Ok, Boomer, let me explain what went down otherwise you will think I’m just another 30-something millennial slacker lying down on the job. I’m a soldier, I do what I’m told. And I’m good at my job. Reliable. The problem started when I got the call from the boss to fix a horse race. What the hell am I supposed to know about horse racing? This is not the 1950s anymore. Seabiscuit? Sounds like a cracker you put in your chowder. Any sport without a ball is suspect. I do like the betting angle but I guess I find things more interesting if they involve, gee I don’t know, people. Give me fantasy football any day. In any event, how is a kid from the Bronx like me in this day and age supposed to know anything about a stakes race. The sport of kings as the boss called it. Like that helps his case. Like royalty is trending. Now I know about a lot more than influencers and video games like he accuses me, but horse racing?

It’s a buggy whip industry. Literally!

What he told me clear as day was this. Make sure such and such thoroughbred does not show in the 5^th race.

Now what’s that mean to me, a guy in my racket? That means the horse doesn’t show as in his shadow no longer shows in the sunshine As in he is gone. Gone for good, or at least seriously waylaid.

Now wait a minute. I know what you are thinking. I am no colt killer. First of all, that would require a trigger warning on this story, you know how animal people are. Plus, I am not a psychopath. Give me a little credit. I killed the jockey.

It wasn’t hard. The steeds are closely guarded, not so much their mounts. It was a piece of cake to slip some high-octane downers among the water pills they Hoover down like tic tacs to cut weight. And weighing in at less than a buck and a quarter it didn’t take much of a dose to put the little fella down.

I guess I ran the risk the stallion could have run with a replacement aboard but I figured there might be too short notice. In the end the whole stable was so distraught they scrapped the race. Mission accomplished as far as I thought. But no. Now I come to understand that I misunderstood my charge. Apparently “not showing” meant the magic horse needed to be in the race but not finish in the top 3. Not show as in not win, place or show. Now I ask you, why not just say that? So, I screwed up the big fix. So, Mr. Ed was supposed to show up just not show out. Apparently, I was supposed to use my special charms to convince the driver to slow down, not send him to his final finish line. No race meant no chance to bet, no chance to collect on a sure thing. I fouled the carefully planned scam. I had a real fear I would go the way of the wee rider.

Don’t ask me how but I appear to have dodged the glue factory following this snafu. The boss has granted me a second chance. He is a hard man but fancies himself a man of letters and at heart I believe he now understands the ambiguity in my orders. Also, I think he appreciates that my ilk does not grow on trees.

I just got that second chance. A call to fix a boxing match (another moldy oldy of a sport if you ask me, give me MMA any day, except for that bare feet thing which is a subject for another day). The sweet science he called it. Again with the inscrutable antique nicknames. I’m supposed to force some palooka to “take a dive”, those were the boss’s exact words. Well, I’m nothing if not open to improvement. This time I had the sense to clarify that my instructions didn’t mean the flopping middleweight should wind up at the bottom of a swimming pool.  

Bio

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Punk Noir, Rmag, Free Flash Fiction, JAKE, Underbelly Press, Every Day Fiction, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. He can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334