by John McEvoy
Head down, legs churning, Rosie rocketed on as Garcia guided her five paths over toward the inner rail. Rosie quickly extended her advantage to three lengths as she zipped down the backstretch. She appeared to be running easily, well within herself. “Jesus,” Doyle said, hands sweating now, “look at her go. She’s running their legs off.” Celia watched through fingers spliced over her eyes, her lips moving silently. Shontanette was pounding her fist on the arm of her chair, intoning, “Go, girl. Go.” Bob attempted to turn his head to better see the screen. Fidelia quickly positioned his chair to give him a better view.
Some eight lengths behind the flying Rambling Rosie, the race’s heavy favorite, Socks in Four, stumbled badly, his shoulder hitting the inside rail. His rider, standing straight up in the stirrups, managed to pull him up. He didn’t appear to be seriously injured, but Socks in Four was out of it.
Track announcer Trevor Durkin’s excitement was coming through to the Churchill crowd and the large television audience. “Rambling Rosie is running the race of her life,” he exclaimed. “She’s four lengths in front as she rounds the turn for home.”
The crowd erupted as Rosie curved into the long Churchill Downs stretch, Garcia sitting chilly. She flicked her tail once, then again, and came two paths off the rail. Garcia glanced back and then shook the reins at her. He could feel her beginning to tire slightly. “She’s now three lengths in front with an eighth of a mile to go,” Durkin shouted.
Doyle moved a couple of steps closer to the television. “Hang on, Rosie,” he said. “Hang on baby.” On the left part of the screen he could see two horses begin to detach themselves from the pack trailing the chestnut leader. “Mike the Dude swings to the outside,” Durkin reported, “and that’s Loyal Luke coming up the rail.” Jack felt his stomach begin to knot. Celia still couldn’t bring herself to look directly at the screen.
Inside the sixteenth pole, it was obvious that Rambling Rosie was getting extremely leg weary from her earlier efforts. She again swished her tail, always a sign of fatigue, then bore out slightly toward the center of the track. But she would not quit. Garcia moved his hands on her neck, and the little filly dropped her head, pinned her ears back, and dug in gamely.
It wasn’t quite enough. In the shadow of the wire, Mike the Dude swept past her on the outside to win by a half length. To her left, Loyal Luke also closed with a rush, but Rosie held him off by a nose. The remainder of the field trailed in far behind this trio. Mike the Dude’s winning time was a new Breeders’ Cup Sprint record of 1:08.
Doyle, who had been waving his left hand at the television as if he could somehow push Rosie to the finish line, let out a whoosh of air. He shook his head in dismay. “Damn,” he said. “So close. So close.” He threw his track program down on the coffee table. “If only Rosie could have hung in for three more strides for that crabby old man. And for Maria.”
Celia, on her feet now, her face alight, said, “Jack, what are you talking about? That little filly ran the race of her life. Rosie finished in front of ten of the best sprinters in the world. The one that beat her set a track record.” The television camera fastened on Rosie, who had trotted to the path near the winner’s circle that led back to the stable area. She was greeted with a kiss on the nose from Maria. As she attached the shank to Rosie’s bridle, Maria beamed. Ramon Garcia, his chest puffing almost as hard as his exhausted mount’s, grinned down at Maria. Then Tom Eckrosh joined them, his craggy old face split by a wide smile.
“So that’s what a curmudgeon looks like when he’s happy,” Doyle laughed.
“Jack,” Celia said, “second money in that race was worth $425,000. That’s more than Tom Eckrosh makes in many, many years of training his little stable. This is the biggest score of his life. Look at them,” she said, gesturing at the screen, “Tom and Maria and Ramon, they look like they’ve won three lotteries!”
Doyle concentrated on the television screen that was now displaying the payoffs on the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. As the longest shot in the field, Rambling Rosie returned $42.40 to place. Doyle whistled. He patted his right pants pocket, making sure that his $100 place ticket was there.
“Well,” he said, “the drinks are on me. And dinner, too. And,” he added, “I better go downstairs and invite Madame Fran to join us. I owe her for her good advice about this race.”
***
It was 10:00 p.m. in Ireland when the results of the Breeders’ Cup Sprint became official. At the Hanratty’s home outside Kinsale, Niall muted the television set. The Hanrattys, along with thousands of others in their horse-loving nation, had watched the race with great interest. Sheila’s face was still flushed from the effort she’d made in cheering on Rambling Rosie. “Oh, isn’t she the brave little creature,” she said to her husband. “I love to see a fine little filly like that do so well.”
Her husband’s reaction to the Sprint result was decidedly mixed. He’d profited by thousands of Euros bet on Rambling Rosie to win by sentimental, root for the underdog Irish fans. And he couldn’t help but admire Rambling Rosie’s amazing effort in nearly pulling off a major upset. At the same time, the filly’s now internationally known ties to Monee Park would not, he understood, be in his best interests in the least.
“The Mile Turf race is coming up, Niall,” Sheila reminded. “Turn the sound back on, please. Who do you fancy in this?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. Hanratty handed the remote control to his wife. “I’ll be taking a little walk down on the beach, now, Sheila,” he said. “I’ve got some thinking to do. Record the next race for me, will you?”
Chapter 42
One of thoroughbred racing’s all-time great trainers, the late Hall of Famer Charlie Whittingham, often remarked of the talented horses he dealt with, “They’re like strawberries. They can spoil on you overnight.”
That truism hit Tom Eckrosh hard on the Tuesday following the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. Back at Monee Park after their van ride from Louisville, he had sent Rambling Rosie out for a mile and a half maintenance gallop under exercise rider Judy Baeza. The filly had left the barn kicking and squealing, feeling and looking great. She returned seventeen minutes later obviously lame in her left fore.
Doyle learned of the injury when he called Eckrosh to ask if he planned to run Rosie any more this season. In the post-Breeders’ Cup euphoria, there had been mention of possibly shipping her to Maryland for a sprint stakes to close out her campaign. Eckrosh had told representatives of the eastern track he would “consider it.” Now, it was a moot point.
“Rosie’s got a hoof abscess,” Eckrosh told Doyle. The disappointment in the old trainer’s voice was evident. “She’s pretty lame. No, it’s not life threatening by any means. I’ve got Doc Jensen working on her. He’s the best vet here.”
Doyle said, “Well, I better put out a press release. Tell me, what causes something like this?”
“She must have stepped on something sharp that went through the hoof wall. Then something got worked up in there, maybe gravel, a pebble, who knows? It’s an abscess in the real sensitive part of her hoof. Doc Jensen cleaned the hoof and drained it. But she’s still plenty sore. We’ve got to watch it close so an infection doesn’t come back.”
Eckrosh sighed. “You know,” he said, “at first I was feeling pretty down when this happened, thinking, hell, Rosie’s at the top of her game. Why does this have to happen now? But the more I thought on it, the less I felt that way. She just ran the race of her life and made me a pot load of money. What have I got to complain about, Jack?”
“How long will this take to heal?”
“Doc Jensen thinks he’ll get it cleaned up in a few days. It’s a good thing it was spotted early. He bandaged her foot and put a pad on it to help protect it. He says the hoof shouldn’t develop a crack, even though there’s always that possibility. I’ve seen it happen.”
Doyle was relieved. He said, “So, Rosie can race again, right?”
Eckrosh hesitated
before saying softly, “She could. But she won’t.”
“Why not? I mean, you could even give her the rest of the year off, then bring her back in the spring.”
“Oh, I could all right,” Eckrosh said. “But I won’t. I figure Rosie has done all for me that I’ve got any right to expect. I’m going to retire her. I don’t want to take any chances with her getting hurt again. Next spring, I’ll have her bred to a good stud down in Kentucky.”
“Well, shoot, Tom, I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyle said. And he was, not only because he’d become a big fan of the sensational filly, but also because Monee Park’s most famous name was about to be removed from the public eye. “I’ll get a press release out this morning.” Then another thought struck him. “Tom, would Rosie be able to walk down the track some night in a week or two?”
“Sure,” the trainer said. “If Doc Jensen is right, and he usually is, she probably could even be ready for some light exercise by then.”
“How about having Rosie just parade before the stands between races? Could you do that as a favor to me? And Celia? And Monee Park?”
Eckrosh said, “What have you got in mind, Jack?”
***
Farewell to Rambling Rosie Night was officially announced at a noon press conference at Monee Park the following day. Lured by the promise of a free lunch and open bar, representatives of all the area’s major and minor media outlets showed up in droves to listen to Doyle unveil the plans.
“Rosie has done so much to put Monee Park on the map again that we want to show our appreciation for her, and to her fans,” Doyle said, speaking from behind a microphone to the group assembled in the Turf Club. “Our Farewell will feature free admission and parking a week from Saturday afternoon. Along with $1 hot dogs and beers and sodas, and a free color photo of Rosie, autographed by Tom Eckrosh, for every patron.
“In addition, Rosie will make her final racetrack appearance between the seventh and eighth races when she is paraded, under tack and with jockey Ramon Garcia aboard, down our homestretch. We urge all of Rosie’s many fans to come out that afternoon, bring their cameras and video recorders, and say goodbye to this amazing filly.”
After his statement, Doyle fielded several questions. One came from Buzz Alterhoff, a veteran reporter for a chain of suburban weeklies who never, ever missed an event like this. With a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, third Bloody Mary in the other, Alterhoff said combatively, “Exactly how is Monee Park managing this? The free admission, cut rate prices? I thought the track was in financial trouble. Isn’t that why you guys want slots here?”
“Yes, that’s why we want slots,” Doyle replied. “But sometimes you have to spend money to make money.” He dearly wanted to add, “Something you wouldn’t know about, Buzz, you freeloading freak,” but instead said, “We expect to draw an all-time record crowd on Rosie’s Farewell Night. We’ll have a complete line of souvenirs for sale. And we’re hoping for a record high betting night, too. Does that answer your question, Buzz?”
Buzz, however, had already turned away and was pushing people aside on his way back to the buffet table.
***
Clips of the press conference were shown on the WGN-TV nine o’clock news that night, a favorite show of the Haller’s crowd, who always perked up at the appearance of the long legged lady who read the winning lottery numbers. Lucarelli interrupted his harangue about the quality of the White Sox pitching staff when he heard the words Monee Park. He nudged Shannon and pointed up at the television screen, where Doyle was shown speaking. “Hey,” Shannon said excitedly, “isn’t that the sucker I flattened out there that night? Looks like him.”
“Cool it, man,” Lucarelli said, grabbing Shannon’s elbow. “Not so damn loud. Yeah, I think that’s him all right.” When the Monee Park segment was over, they picked up their beers, grinning at each other.
Fifteen miles to the north, Art Riley sat in the den of his Wilmette home, sipping an Old Fashioned and watching the same newscast. He put his drink down and leaned forward when he saw Doyle on the screen, a huge Monee Park banner behind him. As the sports anchor switched from this horse racing story to hockey scores, Riley shut off the television and picked up his phone. Seconds later, Lucarelli’s cell began to ring.
Chapter 43
Barry Hoy didn’t like what he saw when he entered Niall Hanratty’s Kinsale office early on the Monday after the Breeders’ Cup. The look on his boss’ face was one that Hoy, Hanratty’s driver and chief bodyguard for more than ten years, had rarely seen. But Hoy remembered it when he saw it. He knew it did not bode well for someone. This feeling was reinforced when Hoy saw Hanratty’s business manager, Tony Rourke, busying himself at a computer over in the corner of the office, back turned, striving for invisibility. It was a gloomy morning following a rain-drenched night in Kinsale. The mood in Hanratty’s office reflected the day’s weather conditions.
Hanrattty twirled a ballpoint pen in one hand while tapping the fingers of the other on his desk. He grunted a greeting for Hoy, motioning for him to take a seat. It was several more tense and silent minutes before Hanratty threw the pen down on the desk. He said, “I’ve just been talking to your man in the States. Mr. Art ‘I’ll Take Care of Everything’ Riley. Who’s turned out to be a sparrow fart of the first order.”
“What’s gone on?” Hoy said.
“These gobshites Riley has working for him have messed up again. After nearly getting caught trying to set a fire, Riley, without consulting me, dispatched them to scare the bejesus out of cousin Celia. They broke into her home at night, early on the week of the Breeders’ Cup. Riley just now got his courage up to tell me about it. His plan was for them to terrorize her and her husband a bit. Didn’t happen. His goons got chased out of there by some little Asian nurse who surprised them and set off the alarm. My great friend Mr. Doyle evidently stumbled on the scene and took a larruping. I could hardly believe what Riley was telling me.
“And that’s not all. Riley, he says to me, ‘Well, we’re not done yet. There’s another avenue to be explored.’”
“‘An avenue to be explored?’ I say. ‘Sure, and haven’t you and your two buffoons fucked up at every turn in the road so far?’
“Well, Riley says, ‘I’m thinking we could join forces with this local anti-gambling preacher. I’ve had exploratory talks with the man, Reverend Wardell Simpkins. A contribution sent to his Christians Against Betting organization could help turn up the heat against the slot machine bill. A sizeable contribution,’ Riley says, ‘to be funneled through him.’
“It was at that point,” Hanratty said, “that I hung up on Attorney Riley. The man must be cracked. Honest to God, how little that idjit must think of us over here.”
Hanratty swiveled his chair so he could activate his answering machine. “That isn’t all,” he said. “This message was waiting for me this morning. From none other than our Mr. Doyle. Listen to this now.”
Hoy perched on the edge of Hanratty’s desk. O’Rourke, head down and clicking away at his computer keys over in the corner, had evidently already heard it. Hanratty leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. They heard Doyle say brightly, “Top of the morning to you, Niall. This is Jack Doyle, calling from Monee Park, where a couple of bozos tried, and failed, to do some nasty damage last week. Some kind of damage designed to encourage Celia to sell the track, I presume.”
Doyle’s voice grew softer as he continued, taking on an almost reflective tone. “Niall, as you may remember, I’m a serious jazz fan. We discussed jazz during my visit over there. Well, just last Sunday, I was listening to public radio here, the Marian McPartland show, one of the things I look forward to every week. She’s in her eighties now, but she still can play and has great guests on her program.
“Here’s the part of that show that interested me,” Doyle continued. “Marian was about to play ‘Jitterbug Waltz,’ a Fats Waller tune, when she told a little story about Fats. Seems a friend of hers, another prof
essional musician, years ago had signed up for a lesson from Fats. Her friend was good, but he wanted to get better.
“So, he goes to Fats’ house one afternoon, sits down at the piano, and Fats says to him, ‘Play something.’ The guy plays maybe five, six minutes, one of his best numbers. When he finishes the song, he looks expectantly at Fats. Waller looks at him and says, ‘I wouldn’t do it that way no more.’
“The guy is puzzled, but he turns back to the keyboard and rips off another one of his favorites, playing his ass off for about ten minutes. He stops, and Fats says, ‘I wouldn’t do it that way no more.’ Then Fats got up and left the room.”
There was a pause on the tape. Then they heard Doyle say, “You’re probably sitting there now, Niall, thinking, ‘What the hell is he telling me this story for?’ I can picture you. I wouldn’t be surprised if your blood pressure wasn’t on the leap.”
Another pause, before Doyle, speaking more forcefully, said, “Regarding what’s been going on over here at Monee Park, these attempts to disrupt, and frighten, and thwart, well in the words of the great Mr. Waller, ‘I wouldn’t do it that way no more.’ Are ya hearin’ me now?” Doyle said loudly, attempting his version of a brogue before banging down the phone.
Hanratty stood up and walked over to the window. Looking out, he said, “How would you like a trip to the States, Barry?”
“Any time, boss. Any time.”
Hanratty turned back and placed his hands on the desk. Leaning forward, eyes boring into Hoy’s, he said, “I made a mistake using Riley. I believed his crock of bullshit about knowing ‘how to handle things.’ It was careless on my part. And careless usually has some kind of hefty price tag.”