Close Call

by John McEvoy

  “This is my right hand man? Wonderful,” Doyle had replied.

  Doyle sat down in the chair in front of Morty’s desk. He said, “May I ask what you are doing?”

  Morty’s fingers flew over the Underwood’s keys as he answered, “Writing out my resignation.”

  “From what?”

  “From my position here in the Monee Park publicity department,” Morty snapped. He continued to type rapidly.

  Bemused, Doyle sat back in his chair and watched. After a couple of minutes, when Morty plucked the first piece of paper from the typewriter and quickly inserted another, Jack said, “How long does it take to say ‘I quit’?

  “And,” Doyle added, reaching forward and ripping the second piece of paper out of the typewriter, “why bother?”

  He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, hands clasped. Doyle produced his most ingratiating smile, one that had won over most of the toughest sells he’d met in his account executive career. Morty’s bushy eyebrows elevated, but he said nothing. “You can’t resign, Morty,” Jack said. “Celia McCann needs my help. And I need yours. How about the two of us start over?” He extended his hand and Morty, after a brief hesitation, shook it. Morty’s scowl was replaced by a look of grateful surprise.

  Doyle stood up. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get to work. I need you to fill me in on the routine here. The deadlines for press releases to the papers and to radio and television people. Ad deadlines. Who’s our track photographer, and when I can meet him. The whole megillah. Talk to me, Morty.”

  Obviously flattered, Morty responded enthusiastically. Three hours later, Doyle, his yellow legal notepad nearly filled, sat back in the chair. “How about some lunch?” he said.

  Morty reached into his lower desk drawer and extracted a brown bag.

  ”No thanks,” he said, “I brought mine. Then I can stay here and answer the phone.”

  “The phone hasn’t rung since I got here. But suit yourself.” Doyle got up from the chair, prepared to leave.

  Morty cleared his throat, he thrust his glasses back up the bumpy slope of his nose, looking at Doyle appraisingly. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Doyle?”

  Doyle nodded. “Call me Jack.”

  “What is your background in racing?”

  Doyle paused before replying, “I’ve been involved in a number of aspects of it.”

  Morty looked dubious. “Oh, yeah? Tell me, Jack, who was the last horse to win the Triple Crown?”

  Doyle shot him a look. “Don’t start trying to yank my chain here, Morty. It was Affirmed. I can also name the number of years between Affirmed and the first Triple Crown winner, Sir Barton, faster than you can zip your fly. Which is something I suggest you do.”

  He turned to leave. Morty, mortified, quickly adjusted his zipper, blushing almost the color of the press box’s burgundy wallpaper. But he recovered. As Doyle neared the door, Morty said loudly, “Okay, Mr. Doyle…Mr. Boss. What about other horses if you think you know so much? You ever hear of Gene Autry?”

  “The old cowboy singer and actor? I think he owned one of the California major league baseball teams years ago. What about him?”

  “What was his horse’s name? In the movies?”

  Doyle said, “You sneaky little bastard. It started with a C, right? Was it Cyclone?”

  Morty’s eyes gleamed. “Champion, Mr. Doyle, Champion,” he said triumphantly. “Shoot, just about everybody knows that. I got you that time.” He hurried back to his cubicle. Doyle left, laughing.

  Chapter 6

  Tony Rourke, office manager at Shamrock Off-Course Wagering headquarters in the Dublin suburb of Dun Laoghaire, brought the Wednesday mail into his boss’ office. He said to Niall Hanratty, “Letter from the States for you. There, on top.” Hanratty thanked him as Rourke turned to leave. He reached for the thick envelope, noting the Chicago return address under the name of Arthur P. Riley, Esq.

  Hanratty pushed aside the pile of betting account printouts he had been reviewing. He opened the envelope and read:

  “Dear Mr. Hanratty,

  “I am writing to offer my sincere condolences for your loss of your Uncle Jim Joyce, a dear, dear friend of mine. Be assured that numerous Masses will be offered on his behalf.

  “I feel an obligation to inform you of some specifics regarding your Uncle’s will and they may prove to be of great benefit to you. I realize that, so far removed from the Chicago scene while in your beautiful native land, you may not be aware of some of that document’s ramifications. Please feel free to call me at the following number at any time. I believe I have information that you will find to be very, very valuable.

  “Wishing you all the best, I am…”

  The letter was signed Arthur P. Riley. The letterhead bore an address on South LaSalle Street in Chicago. Hanratty tossed it back on the desk, a frown on his darkly handsome face. He had received a copy of his Uncle Jim’s will the previous week and been surprised to find himself named a beneficiary since he had never met his mother’s brother in all of his thirty-eight years. Heard much about him, of course, and received a Christmas gift check every year since he was a boy, but never once a meeting. The fact that he’d been left forty-nine percent of an American racetrack called Monee Park had stunned him. Niall had learned of his uncle’s death in a phone call from his cousin Celia. Days later he’d received from Celia, who was the executor of their uncle’s estate, a copy of the will. Hanratty had no way of estimating the value of this bequest out of the blue, though Celia, in an accompanying letter, wrote that she would be forwarding to him “all the relevant financial details regarding our shared inheritance.” He had yet to receive that letter. Maybe lawyer Riley could be of some help in that area.

  Hanratty rose and stretched his lean, lanky frame, long arms in his blue Oxford shirt reaching toward the sound-proofed ceiling of the large office. He loosened his red tie before sitting back down in his desk chair and reaching for the phone. “Riley,” he said aloud. “Now, here’s one that’s popped out of the rat hole, his nose twitching. Or maybe he’s just one of those American super Micks, the Irish wannebes, patronizing us while they praise us.” He smiled wryly. “Can’t hurt to find out what’s up this rascal’s sleeve.” He calculated the time difference, Ireland was six hours ahead of Chicago, and decided to wait until late afternoon to make his call.

  ***

  Riley picked up on the first ring. Must be a small law practice if your man’s answering his own phone, Niall thought. He said, “Mr. Riley? This is Niall Hanratty, calling from Ireland.”

  “Mr. Hanratty, how good to talk to you. I take it you’ve received my letter about Jim Joyce. Now one with the dust,” Riley added dramatically. “Passed away in his sleep, you know, peaceful as a Meadow in Meath.”

  Hanratty, rolling his eyes at this bit of blather, said, “That’s a comfort, to be sure. Now, Mr. Riley, about your letter, and my uncle’s will. What ‘great benefits’ are you referring to?” Riley cleared his throat. Hanratty sat back in his chair. He’d never known a barrister who’d gotten anywhere near the point in the first furlong or so, and he doubted the American would be any different.

  After describing in detail his great admiration for Jim Joyce, and a snide comment or two about cousin Celia’s business acumen, Riley finally arrived at the point, saying, “I believe there’s money to be made from that racetrack that you, perhaps, have not been apprised of.”

  “Go on, man.”

  Riley assumed, he said, that Hanratty had been informed of Monee Park’s current “dismal financial condition. It’s an old dump, getting dumpier. There’s no money for badly needed capital improvements. What your cousin Celia is pinning her hopes on is a bill in our state legislature that would legalize a Chicago casino. To lessen the effect of damaging competition to existing racetracks, the thinking is to give the Illinois racetracks the right to put video slot machines on their properties.”

  Hanratty said, “Besides Monee Park, wh
at other tracks are near Chicago?”

  “The big one is Heartland Downs, out north and west of the city,” Riley said. “It’ll survive with or without video slots. Then there are three smaller harness racing tracks. Two of those, like Monee Park, could surely use the revenue from slot machines.”

  “What are the chances of this bill passing?”

  Riley paused. “Perhaps fifty-fifty at this point,” he said. “The state is desperately in need of new revenues, and casinos are guaranteed to produce them. Look at the states that have legalized them in recent years. Huge financial successes for the casino owners, the state, the taxpayers.”

  “Not so much for the gambling addicts, I presume,” Hanratty interjected.

  “True, true Mr. Hanratty. You being in the gaming business yourself over there, I’m sure you’re well aware of that problem plaguing a tiny minority.”

  “When might such a law be passed? And go into effect?”

  “Ah,” Riley said, “this state being what it is, which is quite conservative on gambling issues, a bill such as this would only have a chance in a non-election year, which this is. That’s when the boys down there in Springfield get brave, churning out laws they hope nobody will hold them responsible for when they run for office next time.

  “The timing, then,” Riley continued, “is favorable for such a bill. But that in itself doesn’t guarantee its passage, not by any means. There’s a very conservative faction in the House that’s staunchly against any expansion of gambling. The bill’s sponsors are going to have to clear that hurdle.” He chuckled at his reference to racing.

  Hanratty groaned softly, wondering how much faith to put in the opinions of this long distance opportunist.

  “Assume the thing passes, Mr. Riley. How long before the video slots are up and running then?”

  “At least a year from now,” Riley estimated, “before any new money could come flooding into old Monee Park.”

  Without elaborating, Hanratty said, “Well, that’s not ideal by any means, as far as I’m concerned.” He was not inclined to inform Riley that he was planning a major expansion of Shamrock Off-Course Betting Corp., both its Irish operation as well as creating two offices in Spain, one in Portugal. He had been laying the groundwork for this project for three years. Getting it off the ground would require some major borrowing as well as a significant infusion of his own cash. The news of Uncle Jim’s will had encouraged Niall to think that new money would be available relatively soon. Now, according to Riley, that would not be the case.

  “I’m damned sorry to hear that,” Hanratty said softly. “I was under the impression that the disbursement would be much sooner.”

  Riley laughed, then caught himself. “Oh, disburse they may well do,” he said. “Except for the fact that there’s nothing to disburse at this particular point.”

  Hanratty sat back in his chair, mulling this over. He’d always tended to sift carefully through information even before the time when, as a young clerk in a down country off-track betting shop, eager to learn the bookmaking business, he’d made a huge score wagering on a longshot winner of England’s Grand National Steeplechase. He’d used the winnings to buy the small shop in which he worked. Its aging owner, eager to sell and retire, had offered advice as he signed over the papers. “This is a beautiful, ould, steady business, Niall. If you don’t get adventurous, or caught up in the booze or the cooz, you can’t fookin’ lose.”

  A tireless, ambitious man, Hanratty in subsequent years had expanded his holdings by opening shops in locations other bookmaking firms had avoided, or sometimes using the power of slightly veiled threats to help in the purchase of existing independent shops. There had been murmured complaints about his methods of acquisition. None hindered the growth of his thriving company. “That Hanratty, he’s a hard man entirely,” was whispered about him.

  Niall said to Riley, “Can you tell me this, man: why are you so interested in this matter if there’s no immediate return in sight?”

  Riley chuckled, then began talking so softly Hanratty strained to hear him. “Your cousin Celia is a very determined person,” Riley said. “She’s got her heart set on keeping Monee Park going until the video slots relief arrives. But,” he continued, voice even softer now, “it’s quite possible she could be convinced to recognize the advantage of selling the land now. Reaping immediate profits. Profits that you, of course, would be receiving almost half of. This could conceivably happen within the next few months.”

  “How is it, Mr. Riley, that you know all these details about Uncle Jim’s will?”

  “Why, because my former partner Frank Foley wrote the will years ago. He and Jim were high school classmates.”

  Tony Rourke peeked his head into the office. Hanratty put his hand over the phone, and said, “Tony, be a good man now and run down to that new Starbucks and get us a couple of expensive coffees.” He winked. Rourke smiled and went back out the office door.

  “I take it, Mr. Riley,” Hanratty said, “that you yourself would be in charge of whatever persuading that needs to be done over there.”

  Riley said, “That could certainly be arranged. Your cousin is a charming, smart, and very stubborn woman. She’ll not just be talked off her current stance. She’ll need some convincing. I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and I’m confident the plans I’ve made will get her to see the light. If you get my drift.”

  “Yes, counselor, I’m getting your drift. About what might that drift cost me?”

  “Fifteen percent of the sale price of Monee Park,” Riley shot back.

  Hanratty hesitated, then said, “I’ll give you ten percent of my net, Mr. Riley. And that’s that. And I don’t want anymore phone calls regarding your fee. My word is good. I’ll be tracking your progress.

  “Go on with it then, man,” Hanratty said, and hung up.

  Thousands of mile away, Riley smiled as he put his phone down. Born and raised in the working class Chicago neighborhood called Canaryville, he still had strong ties there even though he’d married a woman from Winnetka and had lived in that northern suburb for years. He and his wife had seven children, four of them already in college. Riley was straining to finance their educations, and this with another three to go. He’d always kept his eye out for the main chance, and in the Monee Park situation he believed he’d found it.

  Although he’d moved fifteen miles and a world away from Canaryville, Riley was remembered there, both envied and respected for his departure from the insular old neighborhood where families had known each other and intermarried for generations. He knew who to call if he wanted to tap into the small talent pool of toughs always ready to create mayhem, whether they were paid for it or not.

  Had Hanratty pressed him for details, Riley would have described the two young men he was now planning to contact: “Brutal bastards who don’t like people, or working, but love money, especially if they’ve stolen it. They’re tougher than your granddad’s toenails,” he’d have said, with a satisfied smile.

  Chapter 7

  Aiden Lucarelli walked out of Ogden’s Funeral Home first, a step or two in advance of Denny Shannon. From a distance the two of them, each a blocky five-foot six, wearing jackets with tavern softball team names on the back, looked almost identical. Up close, not so. Lucarelli’s dark eyes were widely spaced, his complexion carrying a Mediterranean tinge. He wore his black hair slicked back and sported one of the trimmed goatee/mustache combinations favored by many Major League baseball pitchers.

  Shannon’s skin was the color of printer paper, his closely set light blue eyes almost slits above cheek bones that stuck out like little shelves. The two of them walked with the thigh-bulging strides of the steroid-using amateur weight lifters they were, their black half boots clicking on the pavement. They were twenty-six years old, first cousins, and best friends since first grade at Holy Rosary parochial school in Canaryville. It was at Holy Rosary that they’d early on became known as “vicious little
shits,” a reputation they’d done nothing to diminish in the two decades since.

  Unlike many of their fellow Canaryville residents, Lucarelli and Shannon had not been granted prized employment in the City of Chicago’s Department of Streets and Sanitation, notorious for its paternalism and phantom payrollers, while at the same time home to thousands of hard working citizens. “Streets and San” was replete with patronage sponsored Canaryville men, but Shannon and Lucarelli had been blackballed by the local political powers who deemed them to be too dangerous.

  The cousins worked during Chicago’s warm months on road construction crews. Laid off the rest of the year, they collected unemployment and indulged in pastimes that suited their personalities: house breaking and burglary in some of the ritzy Chicago suburbs, some strong arm work for a local bookie, visits to Rush Street bars where they frequently amused themselves harassing other patrons. They had been permanently barred from three such saloons thus far. The girls they’d occasionally managed to pick up in the bars and take to a nearby motel were usually naive tourists visiting the city.

  Of the two, Shannon had the most severe case of class envy directed toward the well-dressed, college educated young people populating these bars and restaurants. He loved walking down the sidewalk behind women who were talking on their cell phones, brushing them with his shoulder, saying, “Let me talk to him when you’re done.” He had Lucarelli laughing so hard he had to hang on to a parking meter the time Shannon shouted at a startled female pedestrian whose angry phone conversation he’d interrupted, “That’s right, give it to the bastard. I wouldn’t take that from him, either.” The woman had first regarded Shannon with astonishment. Getting an even closer look at this grinning goof who pressing his face closer to hers, his beer breath blasting, she paled and dropped her cell phone. Shannon kicked it onto Division Street before he and Lucarelli strutted away.