Close Call (25 page)
Doyle thought that another “What the hell?” was pretty apropos, but he didn’t say it, not when he felt a hard metal object being pressed against his spine. “Don’t turn around,” Shannon ordered him. “Just walk into that office there.” Doyle felt himself being pushed forward by the gun in his back. Lucarelli shoved the shaken Morty through the doorway next.
Tom Eckrosh was strapped to his armchair with duct tape, his mouth taped shut. His shotgun lay in the corner, next to his gray fedora. There was a three-inch cut on his forehead, but the old man was conscious. His eyes blazed.
Shannon forced Doyle to face the wall. His hands were taped behind him. Lucarelli pushed Morty down hard on the wooden chair near the door and taped Morty’s arms to its sides. As Lucarelli knelt to fasten Morty’s ankles to the chair legs, Morty brought his right knee upward, narrowly missing Lucarelli’s face. Lucarelli slashed Morty across the face with his pistol barrel, knocking him and the chair over. “Won’t need a gag for this mother fucker,” he said, kicking Morty in the side of the face. “You son of a bitch,” Doyle said. He strained to release his hands from the tape. Lucarelli backhanded him across the face. Doyle moved his head at the last instant, but the glancing blow still dizzied him.
“Show us where that fucking Rosie horse is or we’ll leave your two friends’ bodies down in that mound of horse manure we saw out there,” Lucarelli said.
Eckrosh, mute behind the tape, shook his head from side to side. Doyle saw blood begin to pool on the floor next to Morty’s battered face. “Show us which horse it is, we won’t hurt these two,” Lucarelli said. He was waving his pistol from side to side, his eyes darting from Doyle to Morty.
Doyle sensed the air of desperate determination emanating from the two masked men, guys just about the size of those he’d futilely chased from their failed arson in the racing secretary’s office. One of them was impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot, pistol trained on Eckrosh. The other one moved menacingly closer to the unconscious Morty.
Grudgingly, Doyle said, “This way.”
He led them to the door of adjacent stall, almost bumping into Rambling Rosie’s outthrust head. The filly backed away as the men pushed Doyle forward. “Open the fucking door,” Lucarelli ordered. Shannon’s pistol pressed harder into Doyle’s back. Doyle said, “Rosie, you’ve got visitors,” loud enough, he hoped, for Maria to hear and then hide herself in the darkness of the stall.
“Shut the fuck up,” Lucarelli ordered. “Open the damned door.”
Doyle unlatched the broad, wooden half-door and stepped inside. Lucarelli gingerly crossed the threshold. He said, “Turn the flashlight on.” When Shannon complied, Lucarelli whistled softly, saying, “God damn, this ain’t no little horse.” Rosie threw her head up and Lucarelli dodged to the right. He said to his cousin, “Give me that clip to hold her steady.”
Shannon barked back at him, “I’ve got my hands full here, Aiden.” Keeping his pistol against Doyle’s back, Shannon put the flashlight in his jacket pocket. He handed Lucarelli the halter clip they’d been given. He retrieved the flashlight and pointed it at Rosie, who whinnied loudly and began shuffling her feet.
“Aiden,” Shannon said, “I can’t hold this guy here and hold the rope and the light at the same time. You take him.”
Lucarelli grabbed the collar of Doyle’s windbreaker and shoved him down on the floor next to the wall. The smell of straw and horse and fear permeated the stall.
Trying desperately to free his hands, Doyle slid sideways. Underneath Rosie’s belly, on the floor on the opposite side of the stall, he could make out the still figure of Maria. He started to say something, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head no, her long black braid flicking in the shadows.
“Did he say to hit the horse in the neck with the needle?” Lucarelli asked Shannon. “Or in the chest?” Syringe in hand, he waited for an answer.
Maria’s breathing became more rapid as she reached to her right side and felt through the straw for the handle of the pitchfork that stood against the wall behind her. Her breathing was almost as it had been when she collapsed that day years ago in the torrid sunshine of the Florida melon field. But this was a cool October night. She took a deep breath, gripped the pitch fork handle with both hands, and scuttled forward on her knees.
“Fuck, I don’t remember,” Shannon said. “Just hit the horse with it. There’s supposed to be enough juice in there to kill a rhino.”
Lucarelli said, “I’m going for the neck. Hold the horse’s head steady. And can’t you remember to stop using fucking names of people?” he said, just before the five prongs of the pitchfork were driven through his thick right calf, the silver colored ends that appeared on the other side of his brown security guard trousers immediately followed by spurts of blood. He let out a scream that awakened every sleeping horse in the barn.
Staggering sideways, Lucarelli dropped the syringe and fought for balance. He leaned both hands against the wall, wounded leg extended before him. Shannon, white faced, let the halter clip slide from his fingers. “Jeez, Aiden, what the fuck…” He stood transfixed at the sight of his cousin. “Help me,” Lucarelli managed to say. “Denny, help me get this thing out of my leg. Then shoot the fucking horse and whoever did this to me.”
Maria scrambled to her feet and grabbed Rosie’s halter, trying to soothe the excited horse. Rosie lashed out with her left rear leg, just missing Shannon.
Shannon hesitantly pulled at the pitchfork handle. Lucarelli screamed as the tines remained lodged in his calf. Desperate now, Shannon said, “I can’t do this one-handed.” He looked at Doyle, went to him and cut the tape off his hands, keeping his pistol pointed. Shannon aimed the flashlight at his cousin. “Get that thing out of his leg,” he ordered.
Doyle gave the handle a nice twist and a sharp yank. The tines emerged, the puncture wounds they’d caused oozing blood onto the straw. Lucarelli collapsed to the floor, his back against the wall, wounded leg extended. He tore off his belt and used it as a tourniquet on his leg. When he’d tightened it, he snarled, “Denny shoot the fucking horse and this guy and the greaser by the horse, then get me the fuck out of here. The other two aren’t going to bother us.
Hurry
, man.”
Doyle moved to his right, attempting to shield Maria from Shannon. He knew he had to somehow disarm Shannon, who was looking more panicky and dangerous by the second. Then Doyle looked over Shannon’s head. Two large figures had appeared behind Shannon in the doorway to the stall. One man stepped inside. He said, “Hello, Jack.”
Doyle groaned. “Hello, Niall,” he said.
There was a momentary silence as Doyle grimaced and the others gawked at Hanratty, who moved quickly toward Shannon. Hanratty was smiling broadly. Hoy followed Hanratty into the stall and stood next to Doyle. The only sound was Rosie tossing her head so hard she nearly pulled Maria off her feet.
Lucarelli glared up at Hanratty. “Who the hell are you?”
Hanratty didn’t answer. He concentrated on the stunned Shannon. In his right hand, held behind his back, there was a black object. Doyle couldn’t quite see what it was. Shannon raised his pistol. Hanratty brought his hand around and smashed a blackjack down on Shannon’s gun hand. His scream was echoed by a loud whinny from Rosie, who lurched sideways against Maria.
Shannon bent over, clutching his shattered wrist with his other hand. Hanratty shoved him toward Hoy. Hoy grinned as he caught the shorter man by the front of his security guard shirt. Bending his knees slightly, Hoy put everything he had into a right uppercut that lifted Shannon inches off the floor before he fell to the stall floor near Lucarelli, out cold.
Shannon’s dropped pistol lay on top of the bloody straw near where Lucarelli sat, his back to the wall. Lucarelli suddenly reached out for the pistol. His eyes were wild. “God damn it, I’ll kill them myself,” he shouted. Twisting onto his left hip, groaning in pain from moving his torn leg, he aimed the weapon up at Rosie’s head.
Doyle moved quickly. With one motion, he snatched up the pitchfork and lunged forward. He drove the tines into and through Lucarelli’s throat, pinning him to the wall. The pistol fell from his hand.
Maria smothered a scream. The others watched in stunned silence as Lucarelli gurgled once, eyes rolling up in his head, then was quiet. Doyle pulled the tines from the dead thug’s shredded neck. “This crazed son of a bitch is done,” he growled. He asked Maria for a rub rag, then wiped all the fingerprints off the pitchfork handle before himself gripping it again. “No sense getting you involved in this,” he said to Maria.
Doyle turned to Hanratty, who said, “Good work, Jack. You saved some lives.”
Doyle gave him a quizzical look. “Surprised are you now, Jack?” Hanratty raised the black object in his hand. “Why, the ould cosh here is a grand sort of weapon for work like this,” nodding at Shannon. “Easy to bring into your country, too. You know, back home we don’t use guns on each other as often as your people over here. We’re more hands on with our violence.” He glanced over at Hoy, and they both laughed.
“It’s not the weapon I’m surprised at,” Doyle said. “I’m surprised you’re here. I’m surprised you worked over that bully boy lying there. I was under the impression that he and his late pal were carrying out your orders.”
It was Hanratty’s turn to look surprised. “You’re winding me up, man,” he said indignantly. “We’ve never gone in for killing horses. Where did you get that thought?”
Hanratty reached down and tore the bloodied ski mask off Lucarelli’s head, then removed Shannon’s mask. “So that’s what these gobshites look like,” he said.
Doyle said, “We’ve got to get Morty to the hospital. I suppose that asshole, too,” he added with a nod toward Shannon, who was slowly regaining consciousness. Morty rolled slowly over onto his back. His jaw was horribly swollen, left eye blackened and nearly closed by the swelling. “I’ll be all right,” he whispered. “See about the old man.”
“Christ, that’s right,” Doyle said. He hurried out of the stall to Eckrosh’s office. Gently peeling the tape from Eckrosh’s mouth, Doyle said, “Everything’s under control, Tom. Rosie’s safe.” He grabbed scissors from a desk drawer and cut through the tape on the old trainer’s hands and feet. “I was too slow with the shotgun,” Eckrosh said, his hands shaking. “They jumped me from out of the blue. Who are they?”
“I’ll fill you in later,” Doyle said. “Morty’s hurt. I’ve got to call for paramedics, then the sheriff’s office.”
Dialing 911, Doyle thought for a moment he sensed the presence of a figure in the shadows outside the office door. Then it was gone. There was no one there when he poked his head out the door, though a familiar pungent odor lingered in the early morning air.
Two ambulances roared up to the barn a dozen minutes later. They were followed by the first patrol cars from the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. Doyle led them to Lucarelli’s body. He described the nightmarish developments of the last hour. Maria, Morty, and the two Irishmen backed up his account of having acted in self defense.
The paramedics went to work on Morty and Shannon. The latter was now fully conscious and whining. “I want my lawyer. I need to call Art Riley,” Shannon kept repeating.
Owen Purcell, the lead detective, frowned. “Are you talking about Art Riley,” he said to Shannon. “The downtown lawyer?”
“Damn right,” Shannon said defiantly. Doyle recognized the name. So did a concerned Hanratty, who said, “I’d be sorry to learn that’s the Riley I retained in regards to Uncle Jim’s will.”
Doyle muttered, “So that’s how Niall’s going to play it. Claiming ignorance.”
Hanratty, a picture of feigned innocence, said, “Are you talking to me, Jack?” Doyle didn’t answer him.
Twenty minutes later, the two Irishmen, Maria, Eckrosh, and Doyle were in the trainer’s office when Celia rushed through the door. Doyle had telephoned her as soon as the paramedics left with their patients, and Lucarelli’s body, telling her, “You better come to Tom’s barn.”
“Jack, what’s going on? Tom, my God, what happened to you,” Celia said. She went to Eckrosh who sat in the armchair, a bandage on his bruised forehead. He struggled to his feet to assure her, “I’ll be fine, Celia. Not to worry.”
After asking Maria if she was okay, Celia turned to the silent Irishmen. Hanratty and Hoy were standing, arms folded on their chests, backs against the wall. A look of astonishment flashed across Celia’s face. “Niall Hanratty?” she said. “Is that you? What in the world are you doing here?”
Hanratty stepped toward her, his hand extended, saying, “Well, cousin, we meet at last.” Celia slowly took his hand in hers. “I came over to straighten out a few things, Celia,” he added. “Some things had been set in motion that I came to believe had to be stopped.”
“And a good thing he did,” Doyle said, proceeding to recount the night’s events. Celia listened, her face pale, hand to her mouth. “Who were these attackers?” she asked.
“According to a check the deputies ran, a couple of small time hoods from Chicago’s south side,” Doyle said. “The dead one was a young guy named Aiden Lucarelli, truly a nut case. The other one is Denny Shannon. They both had numerous arrests over the last few years, but no jail time. That’s going to change for Shannon.”
Hanratty and Hoy were staying at a downtown Chicago hotel, they said. “Will you be back this afternoon for Rambling Rosie’s farewell?” Celia asked. “We’ve got a lot to talk over, Niall.”
“Maybe not as much as you think,” Hanratty said. “I’ve given some thought to this situation since I arrived here. I’ve decided to go along with you and your plans to keep operating Monee Park.”
Her surprise evident, Celia said, “Why? What’s made you change your mind?”
Hanratty grinned ruefully. “In all honesty, I did not know that cretins the likes of which we dealt with here tonight had been unleashed on you and your track. And,” he said, nodding at Eckrosh, “on that man’s horse. I am truly sorry. That kind of thing is not what I’m about.”
“What about the lawyer, Riley, saying you were planning to contest Uncle Jim’s will?”
“That’s another non-starter,” Hanratty replied. “And my dealings with attorney Riley are a thing of the past.”
Celia gave him an appraising look, followed by one of her brilliant smiles. “Well, as long as you’re in such a conciliatory state of mind, I don’t suppose you’d hesitate in the least to say you’ll reimburse me the $127,000 stolen by men apparently under Riley’s direction.”
Doyle laughed, drawing sharp looks from both Hanratty and Celia. “Is there a Gaelic word for
chutzpah
?” he asked. They ignored him. “I never ordered any robbery,” Hanratty said. “That apparently was Riley’s idea.” He grimaced, then continued, “But, cousin, I’ll take responsibility. You can deduct that money from the bonanza coming Monee Park’s way when slot machines come on the scene.”
“Point, counterpoint,” Celia said. “That’s what we’ll do.”
She turned to leave, then paused. “Niall, will you have time to meet my husband Bob before you go back?”
Hanratty said, “Absolutely. But it’ll have to be today. Hoy and I are due back home tomorrow.”
“Just call Jack when you and Mr. Hoy return this afternoon,” Celia said. “He’ll show you around and how to find us.”
Hanratty and Hoy shook hands with Doyle before he walked them to their rental car, which they’d parked two blocks away, on the other side of the track fence. “Did you two hop the fence on your way in?” he said.
“It seemed the easiest way to do it,” Hanratty said. “I didn’t think I could convince the gate guard that two visiting Micks had urgent night business on the Monee Park backstretch.”