We sat in Harry’s wood-panelled projection room, in the armchair seats.
‘Show Jack the stuff, Cam,’ said Harry. He was in a dark suit, face glowing from the second shave of the day. He looked at his watch. ‘Need to get a move on, goin out to dinner.’
Cam had his laptop open, plugged into the big monitor. ‘Had so much data, couldn’t run the program this bloke wrote for me on this thing,’ he said. ‘We went to this place in town and ran it on a brute computer, tower like a fridge. Didn’t work too good, he rewrote the program on the spot. Twice.’
He hit some keys. The names of fifteen horses appeared on the big screen, all linked by arrows to names.
‘Had no luck till we concentrated on owners of winning horses. This lot are all owned by syndicates. We did their histories, they’re all top bloodlines, bought at auctions by the names you see there. These people are not known to anyone in the business. Just people who kept stickin their hands up, signed cheques.’
He tapped keys. The horses now had syndicates of owners.
‘The syndicates have owned other horses. But we stuck with the fifteen recent winners they own. Ran the syndicate names through every database you can buy or steal.’
In each syndicate, one name went bold.
‘These people. They’ve got something in common. All listed as bad credit risks and all been involved in some kind of litigation with a finance company called Capitelli. Big biscuits involved. All lost.’
Cam tapped a key. The other people in the syndicates were highlighted.
‘The rest,’ he said, ‘they’re all connected to the Capitelli losers. Family, mostly. But mostly people with different names.’
He tapped again. A diagram appeared. Horses, syndicates, the bold person in each now linked with Capitelli.
Another keystroke.
Capitelli linked with two names: G. L. Giffard, H. A. Giffard.
Cam said, ‘Directors of Capitelli. G. L.’s in his sixties. Lives in a unit in Bondi. H. A., that’s his sister. She’s in an old-age in Queensland.’
I’d put in a long day at Taub’s, catching up on the Purbrick library. Bits of my body, lower back, base of neck, harboured dull pains. ‘This is a bit late in the day for me,’ I said. ‘You’ve got fifteen winning horses in the bush owned by syndicates of people who are all connected to one member. That would be the norm. That’s how syndicates get formed. The difference you say is that all the key members once owed money to a finance company called Capitelli. Am I seeing this clearly? Or at all?’
Harry said, ‘Cotton on quick, Jack. That’s why you’re my lawyer.’
Cam shook a Gitane from the packet, lodged it in the corner of his mouth. ‘Sounds simple,’ he said. ‘Just pulverise and sieve a mountain of rock.’
‘The effort’s clear,’ I said. ‘What’s it mean?’
‘Capitelli owns the horses,’ said Harry.
‘Giffards.’
‘No.’
Tap. Capitelli joined to another name: Kirsch Realty.
‘That’s who really owns Capitelli,’ Cam said. ‘Queensland company. Giffard fronts Capitelli. Went through four steps to find that out. And we’re still guessin then.’
‘I like this presentation but I’m getting lost,’ I said.
‘Ronnie Kirsch,’ said Cam. ‘Owns the horses.’
‘Somebody’s got to own them. They win by themselves. More or less.’
Harry laughed, his hoarse big-man’s laugh, carefully tapped a centimetre of Havana cigar ash into the ashtray set into the arm of his chair.
‘These fifteen winners we concentrated on,’ Cam said, ‘the Kirsch horses, they’re with these trainers, bush trainers.’
Six names.
‘Now there’s a funny thing about this lot. All these trainers have been in financial shit.’
‘Funny? I thought training was financial shit.’
‘Financial shit involving loans from one company.’
‘Capitelli?’
‘Not directly. Company called Krua Finance. Belongs to Ronnie Kirsch’s brother-in-law. Anyways, for this bunch of trainers, financial shit ended when the syndicates come along.’
‘The prize money,’ I said.
Cam shook his head. Tapped.
New diagram. Set of horses, with jockeys and trainers.
Tap. Another set.
It went on.
It stopped.
‘Point of the slipper, Jack,’ said Harry. ‘This lot ride in lots of combinations, many combinations, sometimes just the two. But put these buggers on the track, the Kirsch horses win. Our races, Kyneton, Ballarat, both Kirsch winners.’
‘Merit,’ I said.
‘Merit? Well, merit wins some of em.’
Harry pulled in a mouthful of Cuban smoke, savoured it, sent it drifting over to me, a cloud of Cuban fallout to die for. For and from. Many losses ached in me, but at certain times the Cuban loss was a sudden stiletto in the heart.
‘Tell me, Harry,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind.’
‘The fifteen,’ said Cam, ‘it’s just in the time we’ve looked at, they come over like good horses. Good but unreliable. Don’t stay with the same trainer, no loyalty. Bugger doesn’t win for a while, he’s off somewhere else. Then he gets a win. Like the footy. Sack the coach, team wins the next game. But he always goes to one of the six.’
‘Well, I see it. But how much can you make setting up something like this?’ I said.
They both looked at me. Harry drew on the cigar, looking at Cam. He took the tight brown truncheon away from his lips, oozed aromatic smoke. ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘Enough.’
‘We had the TAB figures in,’ Cam said. ‘Looked at eighty Kirsch wins. There’s money for them all over the country. Queensland stands out.’
‘It’s millions, Jack,’ said Harry.
‘The bloke runnin it here for Kirsch is called Dingell. Jeff Dingell. Moved from Queensland. He’s got a big place other-side Macedon. His own lake, tennis courts, huge heated pool, four-car garage, another house on the property. There’s three Queensland goons live there.’
‘Sure it’s the right person?’ I asked.
Cam nodded. ‘Had another talk to Johnny Chernov. Very brief talk. I parked next to him at a McDonald’s near the bridge, said to him through the window, look away, I’m going to say a name. It’s the right name, look at me. Just look.’
‘And?’
‘He looked.’
‘What now?’
‘Can’t have this kind of thing goin on, Jack,’ Harry said. ‘Offerin the hoops a quid’s one thing, usually doin your dough anyway. Bloke takes a quid from you, he’s probably takin a quid from four others in the same race. Tryin to kill em, that’s something else. Can’t blame the trainers, can’t blame the hoops. Bad for business. Bloke’s got to go back to Queensland. Got to know people want him to go home.’
I looked at Cam, who was looking at me impassively. Harry was also looking at me.
‘I don’t know why you’re looking at me.’ I sighed. ‘Why are you looking at me?’
Harry coughed politely. ‘Mentioned the matter, vaguely you understand, to Cyril Wootton,’ he said. ‘He reckons there’s a certain person, kind of person would be helpful here, this person would give you a kidney if you were short.’
I looked from one to the other. ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I’m going to kill Wootton.’ I thought about the message on my answering machine.
Jack. No chance to say you’re the bloke got the fucken result. Bargain result, K-Mart price for that result. Listen, I’m grateful, you understand? That’s serious, mate. Anything. Ring me, I’ll fix it. I’m solid, right? Cheers.
I sighed again, took out my notebook and wrote Brendan O’Grady’s name and number on a page. I tore it out and gave it to Cam.
‘When you talk to him,’ I said, ‘this is all you’re allowed to say about me: Jack says thanks for the message. Nothing else. Clear on that?’
‘Got it,’ said Cam.
Harry smiled at me. ‘Teamwork,’ he said. ‘That’s what wins races.’