by John McEvoy
“Sure, I’m tempted,” she said, her green eyes flashing. “And my cousin Niall, the minority shareholder, would love to have me do it. But I look at that as a giving in, a surrender. Maybe I am, as some people have said, too stubborn. But selling this property for real estate development would go against Uncle Jim’s wishes. It would disrespect his memory. And it would be an admission of defeat. I’d be seen in some quarters as being incapable of running a racetrack. I’m not going to give in to that temptation, no matter how my cousin in Ireland feels about it.”
She glanced at her watch. “I have a 2:30 appointment,” she said as she stood up, adding, “It was very nice talking to you, Jack.” She swiftly walked toward the door, his eyes on her. “Beauty and acuity,” he said to himself, “all in one choice package.”
Hugo the waiter brought Doyle out of his reverie when he came to clear away the dishes. He was at the same time also watching Celia move off, a fond look on his creased old face. When the door closed behind her, Doyle said to Hugo, “So, you’ve known Ms. McCann a long time?”
“Most of her life and a good portion of mine,” Hugo said. “A lovely, lovely woman.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
Chapter 9
Minutes before Saturday night’s seventh race, Morty said, “Take a look at the No. 6 horse in here. Rambling Rosie.”
Doyle looked down at the track from his press box window where number six, a copper colored chestnut filly, was prancing toward the starting gate, swishing her tail, bobbing her head, obviously feeling good. Doyle opened his Racing Daily for a look at the filly’s credentials. Examining her pedigree, he remarked, “She’s by Nothing out of Nothing.” Her sire had won just two races in his life, her dam none, though both were themselves products of high class parents.
“Yeah,” Morty said, “but she’s won five straight races while climbing straight up the class ladder. She’s special fast. Believe me.”
Doyle closely examined Rambling Rosie’s past performances. She had lost her only two starts as a two-year-old the previous season. This year, as Doyle commented with a smile, she’d been “a horse of a different choler.” After winning for the first time in a $10,000 maiden claiming event, Rosie had scored for $20,000, then $30,000. Moved up into allowance company, from which she could not be claimed, or bought, she had reeled off another pair of easy wins. All of her victories had come at sprint distances: five furlongs, five and a half, then six furlongs.
“Who’s this Tom Eckrosh? The guy who owns and trains her,” Doyle said.
“You never heard of old Tom? He’s been around the racetrack almost all of his life, and he’s nearly eighty now. He served in the Army during World War II, was a jockey for awhile after he got out of the service, then took up training. He’s raced mainly here at Monee during the summers, then New Orleans in the winters. Never had a real top horse, but he’s always had some useful runners. But he’ll tell you Rambling Rosie is the best he’s ever had his hands on. He claimed her for $8,000 at Devon Downs in southern Illinois late last year. She’d lost her only two races.What he saw in her, with that obscure pedigree, I do not know. But he saw something. Can she run!” Morty enthused. “I understand old Tom has turned down some big bucks for her. I mean major, major money.”
Doyle said, “But he won’t sell?”
“He will not. One day, I asked him why. He said, ‘Morty, at my age, what would I do with all that money? I waited a long, long time for a horse like Rosie. I’m going to keep her all for myself.’ And, you know, I can see his point,” Morty said.
Doyle glanced at the in-house television, which had zeroed in on Rambling Rosie as she moved toward the starting gate. “Uh oh,” he said. “She’s got four white feet.”
“So what?” Morty said.
“Don’t you know the old racetrack saying about a horse with white feet? I heard it more than once when I was working at a breeding farm down in Kentucky.”
Doyle immediately regretted mentioning that segment of his career when Morty responded, “You did? When was that?”
“A year or so ago. It’s a long story. But this is my point. The saying goes
Two white feet, try him.
Three white feet, deny him.
Four white feet and
A white nose,
Feed him to the crows.”
Morty said, “Well, Rambling Rosie doesn’t have any white on her nose. And when you see here four white feet flying over this track, you’ll forget about that old saying. Wait and see.”
“Did you bet her?”
“Naw,” Morty said. “I never bet favorites.”
They walked out onto the press box porch to watch the seventh race. A field of eight was led into the starting gate. Rambling Rosie was the even-money favorite. As soon as the bell rang and the gate opened, she shot to the lead. After a quarter mile, she was three lengths in front of her nearest pursuer. Turning into the homestretch, she had opened up by five lengths and was apparently going easily. Her jockey, Ramon Garcia, wrapped up on her during the final sixteenth of a mile. Throttling down her speed, Garcia hand rode her under the wire to a three-length victory. Her time of 1:09 3-5 was only a fifth of a second off the Monee Park record. Rambling Rosie came bouncing back to the winner’s circle amid waves of applause from happy bettors.
Doyle said, “Wow! I’m impressed. She put on quite a show.” He watched as Garcia, grinning, talked excitedly to a short, stockily built, brown-skinned woman who clipped a shank onto Rambling Rosie’s halter and was leading her into the winner’s circle. The woman wore a gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, and a broad, white smile. She turned Rambling Rosie toward the waiting track photographer just as an elderly man approached. “That’s Tom Eckrosh,” Morty said. Eckrosh was dressed in khaki pants, a blue and white checked shirt, and a threadbare navy blue sport coat. He wore a battered gray fedora which, Doyle was to learn, was his ever present head piece. Eckrosh exhibited none of the jubilation evidenced by jockey Garcia and the female groom.
“Why is Eckrosh so glum?” Doyle said. “You’d think he’d be pretty damn happy, the way his filly ran tonight.”
Morty said, “He probably is happy, but he’d never let on. That’s just his way. He’s a pretty nice fellow, once you get to know him.”
“How long does that take?”
“Oh, not more than five or ten years,” Morty said as he opened the press box door.
Doyle said, “I think I’ll start with him tomorrow morning. His filly makes a heck of a good story for Monee Park.”
***
It was just after seven on a beautiful, late spring morning when the clatter of feed buckets, chatter of workers, and the music blaring from one of Chicago’s Spanish-speaking AM stations greeted Doyle as he walked the dusty path between Barns C and D on the Monee Park backstretch. He was on his way to meet Tom Eckrosh. Monee Park’s racing secretary Gary Gabriel had informed him that “Old Tom is stabled in Barn D,” but Gabriel hadn’t told him the Eckrosh stable stall numbers in the long wooden building that housed more than a hundred horses for various trainers. Doyle did not speak Spanish, so he passed by several Mexican grooms and hotwalkers without attempting an inquiry. He walked on until he recognized Alex Graff, a young trainer he’d met, to ask exactly where Eckrosh was located. “At the end of the barn, on the opposite side,” Graff said. “That’s where you’ll find Grouchy,” he added with a smile.
Walking past the section of Barn C where Kristina Jenkins’ horses were stabled, Jack waved to the trainer. He had met Kristina earlier in the meeting at a breakfast the track hosted for all the trainers with horses on Monee grounds. Jenkins was currently third in the trainer standings. Kristina was Monee Park’s version of Maggie Collins, the similarly young horsewoman who annually ranked high at Heartland Downs the other side of Chicago. Doyle was suddenly brought up short by something he heard. He stopped and looked back. Kristina nodded to him but continued talking on her cell phone,
undoubtedly to one of the two dozen or so owners she trained for. It hadn’t been Kristina’s voice that made Jack halt in his tracks. It was what he thought was the bleating of a goat.
Sure enough, there in stall twenty-one, standing beneath the outstretched head of Jenkins’ best runner, Wicklow Brian, was a small, dirty-white, male goat, replete with horns and a bell that was tinkling rhythmically. Wicklow Brian and the goat were swaying from side to side, in unison, the big brown thoroughbred dwarfing his bearded companion poised under him. Doyle stared at them. Jenkins clicked off her phone and walked over to Doyle. “Isn’t that something?” she said ruefully.
Jack said, “What the hell’s going on with these two?”
Kristina said, “Wicklow Brian is a weaver.” Seeing the puzzled expression on Doyle’s face, she went to explain that “It’s a nervous habit some horses develop. Not very many, thank heavens, but some. Instead of standing still they move, or weave, shifting their weight from side to side. They do it hour after hour, day after day.”
“What’s the problem with that?”
Kristina said, “It’s an energy waster. Why would you want your horse to be wasting energy he could be using in a race?”
“Well, I guess you wouldn’t. But what’s the deal with shorty there, the goat?”
“Actually,” Kristina said, “his name is Sylvester. He’s a fairly friendly little creature. I bought him because usually the presence of a goat can calm down nervous horses like Wicklow Brian. Get them to stop their weaving. Horses and goats get along great, as you can see. Look how contented they look,” she said resignedly.
“The problem here,” Kristina continued, “is that Sylvester not only didn’t get Wicklow Brian to stop his darned weaving, Wicklow Brian has now got Sylvester weaving right along with him.”
They turned to look again at this synchronized odd couple.
“You trainers have to put up with some of the damndest things,” Doyle said.
“Tell me about it,” Kristina said.
Fifty yards from Kristina’s barn, Doyle saw a Mexican woman meticulously raking the dirt in front of the five stalls assigned to horses trained by Tom Eckrosh. He recognized her as Rambling Rosie’s groom, the woman he had seen in the winner’s circle the previous night. She was working her rake around some sparkling clean water buckets that had been set out to dry in the morning sun. Geranium baskets hung overhead, attached under the barn eaves. Doyle could hear the hum of an electric fan in one of the horse’s stalls. The woman wore a gray tee-shirt, jeans, white running shoes. She was humming softly to herself as she worked. The muscles in her brown forearms stood out like cords as she moved the rake.
“Excuse me,” Doyle said. “Miss?”
The woman, deep in thought, looked up, startled, the long, dark braid down her back swinging as she turned to face him. “Yes?”
“Buenos dias,” Doyle said. “I’m looking for Mr. Eckrosh.”
“Oh,” the woman replied, her brown face transformed by a bright smile. “Buenos dias. Si, Mr. Tom is there in his office at the end of the barn,” she said, motioning with the hand not holding the rake handle. “He may be taking a small siesta. Knock on the door, por favor.”
Doyle said, “Gracias,” and nodded at the watchful horses, heads sticking out over their stall doors, as he passed them on his way to the far end of the barn.
Eckrosh was awake when Jack poked his head in the doorway. He looked up at Doyle through thick bifocals, his battered fedora on his head. He had his feet up on the corner of the desk atop an old copy of Racing Daily and was busy fitting together a piece of horse equipment. He waited for Doyle to speak. “I’m Jack Doyle, Mr. Eckrosh. What’s that you’re working on?”
Eckrosh said, “It’s a bit. A special one. I use it on my old hard headed gelding Editorialist. It’s called a Springsteen bit. You don’t see them around much anymore.”
Doyle laughed. “A Springsteen bit? Not named after ‘The Boss,’ I guess.”
Eckrosh frowned. “Whose boss? This here item is for horses with real hard jaws. There’s a spoon-shaped prong that jabs the horse’s jaw when he lugs in or bears out. It works pretty good on Editorialist. He’s brought a check back every time I’ve run him this year. What did you say again about somebody’s boss?”
Doyle sidestepped having to explain his reference to rock star Bruce Springsteen, instead using the next few minutes to present his reasons for wanting to interview Eckrosh and write about his sensational filly. “Rambling Rosie could provide a pretty good publicity boost for this track, which certainly needs it,” he said. Eckrosh listened intently. Finally, he said, “Okay.” He got up from behind his desk. “How long you been working here, son?” Doyle said “a little more than three weeks.” Eckrosh nodded. He said, “You want to see Rosie?”
Eckrosh led the way to the second stall from the end of the barn. The groom had finished her raking and was sitting on an equipment trunk, cleaning a bridle. The trainer said to Jack, “This is Maria Martinez.” Doyle smiled at her, adding, “We’ve already met.” She nodded. Eckrosh said, “Maria, bring out Rosie.” Doyle thought he saw Eckrosh give her a wink. Does this old fart have something going with the senorita? He wondered. Maria, looking slightly embarrassed and struggling to hide a smile, got to her feet and entered the stall. Seconds later she led out a tall brown animal that whinnied with delight at being released from his twenty-two hour per day confinement. Doyle could feel the eyes of Eckrosh and Maria trained on him as he appraised this gawky creature.
“Nice,” Doyle said, and Eckrosh nodded expectantly, trying to keep a straight face. “Nice try, that is.” Doyle kicked at the dirt. “Jesus, Eckrosh,” he said, “I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. I’m not a racetrack lifer like you, but I’ve been around enough to tell a six or seven-year-old gelding from a three-year-old filly. Why are you trying to pass off this sickle hocked old item as Rambling Rosie?”
The old man’s face flushed. Marie turned the horse around and led him back into his stall, her eyes averted. Eckrosh said, “Now, don’t get all huffy, son. I just wanted to see if you knew which end was which. I’ve had writers coming around here the last few years, bothering me, that couldn’t pick out Secretariat in a herd of buffalo. They’re annoying as hell. They read their damned statistics sheets, and past performances, and figure they know horses and horse racing. I just wanted to see if you were one of that crowd.” He paused before admitting, “You know more than I was about to give you credit for.”
With another signal to Maria, out came Rambling Rosie, nickering and nudging the groom’s shoulder. Maria led her out of the barn a few feet onto the grassy patch that bordered the building. She turned the filly around for Doyle, who looked her over from head to toe. The first impression he had was how small she was. Eckrosh must have expected that reaction, for he said, “She can’t weigh more than eight hundred and fifty pounds, a couple hundred less than your average horse. And,” he went on, “usually your top horses are the tall, big-bodied ones. But there are exceptions to every rule. And you’re looking at one of them,” Eckrosh said proudly. Doyle was making notes as the trainer continued his assessment. “When you look at her, nothing really stands out except her head and eye. She’s got a very intelligent eye. But then you look again and you see, even though she’s on the small side, everything she’s got is in balance. She’s the quickest horse I’ve ever had. That, and her will to win, is what makes her stand out.”
Doyle patted the friendly filly on her neck. He didn’t have to reach up to do it. “I don’t even think she’s fifteen hands tall, is she?” he said. “Probably not,” Eckrosh said. “But I’ve never measured her.”
Doyle smiled and made another note. “The ‘Pocket Battleship.’ That’ll be a good nickname for her.” He saw what he thought was an actual smile on the old trainer’s face. “C’mon into the office,” Eckrosh said gruffly. “I see you know something about what you’re doing. At my age, I don’t hav
e time to put up with nitwits.”
Doyle said, “How old are you?”
“None of your business.”
“Great,” Doyle said, “a publicity man’s dream.” Eckrosh pretended he hadn’t heard that.
***
An hour later Doyle had Eckrosh’s story, or at least enough for that day’s purposes. Eckrosh, he’d learned, had started as a teenager on a small racetrack in his native Nebraska. “I was a jockey, and a lousy one,” Eckrosh said. “Then I got too big to ride anyway, and I switched to grooming horses for a great trainer out there named Marion H. Van Berg. A few years later, I went out on my own. I’ve had horses now for more than fifty years. Rambling Rosie is twenty lengths better than any one I had before.
“Yes, I was married,” Eckrosh said in response to Doyle’s question. “My wife worked with me for years. Died of a heart attack right here at Monee Park five summers ago. Never sick a day in her life,” he said bitterly. Eckrosh clammed up after that statement, and Doyle clicked off his tape recorder and put his notebook in his pocket. Then he thought to ask, “How many people do you have working here?”
“Two. And I’m one of them. The woman out there, Maria, she’s the other one. Hell of a worker. Takes care of all five horses I’ve got and turns them out happy, healthy, shiny, and relaxed. I couldn’t get along without her. Before Rambling Rosie started earning some good purse money, I couldn’t have afforded any other workers. Now that I can, Maria says, ‘No, you don’t have to get no more. I can do this job.’ And she can.
“I’ll tell you, son, she’s a hard working, honest person who’s damned good with horses. She doesn’t drink, she’s here early and smiling every morning, and she doesn’t mind working late. You know how hard it is to find somebody like that these days? I don’t care that she’s a woman, or a Mex, or any of that crap. Plus,” Eckrosh admitted, “I have a hard time keeping help. I’m kind of tough on them if they don’t do things the right way.”