Close Call (14 page)
He got to his feet, hands on the table, glowering, shoulders bunched beneath his suit coat. “I won’t put up with it,” Hanratty said.
Doyle said, “You’re quite the fellow, Niall. I can recognize that. But what you’ll put up with, and what you’ll get away with, are two very different things.”
The bookmaker took a deep breath before walking over the balcony window. He looked out, hands on his hips. Without turning his head, he said, “I don’t suppose you’d consider joining my team on this project. See it my way, and go back to Chicago and persuade Celia to sell. I’d make it very much worth your while.”
Doyle snorted. “You’ve got plenty of nerve, Niall. But not much fucking class.”
He got out of his chair. He poured himself a finger of Bushmills and quickly drank it down.
“Don’t call the faithful Hoy for me,” Doyle said, walking to the door of the suite. “I’ll find my own way to the airport.”
***
It was early evening when Hanratty reached his Dun Laoghaire headquarters. He phoned Riley in Chicago. The lawyer had returned from court and was preparing to walk across LaSalle Street to lunch. A breaking and entering charge against one of his regular clients had been dismissed and Riley was in a jubilant mood. It evaporated when he heard Hanratty’s bitter tone.
“This campaign of yours, Mr. Riley,” Hanratty said, “it’s not working. Celia McCann isn’t budging from her position. That’s just recently been made very clear to me by her employee Jack Doyle. What the hell are you planning to do about this?”
Riley took a deep breath. “Mr. Hanratty, I’ll be doing better very soon, I assure you. My, er, associates have actually done what I’ve instructed. But perhaps I’ve set our sights too low. Give me a couple of days to rethink this matter. I’m sure more pleasing prospects are in store.” He wiped his sweaty brow.
There was a brief silence. Then Riley heard Hanratty say, before he hung up, “I didn’t take you for a fella to be satisfied with ten percent of nothing.”
The Aer Lingus flight landed on time at O’Hare. But at this extremely busy international airport, more than forty-five minutes went by until a gate became available. Doyle took deep breaths as he tried to relax amid the increasingly impatient passengers, both on the plane as it sat on the tarmac, then in the lengthy customs line. The only break in the tedium came when one of Airport Security’s drug dogs, an active and inquisitive beagle, discovered several rashers of Irish bacon in the carry-on of one embarrased returnee. It was nearly seven o’clock before Doyle could retrieve his Accord and begin the seventy-minute drive south and east to Monee Park. He called Celia on his cell phone as he drove. They agreed to meet in the Turf Club once he’d arrived at the track.
Doyle got there first. Marilyn, the Turf Club hostess, said, “Celia will be down in about fifteen minutes.” She walked him to a window table overlooking the racing strip. Three tables away there was a lively party of six people, among them a man who was the oldest of them by several decades. He was wearing expensive looking sport clothes and a blue tie on a glistening white shirt. Doyle said softly to Marilyn before she turned to go back to her post, “Who’s that old guy? I’ve noticed him here before. But I don’t know his name.” Marilyn smiled, then pulled out a chair next to Jack’s.
“That’s Izzy Kreinberg.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well,” Marilyn responded, “you should get to know him. Mr. Kreinberg owns a lot of horses that run here, including some pretty good ones. He’s quite the character. Made his money in the commercial glass business. He’s owned racehorses for, oh, gosh, I couldn’t even tell you, but I know it’s a long time. I can tell you his age, though,” Marilyn added, smiling again. “Mr. Kreinberg will celebrate his ninety-ninth birthday this summer. There’s going to be a party here for him.”
Doyle turned to take another look at Kreinberg. “Nearing ninety-nine! He doesn’t look a day over eighty.”
“Doesn’t act it either,” Marilyn said. “And talk about a positive view of life! Mr. Kreinberg is still buying yearlings at the sales. He’s a wonderful old gentleman, usually very good natured, famous for his philanthropy. He’s a long time widower who has quite a lively eye for the ladies. But,” she added, frowning, “he can be irritable at times. I think this is one of them.”
They saw Kreinberg glowering as Hugo the waiter placed a bottle of Beck’s beer down in front of him.
“I wonder what’s bothering him,” Doyle said.
Marilyn tried to hide a laugh with her hand. Leaning close, she said, “I know
exactly
what’s bothering Mr. Kreinberg. I saw the same scene when he was here last weekend. He looked so unhappy that I went over to inquire if there was something wrong with the service. After all, he’s one of our best customers.
“Anyway, he told me all about his problem. It seems that when he had his annual physical last month, his doctor told Mr. Kreinberg that his triglyceride count was a bit too high.”
Doyle laughed, then apologized to Marilyn for interrupting her. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but think that Kreinberg has probably had more physical exams than all the cars I’ve owned over the years have had oil changes. If I ever get to be Kreinberg’s age, I’d be happy just
having
triglycerides. But, go on with what you were saying.”
“The doctor advised Mr. Kreinberg to change his drinking habits. No more of his favorite gin martinis that he’s been enjoying all these years. If he had to have alcohol, the doctor said, Mr. Kreinberg was to limit himself to an occasional beer.”
Doyle shrugged. “So? I mean, I guess that’s kind of a sacrifice on the old guy’s part. But he hasn’t been forced into becoming a teetotaler. What’s his big problem?”
Marilyn looked over her shoulder to make sure she was not being overheard. “Mr. Kreinberg’s complaint, and this is exactly how he put it to me, was, ‘The damn beers make me go to the bathroom too often. And when I’m gone, some of these young fellows try to steal my dates.’”
Marilyn and Jack looked on in amusement as Kreinberg spoke earnestly to the tanned, blond woman to his left, a woman probably a half-century his junior, his hand on her arm. Kreinberg said something that made her laugh loudly, and the old man beamed.
“Well, bless his jolly, old horny soul,” Doyle said admiringly.
***
A few minutes later Jack got to his feet and held the chair for Celia. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, eyeing him expectantly. He grimaced. “I wish I had better news. But your cousin Niall has a head as hard as the Blarney Stone. I’m afraid I didn’t get anywhere with him.”
He went on to recount his conversations with Hanratty. Celia listened glumly, occasionally sipping her coffee. Finally she sat back, resigned but determined. “I’ll just go ahead without any help or understanding from Niall,” she said. “It would make it a lot easier if I had his support on the video slots project, just so we could present a united front to the legislators. I’ve been told by Lew Langmeyer that that’s desirable. But, if it’s not to be, it’s not to be. I’ll go it alone.”
She reached across the table and patted Doyle’s hand. “I should have said earlier, thanks for your efforts over there. I really appreciate it, Jack. I know you tried your best.”
“My best was a long way from good enough,” Doyle said, adding, “There’s something else I’ve been thinking about. Cousin Niall made it known to me that he was aware of what he termed your ‘recent Monee Park troubles,’ the robbery and then the electrical failure.”
“Well, both of those were covered in all the papers here, and on the horse racing websites. I would imagine that Niall keeps up with the internet racing news. I’ve been sort of keeping track of him lately, myself,” she admitted. “I Googled his OTB chain and even found a short biography of him, along with a photo of him. He’s got a stubborn kind of look about him even in that picture.”
Doyle momentarily shifted his attention to the nearby table where Izzy Kreinberg was excusing himself from his party, about to hurry off to the men’s room. When he turned back to Celia, Doyle said, “Seems to me, and my naturally suspicious nature, that these occurrences are not random, unconnected. That first the robbery, then the electrical failure were acts aimed at harming this track financially. And making its owners more likely to sell it and get the hell out.”
Celia’s pretty mouth tightened. “Not
this
owner,” she said sharply.
Doyle smiled, looking at her with her Irish up, green eyes ablaze. “Hold on,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get you riled up.” He thought how even more appealing this tall, elegant, caring woman was when she permitted herself to reveal how she really felt, when she let down her barrier of cool reserve.
Celia said, “What is Niall like?”
“I spent less than three days with him. But I saw enough of him to realize he’s a very formidable rival, or opponent, or whatever you want to call him in this fight over use of the track. He’s smart, very sure of himself. He’s not gotten to where he is without edging a few bodies toward the cliffs. And he’s got a guy working for him, named Hoy, who looks like he might have taken a pass on the Provos because they were too tame for him.”
Celia sat back in her chair, composed now. “I still don’t know enough about Niall to say he’d resort to criminal acts being carried out here in order to get his way. How could he orchestrate anything like that from so far away even if he wanted to? No, Jack, I just can’t see him being behind some long range conspiracy against me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Doyle said.
***
Minutes later Doyle climbed the iron stairs to the press box, two at a time. Spending time with Celia seemed to energize him. Before he’d reached the phone outside the door, the door was jerked open from the inside. Morty burst through it, head down, swearing. His shoulder banged into Doyle’s. Morty, startled, looked up, wild eyed, prepared to continue his descent down the stairs. Doyle grabbed Morty’s left arm. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Where are you going? We’re not done working tonight.”
The little man’s answer was almost indiscernible, delivered as it was in a torrent of speech at an increasingly high pitched level
. I’ve read about people spluttering
, Doyle thought
, but I’ve never seen or heard anyone do it. Until now.
He grabbed Morty by the lapels of his sport coat and shook him. “God damn it,” Doyle said, “settle down. Tell me what’s going on with you. Hear me?”
Morty slumped against the staircase railing, head lowered. “I bet the five horse in the last race $100 across the board. He’s coming from behind like a runaway freight train in the stretch, about to run right past them all. He’s going right over the top of them, Jack! Then some tiring pig in front of him veers out right in his path. My jock, Jason Lebeau, has to take up. When Jason gets the five horse going again, it’s too late. He finishes fourth.”
Doyle said, “Morty, you’ve got no business betting that kind of money. Not on your salary.” The anguished look on Morty’s face made Doyle restrain any more reprimanding. This was a subject for another day.
Morty looked upward as if trying to peer through the grandstand ceiling for guidance. He inhaled a great gulp of air. Then he bellowed, “Fuck horse racing! And everybody who likes it!” He glared at Doyle as he brushed past him and ran down the stairs.
“Jesus,” Doyle said to himself, “this man needs help. He’s got to stop betting before he works himself into bankruptcy or a heart attack. Or a parlay of the two.” Morty was the sole support of his aged mother and lived with her in a bungalow only a mile or so from Monee Park. That arrangement would serve to reduce Morty’s expenses, but $300 bets going into the dumper surely wouldn’t.
An hour later, Doyle looked up from his computer screen to see his chagrined assistant. Doyle said, “You look sheepish in loser’s clothing, you know that?”
Morty blushed. “I’m more embarrassed than anything, Jack. I’m sorry I acted like such an asshole before. I’ve just been on kind of a cold streak lately, and that last race really got to me. I mean, I was on the verge of a major win, you know? But again, I apologize.”
“Have you thought about laying off betting for awhile? Especially now, when you’re going so bad?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” Morty said.
Driving to his condo later, Doyle put Morty and his betting travils out of his mind, at least for now. Instead, he reviewed his debriefing session with Celia, feeling alternately exhilarated at having earned her trust, if not admiration, then depressed because he’d failed her in his mission to Ireland. Traces of her perfume seemed to linger in the air. He could still feel the touch of her cool hand on his. “What a schmuck you are, Doyle,” he said aloud as he zoomed around a crawling semi on the Ryan near Ninety-fifth Street. “Get your mind off that woman.”
He turned on the radio to WDCB and listened as Billie Holiday worked her slow and lustrous way through “I Fall in Love Too Easily.” He grinned ruefully when the beautiful old ballad was over, saying to himself, “Watch out, Doyle.”
SPRINGFIELD—A bill that would expand casino gambling and legalize video slot machines at horse racing tracks cleared its first hurdle here today when approved by the Illinois House Committee on Gaming by a vote of five to two. The bill now moves on for consideration by the full House.
The proposed measure, sponsored by Representative Lew Langmeyer (D-Palatine), would create a casino license to be used in the city of Chicago and would also enable the state’s six race tracks to offer video slots betting not only during the racing season but throughout the year. Illinois currently has nine riverboat casinos. Backers of the bill contend that these casinos have seriously harmed the horse racing industry since their legalization twenty years ago.
Representative Langmeyer maintains that “the agribusiness involving racetracks, horse breeding farms, feed suppliers, and track workers is responsible for some 40,000 jobs. It’s a billion dollar business of vital importance to the Illinois economy. I feel it is incumbent upon the legislature to help level the playing field in competition for the gambling dollar. This bill sets out to do just that.”
Opposition to the bill has come from the existing casino interests as well as from Reverend Wardell Simpkins, who founded and continues to head the anti-gambling organization CAB (Christians Against Betting). “Passage of the Langmeyer bill would
greatly expand the evil presence of gambling in our midst,” Reverend Simpkins said in a statement released to the press today.
The bill now goes to the full floor of the House, where it is expected to be considered some time in the next few weeks. It is opposed by House minority leader Ralph Muncell (R-Rockford). House majority leader William “Willy” Wilgis (D-Kankakee) has not taken a public position on this matter.
Senate President Stella Jackson (D-Chicago) has come out in support of the Langmeyer bill, as has Democratic Governor Otto Walker.