by John McEvoy
Once he’d cleared the fence, Comet Colin kept going over the infield grass, eyes wild, tossing his head. He ran full speed into the infield lake, where he churned the water in his fear and panic. As track workers started to rush to his rescue, Comet Colin revealed himself to be no Black Stallion. Before the men could swim out to him and attach a rope to his bridle, Comet Colin drowned.
***
Doyle went back to his desk in the press box. He avoided looking at the stricken Morty, who had his head down on his desk and obviously didn’t want to be disturbed. Doyle made a mental note to order Morty never to bet on Rambling Rosie. Then he began writing a news release about the incident he’d just witnessed. “If this doesn’t make all the papers,” he muttered, “nothing from Monee Park ever will.”
Doyle’s report of this bizarre event was indeed picked up by the next day’s Chicago area papers as well as two wire services. The story lamented the loss of “this obviously talented but unfortunate young horse,” mentioned the “great good luck of his rider, Jason LeBeau, who miraculously escaped injury,” and concluded with a quote from Comet Colin’s trainer, Buddy Bowman.
“I thought I’d seen it all in this game,” said the stunned horseman, adding, “It’s bad enough when you have to call an owner and tell him his horse lost. But how in the hell do I tell Comet Colin’s owner that his horse didn’t just lose, he drowned?”
The next morning Doyle got a call from Moe Kellman. “Congratulations,” Kellman said, “Monee Park is all over the news today.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said, “but it took a disaster to do it. Poor Comet Colin. And poor Morty ‘Kiss of Death’ Dubinski.” He went on to describe his assistant’s amazing record of lousy luck. “It’s incredible,” Doyle said. “If Morty bets to win, his horse runs second. If he bets to place, his horse finishes third. His exactas almost always come back first-third. When he bets a trifecta, his picks run one-two-four. He’s also lost thirteen photo finishes in the last month. I’ve never seen anything like it. The man is cursed.”
Kellman said, “It might be time for him to try prayer.”
“I don’t know about that,” Doyle said. “I don’t think Morty is religious.”
“Well, the way he’s going, it couldn’t hurt,” Kellman said. “Did I ever tell you about two of my old friends, Al Brody and Arnie Rosen? This was years ago, when they both used to go to the track every weekend during their winters in Florida. Hialeah Park, before they closed it up for lack of business. Beautiful old place.
“Anyway, one winter, Brody gets on a tremendous hot streak. He’s betting winner after winner. Rosen, on the other hand, is colder than a Duluth December. He’s going nuts watching Brody cash while he’s tearing up losing ticket after losing ticket, race after race.
“One evening when they’re driving home after the races, Rosen says, ‘Al, I don’t get it. You and I have been playing the horses together for years. Usually, we come out about the same. But not lately. How come you’re going so great all of a sudden while I’m bombing out?’
“Brody shrugs. He says, ‘Arnie, maybe you should go to temple more often.’
“Rosen hasn’t been to services since his bar mitzvah. He is not what you call a practicing Jew. But he’s so desperate, he starts thinking this over. And, the next Saturday, he goes to temple before he meets Brody at Hialeah. However, nothing changes. It’s the same old story. Brody’s knocking them dead at the windows, Rosen is getting killed. After the last race, Rosen throws down his Racing Daily on the clubhouse floor and starts stomping on it, hollering ‘I can’t take it anymore.’
“Brody does his best to try and calm down his old pal. He says, ‘Arnie, didn’t I tell you to try going to temple? Why didn’t you listen to me?’
“Rosen is in agony, all red in the face, sweating. He says, ‘Al, I went. I went. I went to Beth Shalom this morning and I prayed my heart out for a change in my luck at the track. And what happened? Bupkus.’
“Brody steps back, gives Rosen a sympathetic look. ‘Beth Shalom?’ he says. ‘No wonder it didn’t work, you shmuck. That’s for basketball, not racing.’”
As he laughed, Doyle pictured Kellman on the other end of the phone, eyes twinkling as he gazed out a window of his John Hancock Building office suite toward Lake Michigan. “Maybe I can cheer up poor Morty telling him that story,” Jack said.
“It’s worth a try.”
Chapter 27
Aiden Lucarelli and Denny Shannon were heading home from work, a small construction job in Berwyn, when Lucarelli’s cell phone rang. Shannon winced. The phone’s signal for incoming calls was the first two bars of “The Godfather” theme. He hated the sound and had said so. Once. Aiden’s response was such that Denny never again brought up the subject. He brushed his forearm over his forehead. It was a sweltering Chicago summer afternoon. The Taurus’ air conditioning was laboring. Sweat dripped from Lucarelli’s forehead as he answered the phone.
“Aiden, it’s Art Riley. We need a meeting. Right away.”
“Where?”
“I’ll see you at Haller’s at 5:30. I’ll buy the beer for you boys.”
“Deal,” Lucarelli said. He closed the phone and took another swipe at his forehead with his sodden handkerchief.
Shannon said, “Wazzup?”
“A meet with Riley. At Haller’s. We’ll head over there now.”
“Did he sound pissed off?”
Lucarelli shot him a look before saying, “Why should he sound pissed off? We robbed the fucking racetrack. Then we got its lights turned off, just like he wanted. If he’s pissed off, it can’t be at us. We did our part.” Lucarelli spat out the car window before adding, “Maybe smartass lawyer Riley hasn’t been doing such great planning. Maybe that’s why he needs us again.”
Shannon reached into the cooler on the floor in front of him. He popped open a Bud Light. “As long as Riley’s buyin’, we’ll listen. Right, Aiden?”
“Fuck’n A.”
***
Riley was alone at a table near the rear of Haller’s, reading the Tribune, drinking an Old Fashioned. Though Riley had helped extricate him from several legal jams, Lucarelli had never liked the attorney. He found himself now filled to an even new level of disgust as he looked Riley over, from his wrinkled suit, rumpled dress shirt, twisted tie, to his doughy face with its small, mean mouth and eyes that flickered about, never holding a gaze in one place for more than a second or two. But “liking” was not a factor in their relationship.
For nearly a quarter hour Lucarelli sat back in his chair, nonchalant, as Riley described their next assignment. Shannon leaned close to the attorney, frowning, paying close attention. Riley’s eyes darted from one to the other as he talked quietly, pausing only to signal Marge Duffy, behind the bar, for “one of the same for me, and the same for the lads here.”
At 6:45 Riley drained the last of his drink and got to his feet. “Got to leave you. I’ve got great tickets for tonight’s Sox game. Meeting my son and his boys.” He concentrated on Aiden when he asked, “Are we clear on this?”
Lucarelli finished his Bud Light before answering. “It’ll get done. Don’t worry about that.”
Shannon, still frowning, looked up at Riley. He said, “I don’t understand, like, what they are, these fool papers you’re talking about.”
Lucarelli broke up, laughing so hard and loud that Riley looked at him with alarm. Shannon knew what this was about. He’d seen Aiden snort crystal meth before they’d entered Haller’s, knew the effect it had on his cousin.
“Not fool papers,” Aiden said, face flushed, reaching to grab Denny’s wrist. “Foal papers. Foal fucking papers.” He was laughing uncontrollably now, the drug and alcohol ripping through him. “Foal,” he repeated, “not fool. You fool.” He pounded the table in appreciation of his wit. Shannon still didn’t understand, but he shrugged. He knew a long, uproarious night lay ahead of them, Aiden riding his high and in a soaring mood with the promise of mo
re Riley money. Maybe they’d hit Rush Street, have some fun, bust some balls up there in yuppie land.
Riley scuttled out the door. For a few minutes he sat behind the wheel of his new Cadillac DTS, the finest car he’d ever owned, in the sun-baked parking lot of Haller’s, motor going, air conditioning blasting, a sheen of perspiration still lingering on his brow. He checked his suit coat pocket, making sure he had the Sox tickets. He looked forward to seeing his excited grandsons at the ball park, to spending at least the next few hours with his mind off of the unsettling duo he had just left. “If it weren’t for the big fee I’ll get from Hanratty,” he said to himself, pulling out onto Halsted, “I’d wash my hands of those two.”
Chapter 28
Late July had rustled up one of those all-night, all-day rain productions that marked portions of every Chicago summer. The previous night’s thunder storms had dumped more than an inch of rain on the Monee Park barn area whose dirt roads were ill-equipped to handle it. Early on this Friday morning, Doyle stepped carefully around large pools of standing water, over mud-slicked surfaces, as he made his way toward Tom Eckrosh’s barn. He had an eight o’clock appointment with the crusty old trainer to talk about plans for Rambling Rosie. Doyle hoped the resulting press release would find space in the area’s weekend newspapers, thus generating some much needed publicity for the struggling racetrack.
Around 7:45 the rain suddenly resumed, really hard. With time to spare before his meeting with Eckrosh, Doyle quickly ducked beneath the tin roof overhang of an equipment shed. He was wearing a rain slicker, boots, and rain hat, but none of this gear was a match for the latest deluge.
Doyle was leaning against the open doorway of the shed when he spotted a solitary figure across the road. Peering through the sheets of rain, he saw a man, hatless, wearing only a light jacket, pacing back and forth in front of Barn C. When the man turned around at the end of the shed row and began walking back his way, Doyle recognized the tall, gaunt figure, hair plastered to his head, of Reverend Dave Livingston, Monee Park’s backstretch chaplain. Livingston, thirty-eight, was a former horse trainer, reformed gambler, and recovering alcoholic who eleven years earlier had undergone a notable transformation. Besides giving up his destructive life style, he became a born again Christian, graduated from a small, southern West Virginia bible college, then returned to the racetrack to establish a ministry. Reverend Livingston was very popular on the backstretch, especially among the Hispanic workers for whom he conducted a Spanish-speaking service each Saturday night.
Watching Reverend Livingston pivot at the far end of the barn and turn back his way, Doyle thought, not for the first time, how much the minister reminded him of the long-jawed country singer who had been briefly married to one of the nation’s favorite movie actresses. Reverend Livingston sloshed toward him through a wide puddle as Doyle called out, “Hey, Reverend.” Doyle darted out from the shed and sprinted across the road to where Livingston had stopped to look quizzically at him. “Is that you, Mr. Doyle?” the minister said as Jack jumped a final puddle and made it to the shelter of the Barn C overhang. “It is,” Doyle replied, “please make it Jack. And why don’t you step over here, get out of the rain?” Reverend Livingston brushed his long, black hair off his rain-beaded forehead. “Why yes,” he said, as if the thought had never occurred to him, “I think I will.”
The two men stood silently for a few moments, listening to the percussive sound of water on the old tin roof above them. Doyle said, “You’re drenched. Do you mind if I ask you why you kept walking out there through the rain? Why,” he added with a smile, “you didn’t stay under the roof if you were determined to get your exercise miles in during this downpour?”
Reverend Livingston responded with a blank look. He looked down at his mud-caked boots. “Well, of course I was walking in the rain, wasn’t I? Why? Oh, I guess I wasn’t really noticing the rain, Mr. Doyle, er, Jack. I’ve got a great deal on my mind these days.”
“Hard to ignore a rain like this,” Doyle shrugged. They both stepped back as a manure hauling truck barreled down the path between barns, spraying sheets of water from all its wheels. Doyle started to swear as the truck sped past, then remembered whose company he was in.
The rain increased in intensity for a minute or two before resuming its quieter, steady beat. Doyle glanced at his grim-faced companion. The frown lines on Livingston’s broad forehead looked as if they’d been carved there. “How’s the chaplaincy fund drive coming?” Doyle said, not really caring, just making conversation. Doyle for years had devoted his charitable spending to non-sectarian groups, operating under his theory that “God couldn’t possibly have that many legit mouthpieces competing for my money.”
Reverend Livingston shook his head sadly. “The fund drive is far, far from meeting its goal, Jack,” he said with a sigh. “Our needs are greater than ever. There are so many of our racetrackers coming to us now needing day care for their children, English language instruction, advice on how to get green cards, apply for citizenship. This is all on top of our ongoing counseling on drug and alcohol abuse. The demands keep increasing. We badly need to expand staff, but we can’t, not with the way our level of funding is lagging behind.”
Doyle glanced at his watch. It was nearly time for him to meet Eckrosh. He took another look at Reverend Livingston’s long, sad, wet face. He decided to break his own rule.“Look, Reverend,” Doyle said, “I’ve got to get going.” He took out his wallet and pressed a pair of $50 bills into Livingston’s damp hands. The chaplain’s face brightened as Doyle said, “Put these in your kitty. I admire the good work you do here.”
“Well, thanks be to Jesus,” Reverend Livingston exclaimed. “And may he bless you, Jack.”
As if a celestial spigot had been turned off, the rain abruptly stopped. “Perfect timing for once,” Doyle said. “I can be on time at old man Eckrosh’s barn.”
“Say hello to Tom for me,” Livingston said. “And thank you again.”
Doyle walked away a few steps, then stopped. Turning to face Livingston he said, “I’m curious. Why were you tramping around in this storm on this lousy morning when your nice, dry office is only a block or so away?”
Reverend Livingston smiled sweetly. “What was I doing out in weather like this? Why, waiting for somebody like you, Jack Doyle.”
Doyle gave the reverend a mock salute before he started to walk away, laughing as he said to himself, “I’ve just seen another form of racetrack hustle.”
Chapter 29
After Rambling Rosie’s tenth straight resounding victory, even grouchy old Tom Eckrosh permitted himself a proud smile in the Monee Park winner’s circle. Patting the preening filly on her neck as the photo was being taken, Eckrosh accepted Doyle’s congratulations. Eckrosh said, somewhat reluctantly, “I guess it’s time we moved her up.”
Doyle was surprised at this volunteered information from the man whom he had recently described to Morty as being “so closed mouth he wouldn’t tell you if he saw a tarantula crawling up your tie.” He looked closely at the trainer. “What have you got in mind, Tom?”
Eckrosh reached into his a pocket of his sport coat and extracted a well thumbed copy of the Heartland Downs stakes schedule. “They’ve got a race she could go in over at the big track in a week,” the old man said. “A $50,000 race, the Miss Amara Stakes. For three-year-old fillies going six furlongs.”
Doyle felt himself getting excited at this possibility. Win or lose, he could get a lot of publicity mileage out of blue collar Rambling Rosie taking on the expensively bred competition she would meet at Chicago area’s major racetrack. “The Odd Couple and Their Underdog”—he could almost hear popular Chicago television sports anchor Max Suppelsa leading off his show with those very words to describe Eckrosh, Maria Martinez, and Rosie. He clapped Eckrosh on the back and was rewarded with a scowl. “Sorry,” Doyle said. “It’s just that I think it’s a great idea.”
The old man looked up at Doyle. A hint of a
grin came and went before he said, “Well, son, so do I.”
***
The morning of the Miss Amara Stakes, Doyle arrived at Monee Park just before six o’clock. Birds were vocal in the old elm trees that lined the barn area, a few of them zipping down to poke their bills into the mound of horse manure that wouldn’t be picked up until later in the morning. He walked toward Tom Eckrosh’s little office. He’d already seen Maria Martinez outside of the barn, preparing to load Rambling Rosie into the one-horse trailer attached to Eckrosh’s white Ford pickup truck. The filly walked calmly up the ramp and settled in nicely. “Rosie’s a good little traveler,” Eckrosh said, coming through the office door, “always has been. After I bought her and brought her up here, she walked right off the van and won her first race.”
“You think the traveling did it for her?” Doyle said, half-kidding. “She hadn’t won anything before that.”
Eckrosh gave him a sharp look. “I didn’t have her before that. After I got her, I changed her shoeing, and her diet, and her training patterns, and turned her over to a good groom, Maria. Did the vanning have anything to do with it? I don’t know. But it seemed to help at first, so I’ve kept doing it. Even though she’s been running all of her races here at Monee, before every one of them I put her in my trailer about four hours before race time and drive her around for a few miles. She likes it.”
Minutes later Eckrosh climbed into the truck’s cab behind the wheel, Maria moved to the middle of the bench seat, Doyle got in and closed the passenger door. The truck lurched violently toward the exit gate. Doyle tried to get a grip on the dashboard, muttering “Jesus!” Maria’s eyes were closed, hands clasped together as if she were praying. She was evidently familiar with Eckrosh’s driving.