Close Call

by John McEvoy

  He took his suit coat off the back of the chair. “Bring the car around, will you, Barry?” To O’Rourke he said, “I’ll be staying up in Dun Laoghaire until we leave for the States. You’ll be in charge of business when I’m gone. Run it like you own it, Tony.”

  O’Rourke said, “No worries, Niall. Travel well.”

  Hoy drove rapidly north on the N11 to Dublin. Near the outskirts of the city, he heard Hanratty say, “Barry, go to the passport office, on Molesworth Street. You know it?”

  “I do.”

  “You’ve got your own, now?”

  “Got it last summer. When me and the missus went on holiday to Portugal.”

  Hanratty would be getting his first passport. Earlier that morning, he’d inquired and been told that it would take a week to obtain and would be good for a stay of up to ninety days in the United States. He wouldn’t be there anywhere near that long.

  Looking out the window at the Wicklow Mountains, Hanratty said, “Who knew it’d take a crisis like this to get me onto the passport list?”

  Chapter 44

  Marge Duffy took a final swipe at the wet bar surface with the sodden towel. It was 4:46 o’clock on Thursday afternoon. Her feet were killing her, her back had tightened up, her calves were aching. Fourteen minutes yet remained in Marge’s Haller’s Pub shift. She recalled, not for the first time, what her father, a retired printer, had told her years ago. “Anybody who works on their feet for eight hours a day is going to get varicose veins. Like me. Like your mother.” Marge thought of her late mother, who had worked behind the perfume counter at Marshall Field’s department store for more than thirty years. Just the thought of that made her legs ache even more.

  There was a burst of raucous laughter from a corner table. Marge reacted with disgust. Aiden Lucarelli and Denny Shannon had been at the table for nearly three hours, drinking, making fun of most of the other customers, many of whom had reacted by departing early, thereby cutting into Marge’s modest tip money. In the mirror she watched Lucarelli pat his jacket pocket, then get to his feet and walk rapidly to the men’s room, announcing in a loud voice, “Time to empty the monster.” An hour earlier, it had been “Time to drain the snake.” Both macho expressions elicited appreciative laughter from Shannon.

  Marge figured Lucarelli was lighting himself up with something on these trips to the toilet, for both times he had emerged looking puffed up, face red, eyes blazing. She figured he was on crystal meth, the current drug of choice among the neighborhood’s low lifers. “All it does is make that asshole an even bigger asshole,” she muttered. An hour earlier, when Marge had come around from behind the bar to deliver Lucarelli’s order of buffalo wings, he’d taken the opportunity to run his hand over her ass as she bent forward with the platter. She had to place the food down before she could dodge away from him, see the smirk on his face. “Ever do that again, I’ll cut your fucking hand off,” she’d snarled. Lucarelli threw his head back, roaring with laughter. Shannon slapped the table with glee. “Oh, ain’t you one tough bitch,” Lucarelli gasped as Marge returned to her post behind the bar. “Hey, Marge,” he’d urged, “ease up. You’re too cute to be so mean.”

  His latest meth infusion had really revved up Lucarelli’s engine. Within minutes he was talking so loudly Marge could hear him above the drone of the early WGN-TV news. He had his hand on Shannon’s forearm, gripping it tightly. “And Riley says we’ve got to do this right. We do, he’ll double our money.” Shannon said something Marge could not hear. Lucarelli said, “What we’re going to do? We’re going to ruin that fucking famous horse they got out there. Rambler something. Before the weekend. Riley’s going to get us all set up with….” Lucarelli suddenly stopped, looked around the bar room, then leaned toward Shannon and whispered to him for nearly a minute. Then he sat back in his chair, chest out, empty beer pitcher in hand. “And that’s the fucking plan, my man,” he said. Lucarelli looked over at Marge. “How about some fucking service over here, Beautiful?”

  Marge ignored him. She said, “Hi, Jimmy,” to the night bartender who was starting to tie on his white apron. “Jerko over there needs you,” she added. Jimmy knew who she meant.

  Minutes later, sitting in her rust-riddled nine-year-old Chevy Nova in Haller’s parking lot, Marge was still seething. She was so sick of those two, especially Lucarelli. As she reached into her purse for her keys, there was knock on the driver’s side window. She turned to see the concerned face of old Donal Cochran, a Haller’s fixture and one of her favorite customers. A longtime widower, Cochran appeared at Haller’s promptly at one every day and nursed three tap beers through the afternoon, this routine for many years comprising the bulk of his social life. Marge rolled down the window.

  “Marge, what’s wrong?” Cochran said.

  “Ah, Donal, you know how it is. Every once in awhile those two freaks in there really, really get to me. I don’t know why I let them, but they do.”

  “They should have been barred from the place years ago,” Cochran said.

  “They’re a couple of animals,” Marge agreed. “Speaking of which,” she said, then hesitated before going on to tell Donal what she had overheard Lucarelli saying. The old man’s face grew somber as he listened. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Is there nothing those young scumbags won’t do? You’ve got to tell somebody about this.”

  Marge shook her head. “No, sir, Donal. Not me. I don’t want to get involved. I’m afraid they’d find out if I did. And you know what happens to people who cross them.” She patted the old man’s hand and started her engine. “I’ve got to get home,” she said. “My baby sitter’s got to leave. See you tomorrow, Donal. Take care.”

  Cochran watched her drive onto Halsted and turn left. He was disappointed in her, but he understood. Marge was a single mother with obligations and half a lifetime in front of her. He, of course, was not similarly encumbered.

  As he began his three block walk home, Donal’s shoulders straightened and he started moving briskly. Once in his house, he went directly to the phone and dialed 411, saying, “That racetrack, Monee Park.”

  ***

  Celia immediately called Doyle that night after the first race. “Can you please come up to the apartment? It’s important.” When he arrived, Celia ushered him into the dining room, where Bob sat in his wheelchair. Karl Mortenson nodded curtly at Doyle, who gave the Security chief an equally cool glance. Shontanette smiled a greeting as Celia began to speak.

  “It’s hard to believe, considering all that we’ve gone through already this meeting,” Celia said, “but it appears we’ve got another major challenge facing us. I’m going to let Karl tell you about it.”

  Mortenson reached forward, hand poised above a tape recorder. “The message I’m going to play came into our office about an hour ago. I didn’t receive it, it went to our switchboard operator, who was smart enough to record it and call Celia right away. Unfortunately, our operator didn’t check the Caller ID. Celia immediately called me at home, and I came right over. She thought all of you should hear this, too.” He turned on the tape. They listened to a man, probably an old man, Doyle thought, speaking rapidly, determinedly.

  I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Who I am isn’t important. What you should know is there is a couple of young toughs from my neighborhood…never mind where…that plan to hurt that famous racehorse you’ve got out there.

  I don’t know why. I don’t know when, but I think in the next few days. These are two vicious little bastards, that I guarantee you. I know their names, but I can’t give them to you. We don’t grass, even on people like that, down here…never mind where that is.

  Descriptions, yeah, I’ll give you those. They’re both short, stocky, strong as bulls and mean as snakes. One of them is half crazy half the time. The other one follows his lead. They’ve done some terrible things…but I won’t get into that.

  That’s the best I can do for you. I’ve said enough. Except for….

>   But then the old man stopped. They heard him cough, sigh, and cut the phone connection.

  Mortenson played the tape again. They listened even more intently. When it was finished, Celia got to her feet and strode over to the window. Doyle started to speak but held back, watching her face in the window’s reflection, her expression to his mind a beautiful combination of shock, anger, and determination. “This has got to be about Rambling Rosie,” Celia said. “But if this is for real, if what’s on the tape is true, what’s the point? Why would anyone want to hurt her? Unless it’s….”

  Doyle said, “You’ve got it. It’s got to be those guys who’ve tried everything else they could to sabotage this race meeting. I’ve been banging the drums for Rambling Rosie Farewell Night, and we’ve gotten tremendous media coverage. Annette Ruffalo in group sales tells me we’ve got the largest list of reservations in years lined up for that day. Which, as you know, is less than forty-eight hours away.”

  Doyle got to his feet. “Those bastards,” he snarled. “This’d be the lowest blow of all, trying to hurt Rosie. Jesus H. Christ.” He shook his head. “I’ve had some experience with stuff like that, people doing damage to horses. One of the men involved is dead, the others are in prison. The old man on the tape, what he’s saying is that these must be the same kind of scum. Dammit.”

  He looked up when Fidelia came into the room carrying Bob’s medicine. They waited as Bob struggled to down the pills, his throat contracting. He raised a finger from the arm of his wheelchair, indicating he wanted to say something. Doyle could hardly make himself watch this tortured man as Fidelia angled his wheelchair so that he was facing Mortenson, eyes intense. In his jagged, halting voice Bob asked, “Well, Karl, what do you suggest we do?”

  The Security chief squirmed to a position in his chair where he could address both Celia and her husband. He looked directly at them, not Doyle’s way.

  Mortenson said, “Naturally, I’ll increase backstretch security, especially at Tom Eckrosh’s barn.” He frowned before adding, “You know, Celia, my budget is just about gone for this year and we’ve got a couple of weeks to go in the meeting. This calls for overtime, additional guards. That’ll eat up the rest of the budget.”

  Doyle could hardly control himself. He said, “You can’t be talking about money in a situation like this. For god’s sakes, Karl, dig it up somewhere. That horse has got to be protected, as well as this track’s reputation. The single most valuable item on the grounds at Monee Park right now is Rambling Rosie. We’re looking to have eighteen, twenty thousand people out here Saturday for her farewell day. The revenues from that could keep this place afloat until the slots bill passes. But if somebody gets to that horse, stops that from happening, you can start tacking up the For Sale signs yourself. If you’ve got any money left for nails, that is.”

  Mortenson turned an icy gaze Doyle’s way. “It’s not a question of me pinching pennies. It’s that I don’t have many left to pinch. That’s a fact.”

  Celia said, “Jack, don’t be angry with Karl. He’s done a remarkable job on a budget twenty-five percent smaller than last year’s. We’ve had to lay off pari-mutuel clerks, people in concessions, in the restaurants. It’s been a nightmare. The security side has suffered, too.”

  “The so-called security side,” Doyle said, “has failed to prevent a track robbery, an attempted arson, and a home invasion. If our defenses get any more ‘remarkable,’ we’ll be having seats stolen out from under the asses of people in the grandstand.”

  Mortenson’s big fists clenched as he got to his feet. “Screw you, Doyle. If I had the money you spent on your failed trip to Ireland, I might have been able to properly secure this track.”

  Celia rapped her empty coffee cup on the mahogany table. “Gentlemen, that’s enough. Enough! We don’t have time for that kind of thing. Let’s get back to Bob’s question.”

  Doyle took a deep breath before saying, “Celia’s right. I apologize, Karl. I guess you’ve done your best under less than ideal conditions.” Mortenson nodded. He said, “All right. And you forget what I said about Ireland, too.”

  The meeting broke up an hour later with the Rambling Rosie Defense Plan having been hammered out. Mortenson planned to call a general meeting of his security force, emphasizing the need for increased vigilance “at each and every hour,” as he put it. He promised to assign his best men to Tom Eckrosh’s barn, “twenty-four/seven on a revolving basis.” Doyle had suggested Eckrosh’s horses be moved to a different barn, but Celia vetoed that idea. “I’ve known Tom for years,” Celia said, “and he’s stayed in that barn every one of them, through backstretch floods and wind storms, you name it. He just refuses to move, and that’s it.”

  “Put me down for the eight-p.m.-to-a. m. shifts both tonight and Friday,” Doyle said. “ I’ve had some experience protecting horses at night,” he added, “down in Kentucky.”

  Celia said, “I never knew that. What was that about?”

  “That’s a tale for another time,” he said. He got to his feet. “I need to drive home and get a change of clothes for my overnight duties. Celia, please call Eckrosh and tell him to expect me and some guards at his barn each of the next two nights. He’ll accept the intrusion if he knows it’s coming from you.” He said goodbye to Bob and Fidelia and walked out with Shontanette. In the corridor, she tugged at Jack’s sleeve and pulled him aside as Mortenson bustled past them, talking softly on his cell phone. Nodding in the direction of the security chief, Shontanette whispered, “Wait till he’s gone.”

  When the elevator doors had closed behind Mortenson, Shontanette said, “This poor mouthing Karl keeps doing about his Security Department budget, it doesn’t ring true. I’ve reviewed the payroll records for the last few months. Something’s screwy.” She leaned back against the wall and dipped into her purse for a package of Marlboro Lites. “Don’t you dare tell Celia you saw this,” she said, lighting up. “She’s bought me about five packages of those nicotine patches. Honest to God, I’ve got myself down to a couple of cigarettes a day.” She puffed deeply, twice, smiling apologetically at Jack through her exhalations, snubbed out the cigarette, and tucked it into a small plastic zip loc bag that went back in her purse.

  Doyle said, “What do you mean about something screwy in the Security payroll?”

  Shontanette said, “You remember that day a couple of weeks ago when we were coming back from seeing Rosie off to the Breeders’ Cup?”

  “Sure.”

  “Remember Mortenson justifying himself by saying something about what could anybody expect to get for security guards paying only the minimum wage?”

  Doyle said, “Yeah, I remember that.”

  “Here’s the puzzler, then,” Shontanette said. “I was having lunch with Sandy Doherty last week. She’s in the accounting department, in charge of payroll. She’s been here for years. We were talking about all the bad stuff that’s gone on here this meeting. I mentioned something about how you probably couldn’t get topnotch personnel to work security for only the minimum wage. Sandy got real indignant. She said, ‘What are you talking about? All those people make more than that. Mr. Joyce never had anybody work here who didn’t make more than minimum wage. And Ms. Celia has carried on that policy.’

  “After lunch, I went with Sandy back to her office. She showed me the payroll records. Every Monee Park security guard is being paid at least $15 an hour, some of them more. This minimum wage claim by Mortenson? It’s bogus.”

  Doyle said, “Have you mentioned this to Celia?”

  “No. She was away in Springfield in those hearings for a few days, and when she got back she was super busy.” Shonantette paused. “I’m embarrassed to say I then forgot about it, what with everything else that’s been going on here.”

  They walked toward the elevator. Doyle said, “This has got to be looked into. Maybe Mortenson’s got some kind of scam working. I wouldn’t put it past him. There’s always been something off about that guy.�
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  Shontanette smiled. “You mean besides that mothball breath of his? And the alpine after shave, or whatever that shit is he uses?”

  “You got it, sister,” Doyle laughed. They entered the elevator. As they rode down Shontanette said, “Jack, were you ever a smoker?”

  “Naw. I tried cigarettes when I was a kid, but I didn’t like them. I guess I was lucky. I’ve got an idea of what you’re going through, how addictive nicotine is. I remember what Mark Twain had to say on the subject. ‘It’s easy to quit smoking. I’ve done it many times.’”

  Chapter 45

  Doyle got to Barn D shortly before Thursday’s sunset. The lower level of the evening sky west of Monee Park was a deep purple bolster holding up a blanket of spreading pink above the tree line. “Nice night,” Tom Eckrosh said. “So far,” Doyle replied.

  They stood on the dirt path outside of Barn D, looking up and then down the quiet shed row, filled with horses at their ease. Doyle saw a Monee Park security guard stationed at each end, a tall, white guy and a short, slim black man, equipped with revolvers and hand radios. The white guy Doyle recognized, Dave Dubinski, a cousin of Morty’s. Doyle gave him a wave.

  Dusk began to settle on the barn area, wiping the last traces of sunlight off the old, metal barn roofs. A dozen or so children of Mexican backstretch workers kicked up clouds of dust as they engaged in a spirited soccer game on a grassless area between the buildings. It was a peaceful scene. Doyle, a brief acidic flow of apprehension coiling through his gut, hoped the scene would stay that way.

  On a nearby surface road, cars were streaming toward the west parking lot. It was thirty-two minutes until race number one of the Thursday night program. A dark blue Buick sedan pulled out of the long line of traffic. It stopped in front of Doyle and Eckrosh. Karl Mortenson rolled down the driver’s side window. Ignoring Doyle, he smiled at the old trainer, saying, “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Eckrosh. We’ve got this place secured.” He waved and drove off toward his office. “Huumph,” Eckrosh said.