by John McEvoy
A few steps outside the funeral home, Lucarelli stopped to light a Marlboro. “I hate those fucking places,” he said. As he waved the flame off his match, the night sky exploded six blocks to their north. “Hey, one of the Sox hit one out,” Denny Shannon said, smiling, fist in the air. “Old Fuzzy would have liked that, man.”
“Maybe he’ll sit up in his damned chair in there,” Lucarelli replied bitterly. They walked to Lucarelli’s nine-year-old faded blue Taurus that sat in the middle of the small, crowded Ogden’s Funeral Home parking lot. Shannon said, “Fuck’s the matter with you?” Lucarelli waited until they were in the car before answering.
“The scene in there, in Ogden’s. Too fuckin’ weird for me, man. I hated it.” Lucarelli slammed his door shut and turned on the ignition. The old motor roared to life and he pressed down hard on the accelerator as he drove north on Parnell.
Shannon sat back in the passenger seat and lighted a Pall Mall. “It didn’t bother me none,” he said. “I heard they wouldn’t let the family set Fuzzy up like that over by McIlhenny’s,” the neighborhood’s major funeral home. “That’s why they sent him over here to Ogden’s. It’s new, Ogden’s, they’re looking for business.”
The viewing they had just left was that of Howard “Fuzzy” Fitzpatrick whose liver, under heavy alcohol attack since his high school days, had finally given out on him at age fifty-seven. A lifelong White Sox fanatic, Fuzzy had celebrated in earnest the previous October when the team won its first World Series since 1917. His celebrating continued almost unabated into the following year, such dedicated drinking resulting in an even earlier death than had been anticipated by Fuzzy’s family, friends, and neighbors.
At his request, Fuzzy’s remains had been dressed in his regular jeans and a black 2005 Champion Chicago White Sox jersey, then placed in his favorite arm chair, hauled from the basement of his bungalow to Ogden’s by dedicated fellow fans. A White Sox cap sat atop Fuzzy’s head. A can of Bud Light had been taped into his left hand, a Kool affixed between rigid fingers of his right. It looked, at first glance in the funeral home, that Fuzzy could be sleeping in his basement rec room facing his wide screen TV, his head back in the chair as if, like thousands of nights in the past, he had merely passed out, not away. Mourners were taken aback when they entered the viewing room and observed this sight.
“Freaks,” Lucarelli said.
“Who you talkin’ about?”
“Fuzzy. Him and his crazy family that would go for a set up like that in there. The people in there gawking at him. All freaks.”
Lucarelli drove on in angry silence. Shannon didn’t look at him, knowing that a terrible temper eruption might be sitting precariously on his volatile cousin’s emotional cusp. It was funny, Shannon sometimes thought, how alike they were, but also how different. Shannon’s mom, Molly McIlhenny, was the most placid, even-tempered woman he knew—except for her sister, Bridgett, Aiden’s mother. But whereas the normally laid back Shannon took after his mother’s side, Aiden had inherited his close to the surface boiling point from his late father, Jimmy Lucarelli, the low level Outfit guy Bridgett McIlhenny had married much against the wishes of both sets of parents. Neighborhood people still remembered the brouhaha over Bridgett insisting on giving their only child an Irish name, Jimmy Lucarelli angrily conceding to his wife’s demand, then charging outside their basement flat and destroying her car with a sledgehammer.
Shannon finally broke the silence, saying “Didn’t get a chance to tell you before at Ogden’s, but I got a call from Art Riley this afternoon.” No response. Shannon, himself starting to get a little wound up now, said, “So, you want to hear about it or not?”
“I’m not sure,” Lucarelli said, gunning through a red light at Roosevelt Road, thinking about Riley, the lawyer who had represented them in the past, the man he always referred to as Art the Fart because of a gaseous incident one afternoon in the courthouse at Twenty-sixth and California, the product of Riley’s hastily consumed beer and burrito lunch across the street. The expulsion had seen Riley’s fellow passengers flatten themselves against the three gray elevator walls en route to floor five.
Shannon said, “Didn’t he get us off every fuckin’ time? Put us on to some of our biggest scores to get the money to pay him? Am I right or am I right?”
Aiden couldn’t argue with that. He and Denny had been arrested dozens of times but charged just twice, resulting in a lone assault conviction and suspended sentence for Shannon. The other assaults and the mixed bag of burglary raps they’d beaten, frequently aided by “Canaryville amnesia,” a condition that overtook witnesses who lived only a few perilous blocks removed from the accused, and found themselves the targets of seriously believable threats prior to the scheduled start of trials.
Riley had been their lawyer each time and, being from the neighborhood, was an old hand at such matters. Once he’d gotten to know Aiden and Denny, Riley had been able to steer some work their way, muscle jobs involving tardy debtors in need of motivation to satisfy their obligations. Riley knew the cousins to be eager for such work. Providing these two chunky brutes with such opportunities was like waving a lamb shank in front of a pit bull.
“So, tell me what Riley wanted,” Lucarelli said.
Chapter 8
On Wednesday of his second week at Monee Park, Doyle entered the Finish Line dining room on the building’s fourth floor, hungry for lunch. He’d already put in five hours of his working day, trying to get the feel of his new job. He planned to stay around until the start of that night’s racing program, at 7:30, another six hours away. Doyle figured his first couple of weeks here, he’d better come in early and remain late until he’d managed to define his role to his own satisfaction and become comfortable with it.
He said hello to Marilyn, the dining room hostess, then heard himself being hailed by Steve Holland, a retired investment banker and current racehorse owner and breeder he had met at the track’s opening night reception. Doyle walked to Holland’s table and they shook hands. “Want to join me, Jack?” Holland said. Doyle said, “Thanks, but no. I’ve got some reading to do.” He hefted the bulky manila envelope in his right hand.
Holland had papers spread out all over his table. He looked perplexed. “What are you working on?” Doyle said.
“I’m trying to come up with names for my yearlings. I’ve got six this year. And naming horses is getting harder and harder to do each year,” Holland complained. “I came here to get away from the office and to get some peace and quiet while I work on this project. Maybe me doing it at a racetrack will make it inspire me. It’s gotten just so darned hard.”
“Why is that?”
“Look,” Holland replied, “according to The Jockey Club, which is in charge of all this, you can only use eighteen letters and spaces in a horse’s name. You can’t use the names of past champions. You can’t have two horses with the same name. You can’t use commercial products—I couldn’t name a horse after anything connected to my former bank. You can’t use infamous persons’ names. If you want to name a horse after a living person, you have to get that person’s written permission. Remember, there are thousands of other breeders and owners submitting names every year. And there are 35,000 new horses to be named every year. So, you might think you’ve come up with a terrific name, then you’re told that somebody else has already beaten you to it.”
Doyle said, “It seems to me a lot of the horse namers could use some help. There’s been a lot of nutty names given racehorses. Look at some of them running here tonight,” he said, pointing to pages in the Monee Park track program. “The Barking Shark. What the hell kind of name is that for a thoroughbred racehorse? Formal Mouse. Rats on Ice is in the same race with Formal Mouse. Maybe we should play a rodent exacta. These are terrible names.”
Holland said, “I agree. But at least those horses have names. Mine are currently incognito. And the deadline is approaching.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Doyle said
. “Good luck.”
He walked to an empty table near the window overlooking the racing strip. An aged waiter shuffled up and politely handed him a menu. Doyle ordered an iced tea before reading the menu. The waiter was one of the numerous elderly employees Doyle had noticed on his inspection of Monee Park. When he’d mentioned this to Shontanette Hunter, she said, “Oh, Mr. Joyce was very loyal to his work force. Didn’t like to fire any of them if he could avoid it. That’s how you wound up with Morty Dubinski,” she laughed, before commenting, “We’ve got some real dinosaurs positioned around here.”
Waiting for his tea to arrive, Doyle saw that, except for the presence of the frowning, head-scratching Steve Holland, and a table of jockeys’ agents drinking coffee and playing cards, he was alone in the large, table-filled, carpeted room overlooking the track’s finish line. This was where the higher level track employees took their meals during non-racing hours. As he looked out the window at the track’s green infield and blue, man-made lake glistening in the sun, Doyle couldn’t help but marvel at this latest chapter in his life. Here he was, after a string of well-paying, hype-laden account executive positions, two disappointing marriages, and one failed international love affair, churning out ad copy and publicity releases for a troubled racetrack on the edge of southern Cook County.
Doyle’s reverie was interrupted when he looked up to see Celia McCann slipping into a chair across from him. “Do you mind if I join you, Jack?” Smiling, he said, “My pleasure.” Celia was wearing a light green, short-sleeved dress, nearly the color of her eyes. The afternoon sun over her shoulder highlighted glints in her dark red hair. Doyle looked at her appreciatively.
The old waiter put a bit of a spring in his step as he approached with Doyle’s iced tea wobbling on a saucer, saying, “Good afternoon, Ms. Celia.” She smiled back. “Hello, Hugo. I’ll have my regular.”
“I’ll have the same,” Doyle said, and the waiter smiled and shuffled away. “By the way, Celia, what’s your ‘regular’?”
“It depends on the day. Wednesday and Friday, I have the Cobb salad. Thursday and Saturday, a Reuben sandwich. They’re terrific. Sunday, if I have time, I zip through the buffet line. I’ve been coming here for years. I know what I like.”
“Cobb salads, Reuben sandwiches, buffets…I’m impressed,” Doyle said.
Celia cracked a breadstick in two before saying, “Impressed with what?”
“With how well you’ve, well, managed to stay in terrific shape.” Jesus, Doyle thought, you’d think I was saying something to a well-conditioned boxer instead of this beautiful woman. Celia sensed his unease. She sat back in her chair, giving him a mischievous look. Doyle tried to rebound. “Are you musical?” he said. This was met with a puzzled look. “What with Celia being the patron saint of music,” he quickly added, thinking, I’m digging an even deeper hole.
Celia tried to muffle a giggle before replying, “Oh, you know your saints then, do you Jack?”
“I know of them. Thanks to Sister Mary Theresa back at Saint Nicholas grade school. But, to my knowledge, I’ve never met one.” He sipped his tea, relaxing a bit now.
As they waited for their food, Celia asked how Jack was adjusting to his new job. He assured her that all was going well, that he’d even made peace with, if not a friend of, his assistant Morty. Celia nodded. “I’ve gotten the impression that you’re starting to settle in nicely here,” she said.
“Well, it’s early days, of course, but I think you’re correct. The work interests me. I’m enjoying it. And I’m enjoying the people here, too.”
Celia raised an eyebrow. “Even Morty? I know he can sometimes be difficult.”
Doyle shrugged. “First day or so, it was tough going. Morty’s got a bit of an inferiority complex, it seems to me, that makes him both resentful and kind of hostile at times. And he’s a terrible dresser. But Morty’s actually not such a bad little guy. Once in awhile, I’ll look over and see him struggling to finish some simple assignment I’ve given him, and I can’t help but think he’s often out of his league in life. But he tries hard.
“I’m a little concerned about Morty’s betting. I know what his salary is. Seems to me he’s got a good chunk of it riding every night. And not riding very well.”
Celia said, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Jack. Morty’s been a bettor all the time I’ve known hm. He’s a bachelor, living at home with his mother, so he doesn’t have much in the way of expenses. Betting horses is his major interest. He just enjoys it.”
Doyle drained his glass of iced tea. “You’d know better than me. Anyway, he and I are getting along okay. I’ve worked with far worse people than Morty Dubinski, I can guarantee you that.”
As they lunched, Doyle did one of the things that he did best: ask questions, all the while looking sincerely interested in the answers, which in this case he actually was. He learned where and when Celia had met her husband Bob, details of her long friendship with Shontanette Hunter. Working backward, he asked Celia about her college years. “I had a wonderful experience at St. Mary’s,” she said. “And after graduation, I taught third grade for three years. That still left me free to help Uncle Jim here at the track during the summers.”
“Ah,” Doyle said, “an elementary school teacher. Usually one of the gentler souls. Excellent Cobb salad, by the way,” he remarked before asking, “How did you happen to switch from blackboards to odds boards? Why a career as a racing executive?”
“It was because of Uncle Jim. His health was deteriorating rapidly. I knew that the track, and he, were in financial trouble. He’d put most of his money into it.” She turned her face away, glancing out the window. “I owe him so much,” she said. “He practically raised me, paid for all my education, doted on me, spoiled me. I couldn’t have wished for a kinder, more generous relative. When I saw that he needed my help, there was no way I was not going to give it to him. So, the racetrack became my career.”
The waiter placed the bill at Celia’s elbow. She scribbled her signature on it. “Thanks, Hugo,” she said. “Thank you, Ms. Celia,” Hugo said, eyes alight as they spotted the generous tip.
Celia turned back to Jack. “You know, it all went well for a few years. I liked the work. Uncle Jim was both appreciative of my efforts and generous with his time in teaching me the workings of the track. And Bob, well, he was extremely supportive. His insurance business was going well. We built a new house. I wasn’t home as much as during the years that I taught school, but Bob was very understanding. And we started thinking about planning a family.”
She paused, mouth slightly trembling before continuing. “Track business started to pick up. Things were looking great. Then Bob started showing signs of illness. He stopped playing pick up basketball games at our health club. He cut back on his golf, then stopped completely. I could see all these changes, how, suddenly, he’d fall into these morose periods. I’d ask him what was going on and, for the first time since I’d known him, he said ‘I don’t want to talk about it right now.’ Finally, one morning when we were having breakfast, he said, ‘Celia, there’s something seriously wrong with my body. I’ve got to find out what it is.’
“I could hardly believe my ears. This big, strong, vibrant guy who had never been sick a minute in all the years I’d known him, all of a sudden hit by one of the cruelest diseases there is. We got second and third opinions, but there was no getting around the fact that the initial diagnosis was correct. Bob has Lou Gehrig’s disease.
“That was a little more than two years ago. Our lives have never been the same since. They never will be.”
There was a long silence. Doyle hated it. He said, “Celia, I can’t imagine how hard this all must be. Dealing with your husband’s illness on top of running this racetrack.”
“Nobody ever said it was going to be easy, Jack Doyle,” she said. “Not my parents before they were taken from me. Not the nuns. Not Uncle Jim. Not anybody I knew.”
She took a sip of her
coffee. “Actually, my job here has been a blessing in a way. I set my own hours, so I can spend as much time with Bob as need be. At the same time, it serves to distract me from concentrating full time on his horribly progressive decline. A double-edged blessing I guess you’d call it.” She gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Irony,” she said, “it seems my life is thick with it.”
“How so?”
Celia said, “Another woman track executive I know—there aren’t many of us—once compared the sexes when it comes to positions of power. I’ll never forget what she said. ‘If a man in the position does his job correctly and efficiently, he’s considered a strong administrator. Women handling the same assignment exactly the same way are considered bitches.’ Unfortunately, I’ve found her to be correct when it comes to a lot of people I’ve had dealings with in this business.”
For a moment she looked so dejected that Doyle almost reached across the table to take her hand. But then she shook her head, as if shrugging off a punch. “Enough of my war stories.”
“All right,” Doyle said. “But I’d like to ask you something. How have you kept on fighting to keep the track going, following your uncle’s wish, with all you have to deal with concerning your husband?”
“Oh, it’s not just a selfless act of obligation to Uncle Jim’s memory. Bob and I need the money from this place. Bob will never work again. A teacher’s salary wouldn’t begin to cover our expenses, not with his medical bills. His health insurance is not adequate. It’s like the physician who keels over, never having had a physical. Bob was in the insurance business, but was badly underinsured himself for health problems. Another sad irony.
“But,” she added confidently, “this track will eventually make a lot of money. It’ll be very, very profitable once the video slots bill passes. That’s what we’re counting on.”
“Aren’t you tempted just to sell the place?” Doyle said. “You’d come out well financially, there’s no doubt about that.”