Close Call (17 page)
“Hey, this is a good idea. I know it is. Even if it isn’t mine.”
Doyle stopped speaking and looked around the conference table. Celia sat at its head, leaning forward, obviously interested. Shontanette was next to her, non-committal. Bob Zaslow was in his wheelchair, which was placed midway of the table, his nurse Fidelia to his left. Bob looked dubious at what he’d heard. Fidelia, among the dwindling few young U. S.-based women who crocheted, concentrated on the intricately patterned scarf she was making for her youngest niece’s birthday.
“Well?” Doyle said. “What do you think?”
Celia said, “Inviting Willy Wilgis here is, well, kind of a stretch, don’t you think? I don’t know the man. The only state legislator I really know at all is Lew Langmeyer. Why do you think Wilgis would like to make an appearance at Monee Park?”
“Glad you asked,” Doyle responded. “Here’s the deal. Representative Wilgis’ secretary, aka mistress, is a woman named Evelyn Stortz. She happens to be a customer of our good friend Moe Kellman. When she was visiting Moe’s fur salon recently, she mentioned that Wilgis has a birthday coming up. He’s going to be seventy-nine. She wants to surprise him with something special, and she asked Moe if he had any ideas. They chewed this over, Moe probably leading the patter. Then, God love him, Moe suggested that Evelyn bring Wilgis out here for dinner and a night at the races. We’d name a special race for him in honor of his birthday. We’d have the old boy present the trophy to the winner of that race. According to Evelyn that would be a first for Wilgis, who apparently has been feted, honored, fawned over, and had his ass smooched in numerous ways all over the state. But not like this.
“Anyway, that’s what Moe suggested, and he said Evelyn bought right into it. Moe called me, and I said ‘great idea.’ We need Wilgis’ support in the legislature with the slot machines bill. Why not take a shot with something like this? At least we’ll get to know the old rascal a little bit. And he’ll get to know us, and Monee Park.”
He looked around the table. Silence. Then there was a vocal rumble from next to Fidelia. Haltingly, painfully, Bob Zaslow managed to say, “That’s a great idea, Jack.”
***
It was as pleasant an early September night as the Chicago area can produce: temperature in the high 60s, stars looking ripe to pop right out of their deep black background. The row of old elm trees bordering the far side of the racing strip was beginning to hint at fall colors to soon follow.
Willy Wilgis pushed his chair away from the dining room table in the Monee Park’s Turf Club. He patted his lips with the napkin he’d removed from his shirt front. Evelyn Stortz leaned over from her seat beside him and dabbed at a gravy spot that had somehow found its way onto his white tie. Wilgis burped gently. Addressing his hostess he said, “Celia, that’s about as good a beef Wellington I’ve ever had in my life. Which, as you know, is getting long.” He winked at her as he reached for another dinner roll.
“Thank you, Willy,” Celia said. “Beef Wellington is one of the specialties of our Turf Club chef. He would like to come out and say hello. He kind of keeps a record of the important people he’s prepared meals for, and he’d like to add you to it. That’s if you don’t mind, of course,” she said, giving Wilgis one of her thousand watt smiles.
Doyle was thinking,
Let’s not lay it on too thick here
,
Celia
, when he heard Wilgis announce, “Delighted to meet the man, darling,” at the same time starting to reach forward with a hand to touch Celia’s until Evelyn politely intervened.
Doyle, on the opposite side of the table from Celia, smiled and leaned back in his chair. He signaled Hugo the waiter to call the busboy for clearing his plates. He’d been too jumpy to eat much, wondering how this caper would turn out. So far, so good. Celia had engaged Wilgis in intelligent conversation about Illinois politics, they’d all laughed at the veteran legislator’s jokes, and Doyle had flirted with Evelyn Stortz, much to her delight. The night was going great.
Celia glanced over her shoulder, smiling, as Horace Tate approached. The Turf Club chef’s white shirt, pants, tall hat, and smile contrasted with his handsome black face. Tate and Wilgis were about the same medium height, Wilgis outweighing the chef by fifty or sixty pounds. Wilgis got to his feet and stuck out his hand as Tate neared. Celia made the introductions.
Celia had known Horace Tate since they were children, running around Monee Park in their summers off from grade school. Horace’s father Ralph was the long time personal driver of Uncle Jim Joyce. It was Uncle Jim who had paid for Horace’s later education and training at Kendall College in suburban Evanston, a premier culinary school.
The old pol said, “Mr. Tate, I’ve eaten beef Wellington all over the English speaking world, and in some precincts I shouldn’t have. Yours is, by far, the most wonderful version I’ve ever encountered.” Wilgis plumped back down into his chair, smiling up at the chef.
Tate looked bemused. He was a man accustomed to praise for his handiwork. Always happy to receive such praise, he smiled back at Wilgis and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Representative Wilgis. I appreciate that.” He started to leave, then turned back to the table. “Representative Wilgis, do you have any interest in a slice of apple-cherry cobbler, a specialty of mine? Accompanied, of course, by a scoop of the vanilla ice cream I make myself in the kitchen here? Followed, perhaps, by a pony of armangac?”
“Let the ponies run, and full steam ahead in the kitchen, Mr. Tate,” Wilgis said. He planted a kiss on Evelyn’s cheek, his right hand massaging her left thigh. “This is some kind of a blue ribbon night, now, isn’t it darling?” he said.
Celia’s look of relief, if not triumph, locked with Doyle’s.
***
The Representative Willy Wilgis Purse was the eighth race on that night’s card. Doyle had drummed up a decent attraction to immediately precede it: a public workout by Rambling Rosie, rapidly becoming one of the Chicago area’s more popular athletes.
Celia led her guests to the elevator, then down to the railing near the winner’s circle. They watched as Rambling Rosie cantered past, jockey Ramon Garcia standing up in the irons like a circus trick rider, both he and the horse just loosening up. Doyle kept a discreet eye on Wilgis, who was watching the horse and rider with keen interest.
Rosie kept running easily around the far turn and into the backstretch. As she approached the five-furlong pole, Garcia dropped down into her saddle. The filly, legs extending, all business now, went from a canter to a dead run in the matter of a few strides. She zoomed around the far turn and then flew down the stretch, Garcia doing nothing to encourage her progress. Tom Eckrosh had instructed Garcia not “to ask her for anything” tonight, and Garcia followed orders. Still, when the time of the workout flashed up on the infield board, a roar went up from the crowd. Fifty-seven seconds flat, a sensational workout time for the distance any day or night. Doyle heard Eckrosh say with satisfaction, “And she did it easy as pie.”
As Rosie galloped out, Doyle introduced Wilgis to Eckrosh. The old trainer looked warily at the legislator until Wilgis said, “Well, I’ve never seen anything like that down in the country, where I hail from.” Eckrosh beamed with pride. The two rural-raised senior citizens continued to converse while Rosie stopped, turned around, then cantered back toward them. Garcia brought the lively filly to a halt in front of the two men. Eckrosh reached out to rub her neck. Rosie nickered and thrust her nose toward Wilgis. The politician stepped back for a moment, then leaned forward and tentatively placed a hand on the horse’s nose. Again, Rosie made an appreciative sound. Doyle whispered to Celia, “This horse can not only run fast, she must be reading our minds. She’s coming on to Wilgis like an equine gold digger.” Celia, giggling, nudged Doyle with her elbow. “Hush,” she said.
Wilgis’ initial apprehension about his proximity to a friendly horse had vanished. Rosie gently nuzzled Wilgis’ shoulder, nickering at him. The old pol was obviously lapping up her attentions now.
Doyle said admiringly, “Rosie, you little equine tart.”
Celia said, “What did you say?”
“Never mind,” he grinned.
Doyle moved next to Wilgis. He said, “Tell me, Mr. Wilgis, have you ever had the desire to own a racehorse?”
“Son, just call me Willy,” he said, hand now smoothing Rosie’s neck. “The answer has been No. I’ve gone along with what a real smart man once said to me: ‘I don’t ever want to own anything that can be eating while I’m sleeping.’ But,” Wilgis added, giving Rosie a final pat, “a grand little animal like this could sure tempt me to change my mind.”
Thirty minutes later, Wilgis had presented the small trophy to Buck Norman, owner and trainer of Letter to Lee, winner of the Willy Wilgis Purse. Wilgis shook hands with Norman, patted him on the back and his horse on the neck, then took the cordless microphone from Doyle. Turning to address the crowd, he was smiling broadly. Wilgis thanked Celia and her “wonderful staff for this very, very special night in my life.” A half-drunk bettor in the first row of the grandstand tried unsuccessfully to inspire the crowd to sing “Happy Birthday,” but Wilgis ignored him and continued to talk.
“This great filly we saw here tonight, Rambling Rosie, well, I can’t tell you how proud I am that she will represent the great state of Illinois in the Breeders’ Cup Sprint a few weeks from now. Her great trainer, my good friend Tom Eckrosh, just broke that news to me. I’m confident Tom will have her sharper than grandpa’s apple cider.”
Doyle said to Celia, “Well, I’ll be damned. Eckrosh never told me he was considering the Breeders’ Cup. That’s fantastic news! For you, for Monee Park.” He stopped himself from talking any more about Eckrosh’s unexpected decision as he began to fear that Wilgis might ramble on until the next race was over. Doyle started to move toward the microphone. But Wilgis’ sense of timing kicked in. “In conclusion,” he said, “I want to thank you all for coming tonight, be ye Democrats or otherwise.” He paused for the expected ripple of chuckles mixed with boos. He raised his hand to quiet the crowd.
“I know there’s one thing we can all agree on,” he said, voice volume increasing word by word. “We’ll all be rooting for our Rambling Rosie in the Breeders’ Cup. She’ll show those hot shots from the Blue Grass, and New York, and the great West, what a little gal from Illinois can do!”
The cheers resounded. Wilgis paused, reveling in the sound, before adding, “Rosie will leave those so-called heavy heads with their tongues hanging out and dust all over their windshields.” This brought forth another roar from the crowd. Wilgis mopped his face with a blue bandana he’d extracted with a flourish from his trousers pocket. He waved it at the crowd as Doyle began ushering him out of the winner’s circle and toward the exit.
***
With one race yet to be run, the Monee parking lot was relatively quiet. Wilgis’ limousine pulled up to the Preferred Parking entrance and its driver jumped out and came around to open the door for Evelyn. Tom Eckrosh had walked along with Wilgis. The two old men stood under the canopied entrance, deep in conversation, until Evelyn called from the car, “Willy, it’s time we left these nice people.”
Wilgis shook hands with Eckrosh and Doyle. He extended his arms to Celia who, after a brief hesitation, walked warily into the old lecher’s embrace. He tried to kiss her on the lips, but she turned away just in time and received a murmured utterance in her ear instead. For a moment, she looked startled. Then Celia said something that made Wilgis bow to her before entering the limo. He waved as his driver closed the door.
Celia and Doyle said goodnight to Eckrosh before they began walking back into the building. Doyle said, “What did the old rascal say there at the end?”
Celia frowned. “He said he’d had a wonderful evening. That he’d gained an appreciation of horse racing, emphasis on Rambling Rosie. He said we should keep fighting for the slots bill, to ‘keep our dobbers up.’ Then right away, I think he was blushing, he said, ‘No, please forget that last suggestion, Ms. Celia. That was inadvertent. I believe that high-priced brandy I had at dinner has created some crevices in my mind.’ That’s not word for word, but pretty close to what he said. What do you suppose he was apologizing for?”
They were in the elevator now, riding up to Celia’s apartment. Doyle’s head was back against the padded elevator back wall as he laughed, thinking of Willy Wilgis’ advice. Celia appeared irritated by his failure to answer her question.
Finally, he stopped laughing. “Okay, my dear, what old Willy was advising you to do was ‘keep on keeping on.’ Or words to that effect.”
“‘Words to that effect’? What do you mean by that?”
“The literal definition of dobber is the float on a fishing line, okay? But, it’s also an old locker room expression. Male locker rooms, I mean. When I was playing football in high school, before I took up boxing, our old coach, Boomer Kincheski, would exhort us before every game, ‘Boys, no matter how bad you hurt, or how tired you get, keep your dobbers up. Show those punks what kind of men you are.’ It was a legendary call to arms for all Coach Kincheski’s teams. Then he’d give, well, kind of an obscene gesture. Relating to his private parts.” Doyle was stumbling along now. “Part, I mean.” He stopped himself from adding “The thrust of it,” because Celia’s face had turned red.“Oh, hell,” he finally said, “you get the idea?”
The elevator stopped and its doors opened. Celia could restrain herself no longer. She let out a whoop of laughter, her eyes on his. He realized that his discomfort was the cause of her mirth. That this bright, worldy woman had been pulling his leg about as far as it could go.
They were out of the elevator now, walking down the corridor toward their offices, Celia leaning against his shoulder, still shaking with laughter.
Doyle said, “So, you know from dobber.”
“Uncle Jim was a great Chicago Bears fan,” Celia said. “In the years when the Bears were awful, when I was a kid, Uncle Jim would always invite some of the players and coaches to Monee Park in their off season. Give them dinner. Give them drinks. And he’d always tell them, at the end of the evening, ‘Fellas, keep your dobbers up. There are better days ahead.’ I asked him for an explanation one time, and Uncle Jim, embarrassed but honest, gave it to me.”