Close Call (10 page)
Doyle stood at the clubhouse rail, cup of coffee in hand, notebook in the pocket of his tan windbreaker, watching the horses go past in their morning workouts, when he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned to see Celia. With the sun at her back she looked a picture, he thought, her red hair glistening in the glow of morning, green eyes full of life. She wore a blue sweatshirt, the words Monee Park on its front, blue jeans, and a White Sox ball cap, its brim pulled low. “Caught you daydreaming, Jack. Looking at horses down here instead of upstairs writing about them.” She smiled to assure him that she was kidding.
“I like watching the workouts,” Doyle replied, turning back to the track and leaning his arms on the rail. “You know what Winston Churchill said. ‘There’s something about the outside of a horse that’s good for the inside of a man.’ I couldn’t agree more.”
They stood without talking for a few minutes. The sounds filling the cool air were those of pounding hooves, hard-breathing animals, the chirps of their riders. Then Jack said, “So, Celia, what brings you down here this morning? Looking for a hot horse?”
She laughed. “Hardly. Actually, I was hoping to talk to you. I need to ask a favor.”
Doyle finished his coffee, then tossed the cup into a nearby metal waste basket. “What kind of favor?”
“A pretty big one,” Celia admitted. “Walk with me over to those empty grandstand seats. I want to keep this just between us for now,” she said, as she waved to a couple of trainers who had called out greetings to her.
In the next quarter hour, Celia laid it out for him. Her attempt to persuade her cousin Niall Hanratty to sell her his interest in Monee Park had failed. So had her attempt to convince him that the value of the stock would soar once video slots were approved, that Monee Park would be a viable, profitable entity. “Niall doesn’t seem to understand how much we both have to gain if we hang on to this property,” Celia complained, voice rising. “For a man supposedly so smart about money, well, he’s thick on this subject. It’s so stupid, his attitude. ‘Money now, money quickly,’ that’s all Niall’s interested in. It’s all that’s been mentioned in the two letters to me from his lawyer here, this Art Riley, and in the one brief, long distance phone conversation I had with Niall. In the last letter, Riley even hinted that Niall might try to challenge Uncle Jim’s will, try to break it! That’s ridiculous. He has no grounds for that.”
Celia frowned as she looked out over the track. “I’m sure,” she said, “that he’s disgusted with having to deal with a woman on an equal basis.”
“Naw,” Doyle said, unable to resist, “maybe just a really stubborn woman, like you.”
“Not funny, Jack Doyle.”
“Oh, I know that. But when you think about it, your cousin does have a decent argument. The land here is like gold. Sell it for townhouses and a golf course and what have you, you’ve got easy money in the bank in a hurry. Holding off, waiting for the video slots bill to pass, well, I can see how that might not appeal to Hanratty.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to him,” Celia shot back, “because he knows nothing about Monee Park. Or Uncle Jim. Or how Uncle Jim loved this place. How could a Niall Hanratty, living thousands of miles away, know anything about that?”
A track siren signaled the start of a fifteen minute “break” during which horses were not permitted on the loam surface while tractors pulled harrows over it, smoothing it out. Most of the horse trainers and owners walked from the rail or stands inside the building for new supplies of coffee and doughnuts. A staple of racetrack mornings, Doyle had learned, was caffeine accompanied by some form of fried dough.
Celia remained where she was seated, the brim of her cap pulled down over her forehead. When she finally looked up at him, Doyle saw tears in her eyes. He felt a catch in his throat. He started to put a hand on hers, but she got to her feet. Arms crossed, she composed herself, then looked down at him.
“I’ll get to the favor now, Jack.”
“Fire away.”
“I’d very much appreciate it if you would make a quick trip to Ireland to talk to Niall Hanratty for me.”
Doyle’s jaw dropped. He rubbed his hand through his hair as he got to his feet. “Kind of came out of left field with that one, didn’t you?” he said. “Well, I have a one word answer. Why? Why me?”
“That’s three. The answer is,
I
can’t go. I can’t leave Bob for a trip like that. And I can’t seem to get Niall to see my side of things by phone or mail. I need someone to talk this out with him. To persuasively present my side. You’re the best person I know that could do this for me. The only one,” she repeated, pressing a tissue to her nose.
“Aw, c’mon,” Doyle said, conceding, “no crying, okay?” Celia turned away for a few seconds, her shoulders shaking, then turned back to him. He saw that she was struggling to control a laugh. She failed, and it rolled out, making him laugh, too.
“You’ll do it for me then?”
He nodded yes.
“Was that…pretty…good?” she managed as she resumed laughing.
“Oh, yes,” he admitted, “that was a first rate hustle. I didn’t know you were such a capable actress.”
“But you’ll still respect me,” she said with a giggle.
“This morning, and all others.”
Celia turned serious again. Looking straight at him, the sun now full fledged and out of its cloud coverlet behind her, she said, “I have a ticket for you on tonight’s Aer Lingus flight from O’Hare to Dublin.”
Doyle said, “Why the hell not? It would be all new to me. My forebearers managed to get their butts out of there before the famine got them. Their descendants never evidenced any desire to return that I know of. Funny, I’ve always been curious as to what the ‘ould sod’ is like. I’ll do this favor for you, Celia.”
***
Doyle wrapped up his morning’s work in a hurry. He called Morty over to his desk, explaining that he’d be “gone for a few days. You’re in charge.” Morty blanched. “Where to?” he asked. But Doyle was already on the phone, saying, loud enough for Morty to hear, “Moe, I’m leaving town tonight. For Ireland. Yeah, on very short notice. How about a farewell lunch?” He listened for a few seconds before saying, “I’ll see you there.” Morty said, “Ireland?” Doyle nodded, patted Morty on the shoulder, and walked out.
By 12:30 Doyle was seated in Moe Kellman’s regular back booth at Dino’s Ristorante, beneath the owner’s most prized possession—the large, framed photo of Frank Sinatra, inscribed, “Dino, Keep on Swingin’.” Moe glanced up, said, “Hello, Jack,” then back down at the front page of that day’s
Wall Street Journal
. Seconds later he folded up the paper and disgustedly pushed it aside. “Another ring of corporate crooks found guilty,” he said. “Insiders scooping the cream off the top before their company goes under. Every other week there’s a story like this. It’s amazing to me. Hell, some of the guys from my old neighborhood had more ethics than these blue suited jackals.
“You know what I’d like to see, Jack?” Moe said earnestly. “Instead of putting these guys’ ages in the paper, who cares about that, they should put in their alma maters, what universities they came out of. I think the public has a right to know where these thieves are being trained.”
“I’d drink to that,” Doyle said, “if I had a drink.”
“Patience, Jack, patience,” Kellman said, just as a waiter arrived at the booth with Kellman’s Negroni, a bottle of Pilsener Urquel beer for Doyle. They clinked glasses, Kellman smiling now, finished at least for the time being with concern over corporate corruption. “So tell me,” he said, “what’s with this Ireland caper?”
Doyle described the mission he was going on for Celia, telling him how she “foxed me into it, I’ve got to admit. She’s not a bad actress for an education major,” he said with a grin.
Moe sipped his Negroni, then patted his neat white mustache with his napkin. He looked speculatively at Jack. He said, “You haven’t fallen for Ms. McCann, have you Jack?”
“Forget that idea,” Doyle snapped. “She’s a very, very attractive woman. But she’s married, for one thing, and married to a nice guy who is trapped in his own body. I’m not going down that path.”
Moe said, “How do you plan to handle things over there?”
“I hope to meet with this Hanratty the day after tomorrow. I’m going to try to convince him to go along with Celia’s plan for the track. You know, keep it running until the slots become a reality. As I’ve said, Hanratty wants to sell the place right away and cash out his forty-nine percent. I may spend ten minutes with this guy and wrap up the agreement Celia wants, or walk out of a disagreeable situation. We’ll see.”
“What do you know about Hanratty?”
“His name, occupation, and relationship to Celia. That’s it.”
“I made some inquiries about him,” Moe said. Doyle smiled. “I’ll bet you did. I’ve got to admit it, sometimes you amaze me, what you get interested in, who you know. Actually,” he added, “I do know that Hanratty has hired a lawyer here to represent him. Guy named Art Riley.”
Kellman’s eyebrows elevated. He took a sip of his Negroni. “Not good,” he said, “not good at all.”
“What do you know about Art Riley?”
Moe said, “He’s got a reputation shakier than a penniless junkie. Been around for years, working with hack politicians, bent labor leaders, picking up good-sized pieces of deals here and there. He’s big in the Fourteenth Ward Democratic organizations, where clout is king.”
“Have you had any dealings with him?”
“Just once, years ago. I had been led to believe Riley could do a favor for a friend of mine. So I met with him. He’s a smarmy, hustling type, probably smarter than he lets on. A lot of nudging, winking, fake joviality. All I could think, watching Riley’s phony act, was that this guy’s probably got a heart colder than a Nome park bench. Our association, if you could call it that, was short-lived. And not repeated. After I’d met him I didn’t want to get anywhere near the guy ever again.
“A couple of years later,” Moe continued, “I went to a wake for a good friend of mine, Owen Mahony. Years before he had hired, then quickly fired Riley from the law firm he started. Owen was a south side alderman for years. He and Riley grew up in Canaryville. Then they had a bitter falling out.
“Anyway, Art Riley shows up at the funeral home for Mahoney’s visitation. When Riley gets up to the coffin, he starts carrying on loudly about his ‘dear lost friend.’ He looked like he was going to collapse from grief. When Riley bends over the coffin for a final look, a guy behind me says, ‘I know that phony bastard Riley. Watch his hands. He’s probably going through poor Owen’s pockets, looking for loose change.”
The waiter set down their food, a platter of shrimp and garlic pasta for Moe, a chicken parmesan sandwich for Doyle. Dino himself appeared carrying another Negroni for Moe. Doyle said he’d like another beer to go with his sandwich and Dino sent the waiter off to get it before asking, “How is everything, Mr. Kellman?” Moe gave Dino a thumbs up with his left hand, his right in use forking a rapid stream of food into his mouth. The only thing Doyle had ever seen Kellman do in a hurry was eat. “It’s from my childhood,” the little man had once told him. “I was the youngest, and smallest, of six kids with a father who struggled to put food on the table. He didn’t put much. We ate like starving wolves.”
Within minutes, Kellman had polished off his pasta platter and was sitting back in the booth, relaxing, Negroni in hand. He said, “Maybe you’ll hit it off with this Hanratty, convince him to go along with Celia. Maybe it’ll all go smoothly. Though, you got to admit, things rarely do for you.” He smiled as Jack’s face reddened.
“I’m only joshing you, kid,” Moe said. “Take it easy. Don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
Moe said, “Just be on your toes when you’re over there among your own kind.”
“I’m well aware that ‘my kind’ aren’t to be trusted any more or less than any other kind. That’s not news to me.”
Moe took a long drink of Negroni. “Sometimes our ‘own kind’ need more watching than anybody else, that’s all I’m saying. I’m not talking about just you Micks. Did I ever tell you about the two young rabbis, twin brothers mind you, Isaac and Isadore Epstein, and the ecumenical conference?”
“I am certain I would have remembered if you had. Go on.”
Moe said, “The brothers had been invited to attend this important religious gathering here in Chicago, at the Hilton. Naturally, they wanted to look their best for this occasion. So they decided to order new suits, black, from Pincus, the neighborhood tailor they’d gone to since they were bar mitzvahed. Pincus greeted them warmly. Told of their plans and the upcoming conference, he said, ‘Young men, you are in luck. I am having a big sale on black cloth. I’ll give you a great deal on these suits and have you fixed up in a week.’ The brothers thank him and leave.
“A week later they go back to try on the new suits, which fit them perfectly. But Isadore looks closely at his jacket. And he says to Pincus, ‘Are you sure this cloth is black? I’m not color blind, but this looks more like midnight blue to me.’
“‘Ha ha,’ says Pincus, dismissing this notion. Pincus rings up the sales and ushers the twins out the door.
“A couple of days later there they are, in the lobby of the Hilton, all set for the big conference. But Isadore is still kvetching about the color of their new suits. Isaac says to him, ‘Look, there’s a group of Catholic nuns over there, wearing their black habits. Go over, say hello, and ask one of them if your suit isn’t the same color as what she’s wearing.’
“Isadore goes over, introduces himself, and strikes up a conversation with one of the sisters. Isaac watches as they talk for a few minutes. Then Isadore holds his arm next to the nun’s habit. She says something to him, shaking her head. Isadore bids her goodbye and, looking very depressed, goes back over to where his brother is standing.
“‘Well,’ Isaac says, ‘what did the sister say about the color of our suits?’
“Isadore said, ‘It was an expression that sounded like Latin.’
“‘What was it?’
“‘Pincus fucked us.’”
Doyle, laughing, raised his beer glass in a toast to Kellman. Moe laughed, too, before returning to the subject of Niall Hanratty. He said, “Well, at least you’ve got some things in common. He’s Irish, so he probably likes to drink and gamble like you.”