Close Call

by John McEvoy

  Staggering sideways, Lucarelli dropped the syringe and fought for balance. He leaned both hands against the wall, wounded leg extended before him. Shannon, white faced, let the halter clip slide from his fingers. “Jeez, Aiden, what the fuck…” He stood transfixed at the sight of his cousin. “Help me,” Lucarelli managed to say. “Denny, help me get this thing out of my leg. Then shoot the fucking horse and whoever did this to me.”

  Maria scrambled to her feet and grabbed Rosie’s halter, trying to soothe the excited horse. Rosie lashed out with her left rear leg, just missing Shannon.

  Shannon hesitantly pulled at the pitchfork handle. Lucarelli screamed as the tines remained lodged in his calf. Desperate now, Shannon said, “I can’t do this one-handed.” He looked at Doyle, went to him and cut the tape off his hands, keeping his pistol pointed. Shannon aimed the flashlight at his cousin. “Get that thing out of his leg,” he ordered.

  Doyle gave the handle a nice twist and a sharp yank. The tines emerged, the puncture wounds they’d caused oozing blood onto the straw. Lucarelli collapsed to the floor, his back against the wall, wounded leg extended. He tore off his belt and used it as a tourniquet on his leg. When he’d tightened it, he snarled, “Denny shoot the fucking horse and this guy and the greaser by the horse, then get me the fuck out of here. The other two aren’t going to bother us. Hurry, man.”

  Doyle moved to his right, attempting to shield Maria from Shannon. He knew he had to somehow disarm Shannon, who was looking more panicky and dangerous by the second. Then Doyle looked over Shannon’s head. Two large figures had appeared behind Shannon in the doorway to the stall. One man stepped inside. He said, “Hello, Jack.”

  Doyle groaned. “Hello, Niall,” he said.

  Chapter 46

  There was a momentary silence as Doyle grimaced and the others gawked at Hanratty, who moved quickly toward Shannon. Hanratty was smiling broadly. Hoy followed Hanratty into the stall and stood next to Doyle. The only sound was Rosie tossing her head so hard she nearly pulled Maria off her feet.

  Lucarelli glared up at Hanratty. “Who the hell are you?”

  Hanratty didn’t answer. He concentrated on the stunned Shannon. In his right hand, held behind his back, there was a black object. Doyle couldn’t quite see what it was. Shannon raised his pistol. Hanratty brought his hand around and smashed a blackjack down on Shannon’s gun hand. His scream was echoed by a loud whinny from Rosie, who lurched sideways against Maria.

  Shannon bent over, clutching his shattered wrist with his other hand. Hanratty shoved him toward Hoy. Hoy grinned as he caught the shorter man by the front of his security guard shirt. Bending his knees slightly, Hoy put everything he had into a right uppercut that lifted Shannon inches off the floor before he fell to the stall floor near Lucarelli, out cold.

  Shannon’s dropped pistol lay on top of the bloody straw near where Lucarelli sat, his back to the wall. Lucarelli suddenly reached out for the pistol. His eyes were wild. “God damn it, I’ll kill them myself,” he shouted. Twisting onto his left hip, groaning in pain from moving his torn leg, he aimed the weapon up at Rosie’s head.

  Doyle moved quickly. With one motion, he snatched up the pitchfork and lunged forward. He drove the tines into and through Lucarelli’s throat, pinning him to the wall. The pistol fell from his hand.

  Maria smothered a scream. The others watched in stunned silence as Lucarelli gurgled once, eyes rolling up in his head, then was quiet. Doyle pulled the tines from the dead thug’s shredded neck. “This crazed son of a bitch is done,” he growled. He asked Maria for a rub rag, then wiped all the fingerprints off the pitchfork handle before himself gripping it again. “No sense getting you involved in this,” he said to Maria.

  Doyle turned to Hanratty, who said, “Good work, Jack. You saved some lives.”

  Doyle gave him a quizzical look. “Surprised are you now, Jack?” Hanratty raised the black object in his hand. “Why, the ould cosh here is a grand sort of weapon for work like this,” nodding at Shannon. “Easy to bring into your country, too. You know, back home we don’t use guns on each other as often as your people over here. We’re more hands on with our violence.” He glanced over at Hoy, and they both laughed.

  “It’s not the weapon I’m surprised at,” Doyle said. “I’m surprised you’re here. I’m surprised you worked over that bully boy lying there. I was under the impression that he and his late pal were carrying out your orders.”

  It was Hanratty’s turn to look surprised. “You’re winding me up, man,” he said indignantly. “We’ve never gone in for killing horses. Where did you get that thought?”

  Hanratty reached down and tore the bloodied ski mask off Lucarelli’s head, then removed Shannon’s mask. “So that’s what these gobshites look like,” he said.

  Doyle said, “We’ve got to get Morty to the hospital. I suppose that asshole, too,” he added with a nod toward Shannon, who was slowly regaining consciousness. Morty rolled slowly over onto his back. His jaw was horribly swollen, left eye blackened and nearly closed by the swelling. “I’ll be all right,” he whispered. “See about the old man.”

  “Christ, that’s right,” Doyle said. He hurried out of the stall to Eckrosh’s office. Gently peeling the tape from Eckrosh’s mouth, Doyle said, “Everything’s under control, Tom. Rosie’s safe.” He grabbed scissors from a desk drawer and cut through the tape on the old trainer’s hands and feet. “I was too slow with the shotgun,” Eckrosh said, his hands shaking. “They jumped me from out of the blue. Who are they?”

  “I’ll fill you in later,” Doyle said. “Morty’s hurt. I’ve got to call for paramedics, then the sheriff’s office.”

  Dialing 911, Doyle thought for a moment he sensed the presence of a figure in the shadows outside the office door. Then it was gone. There was no one there when he poked his head out the door, though a familiar pungent odor lingered in the early morning air.

  Two ambulances roared up to the barn a dozen minutes later. They were followed by the first patrol cars from the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. Doyle led them to Lucarelli’s body. He described the nightmarish developments of the last hour. Maria, Morty, and the two Irishmen backed up his account of having acted in self defense.

  The paramedics went to work on Morty and Shannon. The latter was now fully conscious and whining. “I want my lawyer. I need to call Art Riley,” Shannon kept repeating.

  Owen Purcell, the lead detective, frowned. “Are you talking about Art Riley,” he said to Shannon. “The downtown lawyer?”

  “Damn right,” Shannon said defiantly. Doyle recognized the name. So did a concerned Hanratty, who said, “I’d be sorry to learn that’s the Riley I retained in regards to Uncle Jim’s will.”

  Doyle muttered, “So that’s how Niall’s going to play it. Claiming ignorance.”

  Hanratty, a picture of feigned innocence, said, “Are you talking to me, Jack?” Doyle didn’t answer him.

  Twenty minutes later, the two Irishmen, Maria, Eckrosh, and Doyle were in the trainer’s office when Celia rushed through the door. Doyle had telephoned her as soon as the paramedics left with their patients, and Lucarelli’s body, telling her, “You better come to Tom’s barn.”

  “Jack, what’s going on? Tom, my God, what happened to you,” Celia said. She went to Eckrosh who sat in the armchair, a bandage on his bruised forehead. He struggled to his feet to assure her, “I’ll be fine, Celia. Not to worry.”

  After asking Maria if she was okay, Celia turned to the silent Irishmen. Hanratty and Hoy were standing, arms folded on their chests, backs against the wall. A look of astonishment flashed across Celia’s face. “Niall Hanratty?” she said. “Is that you? What in the world are you doing here?”

  Hanratty stepped toward her, his hand extended, saying, “Well, cousin, we meet at last.” Celia slowly took his hand in hers. “I came over to straighten out a few things, Celia,” he added. “Some things had been set in motion that I came to believe had to be stopp
ed.”

  “And a good thing he did,” Doyle said, proceeding to recount the night’s events. Celia listened, her face pale, hand to her mouth. “Who were these attackers?” she asked.

  “According to a check the deputies ran, a couple of small time hoods from Chicago’s south side,” Doyle said. “The dead one was a young guy named Aiden Lucarelli, truly a nut case. The other one is Denny Shannon. They both had numerous arrests over the last few years, but no jail time. That’s going to change for Shannon.”

  Hanratty and Hoy were staying at a downtown Chicago hotel, they said. “Will you be back this afternoon for Rambling Rosie’s farewell?” Celia asked. “We’ve got a lot to talk over, Niall.”

  “Maybe not as much as you think,” Hanratty said. “I’ve given some thought to this situation since I arrived here. I’ve decided to go along with you and your plans to keep operating Monee Park.”

  Her surprise evident, Celia said, “Why? What’s made you change your mind?”

  Hanratty grinned ruefully. “In all honesty, I did not know that cretins the likes of which we dealt with here tonight had been unleashed on you and your track. And,” he said, nodding at Eckrosh, “on that man’s horse. I am truly sorry. That kind of thing is not what I’m about.”

  “What about the lawyer, Riley, saying you were planning to contest Uncle Jim’s will?”

  “That’s another non-starter,” Hanratty replied. “And my dealings with attorney Riley are a thing of the past.”

  Celia gave him an appraising look, followed by one of her brilliant smiles. “Well, as long as you’re in such a conciliatory state of mind, I don’t suppose you’d hesitate in the least to say you’ll reimburse me the $127,000 stolen by men apparently under Riley’s direction.”

  Doyle laughed, drawing sharp looks from both Hanratty and Celia. “Is there a Gaelic word for chutzpah?” he asked. They ignored him. “I never ordered any robbery,” Hanratty said. “That apparently was Riley’s idea.” He grimaced, then continued, “But, cousin, I’ll take responsibility. You can deduct that money from the bonanza coming Monee Park’s way when slot machines come on the scene.”

  “Point, counterpoint,” Celia said. “That’s what we’ll do.”

  She turned to leave, then paused. “Niall, will you have time to meet my husband Bob before you go back?”

  Hanratty said, “Absolutely. But it’ll have to be today. Hoy and I are due back home tomorrow.”

  “Just call Jack when you and Mr. Hoy return this afternoon,” Celia said. “He’ll show you around and how to find us.”

  Hanratty and Hoy shook hands with Doyle before he walked them to their rental car, which they’d parked two blocks away, on the other side of the track fence. “Did you two hop the fence on your way in?” he said.

  “It seemed the easiest way to do it,” Hanratty said. “I didn’t think I could convince the gate guard that two visiting Micks had urgent night business on the Monee Park backstretch.”

  Chapter 47

  Doyle left the Cook County Sheriff’s Department just after dawn. Hours before, he had driven Eckrosh and Maria there and they’d all given their official statements to Detective Purcell. Shannon had been taken to Saint Catherine’s, the hospital closest to Monee Park and the one to which Morty had also been admitted. Shannon was treated, then placed under guard there. According to Cook Count Sheriff Jake Poole, Wilmette police had arrested and booked Art Riley.

  Eckrosh called a cab to take him and Maria back to Monee Park. “The horses have to be fed and watered and exercised,” he said. “That’s a nice young fella, that deputy they left there to guard them, but he isn’t going to start doing our work for us.” Eckrosh thanked Doyle for about the fifteenth time, shook his hand, and held the taxi door for Maria. She smiled and waved as they rode away.

  Doyle was so tired he could hardly see straight. He stopped at a 7-11 store for coffee on his way to Saint Catherine’s. Neither the caffeine nor the early morning air did much to rejuvenate him. The main reception desk was unmanned at this hour at the small, suburban medical facility. He went back outside and walked around a couple of corners until he came to the Emergency Room. That foyer was empty except for a female receptionist, a heavy set young woman completing a lousy shift who was reading a copy of Vanity Fair magazine. She didn’t look happy at being interrupted.

  “Quiet night?” Doyle said pleasantly.

  “All we’ve had lately is those guys from the racetrack trouble. If it were a Saturday night, you’d have to stand in line to get in here.”

  “It’s a guy from the racetrack I want to see.”

  “Not the one in the detention area. Nobody’s allowed in there except deputies.”

  Doyle said, “No, the other one.”

  The receptionist brightened. “The little man with the long head? I took all his information down when they brought him in. He could hardly talk, the shape his jaw was in, but he was very cooperative. A sweetheart. Go down that hallway to the nurse’s station,” she smiled.

  The nurse on duty was a middle-aged woman who looked as tired as Doyle felt. She told him, “Mr. Dubinski is under sedation. They had to anesthetize him to work on his jaw. Fortunately, it doesn’t appear that he’ll need reconstructive surgery.”

  “How long will he be out?”

  “At least another couple of hours,” she said.

  “When he wakes up, please tell him Jack Doyle was here, and that I’ll be back to see him this evening after the races.”

  ***

  The small Saint Catherine’s parking lot was jammed when Doyle drove in that night shortly before eight o’clock. “That receptionist wasn’t exaggerating,” he said to himself before he was finally able to angle the Accord into a small space at the far end of the lot. He checked with the front desk and was relieved to learn that Morty had been transferred from the Intensive Care Unit to a room on the second floor.

  There were three beds in the room. Nearest the window was a young black man, left arm and shoulder heavily bandaged, an IV trailing from his right arm. He was apparently asleep. The bed adjacent to the wall was shielded by a light green curtain that had been pulled around the oblong ceiling track. No sound came from that side, either.

  Morty was propped up on pillows in the middle bed. A bandage covered his left eye. His cheek ballooned out beneath the bandage like a small gourd, yellow and black. With his good eye he was reading Racing Daily. Hearing Doyle enter the room, Morty put down the newspaper and produced the best version of a smile that he could manage. “Hey, boss,” he said, voice husky, “nice to see you.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” Doyle replied. “You look terrible.” He went to the side of the bed and put his hand on Morty’s shoulder. “I should never have let you come out to the barn last night. I’m sorry I did.”

  Morty said, “It was my idea, remember? Anyway, we’re all alive to tell about it. Sit down, Jack, fill me in on what’s happened. All I know is that when I came in here last night, or this morning, or whenever it was, they just told me everything was okay, including Rosie. The drugs put me under before I could get any details. How was Rosie’s Farewell Day?”

  Doyle pulled a chair up, careful not to brush against the stand with the two arrangements of flowers on it. Morty saw him looking at them. “One’s from Celia and Shontanette,” he said. “They’re coming out to see me tomorrow. The other’s from Eckrosh, Maria, and Rosie. Pretty nice, huh? But tell me about today.”

  Doyle said, “Rosie went out in a blaze of glory. Ramon Garcia cantered her past the stands and she got a tremendous ovation from the crowd, more than 19,000 by the way, the biggest at Monee Park in nearly thirty years. Rosie’s foot seemed to be fine. Old man Eckrosh actually smiled in public. Maria cried a little bit, but waved to the crowd as she led Rosie off the track for the last time. The National Racing Channel even had a crew there. Celia had to put people on overtime to count the receipts.”

  “That’s great,” Morty
said. He paused to carefully insert a plastic straw into the right side of his mouth and take a sip of water. “But what’s going on with those two guys who attacked us?”

  “One of them, a guy named Shannon, is in a room in this hospital, injured and under arrest and cuffed to his bed. That’s what your nurse told me.” Doyle paused before adding, “The other’s one’s dead. His name was Lucarelli. I had to kill him.”

  Morty let the water glass slip from his hand as he listened to Doyle describe the brutal happenings in Rosie’s stall. “Jesus, Jack, that’s awful. I mean, I’m sure it had to be done, but damn! Did you ever kill anyone before?”

  Doyle looked out the window. “That was my debut. I can’t say I enjoyed it. But the bastard would have tried to shoot us all if I hadn’t stopped him. The cops agreed.”

  “What’ll happen with the other guy, Shannon?”

  “I understand he’s plea bargaining as fast as he can,” Doyle said, “coming up with all kinds of information about their efforts to damage Monee Park and its people. But he’s still going to do time in Joliet. By the way, it turns out he and Lucarelli were cousins, born and bred in Canaryville. Lovely family.”

  “What does Shannon have to plea bargain with?”

  “He served up their lawyer, a scumbag named Art Riley, who apparently directed them in their attacks. Shannon has confessed to all those attacks, including the robbery, swearing that Riley paid them all the way along. The new state’s attorney is really after Riley’s ass. Riley is going down bigtime.”

  There was a long, surprisingly loud moan from the bed behind the green curtain. Morty grimaced. “Guy does it all the time. The nurse tells me he’s in here for a minor hernia operation. Don’t pay any attention.”

  Doyle said, “It just dawned on me. You’d been knocked out when the Irishmen arrived to help save our asses.”

  Morty’s visible eye narrowed. “What Irishmen?”