Close Call (23 page)
One of thoroughbred racing’s all-time great trainers, the late Hall of Famer Charlie Whittingham, often remarked of the talented horses he dealt with, “They’re like strawberries. They can spoil on you overnight.”
That truism hit Tom Eckrosh hard on the Tuesday following the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. Back at Monee Park after their van ride from Louisville, he had sent Rambling Rosie out for a mile and a half maintenance gallop under exercise rider Judy Baeza. The filly had left the barn kicking and squealing, feeling and looking great. She returned seventeen minutes later obviously lame in her left fore.
Doyle learned of the injury when he called Eckrosh to ask if he planned to run Rosie any more this season. In the post-Breeders’ Cup euphoria, there had been mention of possibly shipping her to Maryland for a sprint stakes to close out her campaign. Eckrosh had told representatives of the eastern track he would “consider it.” Now, it was a moot point.
“Rosie’s got a hoof abscess,” Eckrosh told Doyle. The disappointment in the old trainer’s voice was evident. “She’s pretty lame. No, it’s not life threatening by any means. I’ve got Doc Jensen working on her. He’s the best vet here.”
Doyle said, “Well, I better put out a press release. Tell me, what causes something like this?”
“She must have stepped on something sharp that went through the hoof wall. Then something got worked up in there, maybe gravel, a pebble, who knows? It’s an abscess in the real sensitive part of her hoof. Doc Jensen cleaned the hoof and drained it. But she’s still plenty sore. We’ve got to watch it close so an infection doesn’t come back.”
Eckrosh sighed. “You know,” he said, “at first I was feeling pretty down when this happened, thinking, hell, Rosie’s at the top of her game. Why does this have to happen now? But the more I thought on it, the less I felt that way. She just ran the race of her life and made me a pot load of money. What have I got to complain about, Jack?”
“How long will this take to heal?”
“Doc Jensen thinks he’ll get it cleaned up in a few days. It’s a good thing it was spotted early. He bandaged her foot and put a pad on it to help protect it. He says the hoof shouldn’t develop a crack, even though there’s always that possibility. I’ve seen it happen.”
Doyle was relieved. He said, “So, Rosie can race again, right?”
Eckrosh hesitated before saying softly, “She could. But she won’t.”
“Why not? I mean, you could even give her the rest of the year off, then bring her back in the spring.”
“Oh, I could all right,” Eckrosh said. “But I won’t. I figure Rosie has done all for me that I’ve got any right to expect. I’m going to retire her. I don’t want to take any chances with her getting hurt again. Next spring, I’ll have her bred to a good stud down in Kentucky.”
“Well, shoot, Tom, I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyle said. And he was, not only because he’d become a big fan of the sensational filly, but also because Monee Park’s most famous name was about to be removed from the public eye. “I’ll get a press release out this morning.” Then another thought struck him. “Tom, would Rosie be able to walk down the track some night in a week or two?”
“Sure,” the trainer said. “If Doc Jensen is right, and he usually is, she probably could even be ready for some light exercise by then.”
“How about having Rosie just parade before the stands between races? Could you do that as a favor to me? And Celia? And Monee Park?”
Eckrosh said, “What have you got in mind, Jack?”
***
Farewell to Rambling Rosie Night was officially announced at a noon press conference at Monee Park the following day. Lured by the promise of a free lunch and open bar, representatives of all the area’s major and minor media outlets showed up in droves to listen to Doyle unveil the plans.
“Rosie has done so much to put Monee Park on the map again that we want to show our appreciation for her, and to her fans,” Doyle said, speaking from behind a microphone to the group assembled in the Turf Club. “Our Farewell will feature free admission and parking a week from Saturday afternoon. Along with $1 hot dogs and beers and sodas, and a free color photo of Rosie, autographed by Tom Eckrosh, for every patron.
“In addition, Rosie will make her final racetrack appearance between the seventh and eighth races when she is paraded, under tack and with jockey Ramon Garcia aboard, down our homestretch. We urge all of Rosie’s many fans to come out that afternoon, bring their cameras and video recorders, and say goodbye to this amazing filly.”
After his statement, Doyle fielded several questions. One came from Buzz Alterhoff, a veteran reporter for a chain of suburban weeklies who never, ever missed an event like this. With a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, third Bloody Mary in the other, Alterhoff said combatively, “Exactly how is Monee Park managing this? The free admission, cut rate prices? I thought the track was in financial trouble. Isn’t that why you guys want slots here?”
“Yes, that’s why we want slots,” Doyle replied. “But sometimes you have to spend money to make money.” He dearly wanted to add, “Something you wouldn’t know about, Buzz, you freeloading freak,” but instead said, “We expect to draw an all-time record crowd on Rosie’s Farewell Night. We’ll have a complete line of souvenirs for sale. And we’re hoping for a record high betting night, too. Does that answer your question, Buzz?”
Buzz, however, had already turned away and was pushing people aside on his way back to the buffet table.
***
Clips of the press conference were shown on the WGN-TV nine o’clock news that night, a favorite show of the Haller’s crowd, who always perked up at the appearance of the long legged lady who read the winning lottery numbers. Lucarelli interrupted his harangue about the quality of the White Sox pitching staff when he heard the words Monee Park. He nudged Shannon and pointed up at the television screen, where Doyle was shown speaking. “Hey,” Shannon said excitedly, “isn’t that the sucker I flattened out there that night? Looks like him.”
“Cool it, man,” Lucarelli said, grabbing Shannon’s elbow. “Not so damn loud. Yeah, I think that’s him all right.” When the Monee Park segment was over, they picked up their beers, grinning at each other.
Fifteen miles to the north, Art Riley sat in the den of his Wilmette home, sipping an Old Fashioned and watching the same newscast. He put his drink down and leaned forward when he saw Doyle on the screen, a huge Monee Park banner behind him. As the sports anchor switched from this horse racing story to hockey scores, Riley shut off the television and picked up his phone. Seconds later, Lucarelli’s cell began to ring.
Barry Hoy didn’t like what he saw when he entered Niall Hanratty’s Kinsale office early on the Monday after the Breeders’ Cup. The look on his boss’ face was one that Hoy, Hanratty’s driver and chief bodyguard for more than ten years, had rarely seen. But Hoy remembered it when he saw it. He knew it did not bode well for someone. This feeling was reinforced when Hoy saw Hanratty’s business manager, Tony Rourke, busying himself at a computer over in the corner of the office, back turned, striving for invisibility. It was a gloomy morning following a rain-drenched night in Kinsale. The mood in Hanratty’s office reflected the day’s weather conditions.
Hanrattty twirled a ballpoint pen in one hand while tapping the fingers of the other on his desk. He grunted a greeting for Hoy, motioning for him to take a seat. It was several more tense and silent minutes before Hanratty threw the pen down on the desk. He said, “I’ve just been talking to your man in the States. Mr. Art ‘I’ll Take Care of Everything’ Riley. Who’s turned out to be a sparrow fart of the first order.”
“What’s gone on?” Hoy said.
“These gobshites Riley has working for him have messed up again. After nearly getting caught trying to set a fire, Riley, without consulting me, dispatched them to scare the bejesus out of cousin Celia. They broke into her home at night, early on the week of the Breeders’ Cup. Riley just now got his courage up to tell me about it. His plan was for them to terrorize her and her husband a bit. Didn’t happen. His goons got chased out of there by some little Asian nurse who surprised them and set off the alarm. My great friend Mr. Doyle evidently stumbled on the scene and took a larruping. I could hardly believe what Riley was telling me.
“And that’s not all. Riley, he says to me, ‘Well, we’re not done yet. There’s another avenue to be explored.’”
“‘An avenue to be explored?’ I say. ‘Sure, and haven’t you and your two buffoons fucked up at every turn in the road so far?’
“Well, Riley says, ‘I’m thinking we could join forces with this local anti-gambling preacher. I’ve had exploratory talks with the man, Reverend Wardell Simpkins. A contribution sent to his Christians Against Betting organization could help turn up the heat against the slot machine bill. A sizeable contribution,’ Riley says, ‘to be funneled through him.’
“It was at that point,” Hanratty said, “that I hung up on Attorney Riley. The man must be cracked. Honest to God, how little that idjit must think of us over here.”
Hanratty swiveled his chair so he could activate his answering machine. “That isn’t all,” he said. “This message was waiting for me this morning. From none other than our Mr. Doyle. Listen to this now.”
Hoy perched on the edge of Hanratty’s desk. O’Rourke, head down and clicking away at his computer keys over in the corner, had evidently already heard it. Hanratty leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. They heard Doyle say brightly, “Top of the morning to you, Niall. This is Jack Doyle, calling from Monee Park, where a couple of bozos tried, and failed, to do some nasty damage last week. Some kind of damage designed to encourage Celia to sell the track, I presume.”
Doyle’s voice grew softer as he continued, taking on an almost reflective tone. “Niall, as you may remember, I’m a serious jazz fan. We discussed jazz during my visit over there. Well, just last Sunday, I was listening to public radio here, the Marian McPartland show, one of the things I look forward to every week. She’s in her eighties now, but she still can play and has great guests on her program.
“Here’s the part of that show that interested me,” Doyle continued. “Marian was about to play ‘Jitterbug Waltz,’ a Fats Waller tune, when she told a little story about Fats. Seems a friend of hers, another professional musician, years ago had signed up for a lesson from Fats. Her friend was good, but he wanted to get better.
“So, he goes to Fats’ house one afternoon, sits down at the piano, and Fats says to him, ‘Play something.’ The guy plays maybe five, six minutes, one of his best numbers. When he finishes the song, he looks expectantly at Fats. Waller looks at him and says, ‘I wouldn’t do it that way no more.’
“The guy is puzzled, but he turns back to the keyboard and rips off another one of his favorites, playing his ass off for about ten minutes. He stops, and Fats says, ‘I wouldn’t do it that way no more.’ Then Fats got up and left the room.”
There was a pause on the tape. Then they heard Doyle say, “You’re probably sitting there now, Niall, thinking, ‘What the hell is he telling me this story for?’ I can picture you. I wouldn’t be surprised if your blood pressure wasn’t on the leap.”
Another pause, before Doyle, speaking more forcefully, said, “Regarding what’s been going on over here at Monee Park, these attempts to disrupt, and frighten, and thwart, well in the words of the great Mr. Waller, ‘I wouldn’t do it that way no more.’ Are ya hearin’ me now?” Doyle said loudly, attempting his version of a brogue before banging down the phone.
Hanratty stood up and walked over to the window. Looking out, he said, “How would you like a trip to the States, Barry?”
“Any time, boss. Any time.”
Hanratty turned back and placed his hands on the desk. Leaning forward, eyes boring into Hoy’s, he said, “I made a mistake using Riley. I believed his crock of bullshit about knowing ‘how to handle things.’ It was careless on my part. And careless usually has some kind of hefty price tag.”
He took his suit coat off the back of the chair. “Bring the car around, will you, Barry?” To O’Rourke he said, “I’ll be staying up in Dun Laoghaire until we leave for the States. You’ll be in charge of business when I’m gone. Run it like you own it, Tony.”
O’Rourke said, “No worries, Niall. Travel well.”
Hoy drove rapidly north on the N11 to Dublin. Near the outskirts of the city, he heard Hanratty say, “Barry, go to the passport office, on Molesworth Street. You know it?”
“I do.”
“You’ve got your own, now?”
“Got it last summer. When me and the missus went on holiday to Portugal.”
Hanratty would be getting his first passport. Earlier that morning, he’d inquired and been told that it would take a week to obtain and would be good for a stay of up to ninety days in the United States. He wouldn’t be there anywhere near that long.
Looking out the window at the Wicklow Mountains, Hanratty said, “Who knew it’d take a crisis like this to get me onto the passport list?”
Marge Duffy took a final swipe at the wet bar surface with the sodden towel. It was 4:46 o’clock on Thursday afternoon. Her feet were killing her, her back had tightened up, her calves were aching. Fourteen minutes yet remained in Marge’s Haller’s Pub shift. She recalled, not for the first time, what her father, a retired printer, had told her years ago. “Anybody who works on their feet for eight hours a day is going to get varicose veins. Like me. Like your mother.” Marge thought of her late mother, who had worked behind the perfume counter at Marshall Field’s department store for more than thirty years. Just the thought of that made her legs ache even more.
There was a burst of raucous laughter from a corner table. Marge reacted with disgust. Aiden Lucarelli and Denny Shannon had been at the table for nearly three hours, drinking, making fun of most of the other customers, many of whom had reacted by departing early, thereby cutting into Marge’s modest tip money. In the mirror she watched Lucarelli pat his jacket pocket, then get to his feet and walk rapidly to the men’s room, announcing in a loud voice, “Time to empty the monster.” An hour earlier, it had been “Time to drain the snake.” Both macho expressions elicited appreciative laughter from Shannon.
Marge figured Lucarelli was lighting himself up with something on these trips to the toilet, for both times he had emerged looking puffed up, face red, eyes blazing. She figured he was on crystal meth, the current drug of choice among the neighborhood’s low lifers. “All it does is make that asshole an even bigger asshole,” she muttered. An hour earlier, when Marge had come around from behind the bar to deliver Lucarelli’s order of buffalo wings, he’d taken the opportunity to run his hand over her ass as she bent forward with the platter. She had to place the food down before she could dodge away from him, see the smirk on his face. “Ever do that again, I’ll cut your fucking hand off,” she’d snarled. Lucarelli threw his head back, roaring with laughter. Shannon slapped the table with glee. “Oh, ain’t you one tough bitch,” Lucarelli gasped as Marge returned to her post behind the bar. “Hey, Marge,” he’d urged, “ease up. You’re too cute to be so mean.”
His latest meth infusion had really revved up Lucarelli’s engine. Within minutes he was talking so loudly Marge could hear him above the drone of the early WGN-TV news. He had his hand on Shannon’s forearm, gripping it tightly. “And Riley says we’ve got to do this right. We do, he’ll double our money.” Shannon said something Marge could not hear. Lucarelli said, “What we’re going to do? We’re going to ruin that fucking famous horse they got out there. Rambler something. Before the weekend. Riley’s going to get us all set up with….” Lucarelli suddenly stopped, looked around the bar room, then leaned toward Shannon and whispered to him for nearly a minute. Then he sat back in his chair, chest out, empty beer pitcher in hand. “And that’s the fucking plan, my man,” he said. Lucarelli looked over at Marge. “How about some fucking service over here, Beautiful?”
Marge ignored him. She said, “Hi, Jimmy,” to the night bartender who was starting to tie on his white apron. “Jerko over there needs you,” she added. Jimmy knew who she meant.
Minutes later, sitting in her rust-riddled nine-year-old Chevy Nova in Haller’s parking lot, Marge was still seething. She was so sick of those two, especially Lucarelli. As she reached into her purse for her keys, there was knock on the driver’s side window. She turned to see the concerned face of old Donal Cochran, a Haller’s fixture and one of her favorite customers. A longtime widower, Cochran appeared at Haller’s promptly at one every day and nursed three tap beers through the afternoon, this routine for many years comprising the bulk of his social life. Marge rolled down the window.
“Marge, what’s wrong?” Cochran said.
“Ah, Donal, you know how it is. Every once in awhile those two freaks in there really, really get to me. I don’t know why I let them, but they do.”
“They should have been barred from the place years ago,” Cochran said.
“They’re a couple of animals,” Marge agreed. “Speaking of which,” she said, then hesitated before going on to tell Donal what she had overheard Lucarelli saying. The old man’s face grew somber as he listened. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Is there nothing those young scumbags won’t do? You’ve got to tell somebody about this.”
Marge shook her head. “No, sir, Donal. Not me. I don’t want to get involved. I’m afraid they’d find out if I did. And you know what happens to people who cross them.” She patted the old man’s hand and started her engine. “I’ve got to get home,” she said. “My baby sitter’s got to leave. See you tomorrow, Donal. Take care.”
Cochran watched her drive onto Halsted and turn left. He was disappointed in her, but he understood. Marge was a single mother with obligations and half a lifetime in front of her. He, of course, was not similarly encumbered.
As he began his three block walk home, Donal’s shoulders straightened and he started moving briskly. Once in his house, he went directly to the phone and dialed 411, saying, “That racetrack, Monee Park.”
***
Celia immediately called Doyle that night after the first race. “Can you please come up to the apartment? It’s important.” When he arrived, Celia ushered him into the dining room, where Bob sat in his wheelchair. Karl Mortenson nodded curtly at Doyle, who gave the Security chief an equally cool glance. Shontanette smiled a greeting as Celia began to speak.
“It’s hard to believe, considering all that we’ve gone through already this meeting,” Celia said, “but it appears we’ve got another major challenge facing us. I’m going to let Karl tell you about it.”
Mortenson reached forward, hand poised above a tape recorder. “The message I’m going to play came into our office about an hour ago. I didn’t receive it, it went to our switchboard operator, who was smart enough to record it and call Celia right away. Unfortunately, our operator didn’t check the Caller ID. Celia immediately called me at home, and I came right over. She thought all of you should hear this, too.” He turned on the tape. They listened to a man, probably an old man, Doyle thought, speaking rapidly, determinedly.
I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Who I am isn’t important. What you should know is there is a couple of young toughs from my neighborhood…never mind where…that plan to hurt that famous racehorse you’ve got out there.
I don’t know why. I don’t know when, but I think in the next few days. These are two vicious little bastards, that I guarantee you. I know their names, but I can’t give them to you. We don’t grass, even on people like that, down here…never mind where that is.
Descriptions, yeah, I’ll give you those. They’re both short, stocky, strong as bulls and
mean as snakes. One of them is half crazy half the time. The other one follows his lead
.
They’ve done some terrible things…but I won’t get into that.
That’s the best I can do for you. I’ve said enough. Except for….
But then the old man stopped. They heard him cough, sigh, and cut the phone connection.
Mortenson played the tape again. They listened even more intently. When it was finished, Celia got to her feet and strode over to the window. Doyle started to speak but held back, watching her face in the window’s reflection, her expression to his mind a beautiful combination of shock, anger, and determination. “This has got to be about Rambling Rosie,” Celia said. “But if this is for real, if what’s on the tape is true, what’s the point? Why would anyone want to hurt her? Unless it’s….”
Doyle said, “You’ve got it. It’s got to be those guys who’ve tried everything else they could to sabotage this race meeting. I’ve been banging the drums for Rambling Rosie Farewell Night, and we’ve gotten tremendous media coverage. Annette Ruffalo in group sales tells me we’ve got the largest list of reservations in years lined up for that day. Which, as you know, is less than forty-eight hours away.”
Doyle got to his feet. “Those bastards,” he snarled. “This’d be the lowest blow of all, trying to hurt Rosie. Jesus H. Christ.” He shook his head. “I’ve had some experience with stuff like that, people doing damage to horses. One of the men involved is dead, the others are in prison. The old man on the tape, what he’s saying is that these must be the same kind of scum.
Dammit
.”
He looked up when Fidelia came into the room carrying Bob’s medicine. They waited as Bob struggled to down the pills, his throat contracting. He raised a finger from the arm of his wheelchair, indicating he wanted to say something. Doyle could hardly make himself watch this tortured man as Fidelia angled his wheelchair so that he was facing Mortenson, eyes intense. In his jagged, halting voice Bob asked, “Well, Karl, what do you suggest we do?”
The Security chief squirmed to a position in his chair where he could address both Celia and her husband. He looked directly at them, not Doyle’s way.
Mortenson said, “Naturally, I’ll increase backstretch security, especially at Tom Eckrosh’s barn.” He frowned before adding, “You know, Celia, my budget is just about gone for this year and we’ve got a couple of weeks to go in the meeting. This calls for overtime, additional guards. That’ll eat up the rest of the budget.”
Doyle could hardly control himself. He said, “You can’t be talking about money in a situation like this. For god’s sakes, Karl, dig it up somewhere. That horse has got to be protected, as well as this track’s reputation. The single most valuable item on the grounds at Monee Park right now is Rambling Rosie. We’re looking to have eighteen, twenty thousand people out here Saturday for her farewell day. The revenues from that could keep this place afloat until the slots bill passes. But if somebody gets to that horse, stops that from happening, you can start tacking up the For Sale signs yourself. If you’ve got any money left for nails, that is.”
Mortenson turned an icy gaze Doyle’s way. “It’s not a question of me pinching pennies. It’s that I don’t have many left to pinch. That’s a fact.”
Celia said, “Jack, don’t be angry with Karl. He’s done a remarkable job on a budget twenty-five percent smaller than last year’s. We’ve had to lay off pari-mutuel clerks, people in concessions, in the restaurants. It’s been a nightmare. The security side has suffered, too.”
“The so-called security side,” Doyle said, “has failed to prevent a track robbery, an attempted arson, and a home invasion. If our defenses get any more ‘remarkable,’ we’ll be having seats stolen out from under the asses of people in the grandstand.”
Mortenson’s big fists clenched as he got to his feet. “Screw you, Doyle. If I had the money you spent on your failed trip to Ireland, I might have been able to properly secure this track.”
Celia rapped her empty coffee cup on the mahogany table. “Gentlemen, that’s enough. Enough! We don’t have time for that kind of thing. Let’s get back to Bob’s question.”
Doyle took a deep breath before saying, “Celia’s right. I apologize, Karl. I guess you’ve done your best under less than ideal conditions.” Mortenson nodded. He said, “All right. And you forget what I said about Ireland, too.”
The meeting broke up an hour later with the Rambling Rosie Defense Plan having been hammered out. Mortenson planned to call a general meeting of his security force, emphasizing the need for increased vigilance “at each and every hour,” as he put it. He promised to assign his best men to Tom Eckrosh’s barn, “twenty-four/seven on a revolving basis.” Doyle had suggested Eckrosh’s horses be moved to a different barn, but Celia vetoed that idea. “I’ve known Tom for years,” Celia said, “and he’s stayed in that barn every one of them, through backstretch floods and wind storms, you name it. He just refuses to move, and that’s it.”
“Put me down for the eight-p.m.-to-a. m. shifts both tonight and Friday,” Doyle said. “ I’ve had some experience protecting horses at night,” he added, “down in Kentucky.”
Celia said, “I never knew that. What was that about?”
“That’s a tale for another time,” he said. He got to his feet. “I need to drive home and get a change of clothes for my overnight duties. Celia, please call Eckrosh and tell him to expect me and some guards at his barn each of the next two nights. He’ll accept the intrusion if he knows it’s coming from you.” He said goodbye to Bob and Fidelia and walked out with Shontanette. In the corridor, she tugged at Jack’s sleeve and pulled him aside as Mortenson bustled past them, talking softly on his cell phone. Nodding in the direction of the security chief, Shontanette whispered, “Wait till he’s gone.”
When the elevator doors had closed behind Mortenson, Shontanette said, “This poor mouthing Karl keeps doing about his Security Department budget, it doesn’t ring true. I’ve reviewed the payroll records for the last few months. Something’s screwy.” She leaned back against the wall and dipped into her purse for a package of Marlboro Lites. “Don’t you dare tell Celia you saw this,” she said, lighting up. “She’s bought me about five packages of those nicotine patches. Honest to God, I’ve got myself down to a couple of cigarettes a day.” She puffed deeply, twice, smiling apologetically at Jack through her exhalations, snubbed out the cigarette, and tucked it into a small plastic zip loc bag that went back in her purse.
Doyle said, “What do you mean about something screwy in the Security payroll?”
Shontanette said, “You remember that day a couple of weeks ago when we were coming back from seeing Rosie off to the Breeders’ Cup?”
“Sure.”
“Remember Mortenson justifying himself by saying something about what could anybody expect to get for security guards paying only the minimum wage?”
Doyle said, “Yeah, I remember that.”
“Here’s the puzzler, then,” Shontanette said. “I was having lunch with Sandy Doherty last week. She’s in the accounting department, in charge of payroll. She’s been here for years. We were talking about all the bad stuff that’s gone on here this meeting. I mentioned something about how you probably couldn’t get topnotch personnel to work security for only the minimum wage. Sandy got real indignant. She said, ‘What are you talking about? All those people make more than that. Mr. Joyce
never
had anybody work here who didn’t make more than minimum wage. And Ms. Celia has carried on that policy.’