. He smiled and thought that perhaps the weekend was not a complete loss, after all.

  Chapter 2

  Oliver strolled around for an hour or so. Then he went to the Museum of Modern Art, before heading back to the hostel for a nap and to be sure he would be in if Cassie called. He awoke to the shouts of the receptionist, a lively Chinese man in his forties who was also the manager, cleaner and owner of the hostel.

  “Sir, Sir. You must wake up. You Irish Oliver, right? Phone call. Come now.”

  Oliver rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. Excellent, the night was about to begin. His elbow was sore and slightly swollen. He popped two paracetemol as he made his way down the stairs to the front desk, thinking of Cassie.

  “Well, hello there!” he drawled into the phone, in his huskiest voice.

  “Oliver McMahon?” asked a male voice in a New York accent.

  Definitely not Cassie.

  “Er, um, er, yes.”

  “Good. I’m callin’ for my boss. He wants to say thanks for what you did today.”

  “Well, er, I didn’t do very much.”

  “In an hour, there’ll be a car at your hotel. Get in it. OK?”

  “Err, OK.”

  “Hey, lighten up. You’re a goddamn hero.”

  The line went dead.

  Bizarre, thought Oliver. So much for a chat to the lovely Cassie. All the same, he smiled as his mind filled with possibilities for the night ahead. He jumped into the shower, whistling as he got himself ready for the unknown adventure. Whatever happened, it beat spending the weekend talking the same old shite to his colleagues in the Irish bar back in Lexington, Kentucky. He was sure they were there, huddled round a table, right at this very moment.

  Exactly one hour later, Oliver sat on the steps outside the hostel waiting for the car. He wondered what had happened to the kid when he got home; the nanny had said he’d be in for it. In Oliver’s childhood, that would have meant a walloping from his father. But people who had nannies probably didn’t do that kind of thing. It would be no TV, or grounded for two weeks, stuck inside their upmarket apartment. What a hardship.

  He was so engrossed in gazing down the avenue towards the lights of Times Square that he didn’t notice the sleek black Lincoln Town Car pull up silently in front of him. The driver’s window cracked open. A loud, rough voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

  “Hey, you the guy? Oliver, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s me alright.” He went around to the passenger door and sat in. The driver was a tall, muscular guy in his thirties, with wavy dark hair coiffed into an elaborate bouffant. His immaculate clothing and appearance didn’t quite go with his crooked smile and the sharp, taut skin on his face. He looked a little surprised.

  “Usually people sit in the back, but it’s OK. You can ride with me if you want. I’m Mike.”

  “Thanks, Mike. Where are we off to?”

  “Cardinales.”

  “What?”

  Mike looked aghast. “You haven’t heard of Cardinales?”

  “No. Is it good?”

  “Good? It’s one of the best restaurants in town. Got a great fuckin’ view.” He looked at Oliver and smiled.

  The young tourist spent the journey downtown staring out the window at the marvellous city as it passed by. He gazed at the flashing billboards, endlessly selling products, movies and TV shows. He heard the wailing sirens, roaring engines and constant chattering of the crowds. It sounded like a riot was always in progress, somewhere, everywhere. The sheer energy of the noise and lights gave life to the residents. They drank it up. They consumed the energy of the city with an urgency that Oliver had never seen before. Perhaps this was the essence of the American Dream. The idea that everything was possible, and that here, there was enough energy to achieve anything. That was why he loved working in America.

  He had run out of Ireland as soon as he could, like anyone else of his generation with any sense. The noise and madness of New York was a million miles from the serenity of the Kentucky stud farm where he worked, but the spirit and determination to build, to achieve, to get on was the same. Oliver woke every day feeling bloody lucky. He loved the racehorse breeding business, and aspired to manage or even own a stud himself one day.

  Now he was travelling the globe and immersing himself in the horse-world, so that when the time came, he would be experienced enough to set up shop wherever he wanted. And it got him out of Ireland. To the dismay of his parents, he had not followed his older brother Richard’s example of getting a business degree at college in Dublin. The fact that he was learning his trade from the inside out did not resonate with his folks. Where was his certificate on the wall? That was how you got on: letters after your name.

  His father had struggled to farm a large tract of land in County Limerick, and had only recently found respite when he sold a substantial part of the farm for development. He disapproved of his younger son wanting to enter a rural pursuit.

  Oliver was jolted back to the present by Mike, who announced that they were about to cross the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Like I said, this place has the best view of the city, my friend. It’s a little out of the boss’s turf, but he was on Long Island today, so he thought you’d like it.”

  Oliver felt excited. Long Island. Probably had a house there. Cool. Maybe he would get to meet Cassie again.

  The car swept over into Brooklyn and pulled up on a street one block from the waterfront. Mike pointed to a smart-looking restaurant. “Go on in, he’s waiting.”

  Oliver entered and the maitre’d disdainfully looked him up and down. Oliver observed the man’s immaculate suit, and glanced sheepishly down at his own scruffy boots. Then it occurred to him that he didn’t even know the name of the man he was to meet.

  “Good evening, Sir. Mr. Romano is waiting for you. Before I show you to your table, perhaps I could offer you a jacket.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  Oliver was led through the elegant restaurant; not one table was unoccupied – mostly business types in expensive suits and ties, indulging their wives, clients or mistresses. Everybody looked smartly dressed and full of money. He was stunned by the enormous window the length of the room and its truly breathtaking view of Manhattan. Only after staring for some time, did he notice the man sitting alone at a table right beside the window.

  The maitre’d approached the table and pulled a chair back for Oliver. The seated man stood, smiled, and extended a large, powerful hand.

  “Oliver! Good to meet you, I’m Marco Romano. I hope my guy got you here OK?” he smiled as he spoke in an accent that was trying to sound refined and elegant, but at the same time, possessed a warmth that might have come from an old friend. This put Oliver at ease, as he focused on the man gripping his hand like he imagined a father should do.

  “Yeah, thank you. What a mad city, beats Limerick any day of the week.”

  Marco Romano was a tall, heavyset man in his mid-forties, with a wide f
ace beneath thick black hair, carefully slicked back. His intense dark eyes bored into Oliver – in a way he felt could almost become uncomfortable – but Marco’s still-firm handshake reassured him. His enormous hands protruded from white shirt-cuffs and a smart, well-tailored jacket, which covered his massive shoulders. The power in his physical form seemed to surge through his handshake and make Oliver tingle. They both sat, and Marco poured the young man a glass of wine.

  “This your first time in New York?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll like this Chianti, it’s really good stuff,” he said in his strange, almost bizarre accent.

  Marco raised his glass and continued.

  “Let our first drink be to you, the hero of the day.”

  “Well, thanks. But, sure, like I said to Cassie, I really didn’t do very much.”

  They clinked their glasses together and drank.

  Oliver pondered Marco’s accent and speech. Something wasn’t quite right about it. It reminded Oliver of his days in the boarding school on the outskirts of Limerick city that he and his brother attended. All the pupils were strictly disciplined if they failed to speak properly, with correct grammar and clear diction. After years of drilling, this rather old-fashioned speech became second nature for the pupils, in order to avoid the wrath of the monks, but they soon learned to tone it down and try to fake the city accent when they were allowed into Limerick at weekends and found themselves ridiculed by other school kids and, most crucially, the local girls, who were relentlessly cruel.

  Marco, it seemed, was doing the opposite. Oliver could not think why, but he knew Marco was trying to conceal something, and in a strange way he felt this made them kindred spirits.

  “Please, Oliver, don’t be modest. Cassie told me that without you risking your own skin, my son would have been under a car.” He paused and took another sip of wine. “Oliver, Robert is my only child. It’s been tough – he’s been tough – since his mother died last year. As for that Cassie, huh!” He let out a long sigh. “The fact is, I owe a very great debt to you.”