Bullet Work (6 page)

“Hank, take it easy,” Biggs said. “Let Tim do
his job.” Turning toward Belker, Biggs continued, “Tim?”

Belker paused for a moment to keep his
composure and stepped back half a step. Then he turned his
attention back to the group. “I have added a night security patrol
that will run from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. We think these are the hours
of involvement on the prior incidents, and it’s also the time when
the fewest people are around and visible on the backside. We’ll be
increasing our scrutiny of badges for people coming onto the
property, including the backside. We’ll require 100 percent
positive ID for people entering.”

Several men guffawed and shuffled
uncomfortably.

“Please be patient with the process,” Belker
continued. “Most of my men know all of you and as a result have
waved you through without requiring you to furnish ID. In order to
try and get better information, our check-in will require positive
ID and documentation when individuals enter and leave the property.
This will slow things down some but should give us a chance to
catch whoever is doing this.”

“Great,” said Del Dillingham from the back of
the room. “Somebody’s messing with our horses, and we’re also going
to have security lines like in airports. Just fuckin’ great.”

Belker continued unfazed, “In the next few
days we’ll be adding security cameras in strategic locations on the
backside. It’s just a way to get more eyeballs on anything that’s
happening. We’re conducting additional background checks on people
licensed with Fairfax Park.”

“That include all of us?” Dillingham said.
“What is this, the Gestapo?”

“Del, come on,” said Biggs. “To find the
people involved, we need information. This is a way to get that.”
Biggs gestured back toward Belker, giving him the floor.

“Thanks, Allan. The review will include
everyone licensed—so, owners, trainers, jockeys, vets, grooms, you
name it. Anyone who could have access to the backside. There’s a
strong likelihood that the person or persons involved are licensed
and raise no suspicion when they’re on the property. We need to
track who is on the property and when.”

“Tim, this is a bunch of crap. You have no
idea who’s doing this, do you?” said Skelton.

“Hank, we’re investiga—”

“You can’t guarantee us anything, can you?”
Skelton said. “Other than more scrutiny of us.”

“Hank, I wish I could provide a guarantee,
but you know I can’t. We’ll do everything we can to apprehend the
people involved. The track management is committed to ending this
as quickly as possible. The track’s reputation is at stake as
well.”

“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”
Hank said. “In the letter I’m supposed to be the drop man for the
pay-off. So I’ve been co-opted into being a part of the scheme. If
I play along ‘maybe’ I get my horse back.” He turned and pointed
aggressively at Belker. “It’s because you and your people can’t do
their damn jobs. If anything happens to my mare, I’m coming after
you guys.” His face was beet red, and a vein pulsed on his
forehead. He then turned and pointed the same finger at Biggs.
“Allan, this is on your watch. Fairfax should pay the money to
ensure the safety of the horses on the backside. It’s your
facility. It’s your obligation.”

A chorus of affirmative sounds and head nods
ensued.

“Hank, I know you’re upset,” said Biggs. “But
the track can’t be responsible, nor will it be responsible for
these payments. On behalf of track management, I can’t recommend
for or against the payment. I consider it extortion of the highest
order, but I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety if they choose not to
be a part.”

“Well, I’ve got to pay,” said Hank. “They’ve
got one of my best mares, and if I don’t pay, I lose her and maybe
some others in my barn. So I’m just screwed.”

“I’m not paying,” Jake said. “Anybody coming
around my barn is liable to get his ass kicked, day or night. I’m
not giving in.”

“Me neither,” several others shouted.

“Hell, I’m as pissed as anyone else,” said
Sid Martin. At nearly six feet tall and tipping the scales at a
shade light of three hundred pounds, Martin commanded the space
around him. His oversized Stetson and broad stance created the
presence of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day float in the flesh. “And if I
catch these guys, you won’t have anything to arrest. You’ll be able
to pick them up with a spatula. But twenty bucks a head isn’t worth
the hassle. It’s nothing. And if my horses are safe, I sleep at
night. It’s a short meet. I need to run out some money, not sit and
worry about whether my horses are safe.”

“Anybody talk to their owners about this?”
asked Dale Jenkins, one of the trainers who had restrained
Skelton.

“This stuff is all over town already,” Martin
said. “Every owner is going to know about it—probably already do. I
can’t pass the expense on. Hell, I’ve got enough trouble getting
bills paid as it is.” Shuffling and voices of agreement filled the
air. Martin continued, “I don’t need to throw on an additional
assessment. Owners are liable to yank the horses and move them
someplace else. That’s why I’m going to cover it and not make the
cost or risk something my owners even have to think about. The less
thinking they do, the better for me.”

Several trainers nodded along with the
logic.

“I’m supposed to make the drop on Monday
night,” said Skelton. “If you want in, do as the letter said, give
me a list of your horses and twenty bucks per head—cash—in an
envelope with your name on it. I’m supposed to get a call where I’m
to do the drop. I don’t give a shit if any of you are in. I don’t
have a choice.”

“I’ll need to see your cell phone after the
call comes in to see if we can get a trace,” said Belker. Hank
stared daggers through Belker, then nodded slightly.

“Maybe we should follow Hank and see who
picks up the drop,” said Jake.

“The note said I’d be watched,” Hank said. “I
don’t need to get my horse killed because we got some James Bond
wannabe.”

“Jake, I’ve got a plan to monitor the drop,”
said Belker. “Leave that to me.”

“You get my mare killed, I’m coming after
you, Belker,” said Hank.

Biggs leaned over to Belker and whispered, “I
wouldn’t be too specific about the plans right now. There’s more
than a slight chance that the guy we’re looking for is in this
room.”

Chapter 10

Ginny Perino eased the Dodge
Ramcharger next to Gimore’s barn. He slipped on his cowboy hat,
effortlessly hoisted the scarred wooden toolbox from the back, and
made his way to the stable office.

At first glance, Ginny wasn’t an imposing
figure, largely forgettable—five foot eight on his best day. Up
close, his features were starkly different. He had a powerful upper
body with forearms the size of a young child’s legs. His hands were
large for his frame and muscular. They introduced him as a man who
earned a living with his hands.

The box contained the tools of his
trade—hammers, nails, hasps, files, and aluminum shoes. The farrier
was critical to the success of equine athletes. He was also a first
line of defense for ailments of the hoof. He treated the types of
injuries and illnesses that kept competitors in the barn, with
potentially career-ending consequences.

Ginny was a farrier.

At least that’s what he reported to the IRS.
The job kept him on the backside, where he was able to run his more
lucrative operation, his much more lucrative operation.

Ginny grew up tough. Boys in Brooklyn named
Giovanni Perino either grew up tough or became doormats. Grade
school playgrounds were unrelenting for boys like Giovanni, but he
soon learned how to deal. Strike first, ask questions later.

Quickly, Ginny had learned that there were
two kinds of guys, the intimidator and the intimidated. He vowed
early on that he would always be the former. He learned so well
that he was permanently expelled from school at age fifteen. The
nuns at St. Katherine’s of the Immaculate Heart were unable to
control him.

He smirked as he recalled looking down at the
crumpled and unconscious eighteen-year-old who dared to ask
Giovanni if he preferred dating boys over girls. The two friends
who accompanied the injured senior had scattered, screaming for the
police.

Ginny held the softball bat over his head,
perfectly framed below the outstretched arms of St. Katherine, high
atop the school’s entrance. He gave the curled-up body one more
whack across the ribs and tossed the bat into the bushes. Then he
picked up his backpack, slung it onto his shoulder, and stepped
over the body to begin his leisurely walk home.

Ginny beat him good, but if he had wanted to
kill the punk, he would have. The boy had it coming. Ginny just
delivered it.

His parents were distraught and
grief-stricken. Not wanting to turn him out to the streets of the
city, Ginny was sent to his Uncle Dale in Arkansas. It was either
that or a tough love camp in Arizona, which the family had no means
of affording.

Ginny’s uncle was a farrier at Oaklawn Park
in Hot Springs. They traveled the Midwest circuit—Oklahoma,
Nebraska, Louisiana, and Texas. It was where he learned a
marketable skill, at least one of them.

The backside made sense to Ginny. Everything
was defined by winning or losing. Competition ruled. There was no
mercy shown in this business. You won enough to survive or you got
run out. He quickly became adept at trimming, shoeing, and
racing.

Becoming a competent farrier was easy.
Becoming the “go to” guy for top barns required some tricks and
twists. At this, Ginny became the best. For the right price he
could apply modified turndowns.

A turndown was a shoe that separated slightly
at the back of the hoof. It allowed a horse to dig deeper into a
track, get better traction, and push off without the ground giving
away as much as it would with a normal shoe. Turndowns were fairly
common for racing on wet or sloppy tracks as were mud caulks. But
in the right circumstances a properly applied turndown could
significantly improve performance on a dry track.

Of course, turndowns were illegal unless
conditions warranted, but Ginny knew the rules and for the most
part stayed within one zip code of the rules. He also used his
investigative skills and managed to get dirt on most paddock judges
who might otherwise call him on an illegal shoe. Except for
egregious cases, he could get them to look the other way. No one
wanted to tangle with Ginny.

Yes, Ginny stayed within the rules, the rules
as he manipulated them.

Two things drove his life, winning and
scheming. He’d become a capable handicapper and occasionally had
inside information that was timely. But gambling was merely a
hobby. Making money was his business. Betting was sport. Even the
best handicappers survived on razor-thin margins.

Ginny learned about making serious money.
That included sure things and guaranteed payoffs. He lived by two
rules. First, never lose money and, second, hurt anyone who
interfered with rule number one.

As with many old-timers on the backside, his
Uncle Dale died from a lifetime of smoking and heavy drinking.
Ginny took over his book of clients and quickly grew it into a
thriving business, at least from what the IRS could tell. Ginny
buried his uncle two miles from Remington Park in Oklahoma City.
The grave digger, two trainers, and Ginny paid respects. His family
was gone, one by death, the others by choice.

He poked his head into the office and rousted
Jake, who was writing up training schedules for his barn.

“Hey, Ginny.”

“Jake.”

“Yo,” Jake shouted past Ginny. “Nino, get in
here.” He then addressed Ginny. “Need you to look at Pristine
Fiend. She’s getting out on the turns, and her front left don’t
look right. Also, Aly Dancer will need some racing plates.” Ginny
nodded and backed out of the office. Nino motioned Ginny toward the
correct stall.

“Oh, and Ginny, stop back when you’re done. I
have something else I need to talk to you about.”

Ginny knew what it was. He followed the game
closer than anyone. He knew where everyone stood. Ginny smiled to
himself as he lumbered behind Nino down the shedrow.

He knew what Jake needed, and he’d be more
than happy to oblige. Ginny Perino was always available for a sure
thing.

Chapter 11

Tim Belker entered his office and
elbowed the door shut. Once behind his desk, he extended and bent
his left leg several times. He was able to avoid significant
injuries through four years of Big Ten football, but one wicked hit
in his first NFL mini-camp had left a permanent calling card.

He took a sip from his first cup of coffee,
leaned back, and cracked open the day’s racing form. He studied the
entrants in the first race. Fucking goats, he thought. Disgusted,
he flipped back to the eighth race, the feature on the card.
Although a modest stake for Virginia bred fillies and mares, he
could at least handicap a race with some quality in it.

His Zen-like tranquility was shattered by a
voice booming through the racing office.

“Belker. Get your ass in here.”

Despite being separated by three offices,
Biggs’ voice reverberated through the office like a tsunami wave
crushing a village.

“Belker!”

His assistant, Gail, gave him an eye roll as
he exited his office. Tim made his way to Biggs’ office. Rosalind,
Biggs personal assistant, gave him a sheepish, tight-lipped smile
as he passed by. Biggs was seated at his desk, though he had his
back to the door, concentrating on two computer screens resting on
the credenza behind his desk. His pink shirt was framed by black
and red checked suspenders. He spun around as Belker entered.

“Gimme the latest.”

“Feds are being kind of sticky,” Belker said.
“Can’t see why they should waste time on a bunch of horses when
there are national security concerns elsewhere.” He paused to let
Biggs frame a question. When none came, Belker continued. “Got the
Prince William sheriff’s department coming out here in a few hours.
Going to take statements from Skelton, Daniels, and Camillo. They
think—”