The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (39 page)

“Right, gentlemen. This is Happy Valley racetrack. Consider this rest and recreation, nothing more. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, place some bets, hopefully win a few dollars. I plan a full briefing back at the hotel at 2300 hours, so at this stage I just want you to have a look around and get a feel for the place. If you show your passport to the gentleman at the counter there and give him fifty dollars he’ll issue you with a members’ enclosure badge which will give you access to most of the grandstand. If you’ll follow me up to the second floor I’ll show you how the betting works.”

One by one the men handed over their passports and cash, attached their badges, and pushed through the turn-stiles. Fast-moving escalators were whisking racegoers up to the higher levels and the men followed Tyler up to the second floor. The escalator took them to a large hallway. To the left were full-length windows beyond which they could see the brightly illuminated racetrack and to the right were cashiers’ desks behind security glass screens which stretched the full length of the hall. Behind the screens sat young men and women in wine-coloured pullovers and cream shirts taking bets from the racegoers. The system seemed fast and efficient. Gamblers were taking small cards from dispensers, marking their bets by what appeared to be a series of small pen strokes and handing them to the cashiers. The cards were stamped and returned.

The men stood together while Tyler walked over to one of the ticket dispensers and came back with a handful of cards. All were the same size but had different coloured stripes along one side. “Okay,” said Tyler, “these are the betting cards. You fill them out and give them and your stakes to one of the guys at the counter. They run the card through a computer terminal which records the bet and prints the details on the back of the card.”

The men nodded. “Seems simple enough,” said Carmody.

“It is,” said Tyler. “But most people go for exotic combinations, and they’re a bit more complicated. I’ll give you a quick rundown, but don’t worry if you don’t remember it all. The guys behind the counter will help you and there’s an information desk too.” Tyler looked at his watch. “The first race starts at seven forty-five,” he said. “Let’s buy some programmes and get down to it.”

They each took a handful of tickets and a programme and walked out of the air-conditioned betting hall and into the seating areas, rows and rows of plastic bucket seats facing the floodlit track. They filed along to a section of empty seats and sat down.

“Bart, why don’t you get us all some beers?” Tyler said. It was more of a command than a question, and Lewis didn’t hesitate. He disappeared back up the steps while the rest of them studied the programme. It contained everything but the name of the winning mount – there was a full rundown on the form and the stakes won by each horse, a description including its breeding history, its placing so far during the season, and the weight of the rider. It took a while to figure out what all the information was, but the Jockey Club had even included a guide on how to read the programme. It was almost an idiot’s guide to betting, which made Tyler all the more certain that there was no way of coming out ahead. The Jockey Club effectively had the system rigged through its tote system so that it couldn’t lose, deducting its own commission and government betting duty before dividing the rest of the betting turnover among the winning tickets. The more that was bet, the more they paid out, and the more their commission grew. The club’s percentages added up to about three billion HK dollars a year. The only winner in Hong Kong racing was the Jockey Club; everything else was just redistribution of wealth.

Lehman looked around at their fellow racegoers. Some were obviously tourists, skin reddened by unaccustomed exposure to the sun and wearing clothes they wouldn’t be seen dead in back home, weighed down with new camera equipment fresh from the rip-off shops in Tsim Sha Tsui. Others were cocky young expats in sharp made-to-measure suits drinking gin and tonics and laughing with their heads thrown back, rich Chinese with Rolex watches studying Chinese newspapers and marking favourites with gold pens and poor Chinese slurping noodles from plastic bowls as they waited for racing to start.

“Strange mix, isn’t it?” said Lewis as he came back with a tray of beers.

“Yeah,” agreed Tyler. “Hardly seems like the sport of kings, does it?”

“I thought racing was just for the top people, for the British,” said Carmody, who was sitting on Tyler’s left. “It seems like every man and his dog is here. The place is almost full. There must be 100,000 people here.”

“No,” said Tyler. “Normal raceday attendance is about 36,000. More for the big meetings. And there’ll be another 10,000 or so at the other racetrack in Shatin, watching it on a live screen there.”

“They must be racing mad,” said Lewis as he handed out the beers.

“It’s not the horses they like, it’s the gambling,” said Tyler. “Gambling is illegal in Hong Kong, with two exceptions – horse racing and the Mark Six Lottery. And the Jockey Club controls them both. The Chinese love to gamble, that’s why they’re here.”

“Speaking of which, I’m going to place a bet,” said Carmody, sliding by. “Fifty dollars to win on Galloping Dragon.”

“A hot tip?” asked Tyler.

“A hunch,” said Carmody.

Over at the end of the row Lehman was in deep conversation with a middle-aged Chinese man with horn-rimmed spectacles. The man had several newspapers and a notebook full of small handwritten figures and he was wagging his finger at Lehman as he talked. As Tyler watched, the man helped Lehman fill out a card with a series of ticks, nodding and grinning, obviously pleased at being asked advice by an American tourist. Lehman thanked him, and then followed Carmody up the steps.

Lehman stood behind Carmody in a short queue in front of one of the cashiers. He looked at his watch. There were ten minutes to go before the first race was due to start and Lehman could feel the tension growing in the betting hall.

Carmody reached the front of the queue and handed his ticket and money over with his claw, enjoying as he always did the look of surprise on the young girl’s face. She couldn’t take her eyes off the stainless-steel claw and her fingers trembled as she fed his card into the computer terminal. Carmody smiled at her discomfort and slowly raised the claw to scratch his cheek. Her eyes widened and she gave him back the card, pulling away her hand as if frightened of getting burnt. Carmody held her gaze for several seconds before moving away.

Lehman smiled at the girl, trying to ease her fear, but she was still shocked at what she’d seen and kept her eyes down at the counter as she processed his betting ticket. Lehman’s bet was a complicated one done on the advice of the man he’d been sitting next to. It was an All Up Win bet, where any winnings on the first race were automatically put on the next, and so on. Under the man’s guidance, Lehman had chosen a horse from each of the six races and was placing a 500 dollar bet. If all his six selections came home first he wouldn’t need to go any further with Tyler and his plan. It was the sort of gamble that Lehman relished. All or nothing. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in wagering fifty dollars to win back a hundred. There was no satisfaction in a small win.

He took his stamped card from the girl and turned to see Tyler behind him.

Tyler looked down at the card with its distinctive brown strip. “I didn’t even tell you about that one,” he said.

“I guess you can’t tell us everything,” said Lehman.

“Not all at once, that’s true,” agreed Tyler, looking steadily at Lehman. “Though the key to making big money isn’t gambling. It’s planning. Careful planning followed by faultless execution.”

“That’s what you’re doing?”

Tyler nodded. “The planning has already been done, Dan.”

“And the execution?”

“Later. I’ll tell you all later.”

“It’s here, isn’t it?”

“Later, Dan.” Tyler stepped to one side to allow Lehman by and then placed his own wager, a hundred dollar each-way bet on the favourite. When he retook his seat the horses were on the track warming up, the jockeys wearing brightly coloured shirts, the horses well groomed and eager for the off. The crowd was buzzing, there was an announcement over the loudspeakers in Chinese which sparked a chorus of good-natured cheers and whistles, and the crowd began rushing down the stairs to take their seats.

The large screen in the middle of the track was showing close-ups of the various runners and the two tote boards carried all the betting details, including the winning odds of the different horses and the odds of the various combination bets.

With a minimum of fuss the horses were encouraged into the starting gates and then they were off, hooves kicking up small plumes of sand from the artificial track. The start was at the far side of the track and as the horses came pounding around the second curve and in front of the grandstand everyone got to their feet and began screaming and shouting, then in a thunder of hooves they were gone, curving around to the right. All eyes then were on the screen where the order of the first four runners was indicated by large numbers. The favourite was running second. Of Galloping Dragon there was no sign. Carmody was shrieking, his eyes fixed on the screen, his one hand clenched tight, the hook making small pumping movements. The drumming of the hooves got louder as the horses rounded the bend for the last time and galloped towards the finishing line, nostrils flaring and tendons straining. The spectators were at fever pitch as the favourite slipped into third place and a chestnut challenged the leader, its jockey bobbing backwards and forwards like a man possessed, but his challenge failed by just half a length as they flashed across the finishing line.

“Shit!” said Carmody, slumping down into his seat. “Shit, shit, shit!” Lewis ripped up his ticket and dropped it on the floor. Lehman was smiling so Tyler guessed he’d backed the winner, and his suspicion was confirmed when the Chinese bettor who’d given him the tip turned to him and shook his hand.

“You not gambling, Eric?” Tyler asked Horvitz.

Horvitz shook his head. “Never been one to get a kick from betting, Colonel,” he said. “Watching the racing is fine, but that’s as far as it goes with me.”

“Having money on the outcome gives it an edge,” said Tyler. “Means you’ve got an interest in the outcome.”

“I’ve lived on the edge, Colonel. I’ve walked the line and I came back.” He spoke in a dull monotone voice like a spirit talking from beyond the grave, a presence that had no interest in the petty occupations of the living. The two men looked at each other for a second, and then Horvitz smiled thinly. “Besides,” he said, “I want to keep hold of my cash.”

Everyone but Horvitz placed bets on the second race, Tyler backing the favourite with an each-way bet again, Carmody going for another hunch, Lewis and Doherty putting 500 dollars on the favourite to win and Lehman going for a combination bet on the advice of his newfound friend. The favourite romped home at two to one which saw Doherty and Lewis jumping up and down and slapping a disgruntled Carmody on the back. Tyler was showing a decent profit and he went into the betting hall to collect his winnings from the first two races. Lehman followed him and stood at an adjacent window.

“How are you doing?” asked Tyler.

“Okay,” said Lehman, accepting a handful of yellow notes from the cashier.

“Is your All Up bet still on?”

Lehman grinned and nodded. “Fingers crossed,” he said. He winked at Tyler and then slowly walked along the betting hall towards the escalators. He went up another floor and found an identical betting hall filled with people watching the results on a bank of television sets and queuing to place their bets. Handfuls of red and yellow notes were being shoved across the counters and betting tickets eagerly grabbed. A lot of money was changing hands. A hell of a lot of money. There were dozens of cashiers watched over by supervisors behind them. The money was placed in drawers in front of the cashiers but he didn’t see any of it being collected and taken to a central point. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of security, either. The same cashiers who accepted bets also paid out winnings after checking the tickets, and from a cursory glance Lehman had no idea how much cash there was behind the windows at any one point. He went back to his seat and chatted for a while with his neighbour, picking up several more tips in the process. The man was an amateur tipster and was pleased to have found an attentive listener in Lehman. Lehman reckoned that the man didn’t often get a chance to show off his knowledge, and he was happy to lend him an ear because over the next few races he won several thousand dollars. The All Up bet fell at the fourth race, by which time there had been 8,000 dollars riding on his horse. His companion had gone for the more conservative All Up Place bet and by the time the last winner crossed the finishing line he’d turned a 400 dollar stake into a quarter of a million dollars. Hong Kong dollars, that is, equivalent to about 32,000 US dollars. The man was pleased at winning, but not as overjoyed as Lehman would have expected considering the size of the windfall. Lehman got the impression that the man was used to winning big sums. He himself ended the night a couple of thousand dollars richer, though at one point he’d been up about 10,000 HK dollars. Tyler walked away with a similar amount, though he had steadily won small sums throughout the meeting. Doherty admitted to being down a few hundred dollars while Lewis was cagey about his performance. Lehman reckoned he’d lost overall, while there was no doubt about what had happened to Carmody. He was sitting slumped in his bucket seat surrounded by a pile of torn-up tickets.