by John McEvoy
Wally Farnsworth, the first security guard into the apartment, was heading for the open rooftop door when he tripped over Doyle. Farnsworth, at two-hundred thirty pounds, some forty overweight, fell heavily onto the glass coffee table, shattering it. His partner, Kurt Borchers, stopped his pursuit to help Farnsworth to his feet. On all fours now, Doyle groaned audibly watching this scene.
Going down the fire escape much faster than they had ascended it, Lucarelli and Shannon reached the ground before the guard Borchers leaned over the edge of the roof above them, shouting, “Stop you two. Stop there.” Within seconds they had made it to the Taurus, were in it and moving, lights off, through the darkness of the large parking lot and toward the north exit of Monee Park.
Lucarelli drove fast and erratically, zooming around slower cars on the Dan Ryan, then tucking in between trucks heading to the city. His eyes flickered between the road and the car mirror for miles, until he was satisfied there was no pursuit. Shannon said, “Aiden, for chrissakes settle down. We don’t want to get stopped by no cop.”
There was no reply from Lucarelli until he had sped up the east bound ramp at Forty-seventh Street. Two blocks later he abruptly pulled over to the curb and shut off the motor. He said, “Hand me a Bud.”
Lucarelli gulped half the beer. “Riley’s not going to pay us a dime for tonight. Goddamit.” He finished the beer and crushed the can into a tight ball.
His cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID before saying to Riley, “She wasn’t even fucking there.”
Riley said, “I tried to call and tell you that. Called an hour ago. I’d just found out Celia was at a big birthday party down in the Turf Club. I was going to tell you to hold off for an hour or so. What the hell happened?”
“We broke into her apartment. Some gook nurse finds us trying to get word from the cripple where his wife is, turns on an alarm you could hear in Joliet. Some other dude comes charging at us out of the kitchen. Denny put him down good. But it was a fucking circus. Security guys chasing us over the roof. Where do get your so-called inside info from? We barely got out of there,” Lucarelli said, almost shouting now.
Riley said, “Well, it’s not my fault. I tried to call you. You didn’t answer.”
“No shit. You think I keep my cell phone on while we’re breaking and entering in the middle of the night?”
That silenced Riley for a few moments. He said, “I’ll get back to you in a day or two. We’ll have to try something else. You’ll never get close to Celia McCann after what happened tonight.” He hung up.
The two men sat quietly before Lucarelli, still fuming, could bring himself to tell Shannon what Riley had said. He reached for another beer. “You know what’s the fucking craziest part about what went on up there in that apartment?”
“What?”
Lucarelli said, “When I got pissed off up there and felt like smashing that crip’s face in, he gave me this weird look. It took me back. It was a look, like, well he wouldn’t mind me smashing in his head.”
Chapter 40
Celia, Jack, Shontanette, and several dozen trainers, jockeys, and grooms were waiting outside Barn D when the Botzau Van Service vehicle arrived. It was right on time, but Tom Eckrosh looked impatiently at his watch as the van’s driver-owner, Norm Botzau, jumped down from the cab. “Sorry, Mr. Eckrosh,” he said, “that traffic over there on the Ryan was….” Eckrosh cut him short. “You’re only a minute late, son. It’s all right.”
Doyle glanced at his watch, 8:31. Not enough hours for him after last night’s excitement. He had forced himself out of bed and into a hot shower before he felt even comfortable enough to get dressed. The area of his back where he’d been kicked by one of the two assailants felt as if it had been hit by a sledge hammer. His bruised ribs were painful, though not as bad as his back. He grimaced as he thought of the thwarted attack, how close the two men had come to doing serious damage to Bob, Celia, and Fidelia.
The long blue and white Botzau van contained stalls for eight horses. Seven were already inside, some pawing with their feet, shuffling about, others peering out curiously from the screened windows. All seven heads turned when Maria Martinez led Rambling Rosie out of the barn to the back of the van. Botzau quickly lowered the ramp. The little chestnut filly walked up it sure footedly, her head high, as if she were ascending a familiar staircase. Maria settled Rosie in the only empty stall and remained at her head, patting her and talking softly and soothingly in Spanish. Rosie laid her head on Maria’s shoulder.
Tom Eckrosh said, “You got a full load in there?”
“Yes, sir,” Botzau replied. “The other seven all belong to that Calabrese fella who races over at Heartland Downs. That good filly of his, Satin Maiden, runs in the Juvenile Fillies’ on Breeders’ Cup Day. Mr. Calabrese plans to run the others at Churchill the day before the Cup.”
Botzau nimbly jumped up into the driver’s seat and closed the cab door. Squinting up at Botzau in the morning sunlight, Eckrosh said, “Well, I hope you know who your number one passenger is. You take good care of my filly.”
Botzau was insulted. “That’s the second time today I’ve gotten that advice,” he said. “First, my wife Nan says to me early this morning before I left home, ‘Norm, take good care of Rambling Rosie. She’s a real favorite of mine.’ As if I’m not careful of all the horses I van,” he huffed. He settled behind the wheel, muttering, “I’ve been getting them back and forth, safe and sound, for twenty-two years.”
Celia stepped forward and gave Eckrosh a peck on the cheek. “Enjoy every minute of it, Tom,” she said. “You deserve it.”
The old trainer blushed. He looked at Doyle, who gave him a thumbs up, and at Shontanette, who was waving her goodbye. Botzau called down from the cab, “You riding up here with me, Mr. Eckrosh?”
“Sure am,” Eckrosh said. “My groom Maria will stay back there with Rosie.” He carried his battered suitcase around to the passenger’s side and pulled himself up into the seat.
***
Walking back to the offices, Celia said, “A horsemen’s representative will be waiting for Tom at Churchill. Tom’s all set up with a motel room near the track. Maria insisted on staying in the barn, near Rosie. Tom said there was no talking her out of it.”
Doyle said, “I’m sure they’ll all be fine. From all I’ve heard, the Churchill Downs people know what they’re doing. And, Rosie’s getting to be kind of a big name.”
“Partly thanks to you, Jack,” Celia said. “Amen,” added Shontanette, “mainly thanks to you.” The women were walking on each side of him. Doyle glanced from the grinning Celia to the trying-to-look serious Shontanette, recognizing they were watching for his reaction, like conspiring school girls teasing a callow male friend.
“You two should be ashamed of yourselves,” Doyle said, “trying to yank the chain of a man trained to yank chains.”
The three were laughing as they approached the Monee Park clubhouse entrance. When Jack saw Karl Mortenson waiting for them, the smile froze on his face. Mortenson greeted Celia and Shontanette before Doyle took the Security chief by the elbow and said, “I need to ask you something. Those clowns that supposedly came to our rescue last night, where did you get them?”
Mortenson’s expression darkened. “Those are two of my veteran guards. I know they didn’t handle things right last night, but, hell, it was you that Farnsworth stumbled over. He’s not the nimblest guy, you know. But what do you expect for minimum wage? James Bond? Jackie Chan?”
“I’d expect somebody who could pick up his damn feet,” Doyle shot back. Mortenson, glowering, nodded to the women, then stalked off. Celia said, “That was kind of harsh, Jack.” Shontanette, frowning, murmured something about minimum wage, but Doyle didn’t take notice as they continued walking. He was still steamed, his back hurt, and his ribs pained him every time he took a deep breath.
In his office minutes later, Doyle again found himself regretting his decision not to accompany
Eckrosh to Louisville. As he’d said to Celia, “That old guy hasn’t raced outside of Illinois since his boyhood. I worry about him handling himself down there with those hardboots.”
“I wouldn’t worry, Jack,” Celia had replied. “Tom has seen about everything there is to see in racing. And remembered all of it.”
Doyle had reluctantly reasoned that it was his primary duty to remain at Monee Park and do everything he could to make its Breeders’ Cup Day program—four live races, eight with simulcast coverage from Churchill Downs—the biggest of the year. He had designated almost all of his remaining advertising budget to the process. Some of the buzz he was trying to create actually had carried over to him. Doyle was excited about Rambling Rosie’s chances, pumped up about what he was sure would be a big Breeders’ Cup day at Monee. After assigning Morty his morning tasks, Doyle poured himself a cup of coffee and called Moe Kellman.
“Any chance we could have dinner tonight, Moe?”
“Sorry, Jack. I’ve got some out of towners coming in for a look at our fall line of furs. They’re big hitters. I’ve got to be here for them.”
Doyle was disappointed but didn’t say so. He perked up when Kellman said, “Your publicity campaign seems to be going great. I’ve heard Monee Park mentioned more in the last few weeks than in the previous five years combined.”
“Yeah, well, when you’ve got a great story like Rambling Rosie, it makes it a lot easier to get coverage. Are you going to bet her, Moe? I think she’s a cinch to upset that field. She’s been training like a wild horse. Believe me, old Tom Eckrosh has got her sitting on ready.”
There was a brief silence before Kellman said, “Jack, be careful you don’t get carried away. You’re real close to this story. I know you like that horse and her people. Your judgment may be a bit influenced by that.”
Doyle said, “Hell, it’s not just my judgment. All the sharpies, the speed boys, have got Rosie near the top of their lists. She’s the wiseguy horse of this Breeders’ Cup. I’m telling you, Moesy, we pound it in on Rosie, we’ll be farting through silk.”
Kellman said, “Some of us already are.” There was a pause before he said, “Did I ever tell you about my brother-in-law Barney, the tailor?”
“No. You told me about Pincus the tailor, the guy who hustled the twins who were rabbis. Same guy?”
“No relation. That was Itzak Pincus, a real shmuck. I’m talking about Barney Passman, my sister Sarah’s husband.”
“Okay. What about Barney the tailor?”
“Barney had a shop on the west side, out near old Harthorne Park. One fall years ago, about a week before the big Harthorne Derby, a bunch of jockeys come in to his shop. They’ve all decided they want to get measured for new tuxedos to wear to the big dinner-dance the night of the Derby, a strictly black tie affair. There were seven, eight of them. Barney takes all their measurements, tells them their orders will be ready the day before the dinner-dance. Then he tells them how much each one owes him, saying they’ve got to pay in advance.
“Seven of the eight reach into their pockets and pull out a couple of hundred bucks each and pay him on the spot. The eighth is a guy named Sandy McCreary, who was Harthorne’s leading jockey at the time. He’s just made a whopping alimony payment and he’s nearly out of cash. He says to Barney, ‘I’ll pay you the day after the Harthorne Derby.’
“Barney looks at McCreary, shaking his head ‘no.’ McCreary says, ‘But listen, I’m riding the huge favorite in the Derby. The horse can’t lose. I’ll have the money for you the next day.’
“Barney just looks at him. ‘Can’t lose?’ he says to McCreary. ‘They gotta run around, don’t they?’
“Guess what? McCreary’s horse runs fourth. He went to the dinner-dance in a sport coat and slacks and tried to crash the door. They threw him out.
“They gotta run around, Jack. Remember that,” Kellman said.
Chapter 41
Looking up at one of the dozens of television screens on Monee Park’s jam-packed first floor, Doyle grinned as he saw Rambling Rosie being walked around the expansive Churchill Downs paddock by Maria Martinez. Fans crowded against the paddock fence at the Louisville track, eager to see up close the starters in the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. The paddock was crowded with owners, trainers, members of the press, breeders, and racing officials. In the middle of them stood Tom Eckrosh. He was the oldest person in the assemblage and the only man not wearing a sport coat, or suit and tie. To Doyle’s delight, the old trainer had on pressed khakis and a blue windbreaker whose large white lettering on the back read Monee Park. His familiar gray fedora was pulled down low on his forehead.
“Loyalty can be a beautiful thing,” Doyle said. A man standing to his right gave him a startled look, then returned his attention to the Racing Daily, the margins of which he had filled with enough mysterious looking hieroglyphics, notations, and markings to qualify it for the wall of a pharaoh’s tomb.
Twelve minutes remained before the start of the Breeders’ Cup Sprint, one of the most eagerly awaited events on American racing’s biggest annual afternoon, one that saw purses for the eight races exceed a total of $12 million. The six-furlong, $2 million Sprint was almost invariably exciting, competitive, and extremely difficult to handicap, thus making it one of the most attractive betting races on the program. It frequently produced longshot winners. That made Doyle feel good.
Rambling Rosie was one of twelve horses entered in the event and the only filly or mare. Her current odds were 45-1. Most bettors obviously didn’t have much faith in female sprinters, especially one hailing from Monee Park. As Maria continued to lead her around the circular paddock path, Doyle saw that Rosie was easily the smallest of the entrants. This didn’t seem to deter her, however. Rosie had her ears pricked and she was looking with interest at her larger male rivals, occasionally buck jumping for a stride or two, as if to say, “Check me out, boys, I’m ready to roll.”
Doyle neared Madame Fran’s booth on his way to the betting window. He smiled at her, pointing with appreciation toward the long line of customers who awaited her wisdom. Fran motioned him over. She whispered, “Rosie? Bet her to place.” Doyle was affronted. “I only bet to win,” he said. Madame Fran leaned closer to him, her plump forearms on the table. She paused to give her turban a quick adjustment before saying, with new emphasis, “Jack, Rosie’s a huge price. Every vibe coming to me screams out ‘bet her to place.’”
***
“Easy, easy, mi pequeno,” Ramon Garcia said. He wasn’t the only man talking to a horse behind the Churchill Downs starting gate. Many of the other eleven riders were muttering to their mounts as the gate crew members began ushering them into the iron stalls that were barely large enough to contain these thousand pound creatures. Garcia could feel Rosie tense up beneath him. He knew that feeling. She was marshalling all the strength she possessed in order to propel herself forward once the bell rang. The first couple of times he’d ridden her in races, Ramon had nearly been thrown off when caught unawares by her explosiveness. Now, he knew to be prepared.
In the gate, Garcia looked to his right. He saw Larry Porter, still the leading rider at Heartland Downs who’d been brought in today to ride Moseby’s Man in the Sprint. Garcia nodded at Porter, and Porter nodded back. There was no “welcome to the big leagues” from Porter this time. Porter knew what Rambling Rosie could do. He eyed her respectfully before dropping his goggles down over his eyes.
Prior to his third ride on Rosie, Garcia had overheard a rival trainer say to his jockey, “Eckrosh’s filly comes out of there like she’s got a firecracker up her ass.” Garcia’s command of English at the time was such that he found the statement somewhat baffling. But, the way it was said, he was pretty sure it was a reflection of respect. And now he understood what it meant.
***
Doyle stuck his head in Shontanette’s office doorway. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “It’s getting close to post time for the Sprint.” They walked
up the flight of stairs to join Celia, Bob, and Fidelia in the living room of the penthouse apartment.
Four of them sat. Doyle paced back and forth as the host of the television show said, “And there’s the sensational filly Rambling Rosie, winner of ten straight races in the Midwest, one of the bargain buys of recent racing history. Her venerable owner-trainer Tom Eckrosh picked her up at an obscure sale in southern Illinois for $2,700. Since then she’s earned more than $350,000 and today tries for a winner’s share of $1,000,000 in the prestigious Breeders’ Cup Sprint. Young Midwest jockey Ramon Garcia is her rider. For Garcia, a native of Mexico, this is his first appearance in a Breeders’ Cup race.”
Turning to the show’s handicapping expert, the host said, “Bill, I see that Rambling Rosie is 45-1 on the odds board. What kind of chance does Rosie have in here?” Bill could barely conceal a sneer as he replied, “She’ll be inhaled and spit out by these major league sprinters in here. Hers has been a nice, heart-warming story all right. But it’s going to have a disappointing chapter today,” predicted the man who thus far this afternoon had not picked even one horse that had finished in the money.
“What an asshole,” Doyle said. “Whoops, excuse me, ladies.” The look in Bob Zaslow’s eyes indicated he agreed wholeheartedly with Doyle. Celia, concentrating on the television screen, took no notice of either of them. She said, “Gosh, Rosie does look awfully small compared to those other horses. I hope she doesn’t get banged around and hurt.”
At 3:47 p.m., Churchill Downs’ starter Harry Schwartz pressed the button that opened the doors of the massive starting gate. Out of post No. 6 shot a chestnut blur, Ramon Garcia pumping his hands on her neck for a few strides, then settling down in the saddle, head lowered, as Rambling Rosie went to where she loved to be—on the lead. Before she’d run forty yards, Rosie was two lengths in front of her nearest pursuer. It was an explosive beginning that brought gasps from the huge Churchill Downs crowd.