Close Call (21 page)
“Call for you, Jack,” Morty said. Doyle finished pouring himself a cup of coffee at the press box kitchenette counter and went back to his desk. It was Moe Kellman, who said, “I’m sending the check out with Pete Dunleavy. Can you meet him at the clubhouse entrance at four o’clock?”
“Sure,” Doyle said, before adding, “This is kind of getting to be a habit with you, isn’t it? Sending badly needed money to Monee Park?”
There was a grunt on the other end of the line. “The money I loaned to Celia after the track was robbed I fully expect to get back, either if Monee gets slots or the property is sold. That gesture was because Celia is the niece of one of my dear departed friends.
“This bet I’m making on Eckrosh’s horse is another matter,” Moe contined. “Occasionally, at Leah’s urging, I do question my own sanity. This is one of those occasions. Let’s hope for the best. Make sure Tom Eckrosh deposits it right away. I don’t want to worry about him misplacing it or something.”
“I’ll take the check right over to Eckrosh’s barn, then drive him to his bank,” Doyle said.
The check made out to Tom Eckrosh was for $50,000. Once the old trainer deposited it in his account, he’d be able to write a check of his own, in that amount, to Breeders’ Cup Ltd., thus making Rambling Rosie eligible to run in the $2 million Breeders’ Cup Sprint at Churchill Downs in two weeks.
This plan began to take shape two days earlier. Doyle had nearly finished reading the current issue of
The Blood-Horse
, thoroughbred racing’s foremost weekly magazine, when he turned back to a page that listed the Best Times of the leading horses in each of eight divisions. In the Sprint column, he spotted Rambling Rosie’s name. She was rated the fifth fastest sprinter in the country based on her winning times from the current season.
Doyle called Eckrosh at his barn. “Tom,” he said, “have you given any thought to running Rosie in the Breeders’ Cup Sprint?”
There was a hoot of derisive laughter from the old man. “Son, you’ve got a mean sense of humor. ‘Course I
thought
about the Sprint and Rosie. Then I reminded myself about the size of the entry fee. All my savings don’t add up to that. So, that was the end of my Breeders’ Cup thinking.”
Doyle said, “Let me ask you a question. If she could get in, how do you think Rosie would do in the Sprint?”
“She’d be one, two, or three,” Eckrosh said confidently. “No doubt about that in my mind. She’s the fastest filly in America.”
“Even going up against colts? You think she’d do that well?”
“Take an honest old man’s word for it.”
“Let me get back to you on this,” Doyle said.
***
Doyle met Moe for lunch at Dino’s that noon, figuring business such as this would be best conducted in person. As Doyle laid out his plan, ignoring his order of shrimp orzo, Moe listened without talking, spooling up a steaming platter of linguini smothered in roasted garlic slices, mushrooms, artichoke hearts, and hot roasted peppers.
When he’d cleaned his plate, Kellman picked up his cell phone. “I need to make a call, Jack.” The muffled conversation that followed took less than five minutes. Doyle heard the words “Rambling Rosie... Breeders’ Cup…the numbers” and “thanks, Dave.” Moe closed the phone and looked at Jack.
“I can see where you’re coming from,” he said. “Getting Rambling Rosie into the Breeders’ Cup Sprint, on national television, all the publicity would be a bonanza for Monee Park. Win or lose, she’s a great story. Broken down old trainer, obscure breeding, coming out of the claiming ranks at a small track like Monee Park to challenge the best sprinters in the world. It’s a natural.”
“You’ll do it then? Front Tom Eckrosh the entrance fee?”
Moe signaled for coffee before answering. “I checked with a Vegas guy who is very, very sharp with the numbers on racehorses. Dave Zimmer. He compares numbers from all over the country. Makes a great living doing it, betting horses, selling his numbers to a handful of high rollers at a premium, and advising owners what horses they should buy. Tremendously successful young guy.”
Moe sipped his coffee. “Dave says your Rosie is legit. That she’s got a real shot in the Sprint if she runs in it, even though only two fillies have won the race in almost twenty-five years.”
Doyle grinned. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Whatever you tell me, Jack, I still like to check out. No offense intended. It’s just my nature.”
“So you’ll give Eckrosh the money for the entrance fee?”
Moe said, “Jack, remember, I’m in business. My charity work doesn’t involve horse racing. Yes, I’ll provide the money for the entrance fee. Here’s my terms: If Rosie gets any part of the purse, first, second, third, fourth, or fifth, I get the entrance fee money back plus fifteen percent of her winnings.”
Doyle whistled softly. He said, “Fifteen percent. That seems kind of steep. About as high as some of the Outfit’s street rates.” He saw Moe’s mouth tighten, so he hastened to add, “But I get it. It’s not a loan, is it? You’re making a bet.”
Moe smiled. “Exactly. If Rosie runs up the track, I’ll eat my loss. Tom Eckrosh can’t lose anything. If she wins, or finishes in the top three, I’ll come out pretty good and so will Eckrosh. If she runs fourth or fifth, we each still make a little money. Either way, Jack, Eckrosh gets an opportunity he’d never have otherwise. And you’ve got a chance to put Celia’s track on the national map, thanks to me.”
“Modesty occasionally becomes you, Moe,” Doyle said, reaching across the table to shake Kellman’s hand.
“That’s what Leah occasionally tells me,” Moe said.
***
Doyle parked his Accord next to Barn D just after 4:15, but he didn’t have to get out of the car. Tom Eckrosh hurried out of his office and up to the driver’s side window, looking both anxious and hopeful.
“Did the man come through, Jack?”
“Tom, the man came through. Let’s go to the bank.”
Forty-five minutes later, they returned to Barn D. After the bank, they’d gone to the post office. Their Breeders’ Cup adventure had begun. Eckrosh said, “I want to check on ‘Rosie.’”
“I don’t blame you,” Doyle said. “With the money riding on her, she should be stabled in a bank vault.”
They said hello to Maria, who was sitting on a stool outside Rosie’s stall. “Bring her out for a few minutes, will you, Maria?” Eckrosh said.
The lively filly with the four white stockings grazed on a nearby patch of grass, Maria holding the shank attached to her halter. The late afternoon sun highlighted Rosie’s chestnut coat. Doyle said, “Tom, what is it about Rosie that makes her so special? I mean, no offense intended, but except for her beautiful color she doesn’t look much different than all kinds of run of the mill horses I’ve seen.” He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t know that much about how good horses are supposed to look.”
Eckrosh said gently, “Maybe you don’t, Jack.” His gaze swept over his prize filly. “ Rosie’s pretty muscular for a filly, but she’s no amazon. She’s smart, and keen to run, she’s got about as much personality as any animal I’ve ever been around. And she’s got one other thing that’s mighty, mighty rare,” he said admiringly. “She’s got a big engine.”
Doyle laughed, but he could see the trainer was serious. “Listen,” the old man said, “I’ve seen dozens of beautifully bred and conformed million dollar horses who couldn’t earn what it cost to feed them. The will to win—that’s what Rosie has. A lot of horses are what we call ‘cheap.’ They’re real brave when everything’s going their way, but they fold up when they’re challenged. Rosie’s not like that. She’s a fighter. She’s got a big engine.”
It was twilight now, nearly time for the first race, when Jack got to the press box. Morty said, “You’re looking pretty pleased with yourself boss.”
“I’ve put in a good day’s work,” Doyle said. Morty’s excitement grew as Doyle recounted the happenings leading to Rambling Rosie becoming a Breeders’ Cup Sprint starter. “Fantastic, Jack,” he said. “That’s fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said. “Now, I’m going to go upstairs and personally deliver the good news to Celia and Bob.”
As he neared the press box door, he heard Morty say, “Before you go, Jack, let me ask you something.” Morty was beaming. Jack groaned, aware of what was coming. He said, “Morty, I’m not sure that sly look becomes you. But go ahead.”
“Roy Rogers,” Morty said. “What was his horse’s name?”
“Well, I’ve got you there,” Doyle replied. “That one I know. Trigger. I read one time that he’s stuffed and in some kind of Roy Rogers museum in California. Am I right?”
There was a short silence. Then Morty said, “What about Dale Evans’ horse?
Doyle was stumped, and he admitted it. “Buttermilk,” Morty said triumphantly.
As promised, they found that the fire escape on the dark east side of the Monee Park clubhouse had been lowered for them. They climbed up it wearing dark blue sweats, black ski masks, and cross trainers. For squat, solidly-packed men they moved silently and well across the roof to the door of the penthouse apartment belonging to Celia and Bob. Lucarelli was in the lead. He slowed his approach as he neared the glass door whose interior was obscured by dark drapes. “Gimmee the flashlight,” he said to Shannon. He put his blackjack into the side pocket of his sweat shirt.
This nocturnal venture had been planned two nights earlier. It was the idea of the increasingly desperate Art Riley. The attorney had summoned them to his downtown Chicago office and read them the riot act.
“Nothing you two have done has worked,” Riley said angrily. Seeing Lucarelli’s face darken, he quickly added, “Now, I know some of that isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known the tote board failure wouldn’t bring Celia to her knees. Or that Moe Kellman would come up with the money to keep Monee Park operating after your robbery.
“But,” Riley continued, regaining some confidence, “you screwed up big time when you didn’t get the racing secretary’s office to go up in flames. That would have ended the Monee Park meeting. That would have done the job. But you two,” he sneered, feeling himself completely back in command of these two bozos now, “got run out of there by a goddam publicity man. You should be ashamed.”
Shannon looked down at his feet while rubbing his hands together nervously. He wanted to ask who Moe Kellman was, and what publicity man Riley meant, but he figured he had best be quiet. Lucarelli, however, shot Riley a defiant look.
“We screwed up with the fire,” he admitted. “But the other things you laid out for us to do, we goddam well
did
do. Maybe your choice of targets wasn’t so cool. You were the one that picked them out. We didn’t think them up ourselves, you know,” he said, jabbing Shannon with his elbow, seeking some props for this defensive thrust.
Riley was about to lash back, but thought better of it. No sense getting into a pissing match with these imbeciles. Time was running out. The casino/slots bill was still alive in Springfield. If Celia was going to be convinced to sell the property, that convincing would have to take place soon.
“Fellas,” Riley said, leaning back in his creaky chair, conciliatory now, “I don’t think Ms. McCann has taken us seriously. I guess I shouldn’t say ‘us,’ because she doesn’t know it’s ‘us’ aligned against her.” He gazed out the dusty window of his south LaSalle Street office. Plucking a cigar from the middle drawer of his desk, he lighted it and began to puff thoughtfully. Shannon’s head was still down. Lucarelli shifted impatiently in his chair.
“All right,” Riley finally said, “this is what I want you to do.”
When he was finished, Denny finally looked up. “How do we get in there? We’re not fucking cat burglars you know.”
“This is what the setup out there is,” Riley said, beginning to explain it. “You can count on this being the way it is. Don’t ask me how I know, just know that I do.”
***
On their drive to Monee Park two nights later, Lucarelli said, “You’ve got to give the old man credit. Riley knows what we do best. Terrorize!” He cackled, pounding the steering wheel of the Taurus with the hand not holding the spliff. He was high on crystal meth again, using a few hits of pot to balance things out, liking the whole feeling, thinking about their assignment: break into the McCann rooftop apartment, rough up the residents, “scare the shit out of that stubborn woman,” as Riley put it, “so she’ll finally see what’s good for her.”
Lucarelli was raring to go. Shannon sucked on a Bud Light twenty-four ouncer, looking solemnly out the window as they drove south on the Dan Ryan. “You’re going to like this, Denny,” his buddy assured him. “I’ve seen this McCann broad’s picture in the paper. She one of those haughty looking bitches that’re stuck way up on themselves.” He took a deep hit on the joint, held it in for a couple of blocks, then gasped, “She’s never seen the likes of us.” He got his breath back. “I might just give her an introductory-to-real-life fuck while we’re up there.” He cackled again and began to again pound the steering wheel as they picked up speed in the express lane. Shannon finished off his beer and reached into the cooler for another. He was starting to feel a little click of enthusiasm for the task at hand, his cousin’s mood becoming contagious as they got closer to Monee Park.
***
Doyle followed Celia up the back stairs from the clubhouse to her apartment, trying to keep his eyes off the entrancing hip swing she produced in high heels while ascending. They each had their arms full, carrying items from the just concluded Turf Club birthday party for Izzy Kreinberg. It was number ninety-nine for the lively, wealthy businessman and horse owner whose zest for fast horses, beautiful women, and gin martinis apparently never abated.
The honoree on Izzy Kreinberg Night had horses he owned compete in four different races and heavily bet each one. Three of them won. The sparkling-eyed nonagenarian went down to the winner’s circle after each victory. Following the last one, he returned to the Turf Club for the cutting of the huge birthday cake and opening of gifts, saying to Celia, “This is the most glorious night of my life.”
Kreinberg had received dozens of gifts from the fifty guests at the Turf Club party. When the affair was winding down, Kreinberg again thanked Celia for her efforts in hosting it, then asked if she would “please keep them for me overnight, honey, the valuable stuff. I don’t want to worry about getting it all home tonight,” he’d said as he gazed fondly at a striking brunette on his arm, one of several young women he’d introduced earlier as “my niece.”
The gifts included plaques, two humorous videos of Kreinberg’s life, a scrapbook, telegrams from Chicago’s mayor and the governor of Illinois. Celia toted two packed shopping bags up the steps. Doyle had in one hand the new laptop that Kreinberg intended to use to store his betting records. In the other he had the huge floral arrangement with its banner reading
Izzie is or is he ain’t the best?
***
Riley had assured them that “there’s not much of a lock on the penthouse door,” and he was right. Lucarelli forced it open with his switchblade in twenty seconds. The yellow early autumn moon slipped out from behind cloud cover, momentarily allowing light to reach the rooftop. Lucarelli stepped quickly into the dark living room, Shannon at his heels.
They stood still for a minute or so, getting accustomed to the surroundings. Lucarelli briefly swept the large room with his flashlight. There was a dining area to their right, a door perhaps leading to the kitchen at the far end of it. The door they had been told led to the corridor outside the apartment was in the center of the room. Lucarelli moved around from behind the couch that backed up to the sliding glass door.
Bob Zaslow, seated in his wheelchair in his bedroom at the window overlooking the darkened racetrack, started. From the corner of his eye he saw a brief flash of light under the bedroom door. He slowly began to turn the chair away from the window.
Lucarelli walked softly across the carpeted floor to one of the bedroom doors. Just as he neared it, the door began to open. He jumped back a yard, banging into the equally startled Shannon. Bob drove his electric wheelchair through the doorway. He looked up at them in astonishment, his jaw laid awkwardly on the left side of his chest, mouth in a frozen twist.
“Where’s your wife?” Lucarelli said. He leaned forward, his breath hot on Zaslow’s face. “So you can’t move,” Lucarelli snarled, “you can still talk. Where the fuck is your wife?”
***
Outside the apartment’s kitchen door, Celia stopped and put her bags down. She unlocked the door and went in, flicking on the small light over the sink. Doyle placed the floral arrangement on the counter, the laptop next to it. Celia whispered, “Bob said he’d wait up for me. I’ll take care of all of Izzie’s gifts tomorrow. What a great night for that old fellow. Thanks for all the help, Jack.” She looked at him directly for only an instant before turning away.
Doyle, frowning, said, “What’s that?” Celia gave him a puzzled look. “I thought I heard a guy talking in there,” he said. “Not Bob.” Doyle put a finger to her lips and reached to turn off the light.
***
Shannon, shocked at Zaslow’s condition, put a hand on his cousin’s arm. He said, “Let me look in the next room, man. Cool it. Maybe that’s where the broad is.”
Lucarelli yanked at his ski mask, pulling it down more tightly. “Check it out then.” Within seconds Shannon was back, shaking his head no. “God dammit,” Lucarelli said, “she probably don’t sleep with this crip. Where the fuck is she?”
The chemical ride was taking over Aiden now, a vicious combination of drugs, anxiety, and frustration. He leaned in close to Zaslow’s frozen face. “What a mess you are,” he said, waving the heavy black flashlight in front of Zaslow. “I’m going to beat your fucking head in if you don’t start to answer me.” There was no response, just Zaslow looking up impassively.
“Do you fucking hear me
?” Lucarelli shouted.
***
Doyle grabbed Celia’s wrist. “Go to the elevator down the hall,” he said, “use the emergency phone in there and call Security. Tell them to jump up here. Hurry. Do it.”
She tensed and began instead to move toward the door leading to the dining room. “
No
,” Doyle said, grabbing her arm and spinning her toward the door to the corridor. “I’m going in there. You stay out of there.
Go
.”
Celia ran out the kitchen. Doyle again heard the angry male voice from the other side of the kitchen door. He took off his sport coat, ripped off his tie, and took a deep breath before he burst through the kitchen door into the dark living room.
***
Doyle charged toward where Bob sat in his wheelchair. The hooded figure in front of Bob turned and shone the flashlight in his face. Doyle straightened up for an instant, blinded by the light, arm shielding his eyes. Denny Shannon, coming at him in a rush from behind, delivered a crushing karate kick to the middle of Doyle’s back. He fell face forward onto the carpet, the breath knocked almost completely out of him, pain ripping through him. He tried to move but couldn’t. “Who the fuck is that?” Lucarelli said. Shannon laughed. “That’s a fucking failed rescuer.” He stepped back to get his balance set, then kicked Doyle in the ribs.
Suddenly all of the ceiling lights in the living room went on. Lucarelli and Shannon saw standing at the far end of the room, next to the light panel, pink housecoat pulled tightly around her small frame, an outraged Fidelia Rizal. “You, you men,” she spat, “get away from Mr. Zaslow.” What about me, Doyle wanted to say, but he still hadn’t gotten enough air in his lungs to produce a syllable.
Lucarelli started moving toward the little nurse when she reached for a button next to the light panel. She pressed it and immediately a loud alarm buzzer began blasting through the building. Shannon, panicked, stumbled toward the door to the roof. He said to Lucarelli, “I’m fucking out of here, man.” Lucarelli looked wildly around the living room, pounding the flashlight into his left palm. His face was flushed, his breathing harsh. The meth rode through him like an electric current. Then he pivoted and ran for the doorway to the rooftop, Shannon hustling away in front of him. Still immobilized on the carpet, Doyle heard pounding footsteps from the interior of the building, Celia’s voice above them, urging the security guards to “
Hurry. Please hurry
.”
Wally Farnsworth, the first security guard into the apartment, was heading for the open rooftop door when he tripped over Doyle. Farnsworth, at two-hundred thirty pounds, some forty overweight, fell heavily onto the glass coffee table, shattering it. His partner, Kurt Borchers, stopped his pursuit to help Farnsworth to his feet. On all fours now, Doyle groaned audibly watching this scene.
Going down the fire escape much faster than they had ascended it, Lucarelli and Shannon reached the ground before the guard Borchers leaned over the edge of the roof above them, shouting, “Stop you two. Stop there.” Within seconds they had made it to the Taurus, were in it and moving, lights off, through the darkness of the large parking lot and toward the north exit of Monee Park.
Lucarelli drove fast and erratically, zooming around slower cars on the Dan Ryan, then tucking in between trucks heading to the city. His eyes flickered between the road and the car mirror for miles, until he was satisfied there was no pursuit. Shannon said, “Aiden, for chrissakes settle down. We don’t want to get stopped by no cop.”
There was no reply from Lucarelli until he had sped up the east bound ramp at Forty-seventh Street. Two blocks later he abruptly pulled over to the curb and shut off the motor. He said, “Hand me a Bud.”
Lucarelli gulped half the beer. “Riley’s not going to pay us a dime for tonight. Goddamit.” He finished the beer and crushed the can into a tight ball.
His cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID before saying to Riley, “She wasn’t even fucking there.”
Riley said, “I tried to call and tell you that. Called an hour ago. I’d just found out Celia was at a big birthday party down in the Turf Club. I was going to tell you to hold off for an hour or so. What the hell happened?”
“We broke into her apartment. Some gook nurse finds us trying to get word from the cripple where his wife is, turns on an alarm you could hear in Joliet. Some other dude comes charging at us out of the kitchen. Denny put him down good. But it was a fucking circus. Security guys chasing us over the roof. Where do get your so-called inside info from? We barely got out of there,” Lucarelli said, almost shouting now.
Riley said, “Well, it’s not my fault. I tried to call you. You didn’t answer.”
“No shit. You think I keep my cell phone on while we’re breaking and entering in the middle of the night?”
That silenced Riley for a few moments. He said, “I’ll get back to you in a day or two. We’ll have to try something else. You’ll never get close to Celia McCann after what happened tonight.” He hung up.