Bullet Work (9 page)

“Won’t know ’til I see ’em.”

“Got it. You’re one of those visual
handicappers. Got to see how they react in the paddock, how they
warm up, how they move. Guys like you make all those numbers guys
go kookoo.” AJ didn’t react. Dan had gotten more feedback from a
store mannequin. What was it about this kid? “What do you look
for?”

“Don’t look for nothing. You can just see
it.” His leg swung back and forth under his chair.

Did that mean he was nervous or getting more
comfortable?

“Well, maybe you can, AJ. I sure as heck
can’t. Let me know if you have a pick you like.”

AJ sat and continued to eat. Finally, AJ
stole a glance at Dan, cleared his throat as though annoyed, and
said, “Hudgins has a horse in the fourth.”

Then nothing, Dan leaned forward. Just let
him talk, he thought, don’t rush him. Dan waited.

“Used to be in our barn,” AJ started up
again. “Got claimed off us at Delaware Park last spring.” Leg
continued swinging. AJ looked down at his food.

Dan waited and waited.

Finally, AJ looked at Dan, then back down at
his food. “Horse can run some.”

Chapter 15

Every day at a racetrack was a good
day, as far as Dan was concerned. But Fridays were the best. Maybe
it was the fact that the weekend had arrived. The Friday cards
weren’t as strong as weekend cards, but somehow the attitude and
emotion around the racetrack was different. People had fun, they
drank more, they made strange pooled bets with coworkers and
friends. It was casual. There was hope. For those who made it to
the racetrack on a Friday, there really was a tomorrow. It was
called Saturday’s race card.

While walking across the mezzanine, Dan
spotted Milt coming from a concessions counter. In one hand he had
a soda about the size of a Buick with a tall straw in it. In the
other he was balancing three cardboard wedges that each contained
at least one slice of pizza. He was sliding sideways, trying to
balance the three wedges. Dan rushed forward and grabbed the pizzas
just before they toppled to the ground.

“Gotcha, Milt.”

“Thanks, Dan. Fuckin’ place. You’d think
they’d have people here who can serve.” He hitched his pants with
his free hand and took a slurp from the straw.

“Goin’ down?” He nodded, and they made their
way to the box seats.

TP was studying the latest condition book, a
publication the racing secretary released to horsemen about what
types of races the track planned to schedule in coming weeks.
Trainers used the condition book to find the races where their
horses were eligible and had a shot at getting a purse. Agents used
it to argue that their boy could ride a certain style or distance,
for which a race had been written.

Good jock agents knew every horse on the
grounds and were aware who had first call and what kinds of races
each horse was eligible for. A savvy jock agent could look at a
condition book and know which barns and which horses were likely to
enter.

From that information, the jock agent could,
with remarkable accuracy, predict which jockeys had conflicts. That
was where the jockey had previously ridden two horses that would be
entered in the same race. The jock could only ride one at a time,
so the agent had a pitch to make to one or both trainers. Knowing
the horse and the race, the agent would tailor the pitch for why
his boy would be perfect for that ride.

The agent would also get the kid over to the
barn early in the mornings to shake hands, smile, laugh, and say,
“Oh, your rider isn’t here yet? Let my guy work your horse this
morning.”

If the kid was presentable, respectful, and
could ride worth a damn, they had a shot at getting a mount. It
might also take some cold beers after the work day, but day after
day, you chipped away and built relationships to get rides
eventually. If the agent got his kid on a horse, he better ride
hard to keep the mount, or the guy behind him got the next shot.
So, despite the beautiful weather and picturesque racetrack
setting, TP was working.

So was Lennie. Milt squeezed his way into the
box and over to his seat.

“Hey, Dan-o,” said Lennie. TP scribbled some
notes and threw his hand back toward Dan to shake. “Good to see
Milt finally found someone to carry his food for him.”

“Right,” Dan said. “Damn near killed an old
lady with a pizza avalanche up there. Lucky I came along when I
did, Milt, or I’d have to represent you for assault with a deadly
pepperoni.”

“Screw you guys.” Milt laughed. “You’re just
jealous that I can eat like this and keep my girlish figure.”

“Got that right, Maj,” said TP.

Dan glanced at the tote; it was eleven
minutes to post for the fourth race. “Lennie, you see anything in
Hudgins’ horse?”

“Funny you ask. I’ve been looking at
him.”

“Who you talking about?” Milt jumped in.

“Film Star,” Lennie said. “He’s been off for
six weeks. Likes a layoff, though. He’s got the back speed to run
with these guys. Kind of interesting that Hudgins moved him from
fifteen thousand to twenty. The purse differential between Delaware
Park and here makes that almost a double move. One might think he’s
over his head, but he’s shown he can compete.”

Dan knew that Lennie was too much of a pro to
ask whether Dan had been touted on the horse. Lennie could handicap
a race without the noise of other opinions. His career had proven
him right. Milt, of course, couldn’t hold back.

“Morgan, what do you know? He’s 7-1. What’s
the deal? Is the fix in?” he said, leaning forward as if Dan was
about to share some unknown clue to a treasure quest.

“Nothing big, Maj. I’ve got a friend who used
to work in the barn where Film Star was claimed up at Delaware.
Thinks he’s got some talent. I’m going to play him, but, Maj, take
it easy. This is no mortal lock, just a friend who thinks the horse
will run well today.”

Lennie studied his sheets. “I do like him
coming off a layoff. Only one work and that was okay, nothing
special. At those odds, it’s worth a little action. I’m going to
tie him up with the nine and twelve. The way the track’s been
playing the last few days, I can’t leave those live frontrunners
out.”

They all got up and headed to the windows. At
the top of the mezzanine stairs they split off and got in separate
betting lines. Dan put twenty across and boxed Film Star with the
nine and twelve as well. Word from Lennie was good enough for
him.

Milt made it back to the box just as the
horses were loading in the gate. He had a bag of cotton candy under
his arm as he balanced his racing form and program. A ballpoint pen
was sticking out of his mouth.

“Good lord, Milt,” said TP. “Pepperoni pizza
and cotton candy. You going for the heart attack this
afternoon?”

“Breakfast of champions, boys. Breakfast of
champions,” Milt said as he collapsed with a grunt into his box
seat.

The bell rang, and they were off. Film Star
trailed the field by three lengths as they went past the grandstand
the first time. Milt shot Dan a glance as if to say, What gives?
Dan shrugged back in reply.

“He’s okay,” said Lennie. “They’re going too
fast up front for this bunch. Long way to go.”

At the three-sixteenths pole Film Star still
trailed, but he was in high gear, and the front runners were
getting ragged. Milt jumped up. “Come on, baby. Bring it home.” Two
strides later Lennie casually called out “Winner” as though he was
watching a memorized segment on
Jeopardy!

Film Star got outside in the stretch and was
mowing down horses with each jump. He collared the leaders with
about fifty yards to go and went on to win by three parts of a
length.

Milt was up, dancing and shouting, “Yeah,
baby. Yeah.” It would be the most physical exercise he would have
for the week.

Dan sat stunned and silent. He’d been touted
on horses plenty of times, and he’d been around great handicappers
like Lennie. But AJ’s ability to spot long shots was
unbelievable.

Film Star paid $16.40 for every $2 win bet,
and the exacta with House of Joy, the twelve, paid $116. They all
got healthy that race, and the cocktail waitress was most
appreciative.

Dan happily cashed the tickets, but he felt a
certain emptiness inside. It felt like he was taking advantage of a
friend. Despite Milt’s exuberance and his dramatic display of
bowing with arms extended toward him, Dan felt bad.

He tried to talk himself out of it. Just be
happy with the big win and get more picks from AJ—but it didn’t
help. By all appearances AJ lived a life of near isolation, and
here Dan was celebrating with his friends, and AJ wasn’t a part of
it. Dan needed to get to know that kid better.

And not just for his ability to pick live
horses.

Chapter 16

The Monday night crowd at Clancy’s
was concentrating on ingesting as much alcohol as possible, all
without the necessity of verbal interaction. A raised finger or nod
to the bartender produced another bottle or glass. Words weren’t
needed here.

The man in the baseball cap walked in and
ordered a beer. The non-verbal types at the bar looked his way,
then back to their drinks. The one who had disturbed them moved to
the booth at the far wall. Even the men shooting pool had little
use for words. Their actions carried the game. An aimed cue stick
called the next shot. Multiple jabs of the cue designed intricate
combination shots. A pointed finger asked whether another beer was
needed. The questioner picked up the bottles in one hand, placed
them on the bar, and without a single word, the bartender replaced
the empties with full bottles.

Raven entered and ordered a beer. The patrons
at the bar again looked to see who had disturbed their unspoken
existence. He quickly joined the man in the baseball cap. Classic
rock music pounded through the bar and made it possible for them to
have a private conversation without disrupting the non-verbal
ecosystem of the bar.

“How’d we do?”

“Just over eight grand.” Falcon pulled an
envelope from his back pocket and slid it across the table. Raven
quickly slipped it into his pocket without examining the
contents.

So far, so good, Raven thought. Getting
Falcon to do the dirty work was the trick to the whole scam. Blood
on the other party’s hands was what cemented a partnership like
this. Before that it was just blind trust. Now that Falcon had done
his part, some of the pressure was off. It wasn’t a complete trust,
but Raven knew he owned the guy.

“Thought we’d do better?” said Raven.

“Hard to predict. Just the first week.”

“We don’t have that many weeks. Need to
ratchet up the fear. When do we increase?”

“Don’t think we want to go up any ’til we got
about eighty percent of them. Maybe two weeks.”

“Who’s on the list?”

“Which list—the paying list or the not-paying
list?”

“Only one list. The guys putting their horses
at risk. Stupid bastards.”

Falcon produced a slip of paper. On it was a
list of trainers at Fairfax Park in alphabetical order. There were
two rows of names that nearly covered the entire page. About a
third of the names were crossed out. He examined it on the table in
front of him, then spun it around so Raven could read it.

“A kidnapping and two dead horses, and this
is all we’ve got?” Raven stared at the page for a long time,
memorizing the names on the list. “We need to double the take.
Fast.”

“They start seeing how this works, and a
bunch will join up next week.” Falcon took a long pull off his
beer, then continued. “Plus, nobody gets a pass. To get off the
list, they gotta pay from the start. Ain’t no free weeks. How’s it
going on your end?”

“Lot of tough-guy talk,” said Raven. “But
nothin’ I can’t cover. I know what’s happening before it happens.
We just keep ’em in the dark and grind on ’em. They’ll pay. They’ll
all pay.”

Raven pushed the page back, got up, and went
to the bar. He held up his empty bottle, raised two fingers, and
two beers promptly showed up. He sat back down, sliding one of the
beers toward Falcon. “Who’s next?”

Falcon pointed at the list of names. “One of
these three guys.” Raven smiled. Ferrare, Simpkins, or Oliver.

“Big barns.”

“Yep.”

“I like it. How you gonna do ’em? Everybody’s
guard will be up,” said Raven.

“Sometimes it’s easier to have someone else
do the dirty work,” said Falcon. “They’ll never see it coming.”

Chapter 17

“Where’s Milt today?” Dan asked as
he moved into the box. Lennie had the place to himself today.

“He’s got some kind of insurance seminar
today. You know, figure out more compelling ways to sell folks
something they’ll never use.”

“Probably driving him nuts to miss an
afternoon at the track.”

“Depends.” Lennie paused and slid his reading
glasses onto the top of his head. “I heard a lot of those insurance
company seminars have killer buffets. Milt’s probably packing his
arteries as we speak.”

“I love the guy, but he’s a walking heart
attack,” said Dan.

“Hey, speaking of insurance, what’s the
latest on the protection racket running on the backside?”

“It’s serious. People are getting edgy over
there,” Dan said. “They need to catch the guy.”

“I don’t get it. Twenty bucks a horse? That’s
hardly worth the effort, isn’t it?”

“Well, 1,500 horses on the backside,” said
Dan. “Thirty Gs per week ain’t so bad. Enough to get someone
interested. The guy will probably raise the stakes once people
start paying in. That’s how these things usually go. At least
that’s what happens on
The Sopranos.”

“Still, not much money,” said Lennie,
crossing his legs and tucking his sheets under an arm. “I mean, the
guy’s killing horses. Who does that?”