Close Call (22 page)
The two men sat quietly before Lucarelli, still fuming, could bring himself to tell Shannon what Riley had said. He reached for another beer. “You know what’s the fucking craziest part about what went on up there in that apartment?”
“What?”
Lucarelli said, “When I got pissed off up there and felt like smashing that crip’s face in, he gave me this weird look. It took me back. It was a look, like, well he wouldn’t
mind
me smashing in his head.”
Celia, Jack, Shontanette, and several dozen trainers, jockeys, and grooms were waiting outside Barn D when the Botzau Van Service vehicle arrived. It was right on time, but Tom Eckrosh looked impatiently at his watch as the van’s driver-owner, Norm Botzau, jumped down from the cab. “Sorry, Mr. Eckrosh,” he said, “that traffic over there on the Ryan was….” Eckrosh cut him short. “You’re only a minute late, son. It’s all right.”
Doyle glanced at his watch, 8:31. Not enough hours for him after last night’s excitement. He had forced himself out of bed and into a hot shower before he felt even comfortable enough to get dressed. The area of his back where he’d been kicked by one of the two assailants felt as if it had been hit by a sledge hammer. His bruised ribs were painful, though not as bad as his back. He grimaced as he thought of the thwarted attack, how close the two men had come to doing serious damage to Bob, Celia, and Fidelia.
The long blue and white Botzau van contained stalls for eight horses. Seven were already inside, some pawing with their feet, shuffling about, others peering out curiously from the screened windows. All seven heads turned when Maria Martinez led Rambling Rosie out of the barn to the back of the van. Botzau quickly lowered the ramp. The little chestnut filly walked up it sure footedly, her head high, as if she were ascending a familiar staircase. Maria settled Rosie in the only empty stall and remained at her head, patting her and talking softly and soothingly in Spanish. Rosie laid her head on Maria’s shoulder.
Tom Eckrosh said, “You got a full load in there?”
“Yes, sir,” Botzau replied. “The other seven all belong to that Calabrese fella who races over at Heartland Downs. That good filly of his, Satin Maiden, runs in the Juvenile Fillies’ on Breeders’ Cup Day. Mr. Calabrese plans to run the others at Churchill the day before the Cup.”
Botzau nimbly jumped up into the driver’s seat and closed the cab door. Squinting up at Botzau in the morning sunlight, Eckrosh said, “Well, I hope you know who your number one passenger is. You take good care of my filly.”
Botzau was insulted. “That’s the second time today I’ve gotten that advice,” he said. “First, my wife Nan says to me early this morning before I left home, ‘Norm, take good care of Rambling Rosie. She’s a real favorite of mine.’ As if I’m not careful of
all
the horses I van,” he huffed. He settled behind the wheel, muttering, “I’ve been getting them back and forth, safe and sound, for twenty-two years.”
Celia stepped forward and gave Eckrosh a peck on the cheek. “Enjoy every minute of it, Tom,” she said. “You deserve it.”
The old trainer blushed. He looked at Doyle, who gave him a thumbs up, and at Shontanette, who was waving her goodbye. Botzau called down from the cab, “You riding up here with me, Mr. Eckrosh?”
“Sure am,” Eckrosh said. “My groom Maria will stay back there with Rosie.” He carried his battered suitcase around to the passenger’s side and pulled himself up into the seat.
***
Walking back to the offices, Celia said, “A horsemen’s representative will be waiting for Tom at Churchill. Tom’s all set up with a motel room near the track. Maria insisted on staying in the barn, near Rosie. Tom said there was no talking her out of it.”
Doyle said, “I’m sure they’ll all be fine. From all I’ve heard, the Churchill Downs people know what they’re doing. And, Rosie’s getting to be kind of a big name.”
“Partly thanks to you, Jack,” Celia said. “Amen,” added Shontanette, “mainly thanks to you.” The women were walking on each side of him. Doyle glanced from the grinning Celia to the trying-to-look serious Shontanette, recognizing they were watching for his reaction, like conspiring school girls teasing a callow male friend.
“You two should be ashamed of yourselves,” Doyle said, “trying to yank the chain of a man trained to yank chains.”
The three were laughing as they approached the Monee Park clubhouse entrance. When Jack saw Karl Mortenson waiting for them, the smile froze on his face. Mortenson greeted Celia and Shontanette before Doyle took the Security chief by the elbow and said, “I need to ask you something. Those clowns that supposedly came to our rescue last night, where did you get them?”
Mortenson’s expression darkened. “Those are two of my veteran guards. I know they didn’t handle things right last night, but, hell, it was
you
that Farnsworth stumbled over. He’s not the nimblest guy, you know. But what do you expect for minimum wage? James Bond? Jackie Chan?”
“I’d expect somebody who could pick up his damn feet,” Doyle shot back. Mortenson, glowering, nodded to the women, then stalked off. Celia said, “That was kind of harsh, Jack.” Shontanette, frowning, murmured something about minimum wage, but Doyle didn’t take notice as they continued walking. He was still steamed, his back hurt, and his ribs pained him every time he took a deep breath.
In his office minutes later, Doyle again found himself regretting his decision not to accompany Eckrosh to Louisville. As he’d said to Celia, “That old guy hasn’t raced outside of Illinois since his boyhood. I worry about him handling himself down there with those hardboots.”
“I wouldn’t worry, Jack,” Celia had replied. “Tom has seen about everything there is to see in racing. And remembered all of it.”
Doyle had reluctantly reasoned that it was his primary duty to remain at Monee Park and do everything he could to make its Breeders’ Cup Day program—four live races, eight with simulcast coverage from Churchill Downs—the biggest of the year. He had designated almost all of his remaining advertising budget to the process. Some of the buzz he was trying to create actually had carried over to him. Doyle was excited about Rambling Rosie’s chances, pumped up about what he was sure would be a big Breeders’ Cup day at Monee. After assigning Morty his morning tasks, Doyle poured himself a cup of coffee and called Moe Kellman.
“Any chance we could have dinner tonight, Moe?”
“Sorry, Jack. I’ve got some out of towners coming in for a look at our fall line of furs. They’re big hitters. I’ve got to be here for them.”
Doyle was disappointed but didn’t say so. He perked up when Kellman said, “Your publicity campaign seems to be going great. I’ve heard Monee Park mentioned more in the last few weeks than in the previous five years combined.”
“Yeah, well, when you’ve got a great story like Rambling Rosie, it makes it a lot easier to get coverage. Are you going to bet her, Moe? I think she’s a cinch to upset that field. She’s been training like a wild horse. Believe me, old Tom Eckrosh has got her sitting on ready.”
There was a brief silence before Kellman said, “Jack, be careful you don’t get carried away. You’re real close to this story. I know you like that horse and her people. Your judgment may be a bit influenced by that.”
Doyle said, “Hell, it’s not just my judgment. All the sharpies, the speed boys, have got Rosie near the top of their lists. She’s the wiseguy horse of this Breeders’ Cup. I’m telling you, Moesy, we pound it in on Rosie, we’ll be farting through silk.”
Kellman said, “Some of us already are.” There was a pause before he said, “Did I ever tell you about my brother-in-law Barney, the tailor?”
“No. You told me about Pincus the tailor, the guy who hustled the twins who were rabbis. Same guy?”
“No relation. That was Itzak Pincus, a real
shmuck.
I’m talking about Barney Passman, my sister Sarah’s husband.”
“Okay. What about Barney the tailor?”
“Barney had a shop on the west side, out near old Harthorne Park. One fall years ago, about a week before the big Harthorne Derby, a bunch of jockeys come in to his shop. They’ve all decided they want to get measured for new tuxedos to wear to the big dinner-dance the night of the Derby, a strictly black tie affair. There were seven, eight of them. Barney takes all their measurements, tells them their orders will be ready the day before the dinner-dance. Then he tells them how much each one owes him, saying they’ve got to pay in advance.
“Seven of the eight reach into their pockets and pull out a couple of hundred bucks each and pay him on the spot. The eighth is a guy named Sandy McCreary, who was Harthorne’s leading jockey at the time. He’s just made a whopping alimony payment and he’s nearly out of cash. He says to Barney, ‘I’ll pay you the day after the Harthorne Derby.’
“Barney looks at McCreary, shaking his head ‘no.’ McCreary says, ‘But listen, I’m riding the huge favorite in the Derby. The horse can’t lose. I’ll have the money for you the next day.’
“Barney just looks at him. ‘Can’t lose?’ he says to McCreary. ‘They gotta run around, don’t they?’
“Guess what? McCreary’s horse runs fourth. He went to the dinner-dance in a sport coat and slacks and tried to crash the door. They threw him out.
“They gotta run around, Jack. Remember that,” Kellman said.
Looking up at one of the dozens of television screens on Monee Park’s jam-packed first floor, Doyle grinned as he saw Rambling Rosie being walked around the expansive Churchill Downs paddock by Maria Martinez. Fans crowded against the paddock fence at the Louisville track, eager to see up close the starters in the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. The paddock was crowded with owners, trainers, members of the press, breeders, and racing officials. In the middle of them stood Tom Eckrosh. He was the oldest person in the assemblage and the only man not wearing a sport coat, or suit and tie. To Doyle’s delight, the old trainer had on pressed khakis and a blue windbreaker whose large white lettering on the back read Monee Park. His familiar gray fedora was pulled down low on his forehead.
“Loyalty can be a beautiful thing,” Doyle said. A man standing to his right gave him a startled look, then returned his attention to the
Racing Daily
, the margins of which he had filled with enough mysterious looking hieroglyphics, notations, and markings to qualify it for the wall of a pharaoh’s tomb.
Twelve minutes remained before the start of the Breeders’ Cup Sprint, one of the most eagerly awaited events on American racing’s biggest annual afternoon, one that saw purses for the eight races exceed a total of $12 million. The six-furlong, $2 million Sprint was almost invariably exciting, competitive, and extremely difficult to handicap, thus making it one of the most attractive betting races on the program. It frequently produced longshot winners. That made Doyle feel good.
Rambling Rosie was one of twelve horses entered in the event and the only filly or mare. Her current odds were 45-1. Most bettors obviously didn’t have much faith in female sprinters, especially one hailing from Monee Park. As Maria continued to lead her around the circular paddock path, Doyle saw that Rosie was easily the smallest of the entrants. This didn’t seem to deter her, however. Rosie had her ears pricked and she was looking with interest at her larger male rivals, occasionally buck jumping for a stride or two, as if to say, “Check me out, boys, I’m ready to roll.”
Doyle neared Madame Fran’s booth on his way to the betting window. He smiled at her, pointing with appreciation toward the long line of customers who awaited her wisdom. Fran motioned him over. She whispered, “Rosie? Bet her to place.” Doyle was affronted. “I only bet to win,” he said. Madame Fran leaned closer to him, her plump forearms on the table. She paused to give her turban a quick adjustment before saying, with new emphasis, “Jack, Rosie’s a huge price. Every vibe coming to me screams out ‘bet her to place.’”
***
“Easy, easy,
mi pequeno
,” Ramon Garcia said. He wasn’t the only man talking to a horse behind the Churchill Downs starting gate. Many of the other eleven riders were muttering to their mounts as the gate crew members began ushering them into the iron stalls that were barely large enough to contain these thousand pound creatures. Garcia could feel Rosie tense up beneath him. He knew that feeling. She was marshalling all the strength she possessed in order to propel herself forward once the bell rang. The first couple of times he’d ridden her in races, Ramon had nearly been thrown off when caught unawares by her explosiveness. Now, he knew to be prepared.
In the gate, Garcia looked to his right. He saw Larry Porter, still the leading rider at Heartland Downs who’d been brought in today to ride Moseby’s Man in the Sprint. Garcia nodded at Porter, and Porter nodded back. There was no “welcome to the big leagues” from Porter this time. Porter knew what Rambling Rosie could do. He eyed her respectfully before dropping his goggles down over his eyes.
Prior to his third ride on Rosie, Garcia had overheard a rival trainer say to his jockey, “Eckrosh’s filly comes out of there like she’s got a firecracker up her ass.” Garcia’s command of English at the time was such that he found the statement somewhat baffling. But, the way it was said, he was pretty sure it was a reflection of respect. And now he understood what it meant.
***
Doyle stuck his head in Shontanette’s office doorway. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “It’s getting close to post time for the Sprint.” They walked up the flight of stairs to join Celia, Bob, and Fidelia in the living room of the penthouse apartment.
Four of them sat. Doyle paced back and forth as the host of the television show said, “And there’s the sensational filly Rambling Rosie, winner of ten straight races in the Midwest, one of the bargain buys of recent racing history. Her venerable owner-trainer Tom Eckrosh picked her up at an obscure sale in southern Illinois for $2,700. Since then she’s earned more than $350,000 and today tries for a winner’s share of $1,000,000 in the prestigious Breeders’ Cup Sprint. Young Midwest jockey Ramon Garcia is her rider. For Garcia, a native of Mexico, this is his first appearance in a Breeders’ Cup race.”
Turning to the show’s handicapping expert, the host said, “Bill, I see that Rambling Rosie is 45-1 on the odds board. What kind of chance does Rosie have in here?” Bill could barely conceal a sneer as he replied, “She’ll be inhaled and spit out by these major league sprinters in here. Hers has been a nice, heart-warming story all right. But it’s going to have a disappointing chapter today,” predicted the man who thus far this afternoon had not picked even one horse that had finished in the money.
“What an asshole,” Doyle said. “Whoops, excuse me, ladies.” The look in Bob Zaslow’s eyes indicated he agreed wholeheartedly with Doyle. Celia, concentrating on the television screen, took no notice of either of them. She said, “Gosh, Rosie does look awfully small compared to those other horses. I hope she doesn’t get banged around and hurt.”
At 3:47 p.m., Churchill Downs’ starter Harry Schwartz pressed the button that opened the doors of the massive starting gate. Out of post No. 6 shot a chestnut blur, Ramon Garcia pumping his hands on her neck for a few strides, then settling down in the saddle, head lowered, as Rambling Rosie went to where she loved to be—on the lead. Before she’d run forty yards, Rosie was two lengths in front of her nearest pursuer. It was an explosive beginning that brought gasps from the huge Churchill Downs crowd.
Head down, legs churning, Rosie rocketed on as Garcia guided her five paths over toward the inner rail. Rosie quickly extended her advantage to three lengths as she zipped down the backstretch. She appeared to be running easily, well within herself. “Jesus,” Doyle said, hands sweating now, “look at her go. She’s running their legs off.” Celia watched through fingers spliced over her eyes, her lips moving silently. Shontanette was pounding her fist on the arm of her chair, intoning, “Go, girl. Go.” Bob attempted to turn his head to better see the screen. Fidelia quickly positioned his chair to give him a better view.
Some eight lengths behind the flying Rambling Rosie, the race’s heavy favorite, Socks in Four, stumbled badly, his shoulder hitting the inside rail. His rider, standing straight up in the stirrups, managed to pull him up. He didn’t appear to be seriously injured, but Socks in Four was out of it.
Track announcer Trevor Durkin’s excitement was coming through to the Churchill crowd and the large television audience. “Rambling Rosie is running the race of her life,” he exclaimed. “She’s four lengths in front as she rounds the turn for home.”
The crowd erupted as Rosie curved into the long Churchill Downs stretch, Garcia sitting chilly. She flicked her tail once, then again, and came two paths off the rail. Garcia glanced back and then shook the reins at her. He could feel her beginning to tire slightly. “She’s now three lengths in front with an eighth of a mile to go,” Durkin shouted.
Doyle moved a couple of steps closer to the television. “Hang on, Rosie,” he said. “Hang on baby.” On the left part of the screen he could see two horses begin to detach themselves from the pack trailing the chestnut leader. “Mike the Dude swings to the outside,” Durkin reported, “and that’s Loyal Luke coming up the rail.” Jack felt his stomach begin to knot. Celia still couldn’t bring herself to look directly at the screen.
Inside the sixteenth pole, it was obvious that Rambling Rosie was getting extremely leg weary from her earlier efforts. She again swished her tail, always a sign of fatigue, then bore out slightly toward the center of the track. But she would not quit. Garcia moved his hands on her neck, and the little filly dropped her head, pinned her ears back, and dug in gamely.
It wasn’t quite enough. In the shadow of the wire, Mike the Dude swept past her on the outside to win by a half length. To her left, Loyal Luke also closed with a rush, but Rosie held him off by a nose. The remainder of the field trailed in far behind this trio. Mike the Dude’s winning time was a new Breeders’ Cup Sprint record of 1:08.
Doyle, who had been waving his left hand at the television as if he could somehow push Rosie to the finish line, let out a whoosh of air. He shook his head in dismay. “Damn,” he said. “So close. So close.” He threw his track program down on the coffee table. “If only Rosie could have hung in for three more strides for that crabby old man. And for Maria.”
Celia, on her feet now, her face alight, said, “Jack, what are you talking about? That little filly ran the race of her life. Rosie finished in front of ten of the best sprinters in the world. The one that beat her set a track record.” The television camera fastened on Rosie, who had trotted to the path near the winner’s circle that led back to the stable area. She was greeted with a kiss on the nose from Maria. As she attached the shank to Rosie’s bridle, Maria beamed. Ramon Garcia, his chest puffing almost as hard as his exhausted mount’s, grinned down at Maria. Then Tom Eckrosh joined them, his craggy old face split by a wide smile.
“So that’s what a curmudgeon looks like when he’s happy,” Doyle laughed.
“Jack,” Celia said, “second money in that race was worth $425,000. That’s more than Tom Eckrosh makes in many, many years of training his little stable. This is the biggest score of his life. Look at them,” she said, gesturing at the screen, “Tom and Maria and Ramon, they look like they’ve won three lotteries!”
Doyle concentrated on the television screen that was now displaying the payoffs on the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. As the longest shot in the field, Rambling Rosie returned $42.40 to place. Doyle whistled. He patted his right pants pocket, making sure that his $100 place ticket was there.
“Well,” he said, “the drinks are on me. And dinner, too. And,” he added, “I better go downstairs and invite Madame Fran to join us. I owe her for her good advice about this race.”
***
It was 10:00 p.m. in Ireland when the results of the Breeders’ Cup Sprint became official. At the Hanratty’s home outside Kinsale, Niall muted the television set. The Hanrattys, along with thousands of others in their horse-loving nation, had watched the race with great interest. Sheila’s face was still flushed from the effort she’d made in cheering on Rambling Rosie. “Oh, isn’t she the brave little creature,” she said to her husband. “I love to see a fine little filly like that do so well.”
Her husband’s reaction to the Sprint result was decidedly mixed. He’d profited by thousands of Euros bet on Rambling Rosie to win by sentimental, root for the underdog Irish fans. And he couldn’t help but admire Rambling Rosie’s amazing effort in nearly pulling off a major upset. At the same time, the filly’s now internationally known ties to Monee Park would not, he understood, be in his best interests in the least.
“The Mile Turf race is coming up, Niall,” Sheila reminded. “Turn the sound back on, please. Who do you fancy in this?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. Hanratty handed the remote control to his wife. “I’ll be taking a little walk down on the beach, now, Sheila,” he said. “I’ve got some thinking to do. Record the next race for me, will you?”