Close Call (18 page)
They’d reached the door to Celia’s apartment. “So, Jack Doyle,” she said, “I admit to knowing that dobber is a synonym for a male appendage. And, I suspect, a synonym for the male ego, in the way that the expression is used in your locker rooms.
“But then,” she said, smiling back over her shoulder, “those are corresponding entities, are they not?”
She said goodnight and eased the door closed, so as not to awaken Bob.
SPRINGFIELD—Two busloads of demonstrators descended on the state capitol Monday to march and picket for nearly three hours in opposition to House Bill 134, which would expand legalized gambling in Illinois. Most of the participants were senior citizens, some of whom were under the erroneous impression they were scheduled to attend a private luncheon with the governor.
The demonstrators were led by Reverend Wardell Simpkins, president and founder of CAB (Christians Against Gambling). Reverend Simpkins, of Glen Ellyn, Illinois, has long been a vocal opponent of gambling. In a statement read from the capitol steps, Reverend Simpkins charged that “Insidious interests of the devil are attempting to broaden even further the presence of harmful gaming in our already casino-plagued state. To add another casino, in Chicago, one of the great cities of the world, would be added proof of how widely this moral cancer has spread, how far public morality has sunk.
“I call upon Christians all over the state, and other people of good will and high morals, to join with CAB in fighting the passage of this corrupt and corrupting piece of diabolical legislation.”
Asked about the misinformation involving a luncheon meeting of his group and Governor Otto Walker, Reverend Simpkins smiled. “I can’t imagine where our people got that idea,” he said. “Some of our more elderly CAB members tend to become a bit confused at times.”
In addition to legalizing a casino in Chicago, the proposed measure would also permit the state’s six pari-mutuel racetracks to offer slot machine betting. The tracks, particularly struggling Monee Park, claim that the introduction of slots is vital to their financial survival.
Jack Doyle, a Monee Park spokesman, told reporters here Monday that “The advent of casinos cut drastically into horse racing’s base audience both here and in other states. But other states have responded by enabling their tracks to compete via the legalization of slots. All we are asking is to be able to offer some of the same kind of gambling as the casinos, to be able to compete with them on a level playing field. Revenues from slots would not only contribute significantly to the state treasury, they would also allow us to improve purses and therefore attract better quality horses to Illinois tracks.
“Pari-mutuel horse racing has been legal in Illinois for more than eighty years,” Doyle added. “We want it to continue, and passage of House Bill 134 is vital if that is to happen.”
Under provisions of Bill 134 Monee Park, located south of Chicago, would be permitted to install 1,000 video slot machines, as would downstate Devon Downs. The four larger Chicago area tracks each would be authorized to operate a maximum of 2,000 slot machines on their properties.
Near the end of Monday’s CAB demonstration, Doyle and Reverend Simpkins engaged in a heated exchange of words on the capitol steps. Doyle accused Reverend Simpkins of being a “willing ally of the current casino owners, who don’t want any competition from the racetracks. I’d like to review your CAB books and find out who your major contributors are,” Doyle said to the clergyman. Reverend Simpkins retorted that Doyle’s “statements are not surprising, emanating as they do from a paid lackey of a struggling business enterprise.”
Reverend Simpkins is an ordained minister presently “without a church or congregation,” he said, adding that “I am devoting my life efforts to the great cause of combating gambling’s expansion.”
Doyle was a key figure in the case against media mogul Harvey Rexroth two years ago. Rexroth was convicted on a number of charges involving the killing of thoroughbred horses for their insurance values. He is currently serving a twelve-year sentence in federal prison in Minnesota.
House Bill 134, sponsored by Representative Lew Langmeyer (D-Palatine), was passed by the House Gaming Committee late last month. It is expected to come up for a vote before the entire House some time in the next several weeks. Influential House majority leader William “Willy” Wilgis is reported to now be leaning toward favoring its passage.
Niall Hanratty rapidly read the previous day’s summary report from his burgeoning betting empire. Business was as strong as it had ever been. He put the computer printouts down on his desk, swiveled his chair to look out of his office headquarters at the sun-drenched buildings across the way. Another beautiful day. It was one of the driest stretches of weather in the Kinsale area in recent history. Why was it that these impressive business figures, normally guaranteed to produce a flood of satisfaction, meant so little to him this lovely morning?
He rose from behind the desk and walked to the window overlooking Kinsale’s crowded downtown summer streets and the harbor beyond. Tourists were bumping into each other as they walked from shop to shop. The harbor was replete with various craft, including a couple of luxury yachts that had evidently arrived late last night or early in the morning. The sun bounced off their gleaming brass fittings. He could see his driver, Barry Hoy, cell phone attached to his belt, leaning on the metal railing above the gently moving waters, apparently admiring the nearest of the moored yachts.
Despite the heartening business summary, the beauty of this summer morning, Hanratty’s mood was decidedly mixed. That was because of the e-mailed newspaper report he’d received from Art Riley, describing the previous day’s developments in Springfield, IL. It should have elevated his spirits, for the campaign to thwart Monee Park’s quest for slot machines seemed to be on track, thanks to Reverend Simpkins. Riley had pointed this out in the note he attached to the news story. “Things are looking good,” Riley wrote. “If your cousin doesn’t see this handwriting on the wall, she must be blind. I would expect her to buckle under and agree to sell the track property in the next week or so.”
“Maybe she will,” Hanratty muttered as he deleted the e-mail, “and maybe she won’t.” The fact that Celia had heretofore held firm in her resolve to save the track both impressed and depressed Hanratty. He resented but respected her refusal to give in, recognizing in her the kind of fighter he admired, one much like himself. This occasionally gave him pause, as was the case today. He couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for Celia, burdened by a seriously ill husband and an ailing business. This was the kind of matter that, ordinarily, he would discuss with his wife. Throughout his rising career, Sheila had served as his sounding board. Niall had kept very little back from her, primarily details of some rough work involving reluctant owners of off-track shops he’d wanted to acquire. No need for her to know about those few incidents, the methods of persuasion employed by himself and Barry Hoy and, on one occasion, a few of Hoy’s cohorts.
And no need, or desire, on his part to let Sheila in on the campaign against Cousin Celia. He realized that the longer this effort went on, as reported by Riley, the more distasteful he found it. Had either of the attacks served to convince Celia to sell, he could have lived with that all right. The robbery, the electrical sabotage, those sort of things he’d believed would get the job done. But they hadn’t. Now, the pressure would have to be intensified, in ways Hanratty preferred not to know about in advance.
Hanratty sighed and went back to sit at his desk. He was truly starting to regret ever having listened to Riley, having become involved with him. But he couldn’t turn back now. The stakes were too high.
Shontanette was sitting at a window table in the Turf Club when Doyle came in planning to grab a quick lunch. She waved him over to her table, looking very serious, no smile. “I hate to eat alone,” she said. “Would you mind sitting down with me?” Doyle was surprised to see this normally forthright, self-assured young woman evade his gaze as she fiddled with her silverware.
Doyle eyed her warily. Shontanette pretended to concentrate on a menu that, after all her years at Monee Park, she must have known backward. He said, “I’m getting the feeling that we’ve not met here today by accident. Could I be right?”
Without waiting for an answer, he said to Hugo the waiter, “A Bushmills on the rocks for me. A cup of truth serum for my companion.”
“Make it a Merlot, Hugo,” Shontanette snapped. She waited until the old waiter had shuffled away before she said, “I want to talk to you about Celia. About you and Celia.”
“I can see you’re serious,” Doyle said, “but it’s hard for me to take you seriously. What about Celia and me? What are you talking about.”
Shontanette shrugged and began nervously tapping her spoon on the tablecloth. “This is hard for me to talk about. It’s just that I’m worried that you and Celia, are, well, getting too close. Together. I see the way you look at each other. It’s obvious there’s an attraction there between you two.” She took a sip of her wine. “It’s not a good thing. It could be disastrous, because I know how that girl thinks. If she doesn’t stay faithful to Bob, she would never, ever, forgive herself.
“Celia’s my best friend. I hate to see her hurting with all of her worries about Bob and about the track’s future. I realize that you’ve become a presence here that seems to lessen those hurts. You’ve made her laugh and act more lively in the past couple of months than I’ve seen her since Bob got sick.”
She took another sip of wine before saying, “This is very uncomfortable for me, Jack. I’m not one to serve as someone else’s conscience. I’m just saying that Celia is very vulnerable at this stage of her life. I don’t want her to be, well, preyed upon.”
Doyle’s disbelief at Shontanette’s last statement was quickly followed by a wave of anger that turned his face crimson. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “I’m a lot of things to be sure, but predator has never been among them. I can’t believe you think that of me.”
She didn’t back down. “You can’t fault me for bringing this up. I want to make sure you know what you’re doing in regard to Celia.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Doyle shot back. “I recognize the futility of me envisioning any kind of romance with her, no matter how much I might like to have it happen. It’s not in the cards.”
Shontanette sat back in her chair. “Maybe I’ve mis-read the situation. And you. I love Celia like a sister. It kills me to see what she’s been going through. I, just, wanted to try to head off any further trouble for her if I could.”
“Trouble. In the form of me,” Doyle said bitterly. “Me, who’s been working marathon hours here? Who’s been busting his butt tramping around the backstretch of this broken down old joint, trying to find ways to put a positive spin on the whole struggling scene? You’re accusing
me
of being trouble?”
Hugo shuffled up to the table with their lunch orders. “Another Bushmills, please,” Doyle said. “Give the lady what she wants.”
Shontanette waved away the old waiter. “Oh, c’mon Jack, don’t get on your self righteous high horse with me. I felt I had to get my concerns on the table and I did. Maybe I’m being presumptious, or over protective. But that’s the way I feel.”
“All right, I accept that,” Doyle said.
Shontanette started on her chicken salad. Doyle ignored his turkey club. He said, “As long as we’re being forthright with each other, I have something to ask you. I want your opinion. You’ve known the person involved for a long time.”
She put her fork down. “Go on.”
Doyle leaned forward, talking softly. “The stuff that’s been going on around here, the attacks on the track, I’m thinking there’s maybe somebody on the inside here helping to create these potential disasters by providing needed information. The electrical failure, the money room robbery, the attackers would have needed details about our operation here in order to carry those out. We might well have an informer in our midst.”
“Well, yes, I guess that’s a possibility,” Shontanette said.
“Here’s another one. Maybe the so-called Inside Man is Morty.”
Shontanette leaned back in her chair. The querulous look on her face was replaced by one of astonishment. “Morty Dubinksi?” she hooted. “You have
got
to be kidding. That little, old, inoffensive creature who’s worked here since I was a kid? He’d no more do harm to this place than I would. Where’d you get that crazy ass idea?”
“Hey,” Doyle said, “I’m not accusing Morty, I’m just thinking about possible allies on the inside here that those thugs might have. He’s one of them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve become very aware of his gambling habits in the last few weeks. He’s a terrible bettor, or maybe just one of the unluckiest ones in history. He’s what Clarence Meaux down in the jocks’ room calls a Jonah. Somebody like that, well, hell, they’re vulnerable to be coerced, or bribed, or threatened. And Morty pretty much knows everything there is to know about Monee Park.”
“Oh, Jack,” Shontantette said, “I’ve known Morty for years. There is no way he’d be capable of doing what you’re suggesting. No way.”
“Nobody ever really knows everything about anybody,” Doyle said. “Probably not even about themselves. I guarantee you, I’m going to keep an eye on little Morty.”
“You’re not just barking up the wrong tree, Jack, you’ve wandered into the wrong forest with Morty the Mole. It’s almost comical,” she said, before adding softly, “At least I think so.”
“I hope you’re right,” Doyle said.
A busboy cleared their plates. They both declined coffee, or dessert. Shontanette looked at Doyle appraisingly. “Sometimes you remind me of my Uncle Arthur. He thought he pretty much knew everything, too. He’d tell you who was buried in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Who was going to win the feature at Oaklawn Park on Saturday. How many calories were in the bowl of cheese grits you’d just eaten. When it came to confident, expert, pains in the ass, the man was royalty.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Doyle said. “And I remind you of him? I’m flattered.”
“Yes, you do. You’re always so confident in your opinions at every staff meeting, in all your dealings with the media, with the trainers, and the jocks. Everybody around here has picked up on that about you. People talk about it. ‘So cool.’ Oh, that ‘Cool Jack Doyle.’”
Doyle said, “Woman, if you only knew how wrong they are on that count.” He drained his Bushmills and pushed his chair back from the table. “You ever hear of Mose Allison?”
Shontanette said, “That white cat who sounds black? Jazz singer and piano player? Sure. Uncle Arthur is a big fan of his.”
“I heard Mose interviewed one time on the radio,” Doyle said, “talking about how fans of his always thought
he
was so cool. Know what he said?”
“I know you’re going to tell me, Jack.”
“Mose Allison said, and I know damn well where he was coming from, he said to the interviewer, ‘I am not cool. I spend my whole life gravitating between boredom and hysteria, just like you.’”