by John McEvoy
Hundreds of people surrounded the paddock, looking over the horses, at their track programs, some calling out greetings to the grooms as they walked their horses past. The feeling of enthusiasm was palpable. Doyle couldn’t help but be struck by the lively interest shown by these fans of all ages. At Monee Park, he’d noticed, many of the regular patrons never seemed nearly that engaged as they went about their gambling, rarely venturing outside the building to see a live horse, or race, concentrating entirely on televised racing action. This Curragh crowd, their attention riveted on horses walking within feet of them, was in marked contrast to their Monee Park counterparts.
Hanratty led Doyle down the front of the stands, where the licensed bookmakers had set up shop. Changes in the odds were posted by one man, another man recorded wagers. “Yes, they still offer this archaic form of bookmaking here out in the open air. The pari-mutuel machines are inside,” Hanratty said. “Many of the older fellas have never, and will never, bet with anybody except a live bookmaker.”
Hanratty paused just outside the Curragh’s winner’s enclosure. He shielded his eyes from the bright sun as he looked at it. “That, Jack,” he said, “is where Ireland’s Derby winner gets his photo taken every year. You could rightly call that the most expensive little piece of land in the country. There are many men and women who have spent countless millions trying to buy a horse that will turn up in there.”
They strolled into the interior of the grandstand. “That is one of the longest bars in the world,” Hanratty said, pointing ahead of them toward a busy section where hustling bartenders worked behind a stretch of mahogany that ran for hundreds of feet. The huge area was abuzz with racing talk, arguments over various horses’ merits, voices being raised and then briefly stilled as their owners lifted glasses to their mouths. As Doyle took in the scene, he felt a tug at his elbow. He looked down at a dapper, older man, ex-jockey size, whose wide grin ran under a large, red nose. The little man lifted a thumb in the direction of the long bar. “Sure,” he said, “there’s no finer sight in the world than a furlong of bent elbows. Am I right, now?”
“You are indeed,” Doyle said, laughing as he followed Hanratty to a nearby elevator.
***
They stood on the balcony outside Hanratty’s suite that overlooked the Curragh’s finish marker, watching the running of the third race. As the winning two-year-old flashed across the line below them, many lengths the best, Hanratty smiled. “Long Kinch won like a thief in the night,” he said with satisfaction.
“Like the ‘good thing’ he was, as we say in America about a touted horse that lives up to his billing,” Doyle replied.
Back inside the suite, Hanratty pointed Doyle to a seat at the dining table. The large room was comfortably furnished and contained a small kitchen area, refrigerator, bar, and a sound system out of which poured American jazz. Doyle had pronounced himself surprised by Hanratty’s interest in what was Doyle’s favorite music. “A friend of mine in the States sends me CDs of Marian McPartland’s ‘Piano Jazz’ programs,” Hanratty explained. “What a lovely woman she is,” he continued. “It’s because of her that I began collecting CDs of your great piano players. Oscar Peterson. Bill Evans. Gene Harris and Dave McKenna and Dave Brubeck, to name just a few.
“But,” he said, “we’re not here today to discuss my tastes in music, are we Jack?”
“Go on.”
Hanratty leaned forward, forearms on the table, his large hands clasped. “I’ll get right to the point, Jack. My answer to you, and to cousin Celia, is that I’m going to press forward trying to effect a sale of the Monee Park land. I’ve retained an attorney in Chicago. I won’t be changing my mind,” he said. He sat back in his chair, grim and determined.
“Why am I not surprised?” Doyle said. He got to his feet and walked over to the window that overlooked the racetrack. “What a damn waste of time this trip was.” Turning back to his host he said, “Can you tell me your reasoning? I’d like to be able to report at least something I’ve learned here.”
Hanratty said, “It’s as I’ve indicated earlier. I want to cash out that money now. I have an immediate use for those funds. I don’t want to wait a year, or two years, for those video slot machines to become a reality. If they even do. If I’m getting the proper information from the states, those machines are no sure thing at all.”
He rang the bell on the table and a tuxedoed waiter promptly came through the door. “Whiskey, Miles,” Hanratty said. The man hurried away.
“Who’s providing you with your information?” Doyle asked.
“That’s not really any of your business.”
“Well, if it’s that shyster Art Riley, as I’ve been led to believe, you may not be getting the real thing.”
Hanratty’s handsome face flushed. “I always get the real thing, Jack. That’s how I’ve gotten to where I am.”
The waiter politely knocked, then entered with a tray bearing a bottle of Bushmills, an ice bucket, two glasses, and a small Waterford crystal pitcher of water. He set the contents of the tray on the table and left. Hanratty poured himself a glass of whiskey, neat, then pushed the bottle across the table to Doyle. “Not just yet, Niall,” Doyle said.
Hanratty downed his drink in one gulp, poured another of similar size, and sat back in his chair. “It’s too bad you had to come all this way for nothing,” he said. “If Celia had taken me at my word, you wouldn’t have.” He sipped his whiskey. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
Doyle nodded, and Hanratty said, “I’ve never laid eyes on cousin Celia, but I’ve seen a photo or two of her, courtesy of Uncle Jim. Is she the beautiful creature she appears to be?”
“She’s all of that,” said Doyle, not liking the direction this conversation was taking. He shifted slightly in his chair as Hanratty looked at him over the rim of his half-full glass. Through a half smile Hanratty inquired, “And how do the two of you get on?”
Doyle’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair. He made an effort to relax. “You know, Niall, I not only don’t like your answer about the Monee Park business, I don’t like the tone of that last question. How I get along with your cousin is none of your business.”
Hanratty polished off his second drink and quickly poured another. The liquor seemed to have absolutely no effect on him. “Now, Jack,” he said, “don’t take me wrong. I was just curious. I know little about my cousin. What I do know makes me sympathize with her situation. A failing racetrack. A husband doomed to die in the fairly predictable future. The pressures on her must be enormous.”
Voice rising now, Hanratty said, “Why doesn’t the woman just sell the damn place? Take the money? Then I could take mine, and we could get on with our lives.”
“You forget something here, Niall,” Doyle said. “Celia feels she is honoring your Uncle Jim’s memory by keeping Monee Park in operation. She feels a powerful obligation to the memory of the man who raised her, schooled her, loved her. She’s not about to turn her back on that,” Doyle said forcefully. “It is,” he added more softly, “just the way she is.”
Hanratty pounded the table with his right fist, his face reddening. “Can’t this woman see the reality of the situation? There’s not a thin line between tradition and stagnation, there’s a crevasse. What she feels for Uncle Jim shouldn’t be a factor in what is a business decision. Going the way she is, Celia will run that track into the ground. It might take a year or two, but she’ll wind up costing us both.”
He got to his feet, hands on the table, glowering, shoulders bunched beneath his suit coat. “I won’t put up with it,” Hanratty said.
Doyle said, “You’re quite the fellow, Niall. I can recognize that. But what you’ll put up with, and what you’ll get away with, are two very different things.”
The bookmaker took a deep breath before walking over the balcony window. He looked out, hands on his hips. Without turning his head, he said, “I don’t suppose you’d consider joining my team on t
his project. See it my way, and go back to Chicago and persuade Celia to sell. I’d make it very much worth your while.”
Doyle snorted. “You’ve got plenty of nerve, Niall. But not much fucking class.”
He got out of his chair. He poured himself a finger of Bushmills and quickly drank it down.
“Don’t call the faithful Hoy for me,” Doyle said, walking to the door of the suite. “I’ll find my own way to the airport.”
***
It was early evening when Hanratty reached his Dun Laoghaire headquarters. He phoned Riley in Chicago. The lawyer had returned from court and was preparing to walk across LaSalle Street to lunch. A breaking and entering charge against one of his regular clients had been dismissed and Riley was in a jubilant mood. It evaporated when he heard Hanratty’s bitter tone.
“This campaign of yours, Mr. Riley,” Hanratty said, “it’s not working. Celia McCann isn’t budging from her position. That’s just recently been made very clear to me by her employee Jack Doyle. What the hell are you planning to do about this?”
Riley took a deep breath. “Mr. Hanratty, I’ll be doing better very soon, I assure you. My, er, associates have actually done what I’ve instructed. But perhaps I’ve set our sights too low. Give me a couple of days to rethink this matter. I’m sure more pleasing prospects are in store.” He wiped his sweaty brow.
There was a brief silence. Then Riley heard Hanratty say, before he hung up, “I didn’t take you for a fella to be satisfied with ten percent of nothing.”
Chapter 23
The Aer Lingus flight landed on time at O’Hare. But at this extremely busy international airport, more than forty-five minutes went by until a gate became available. Doyle took deep breaths as he tried to relax amid the increasingly impatient passengers, both on the plane as it sat on the tarmac, then in the lengthy customs line. The only break in the tedium came when one of Airport Security’s drug dogs, an active and inquisitive beagle, discovered several rashers of Irish bacon in the carry-on of one embarrased returnee. It was nearly seven o’clock before Doyle could retrieve his Accord and begin the seventy-minute drive south and east to Monee Park. He called Celia on his cell phone as he drove. They agreed to meet in the Turf Club once he’d arrived at the track.
Doyle got there first. Marilyn, the Turf Club hostess, said, “Celia will be down in about fifteen minutes.” She walked him to a window table overlooking the racing strip. Three tables away there was a lively party of six people, among them a man who was the oldest of them by several decades. He was wearing expensive looking sport clothes and a blue tie on a glistening white shirt. Doyle said softly to Marilyn before she turned to go back to her post, “Who’s that old guy? I’ve noticed him here before. But I don’t know his name.” Marilyn smiled, then pulled out a chair next to Jack’s.
“That’s Izzy Kreinberg.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well,” Marilyn responded, “you should get to know him. Mr. Kreinberg owns a lot of horses that run here, including some pretty good ones. He’s quite the character. Made his money in the commercial glass business. He’s owned racehorses for, oh, gosh, I couldn’t even tell you, but I know it’s a long time. I can tell you his age, though,” Marilyn added, smiling again. “Mr. Kreinberg will celebrate his ninety-ninth birthday this summer. There’s going to be a party here for him.”
Doyle turned to take another look at Kreinberg. “Nearing ninety-nine! He doesn’t look a day over eighty.”
“Doesn’t act it either,” Marilyn said. “And talk about a positive view of life! Mr. Kreinberg is still buying yearlings at the sales. He’s a wonderful old gentleman, usually very good natured, famous for his philanthropy. He’s a long time widower who has quite a lively eye for the ladies. But,” she added, frowning, “he can be irritable at times. I think this is one of them.”
They saw Kreinberg glowering as Hugo the waiter placed a bottle of Beck’s beer down in front of him.
“I wonder what’s bothering him,” Doyle said.
Marilyn tried to hide a laugh with her hand. Leaning close, she said, “I know exactly what’s bothering Mr. Kreinberg. I saw the same scene when he was here last weekend. He looked so unhappy that I went over to inquire if there was something wrong with the service. After all, he’s one of our best customers.
“Anyway, he told me all about his problem. It seems that when he had his annual physical last month, his doctor told Mr. Kreinberg that his triglyceride count was a bit too high.”
Doyle laughed, then apologized to Marilyn for interrupting her. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but think that Kreinberg has probably had more physical exams than all the cars I’ve owned over the years have had oil changes. If I ever get to be Kreinberg’s age, I’d be happy just having triglycerides. But, go on with what you were saying.”
“The doctor advised Mr. Kreinberg to change his drinking habits. No more of his favorite gin martinis that he’s been enjoying all these years. If he had to have alcohol, the doctor said, Mr. Kreinberg was to limit himself to an occasional beer.”
Doyle shrugged. “So? I mean, I guess that’s kind of a sacrifice on the old guy’s part. But he hasn’t been forced into becoming a teetotaler. What’s his big problem?”
Marilyn looked over her shoulder to make sure she was not being overheard. “Mr. Kreinberg’s complaint, and this is exactly how he put it to me, was, ‘The damn beers make me go to the bathroom too often. And when I’m gone, some of these young fellows try to steal my dates.’”
Marilyn and Jack looked on in amusement as Kreinberg spoke earnestly to the tanned, blond woman to his left, a woman probably a half-century his junior, his hand on her arm. Kreinberg said something that made her laugh loudly, and the old man beamed.
“Well, bless his jolly, old horny soul,” Doyle said admiringly.
***
A few minutes later Jack got to his feet and held the chair for Celia. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, eyeing him expectantly. He grimaced. “I wish I had better news. But your cousin Niall has a head as hard as the Blarney Stone. I’m afraid I didn’t get anywhere with him.”
He went on to recount his conversations with Hanratty. Celia listened glumly, occasionally sipping her coffee. Finally she sat back, resigned but determined. “I’ll just go ahead without any help or understanding from Niall,” she said. “It would make it a lot easier if I had his support on the video slots project, just so we could present a united front to the legislators. I’ve been told by Lew Langmeyer that that’s desirable. But, if it’s not to be, it’s not to be. I’ll go it alone.”
She reached across the table and patted Doyle’s hand. “I should have said earlier, thanks for your efforts over there. I really appreciate it, Jack. I know you tried your best.”
“My best was a long way from good enough,” Doyle said, adding, “There’s something else I’ve been thinking about. Cousin Niall made it known to me that he was aware of what he termed your ‘recent Monee Park troubles,’ the robbery and then the electrical failure.”
“Well, both of those were covered in all the papers here, and on the horse racing websites. I would imagine that Niall keeps up with the internet racing news. I’ve been sort of keeping track of him lately, myself,” she admitted. “I Googled his OTB chain and even found a short biography of him, along with a photo of him. He’s got a stubborn kind of look about him even in that picture.”
Doyle momentarily shifted his attention to the nearby table where Izzy Kreinberg was excusing himself from his party, about to hurry off to the men’s room. When he turned back to Celia, Doyle said, “Seems to me, and my naturally suspicious nature, that these occurrences are not random, unconnected. That first the robbery, then the electrical failure were acts aimed at harming this track financially. And making its owners more likely to sell it and get the hell out.”
Celia’s pretty mouth tightened. “Not this owner,” she said sharply.
Doyle smiled, looking a
t her with her Irish up, green eyes ablaze. “Hold on,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get you riled up.” He thought how even more appealing this tall, elegant, caring woman was when she permitted herself to reveal how she really felt, when she let down her barrier of cool reserve.
Celia said, “What is Niall like?”
“I spent less than three days with him. But I saw enough of him to realize he’s a very formidable rival, or opponent, or whatever you want to call him in this fight over use of the track. He’s smart, very sure of himself. He’s not gotten to where he is without edging a few bodies toward the cliffs. And he’s got a guy working for him, named Hoy, who looks like he might have taken a pass on the Provos because they were too tame for him.”
Celia sat back in her chair, composed now. “I still don’t know enough about Niall to say he’d resort to criminal acts being carried out here in order to get his way. How could he orchestrate anything like that from so far away even if he wanted to? No, Jack, I just can’t see him being behind some long range conspiracy against me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Doyle said.
***
Minutes later Doyle climbed the iron stairs to the press box, two at a time. Spending time with Celia seemed to energize him. Before he’d reached the phone outside the door, the door was jerked open from the inside. Morty burst through it, head down, swearing. His shoulder banged into Doyle’s. Morty, startled, looked up, wild eyed, prepared to continue his descent down the stairs. Doyle grabbed Morty’s left arm. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Where are you going? We’re not done working tonight.”
The little man’s answer was almost indiscernible, delivered as it was in a torrent of speech at an increasingly high pitched level. I’ve read about people spluttering, Doyle thought, but I’ve never seen or heard anyone do it. Until now. He grabbed Morty by the lapels of his sport coat and shook him. “God damn it,” Doyle said, “settle down. Tell me what’s going on with you. Hear me?”