by John McEvoy
After some two miles of erratic progress, Doyle said loudly, “Tom, pull over.” Doyle had seen the old man peering through the windshield as if he were searching for a route through a blinding snowstorm. Doyle had heard stories about Eckrosh’s short, thrilling drives to and from the Monee Park track kitchen, scattering autos and pedestrians in his wake. Now he believed them. Doyle shuddered at the thought of Eckrosh motoring around with his sensational filly and her faithful groom. He said, “Tom, I’ll drive.”
Surprisingly, the ordinarily stubborn old man didn’t argue. Maria gave Doyle a grateful smile as he slipped behind the wheel, him thinking, If this filly runs good after being driven around by this old man, he should prep her the next time on a roller coaster at Great America. She’d break all the damn records.
The trip took nearly an hour, through the early morning traffic leading north and then west to Heartland Downs. As usual, the expressways were clogged, some portions of them under construction, a Chicago auto commuter’s nightmare. Many of the work crews were manning trucks and spreaders marked Bonadio Construction. Doyle had heard of this politically connected company, owned by Moe Kellman’s boyhood chum.
Eckrosh and Doyle chatted about the quality of the rivals Rambling Rosie would be facing that afternoon. The trainer said, “It’s the saltiest bunch she’s seen yet.” He looked concerned. Maria spoke to reassure him. “Mister Tom,” she smiled, “these feelies have not seen one muy rapido like our Rosie, either.” Doyle, himself not completely convinced, nevertheless nodded as if in agreement with this optimistic assessment.
They were questioned at the Heartland Downs stable gate by a security officer wearing the sort of uniform often seen on bodyguards of South American dictators. The guard examined Eckrosh’s training license for several minutes before waving them forward. “How’d they miss getting this guy into Homeland Security?” Doyle said.
Doyle parked the truck at the entrance to the stakes barn where Rambling Rosie would remain until her race that afternoon. He got out of the truck and helped Eckrosh open the trailer doors. Maria said, “Come to me, Mama,” and Rambling Rosie carefully backed her way down the ramp, her four white feet flashing in the sunlight.
***
That afternoon, Eckrosh and Maria definitely were the “odd couple” in the Heartland Downs paddock prior to the Miss Amara Stakes. The trainers of the other horses wore sport coats, khakis, shining boots. A couple of them sported big, beige Western hats. All but one besides Eckrosh had on dark sun glasses. The owners of the horses were expensively dressed, their wives or girlfriends equally so. Even the grooms employed by these people, who were taking their horses around the rubber-padded walking ring prior to saddling, were turned out neatly.
Tom Eckrosh stood outside Rambling Rosie’s stall. In his unpressed gray slacks, worn black sport coat, and battered fedora, Doyle thought, the old trainer might be taken for a panhandler who had somehow sidled past the Heartland Downs gate guard. Maria wore her regular working outfit of gray sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, worn running shoes. She had tied her thick, black hair into a long braid at the back of her head. Her clothes were clean and pressed. It was obvious to Doyle that her earlier level of confidence had taken a couple of hits in the midst of this comparatively upscale milieu. Worry lines were evident on her forehead.
By far the most comfortable and confident looking member of this close-knit trio was Rambling Rosie. She gazed around the paddock like a diva eager for the downbeat. After checking out the horses that would be running against her, she nuzzled Maria’s neck as a serious looking Ramon Garcia strode across the gleaming grass like a miniature conquistador about to go to work. Garcia looked neither right or left. He tapped his whip against his right riding boot as he advanced. Rosie nickered when Garcia walked up to her, ready to be boosted aboard.
Paddock judge Keith Polzin gave the call of “riders up.” Eckrosh boosted Garcia into the saddle, grunting slightly as he did so. “Say there, old timer,” came a voice from across the way. Advancing toward them was Frank Lester, Heartland Downs’ leading trainer. He also had a filly in the Miss Amara. With his dark glasses, gleaming smile, expensive suit and moussed black hair, Lester looked more like a visiting movie star than a working horseman. He walked up to Eckrosh, his hand extended. Eckrosh nodded curtly and turned away. Lester shrugged and walked off without another word.
Doyle remembered reading that Lester had apprenticed under Eckrosh years earlier. The two had had a major falling out when Lester suddenly went out on his own, taking several of Eckrosh’s major clients with him. He’d gone on to gain national prominence as the buyer and trainer of very expensive stock.
Walking through the tunnel toward the track, Doyle couldn’t restrain himself. “You and Lester still friendly?” he asked, knowing full well that was not the case, but looking to get a rise out of the old man, maybe get his mind a little bit off of the important upcoming race.
Eckrosh stopped to glare at Doyle as he answered. “Don’t ask me nothing about that smart ass, conniving, son of a bitch. I’ve been finished with him for years. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw his big, fat stable pony. And you can quote me.”
Doyle said, “Well, I don’t think I’ll be doing that. Celia is hoping to get Lester to send over a few of his horses to Monee.”
Eckrosh shrugged. “Celia’s got to do what she’s got to do. I give that girl credit for keeping Monee Park going.”
They took their places at the rail near the finish line, just outside the winner’s circle. Lester already stood in that enclosure, as if confident his filly would be arriving to join him minutes later.
Eckrosh nodded toward his one-time protégé. “Only horse he’s going to see in there in a couple of minutes will be mine,” he growled.
Doyle smiled. “You’re pretty sure you’re going to beat him today with Rosie, aren’t you?”
“Damn right,” Eckrosh replied. He placed his elbows on the fence, still looking out the corner of his eye at Lester, who was now being interviewed by Christine Davis, Heartland Downs’ in-house television personality.
“Keep in mind, son,” Eckrosh said, “that I taught Frankie Lester everything he knows.” He paused before adding, “Not everything I know.”
They looked across the infield at the horses approaching the starting gate. Rambling Rosie was bouncing around, nuzzling the accompanying outrider’s pony, swishing her tail energetically. Doyle grinned as he watched her through his binoculars. All of her body language seemed to be saying to one and all, “Damn, I’m glad to be here. And I’m gonna kick some butts.”
***
That she did. It was almost as if Rambling Rosie understood the jibe aimed at her jockey, Ramon Garcia, by Heartland Downs’ foremost rider Larry Porter. Looking over at Garcia in the starting gate Porter said, loud enough to make some of the gate crew members snicker, “Welcome to the big leagues, amigo. Things are going to be different here.”
But they weren’t, not after the starter had sprung the latch and Rosie exploded out of the gate, a copper colored blur on this bright blue afternoon. Garcia tucked his chin down near her neck and let her roll, his hands still on the reins. She’d begun to noticeably detach herself from the field after the first quarter mile. By the time she’d reached mid-stretch, she was six lengths clear of her nearest rival. Uncharacteristically, Garcia gave her a whack on the shoulder with his whip about seventy yards from the finish. She was seven on top at that point. Irritated, Rosie swished her tail and turned her head to the side as if to give Garcia a chiding look. After they’d flashed under the wire, the normally stoic Garcia stood in the irons, grinning, and patted Rambling Rosie’s neck. The crowd erupted in applause when track announcer Calvin Gemmer announced Rambling Rosie’s winning time of 1:08 3-5 and said, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a new track record.”
Doyle was antsy in the winner’s circle, pumped up, looking for someone to high five, or hug. Eckrosh, a picture o
f contained jubilance, didn’t appear to be receptive to either gesture. The old man was busy anyway, gripping Maria’s hand tightly. She held on to Rambling Rosie’s shank with the other hand. Tears streamed down Maria’s brown cheeks. After the photo was taken, Garcia dismounted with a leaping, trampoline-like flourish. Smiling broadly, he shook hands with Eckrosh, then patted Maria on the back. He delivered another pat to Rambling Rosie before going to the official scales to weigh out.
Doyle stood to the side, not wanting to intrude on this scene. This horse, this victory, meant so much to these people, it made him envious of their passionate involvement. He thought fleetingly of Celia, imagined her being there to share the moment with him. Ah, well….
Chapter 30
“Hey, this is a good idea. I know it is. Even if it isn’t mine.”
Doyle stopped speaking and looked around the conference table. Celia sat at its head, leaning forward, obviously interested. Shontanette was next to her, non-committal. Bob Zaslow was in his wheelchair, which was placed midway of the table, his nurse Fidelia to his left. Bob looked dubious at what he’d heard. Fidelia, among the dwindling few young U. S.-based women who crocheted, concentrated on the intricately patterned scarf she was making for her youngest niece’s birthday.
“Well?” Doyle said. “What do you think?”
Celia said, “Inviting Willy Wilgis here is, well, kind of a stretch, don’t you think? I don’t know the man. The only state legislator I really know at all is Lew Langmeyer. Why do you think Wilgis would like to make an appearance at Monee Park?”
“Glad you asked,” Doyle responded. “Here’s the deal. Representative Wilgis’ secretary, aka mistress, is a woman named Evelyn Stortz. She happens to be a customer of our good friend Moe Kellman. When she was visiting Moe’s fur salon recently, she mentioned that Wilgis has a birthday coming up. He’s going to be seventy-nine. She wants to surprise him with something special, and she asked Moe if he had any ideas. They chewed this over, Moe probably leading the patter. Then, God love him, Moe suggested that Evelyn bring Wilgis out here for dinner and a night at the races. We’d name a special race for him in honor of his birthday. We’d have the old boy present the trophy to the winner of that race. According to Evelyn that would be a first for Wilgis, who apparently has been feted, honored, fawned over, and had his ass smooched in numerous ways all over the state. But not like this.
“Anyway, that’s what Moe suggested, and he said Evelyn bought right into it. Moe called me, and I said ‘great idea.’ We need Wilgis’ support in the legislature with the slot machines bill. Why not take a shot with something like this? At least we’ll get to know the old rascal a little bit. And he’ll get to know us, and Monee Park.”
He looked around the table. Silence. Then there was a vocal rumble from next to Fidelia. Haltingly, painfully, Bob Zaslow managed to say, “That’s a great idea, Jack.”
***
It was as pleasant an early September night as the Chicago area can produce: temperature in the high 60s, stars looking ripe to pop right out of their deep black background. The row of old elm trees bordering the far side of the racing strip was beginning to hint at fall colors to soon follow.
Willy Wilgis pushed his chair away from the dining room table in the Monee Park’s Turf Club. He patted his lips with the napkin he’d removed from his shirt front. Evelyn Stortz leaned over from her seat beside him and dabbed at a gravy spot that had somehow found its way onto his white tie. Wilgis burped gently. Addressing his hostess he said, “Celia, that’s about as good a beef Wellington I’ve ever had in my life. Which, as you know, is getting long.” He winked at her as he reached for another dinner roll.
“Thank you, Willy,” Celia said. “Beef Wellington is one of the specialties of our Turf Club chef. He would like to come out and say hello. He kind of keeps a record of the important people he’s prepared meals for, and he’d like to add you to it. That’s if you don’t mind, of course,” she said, giving Wilgis one of her thousand watt smiles.
Doyle was thinking, Let’s not lay it on too thick here, Celia, when he heard Wilgis announce, “Delighted to meet the man, darling,” at the same time starting to reach forward with a hand to touch Celia’s until Evelyn politely intervened.
Doyle, on the opposite side of the table from Celia, smiled and leaned back in his chair. He signaled Hugo the waiter to call the busboy for clearing his plates. He’d been too jumpy to eat much, wondering how this caper would turn out. So far, so good. Celia had engaged Wilgis in intelligent conversation about Illinois politics, they’d all laughed at the veteran legislator’s jokes, and Doyle had flirted with Evelyn Stortz, much to her delight. The night was going great.
Celia glanced over her shoulder, smiling, as Horace Tate approached. The Turf Club chef’s white shirt, pants, tall hat, and smile contrasted with his handsome black face. Tate and Wilgis were about the same medium height, Wilgis outweighing the chef by fifty or sixty pounds. Wilgis got to his feet and stuck out his hand as Tate neared. Celia made the introductions.
Celia had known Horace Tate since they were children, running around Monee Park in their summers off from grade school. Horace’s father Ralph was the long time personal driver of Uncle Jim Joyce. It was Uncle Jim who had paid for Horace’s later education and training at Kendall College in suburban Evanston, a premier culinary school.
The old pol said, “Mr. Tate, I’ve eaten beef Wellington all over the English speaking world, and in some precincts I shouldn’t have. Yours is, by far, the most wonderful version I’ve ever encountered.” Wilgis plumped back down into his chair, smiling up at the chef.
Tate looked bemused. He was a man accustomed to praise for his handiwork. Always happy to receive such praise, he smiled back at Wilgis and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Representative Wilgis. I appreciate that.” He started to leave, then turned back to the table. “Representative Wilgis, do you have any interest in a slice of apple-cherry cobbler, a specialty of mine? Accompanied, of course, by a scoop of the vanilla ice cream I make myself in the kitchen here? Followed, perhaps, by a pony of armangac?”
“Let the ponies run, and full steam ahead in the kitchen, Mr. Tate,” Wilgis said. He planted a kiss on Evelyn’s cheek, his right hand massaging her left thigh. “This is some kind of a blue ribbon night, now, isn’t it darling?” he said.
Celia’s look of relief, if not triumph, locked with Doyle’s.
***
The Representative Willy Wilgis Purse was the eighth race on that night’s card. Doyle had drummed up a decent attraction to immediately precede it: a public workout by Rambling Rosie, rapidly becoming one of the Chicago area’s more popular athletes.
Celia led her guests to the elevator, then down to the railing near the winner’s circle. They watched as Rambling Rosie cantered past, jockey Ramon Garcia standing up in the irons like a circus trick rider, both he and the horse just loosening up. Doyle kept a discreet eye on Wilgis, who was watching the horse and rider with keen interest.
Rosie kept running easily around the far turn and into the backstretch. As she approached the five-furlong pole, Garcia dropped down into her saddle. The filly, legs extending, all business now, went from a canter to a dead run in the matter of a few strides. She zoomed around the far turn and then flew down the stretch, Garcia doing nothing to encourage her progress. Tom Eckrosh had instructed Garcia not “to ask her for anything” tonight, and Garcia followed orders. Still, when the time of the workout flashed up on the infield board, a roar went up from the crowd. Fifty-seven seconds flat, a sensational workout time for the distance any day or night. Doyle heard Eckrosh say with satisfaction, “And she did it easy as pie.”
As Rosie galloped out, Doyle introduced Wilgis to Eckrosh. The old trainer looked warily at the legislator until Wilgis said, “Well, I’ve never seen anything like that down in the country, where I hail from.” Eckrosh beamed with pride. The two rural-raised senior citizens continued to converse while Rosie stopped, turned around, then
cantered back toward them. Garcia brought the lively filly to a halt in front of the two men. Eckrosh reached out to rub her neck. Rosie nickered and thrust her nose toward Wilgis. The politician stepped back for a moment, then leaned forward and tentatively placed a hand on the horse’s nose. Again, Rosie made an appreciative sound. Doyle whispered to Celia, “This horse can not only run fast, she must be reading our minds. She’s coming on to Wilgis like an equine gold digger.” Celia, giggling, nudged Doyle with her elbow. “Hush,” she said.
Wilgis’ initial apprehension about his proximity to a friendly horse had vanished. Rosie gently nuzzled Wilgis’ shoulder, nickering at him. The old pol was obviously lapping up her attentions now.
Doyle said admiringly, “Rosie, you little equine tart.”
Celia said, “What did you say?”
“Never mind,” he grinned.
Doyle moved next to Wilgis. He said, “Tell me, Mr. Wilgis, have you ever had the desire to own a racehorse?”
“Son, just call me Willy,” he said, hand now smoothing Rosie’s neck. “The answer has been No. I’ve gone along with what a real smart man once said to me: ‘I don’t ever want to own anything that can be eating while I’m sleeping.’ But,” Wilgis added, giving Rosie a final pat, “a grand little animal like this could sure tempt me to change my mind.”
Thirty minutes later, Wilgis had presented the small trophy to Buck Norman, owner and trainer of Letter to Lee, winner of the Willy Wilgis Purse. Wilgis shook hands with Norman, patted him on the back and his horse on the neck, then took the cordless microphone from Doyle. Turning to address the crowd, he was smiling broadly. Wilgis thanked Celia and her “wonderful staff for this very, very special night in my life.” A half-drunk bettor in the first row of the grandstand tried unsuccessfully to inspire the crowd to sing “Happy Birthday,” but Wilgis ignored him and continued to talk.