Close Call (16 page)
Aiden Lucarelli and Denny Shannon were heading home from work, a small construction job in Berwyn, when Lucarelli’s cell phone rang. Shannon winced. The phone’s signal for incoming calls was the first two bars of “The Godfather” theme. He hated the sound and had said so. Once. Aiden’s response was such that Denny never again brought up the subject. He brushed his forearm over his forehead. It was a sweltering Chicago summer afternoon. The Taurus’ air conditioning was laboring. Sweat dripped from Lucarelli’s forehead as he answered the phone.
“Aiden, it’s Art Riley. We need a meeting. Right away.”
“Where?”
“I’ll see you at Haller’s at 5:30. I’ll buy the beer for you boys.”
“Deal,” Lucarelli said. He closed the phone and took another swipe at his forehead with his sodden handkerchief.
Shannon said, “Wazzup?”
“A meet with Riley. At Haller’s. We’ll head over there now.”
“Did he sound pissed off?”
Lucarelli shot him a look before saying, “Why should he sound pissed off? We robbed the fucking racetrack. Then we got its lights turned off, just like he wanted. If he’s pissed off, it can’t be at us. We did our part.” Lucarelli spat out the car window before adding, “Maybe smartass lawyer Riley hasn’t been doing such great planning. Maybe that’s why he needs us again.”
Shannon reached into the cooler on the floor in front of him. He popped open a Bud Light. “As long as Riley’s buyin’, we’ll listen. Right, Aiden?”
“Fuck’n A.”
***
Riley was alone at a table near the rear of Haller’s, reading the
Tribune,
drinking an Old Fashioned. Though Riley had helped extricate him from several legal jams, Lucarelli had never liked the attorney. He found himself now filled to an even new level of disgust as he looked Riley over, from his wrinkled suit, rumpled dress shirt, twisted tie, to his doughy face with its small, mean mouth and eyes that flickered about, never holding a gaze in one place for more than a second or two. But “liking” was not a factor in their relationship.
For nearly a quarter hour Lucarelli sat back in his chair, nonchalant, as Riley described their next assignment. Shannon leaned close to the attorney, frowning, paying close attention. Riley’s eyes darted from one to the other as he talked quietly, pausing only to signal Marge Duffy, behind the bar, for “one of the same for me, and the same for the lads here.”
At 6:45 Riley drained the last of his drink and got to his feet. “Got to leave you. I’ve got great tickets for tonight’s Sox game. Meeting my son and his boys.” He concentrated on Aiden when he asked, “Are we clear on this?”
Lucarelli finished his Bud Light before answering. “It’ll get done. Don’t worry about that.”
Shannon, still frowning, looked up at Riley. He said, “I don’t understand, like, what they are, these fool papers you’re talking about.”
Lucarelli broke up, laughing so hard and loud that Riley looked at him with alarm. Shannon knew what this was about. He’d seen Aiden snort crystal meth before they’d entered Haller’s, knew the effect it had on his cousin.
“Not fool papers,” Aiden said, face flushed, reaching to grab Denny’s wrist. “Foal papers. Foal fucking papers.” He was laughing uncontrollably now, the drug and alcohol ripping through him. “Foal,” he repeated, “not fool. You fool.” He pounded the table in appreciation of his wit. Shannon still didn’t understand, but he shrugged. He knew a long, uproarious night lay ahead of them, Aiden riding his high and in a soaring mood with the promise of more Riley money. Maybe they’d hit Rush Street, have some fun, bust some balls up there in yuppie land.
Riley scuttled out the door. For a few minutes he sat behind the wheel of his new Cadillac DTS, the finest car he’d ever owned, in the sun-baked parking lot of Haller’s, motor going, air conditioning blasting, a sheen of perspiration still lingering on his brow. He checked his suit coat pocket, making sure he had the Sox tickets. He looked forward to seeing his excited grandsons at the ball park, to spending at least the next few hours with his mind off of the unsettling duo he had just left. “If it weren’t for the big fee I’ll get from Hanratty,” he said to himself, pulling out onto Halsted, “I’d wash my hands of those two.”
Late July had rustled up one of those all-night, all-day rain productions that marked portions of every Chicago summer. The previous night’s thunder storms had dumped more than an inch of rain on the Monee Park barn area whose dirt roads were ill-equipped to handle it. Early on this Friday morning, Doyle stepped carefully around large pools of standing water, over mud-slicked surfaces, as he made his way toward Tom Eckrosh’s barn. He had an eight o’clock appointment with the crusty old trainer to talk about plans for Rambling Rosie. Doyle hoped the resulting press release would find space in the area’s weekend newspapers, thus generating some much needed publicity for the struggling racetrack.
Around 7:45 the rain suddenly resumed, really hard. With time to spare before his meeting with Eckrosh, Doyle quickly ducked beneath the tin roof overhang of an equipment shed. He was wearing a rain slicker, boots, and rain hat, but none of this gear was a match for the latest deluge.
Doyle was leaning against the open doorway of the shed when he spotted a solitary figure across the road. Peering through the sheets of rain, he saw a man, hatless, wearing only a light jacket, pacing back and forth in front of Barn C. When the man turned around at the end of the shed row and began walking back his way, Doyle recognized the tall, gaunt figure, hair plastered to his head, of Reverend Dave Livingston, Monee Park’s backstretch chaplain. Livingston, thirty-eight, was a former horse trainer, reformed gambler, and recovering alcoholic who eleven years earlier had undergone a notable transformation. Besides giving up his destructive life style, he became a born again Christian, graduated from a small, southern West Virginia bible college, then returned to the racetrack to establish a ministry. Reverend Livingston was very popular on the backstretch, especially among the Hispanic workers for whom he conducted a Spanish-speaking service each Saturday night.
Watching Reverend Livingston pivot at the far end of the barn and turn back his way, Doyle thought, not for the first time, how much the minister reminded him of the long-jawed country singer who had been briefly married to one of the nation’s favorite movie actresses. Reverend Livingston sloshed toward him through a wide puddle as Doyle called out, “Hey, Reverend.” Doyle darted out from the shed and sprinted across the road to where Livingston had stopped to look quizzically at him. “Is that you, Mr. Doyle?” the minister said as Jack jumped a final puddle and made it to the shelter of the Barn C overhang. “It is,” Doyle replied, “please make it Jack. And why don’t you step over here, get out of the rain?” Reverend Livingston brushed his long, black hair off his rain-beaded forehead. “Why yes,” he said, as if the thought had never occurred to him, “I think I will.”
The two men stood silently for a few moments, listening to the percussive sound of water on the old tin roof above them. Doyle said, “You’re drenched. Do you mind if I ask you why you kept walking out there through the rain? Why,” he added with a smile, “you didn’t stay under the roof if you were determined to get your exercise miles in during this downpour?”
Reverend Livingston responded with a blank look. He looked down at his mud-caked boots. “Well, of course I was walking in the rain, wasn’t I? Why? Oh, I guess I wasn’t really noticing the rain, Mr. Doyle, er, Jack. I’ve got a great deal on my mind these days.”
“Hard to ignore a rain like this,” Doyle shrugged. They both stepped back as a manure hauling truck barreled down the path between barns, spraying sheets of water from all its wheels. Doyle started to swear as the truck sped past, then remembered whose company he was in.
The rain increased in intensity for a minute or two before resuming its quieter, steady beat. Doyle glanced at his grim-faced companion. The frown lines on Livingston’s broad forehead looked as if they’d been carved there. “How’s the chaplaincy fund drive coming?” Doyle said, not really caring, just making conversation. Doyle for years had devoted his charitable spending to non-sectarian groups, operating under his theory that “God couldn’t possibly have that many legit mouthpieces competing for my money.”
Reverend Livingston shook his head sadly. “The fund drive is far, far from meeting its goal, Jack,” he said with a sigh. “Our needs are greater than ever. There are so many of our racetrackers coming to us now needing day care for their children, English language instruction, advice on how to get green cards, apply for citizenship. This is all on top of our ongoing counseling on drug and alcohol abuse. The demands keep increasing. We badly need to expand staff, but we can’t, not with the way our level of funding is lagging behind.”
Doyle glanced at his watch. It was nearly time for him to meet Eckrosh. He took another look at Reverend Livingston’s long, sad, wet face. He decided to break his own rule.“Look, Reverend,” Doyle said, “I’ve got to get going.” He took out his wallet and pressed a pair of $50 bills into Livingston’s damp hands. The chaplain’s face brightened as Doyle said, “Put these in your kitty. I admire the good work you do here.”
“Well, thanks be to Jesus,” Reverend Livingston exclaimed. “And may he bless you, Jack.”
As if a celestial spigot had been turned off, the rain abruptly stopped. “Perfect timing for once,” Doyle said. “I can be on time at old man Eckrosh’s barn.”
“Say hello to Tom for me,” Livingston said. “And thank you again.”
Doyle walked away a few steps, then stopped. Turning to face Livingston he said, “I’m curious. Why were you tramping around in this storm on this lousy morning when your nice, dry office is only a block or so away?”
Reverend Livingston smiled sweetly. “What was I doing out in weather like this? Why, waiting for somebody like you, Jack Doyle.”
Doyle gave the reverend a mock salute before he started to walk away, laughing as he said to himself, “I’ve just seen another form of racetrack hustle.”
After Rambling Rosie’s tenth straight resounding victory, even grouchy old Tom Eckrosh permitted himself a proud smile in the Monee Park winner’s circle. Patting the preening filly on her neck as the photo was being taken, Eckrosh accepted Doyle’s congratulations. Eckrosh said, somewhat reluctantly, “I guess it’s time we moved her up.”
Doyle was surprised at this volunteered information from the man whom he had recently described to Morty as being “so closed mouth he wouldn’t tell you if he saw a tarantula crawling up your tie.” He looked closely at the trainer. “What have you got in mind, Tom?”
Eckrosh reached into his a pocket of his sport coat and extracted a well thumbed copy of the Heartland Downs stakes schedule. “They’ve got a race she could go in over at the big track in a week,” the old man said. “A $50,000 race, the Miss Amara Stakes. For three-year-old fillies going six furlongs.”
Doyle felt himself getting excited at this possibility. Win or lose, he could get a lot of publicity mileage out of blue collar Rambling Rosie taking on the expensively bred competition she would meet at Chicago area’s major racetrack. “The Odd Couple and Their Underdog”—he could almost hear popular Chicago television sports anchor Max Suppelsa leading off his show with those very words to describe Eckrosh, Maria Martinez, and Rosie. He clapped Eckrosh on the back and was rewarded with a scowl. “Sorry,” Doyle said. “It’s just that I think it’s a great idea.”
The old man looked up at Doyle. A hint of a grin came and went before he said, “Well, son, so do I.”
***
The morning of the Miss Amara Stakes, Doyle arrived at Monee Park just before six o’clock. Birds were vocal in the old elm trees that lined the barn area, a few of them zipping down to poke their bills into the mound of horse manure that wouldn’t be picked up until later in the morning. He walked toward Tom Eckrosh’s little office. He’d already seen Maria Martinez outside of the barn, preparing to load Rambling Rosie into the one-horse trailer attached to Eckrosh’s white Ford pickup truck. The filly walked calmly up the ramp and settled in nicely. “Rosie’s a good little traveler,” Eckrosh said, coming through the office door, “always has been. After I bought her and brought her up here, she walked right off the van and won her first race.”
“You think the traveling did it for her?” Doyle said, half-kidding. “She hadn’t won anything before that.”
Eckrosh gave him a sharp look. “I didn’t have her before that. After I got her, I changed her shoeing, and her diet, and her training patterns, and turned her over to a good groom, Maria. Did the vanning have anything to do with it? I don’t know. But it seemed to help at first, so I’ve kept doing it. Even though she’s been running all of her races here at Monee, before every one of them I put her in my trailer about four hours before race time and drive her around for a few miles. She likes it.”
Minutes later Eckrosh climbed into the truck’s cab behind the wheel, Maria moved to the middle of the bench seat, Doyle got in and closed the passenger door. The truck lurched violently toward the exit gate. Doyle tried to get a grip on the dashboard, muttering “Jesus!” Maria’s eyes were closed, hands clasped together as if she were praying. She was evidently familiar with Eckrosh’s driving.
After some two miles of erratic progress, Doyle said loudly, “Tom, pull over.” Doyle had seen the old man peering through the windshield as if he were searching for a route through a blinding snowstorm. Doyle had heard stories about Eckrosh’s short, thrilling drives to and from the Monee Park track kitchen, scattering autos and pedestrians in his wake. Now he believed them. Doyle shuddered at the thought of Eckrosh motoring around with his sensational filly and her faithful groom. He said, “Tom, I’ll drive.”
Surprisingly, the ordinarily stubborn old man didn’t argue. Maria gave Doyle a grateful smile as he slipped behind the wheel, him thinking,
If this filly runs good after being driven around by
this old man, he should prep her the next time on a roller coaster at Great America. She’d break all the damn records
.
The trip took nearly an hour, through the early morning traffic leading north and then west to Heartland Downs. As usual, the expressways were clogged, some portions of them under construction, a Chicago auto commuter’s nightmare. Many of the work crews were manning trucks and spreaders marked Bonadio Construction. Doyle had heard of this politically connected company, owned by Moe Kellman’s boyhood chum.
Eckrosh and Doyle chatted about the quality of the rivals Rambling Rosie would be facing that afternoon. The trainer said, “It’s the saltiest bunch she’s seen yet.” He looked concerned. Maria spoke to reassure him. “Mister Tom,” she smiled, “these feelies have not seen one
muy rapido
like our Rosie, either.” Doyle, himself not completely convinced, nevertheless nodded as if in agreement with this optimistic assessment.
They were questioned at the Heartland Downs stable gate by a security officer wearing the sort of uniform often seen on bodyguards of South American dictators. The guard examined Eckrosh’s training license for several minutes before waving them forward. “How’d they miss getting this guy into Homeland Security?” Doyle said.
Doyle parked the truck at the entrance to the stakes barn where Rambling Rosie would remain until her race that afternoon. He got out of the truck and helped Eckrosh open the trailer doors. Maria said, “Come to me, Mama,” and Rambling Rosie carefully backed her way down the ramp, her four white feet flashing in the sunlight.
***
That afternoon, Eckrosh and Maria definitely were the “odd couple” in the Heartland Downs paddock prior to the Miss Amara Stakes. The trainers of the other horses wore sport coats, khakis, shining boots. A couple of them sported big, beige Western hats. All but one besides Eckrosh had on dark sun glasses. The owners of the horses were expensively dressed, their wives or girlfriends equally so. Even the grooms employed by these people, who were taking their horses around the rubber-padded walking ring prior to saddling, were turned out neatly.
Tom Eckrosh stood outside Rambling Rosie’s stall. In his unpressed gray slacks, worn black sport coat, and battered fedora, Doyle thought, the old trainer might be taken for a panhandler who had somehow sidled past the Heartland Downs gate guard. Maria wore her regular working outfit of gray sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, worn running shoes. She had tied her thick, black hair into a long braid at the back of her head. Her clothes were clean and pressed. It was obvious to Doyle that her earlier level of confidence had taken a couple of hits in the midst of this comparatively upscale milieu. Worry lines were evident on her forehead.
By far the most comfortable and confident looking member of this close-knit trio was Rambling Rosie. She gazed around the paddock like a diva eager for the downbeat. After checking out the horses that would be running against her, she nuzzled Maria’s neck as a serious looking Ramon Garcia strode across the gleaming grass like a miniature conquistador about to go to work. Garcia looked neither right or left. He tapped his whip against his right riding boot as he advanced. Rosie nickered when Garcia walked up to her, ready to be boosted aboard.
Paddock judge Keith Polzin gave the call of “riders up.” Eckrosh boosted Garcia into the saddle, grunting slightly as he did so. “Say there, old timer,” came a voice from across the way. Advancing toward them was Frank Lester, Heartland Downs’ leading trainer. He also had a filly in the Miss Amara. With his dark glasses, gleaming smile, expensive suit and moussed black hair, Lester looked more like a visiting movie star than a working horseman. He walked up to Eckrosh, his hand extended. Eckrosh nodded curtly and turned away. Lester shrugged and walked off without another word.
Doyle remembered reading that Lester had apprenticed under Eckrosh years earlier. The two had had a major falling out when Lester suddenly went out on his own, taking several of Eckrosh’s major clients with him. He’d gone on to gain national prominence as the buyer and trainer of very expensive stock.
Walking through the tunnel toward the track, Doyle couldn’t restrain himself. “You and Lester still friendly?” he asked, knowing full well that was not the case, but looking to get a rise out of the old man, maybe get his mind a little bit off of the important upcoming race.
Eckrosh stopped to glare at Doyle as he answered. “Don’t ask me nothing about that smart ass, conniving, son of a bitch. I’ve been finished with him for years. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw his big, fat stable pony. And you can quote me.”
Doyle said, “Well, I don’t think I’ll be doing that. Celia is hoping to get Lester to send over a few of his horses to Monee.”
Eckrosh shrugged. “Celia’s got to do what she’s got to do. I give that girl credit for keeping Monee Park going.”
They took their places at the rail near the finish line, just outside the winner’s circle. Lester already stood in that enclosure, as if confident his filly would be arriving to join him minutes later.
Eckrosh nodded toward his one-time protégé. “Only horse he’s going to see in there in a couple of minutes will be mine,” he growled.
Doyle smiled. “You’re pretty sure you’re going to beat him today with Rosie, aren’t you?”
“Damn right,” Eckrosh replied. He placed his elbows on the fence, still looking out the corner of his eye at Lester, who was now being interviewed by Christine Davis, Heartland Downs’ in-house television personality.
“Keep in mind, son,” Eckrosh said, “that I taught Frankie Lester everything he knows.” He paused before adding, “Not everything
I
know.”
They looked across the infield at the horses approaching the starting gate. Rambling Rosie was bouncing around, nuzzling the accompanying outrider’s pony, swishing her tail energetically. Doyle grinned as he watched her through his binoculars. All of her body language seemed to be saying to one and all, “Damn, I’m glad to be here. And I’m gonna kick some butts.”
***
That she did. It was almost as if Rambling Rosie understood the jibe aimed at her jockey, Ramon Garcia, by Heartland Downs’ foremost rider Larry Porter. Looking over at Garcia in the starting gate Porter said, loud enough to make some of the gate crew members snicker, “Welcome to the big leagues
, amigo
. Things are going to be different here.”
But they weren’t, not after the starter had sprung the latch and Rosie exploded out of the gate, a copper colored blur on this bright blue afternoon. Garcia tucked his chin down near her neck and let her roll, his hands still on the reins. She’d begun to noticeably detach herself from the field after the first quarter mile. By the time she’d reached mid-stretch, she was six lengths clear of her nearest rival. Uncharacteristically, Garcia gave her a whack on the shoulder with his whip about seventy yards from the finish. She was seven on top at that point. Irritated, Rosie swished her tail and turned her head to the side as if to give Garcia a chiding look. After they’d flashed under the wire, the normally stoic Garcia stood in the irons, grinning, and patted Rambling Rosie’s neck. The crowd erupted in applause when track announcer Calvin Gemmer announced Rambling Rosie’s winning time of 1:08 3-5 and said, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a new track record.”
Doyle was antsy in the winner’s circle, pumped up, looking for someone to high five, or hug. Eckrosh, a picture of contained jubilance, didn’t appear to be receptive to either gesture. The old man was busy anyway, gripping Maria’s hand tightly. She held on to Rambling Rosie’s shank with the other hand. Tears streamed down Maria’s brown cheeks. After the photo was taken, Garcia dismounted with a leaping, trampoline-like flourish. Smiling broadly, he shook hands with Eckrosh, then patted Maria on the back. He delivered another pat to Rambling Rosie before going to the official scales to weigh out.
Doyle stood to the side, not wanting to intrude on this scene. This horse, this victory, meant so much to these people, it made him envious of their passionate involvement. He thought fleetingly of Celia, imagined her being there to share the moment with him. Ah, well….