Riders Down

by John McEvoy

  Popp turned to the assistant state’s attorney and said, “Larry, why don’t you fill them in.”

  Van Gundy reluctantly put down his nearly empty plate. He wiped some mango juice from his chin. His beady eyes darted from Matt to Moe to Popp before he began speaking in a reedy voice. A particularly unattractive rodent, Matt thought, that’s what Van Gundy reminds me of.

  Van Gundy took a tape player from his briefcase and placed it on the table. Preparing to turn it on he said, “I shouldn’t be playing this for you, especially a newspaper guy, but Bill Popp vouches for everyone in this room. Says we wouldn’t have gotten a case without your efforts. What you hear stays in this room. It’s part of our interview with Ronnie Schrapps. Bill said you deserved to hear it because you helped us nab Ronnie, and I’m inclined to agree with him. That’s me doing the questioning that you’ll hear.”

  As Van Gundy readied the tape, Matt looked over at Moe. This little man’s got some major clout, he thought, as Moe intently regarded the two public servants who obviously had no compunction about doing his bidding. Van Gundy said, “I’ve already listened to all of Ronnie’s bullshit about the fraud charges—how the old ladies begged him to take their money, how he was doing them a favor by bringing excitement into their empty lives, how he was entrapped…yada yada yada. He weaseled around like that for several boring minutes, both of us well aware that he was full of shit. Then we come to this part.”

  RONNIE: You know, I’ve got some information you could use, if you’ll just hear me out. Has to do with what could be a major, major case. I can help you—if you decide to help me out on these fraud charges. Will you listen to me?

  VAN GUNDY: Information about what?

  RONNIE: You know anything about horse racing?

  VAN GUNDY: Enough to stay away from it. What’s your point?

  RONNIE: Well, there’s some kind of big scam going on, that much I know, and it involves big, big money. The racetrack police, heads up their asses like always, may not even suspect what’s happening.

  VAN GUNDY: What kind of scam?

  RONNIE: I don’t know all the details.

  At this point Van Gundy is heard impatiently slamming his pen down on the table.

  RONNIE: Wait…take it easy…hear me out.

  You must have read about those jockeys getting killed around the country, right? And nobody ever caught for the crimes? Okay. But you may not have heard about some of their surviving relatives.

  VAN GUNDY: What the hell are you talking about?

  RONNIE: I’m talking about the fact that in three major races, each one of them a leg of a big National Pick Four, the losing favorites were ridden by relatives of two of those dead jocks. Am I coming across here now?

  VAN GUNDY: I think you’re trying to jerk my chain, Schrapps. Two jocks lost on favorites in big races. So what? I know enough about racing to know that favorites only win about a third of the time. These favorites lose, what’s the big deal?

  RONNIE: Yeah, favorites only win thirty-three percent of the time. But when the same people hit three of these big Pick Fours, and they’re the only winners at Heartland Downs on those days, doesn’t that maybe fall into the big deal category? Three of those big hits in a matter of weeks! Doesn’t that strike you as so fucking unlikely that maybe somebody in your law enforcement family should wake the fuck up here—instead of peering down their goddam barrels at me all the time?

  VAN GUNDY: Stop, you’re breaking my heart.

  Van Gundy hit the pause button on the recorder, then adeptly snatched a slice of pineapple from the tray before he began to speak.

  “Ronnie tells us in this next section that he found out the people cashing the Pick Four tickets used phony IDs and bogus social security numbers when they signed for their winnings. I don’t know how he learned this, but we checked with the Heartland Downs pari-mutuel department and the IRS, and they confirmed that that was indeed the case. That’s what makes what comes next on the tape pretty interesting.” Van Gundy swallowed another chunk of pineapple before hitting play.

  VAN GUNDY: So where is this taking us? How does this put any shine on you?

  RONNIE: I can ID the people that cashed those big tickets.

  VAN GUNDY (his voice reflecting his excitement): You know them? You know these people?

  RONNIE: No, I don’t know them. But I can tell you about them. There’s three people. There’s a big, redheaded guy, over six feet, over two hundred pounds. He looked like a hick who had stumbled into the racetrack clubhouse by taking a wrong turn. Wore a Hawaiian shirt, wash pants, work shoes. The broad with him every time is about his age, maybe middle thirties, kind of hard used. Dark blond hair, chain smoker, dressed Wal-Mart top to bottom. The guy signed for their big ticket the second time. First time, the blond broad went up to sign. The third ticket was cashed by an old woman who was with these two for the first time. All three times, these people took the money in cash. In cash! That’s what I’m told by a guy I know real good in mutuels.

  Van Gundy again stopped the tape. “To this point, Ronnie, who is about as obvious a prevaricating and untrustworthy bullshitter as you would ever hope not to meet, has really come up with very little. Interesting, yes, but not worth much. The physical descriptions of the three people, for example, he could have made those up with his infinitely fertile, devious mind.

  “Jack Schreier, my boss, that’s exactly what he said when he’d heard this recording up to this point. He thought Ronnie was probably blowing smoke up our asses. But then things change. Here goes.”

  RONNIE: No, I don’t know the names of those people. If I did, I’d have given them up to you before now. Buy I do know something you can use.

  VAN GUNDY: What?

  RONNIE: I got the license plate of the car they drove off in.

  VAN GUNDY (voice once more evidencing some excitement): How?

  RONNIE: How do you think? I followed them down to the parking lot after their second big score and watched them get into this old car and drive away. There was a guy there waiting for them at the car. Stocky, strong-looking, bald guy wearing shades, a little better dressed than the other man and the woman. He said something to them, and they jumped in the car pretty quick, the young broad driving. The bald guy looked at me through his binoculars as they were pulling out. Then they peeled out of there. But not before I got their license plate.

  Van Gundy shut down the tape for the last time. “At this point,” he said, “I called Jack Schreier back in. I told him what Ronnie now said he had to offer. I updated him on the possible tie-in to the allegedly fixed races, and to the murdered jocks. Schreier thought it over for about two seconds and then told me to go ahead and deal with this scum bag, provided Ronnie hadn’t made up the license number. Jack said the number had to be good, or there’s no deal with Ronnie.

  “Turns out,” Van Gundy continued, “it was a Wisconsin plate, a real one all right. Ronnie was right about the number. Car belongs to a guy named Bledsoe. He lives in Madison, near the university. We checked with his car insurer, who told us Bledsoe lists his occupation as ‘full time student,’ even though he’s almost fifty years old.”

  Matt and Moe looked at each other. Then Moe slammed his hand down on the table. “The fucking Professor,” he said, looking at Matt, “Bernie’s fucking professor.” Matt was not as certain. “Could be,” he said. “It’s possible.”

  Van Gundy was puzzled. “What professor? What are you talking about?”

  Moe said, “Tell him what we know, Matt.”

  Over the course of the next half-hour—during which Van Gundy, while listening closely, still managed to demolish the remaining contents of the large fruit platter—Matt told the assistant state’s attorney of Bernie Glockner’s sudden death, Moe’s suspicions about the circumstances surrounding that death, and the series of jockey murders followed by apparently fixed races leading to giant payoffs.

  Finally, his long narrative completed
, Matt got to his feet and walked over to the north window, through which he could see the busy Oak Street beach a few blocks away, full of sun bathers, swimmers, volleyball players, cyclists, joggers, walkers, and the usual cadre of attentive voyeurs. He thought over all that had been said here. Then he turned and spoke directly to Van Gundy and Popp.

  “I’ve been writing about horse racing for more than ten years,” Matt said. “I’ve heard of some scams, and some screwed-up attempts at scams. Hell, any racetrack in the world could compete pound for pound with Washington, DC as a source of rumors and gossip.

  “But,” Matt went on, “I’ve never come across anything like this. I’m convinced there’s some kind of conspiracy going on designed to steal money from honest bettors. This guy the Professor, Bledsoe, may be the linchpin. He might be the guy that Bernie Glockner dealt with. He might be the guy who pressured Randy Morrison. He might be the guy Oily Ronnie spotted in the Heartland parking lot with the people who cashed the big Pick Four ticket. You’ve got to check him out.”

  Van Gundy sighed. “Mr. O’Connor, give us some credit. Of course we checked him out. Bledsoe has no criminal record whatsoever. He’s a well-known eccentric up there in Madison, where, I understand, there’s no shortage of them. But he’s famous for having gone to the university for more than thirty straight years, financed by some family trust fund. There’ve been several newspaper articles about him over the years, even one long magazine story. Bledsoe has never worked a day in his life that anyone knows about, except for some private tutoring once in awhile. But there’s no hint of any criminality here. According to a Madison detective I know, Bledsoe’s never even gotten a parking ticket.”

  “I don’t know,” Moe said, shaking his head. “That kind of background doesn’t indicate a multiple murderer as far as I’m concerned.”

  Popp said, “Hey, you can’t rule out anybody off just that kind of information. We got a guy on a murder rap last year, he was a church deacon, boy scout leader, and head of a charitable foundation, who got up one morning and used a chain saw on his wife of nearly thirty years.

  “That, of course, was a crime of demented passion. These jockey killings are different. There’s nothing to indicate there’s any passion involved here, nothing personal. These killings are being done by some very intelligent, methodical prick who is convinced he can get away with anything he wants.”

  Matt sat back down on the couch, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “We don’t know enough about Bledsoe to put him in that category. But what was he doing at the racetrack with the people who cashed the big tickets? If Bledsoe is some trust fund beneficiary, I doubt that he’s moonlighting as a chauffeur for gamblers. But I’m not about to eliminate him from the picture without taking a good look at him myself. I know some people on the Madison newspapers. I’m going to take a run up there and talk to one of them.

  “But before that, Larry,” Matt added, “let me ask you something. Does anyone else have this story on Oily Ronnie?”

  “Nobody,” Van Gundy replied. “We just made our deal with Schrapps this morning. He’s being held without bond, and that’s the way he’s going to stay while we expand the investigation. He’s comfortable with that for the time being and so is his attorney. If things work out right, if what Schrapps gave us turns out to be solid regarding Bledsoe and his group, Ronnie will do short federal time.”

  Van Gundy put the tape recorder in its case.

  “I’m going to say to you three, in the privacy we have here, that my boss has put a big circle around this case. It has national implications. Jack, Mr. Schreier that is, has a very great interest in cases such as these, especially since he’s considering entering politics in the near future. If you get my drift. And Jack Schreier has a really terrible aversion to mistakes. If Oily Ronnie Schrapps has pulled our chain here, he’s going away for a terrible long time to a place he is not going to like at all.”

  Van Gundy shook hands with all of them, thanking Moe profusely for his “interest in this matter.”

  “Naturally,” Van Gundy added, looking directly at Matt, “we want to keep a lid on this for the time being.”

  “For the greater good,” Matt murmured. Then he said, “I’ll go along with you. Ronnie’s is a good story. ‘Veteran Con Man Caught Fleecing Horse-Playing Grannies.’ I look forward to breaking it. But the jocks…Bernie…fixed races…all that adds up to a hell of a lot greater story if it all comes together.”

  Matt was excited, making his point. Moe, watching this rare display of outward enthusiasm by his friend, smiled to himself. “We’re talking conspiracy involving fraud and murder on a national scale,” Matt continued. “I’ll wait as long as I have to in order to break that one, Mr. Van Gundy. But you’ve got to promise me I’ll be the first one to get it.”

  Van Gundy reached across the table and offered his hand. He smiled for the first time since he’d arrived in Moe’s office. His mustache twitched. The smile doesn’t improve his looks any, Matt thought, as he grasped Van Gundy’s outstretched hand. “You’re on,” Van Gundy said.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “You don’t seem to be jumping for joy, Vera,” Bledsoe said, pushing the final chunk of currency across the table to Jimbo. The three of them were seated at the dining room table in the apartment on Dahle Street shared by Jimbo and Vera. It was nearly nine o’clock at night. Bledsoe had insisted the drapes be drawn over all the room’s windows before he began counting out the cash.

  This was the payout from their third Pick Four score. Bledsoe had already stored his share, $262,500, along with most of the rest of these gleanings, a grand total of $791,250, in two safe deposit boxes in a Sun Prairie bank. Jimbo shared his cut with Vera. She sat with her arms folded across her chest, cigarette in one hand, staring at the pile of bills Jimbo had in front of him.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Bledsoe asked.

  Vera emerged from her knitted-brow reverie. “What? Oh, yeah, sure, I’m happy. You know me, Claude, I don’t get either too high or too low. It’s just my way,” she shrugged.

  Bledsoe didn’t believe her. Jimbo continued to count carefully. He looked both delighted and grateful for the money Bledsoe had caused to fall into his large hands. That wasn’t the case with his girlfriend. Bledsoe felt a pang of concern as he looked at Vera through the haze of her Pall Mall smoke. She pretended to be concentrating on the counting, but Bledsoe figured otherwise.

  “Let’s get this out in the open right now,” Bledsoe said sharply, sitting forward and banging his massive forearms down on the table. “You got a bitch, say so,” he ordered. Jimbo was both startled and puzzled. “Claude, what’re you talking about?”

  Bledsoe ignored him. “I’m not talking to you,” he said. He was looking straight at Vera. “I get the feeling your partner here isn’t satisfied with the divisions of our labor. Am I right?”

  Vera lit another Pall Mall off the stub of the previous one. She said, “Just seems to me Jimbo and me are doing more work than we’re getting paid for.” She shrugged. “That’s how I feel about it,” she said defiantly, looking Bledsoe in the eye.

  He sat back, briefly smiling, knowing he had been right. Jimbo blurted out, “For chrissakes, Vera, this is more money than I’ve ever had my hands on. More than I even stole from the Home Depot. What are you complaining about? Jesus!”

  Vera didn’t buckle. “All I’m saying is that you and me are the ones sticking our necks out making these bets, then collecting them. I know the whole scheme is Claude’s. I’ll grant you that. But now that everything’s in motion, well, it just seems to me you and I are getting a little bit shortchanged. Considering our exposure at the tracks.” Satisfied, she took another drag on her cigarette, then blew the smoke toward the nicotine-tinted ceiling.

  Bledsoe didn’t say anything for almost a minute. He just looked at Vera, frowning. A trickle of cold sweat crept down Jimbo’s spine. Bledsoe looked ominously pissed off to Jimbo, not a pleasant sight. Vera sta
yed cool.

  Finally Bledsoe sat back in his chair. He smiled at Vera. “I understand your position,” he said, and she blushed. Jimbo looked from one to the other, relieved. “I’ll do some calculations,” Bledsoe added. “I think I can adjust your share upward. Let me work on it.”

  He got to his feet and stretched. “You know something,” he said, “maybe the tension may be getting to us. We need a little change of scenery, get away from this stuff for a day. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Let’s get out of town for a day. You two ever been to the House on the Rock?” They never had. They agreed to meet early the next morning.

  Walking home a few minutes later, Bledsoe, outwardly as imperturbable as ever, was seething inside. That ungrateful bitch, he thought, pondering how much pleasure it would give him to slap Vera sideways. “The thousands I’ve made those two losers,” he muttered. But his resentment would have to be harnessed. He wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow, but he thought that a little day trip such as this one would prepare them for a slightly lengthier venture some time in the weeks ahead. He had an idea as to how he would handle “this dim duo,” as he secretly referred to Jimbo and Vera, but he hadn’t quite worked out the details yet.

  Back at his apartment and seated at his computer, Bledsoe fired off an apologetic email to Professor Karl Brookings, explaining that he would be forced to miss Saturday’s seminar because of “personal business.” Brookings, he knew, would be disappointed, for this expert on the history of the American West loved to look around a conference table filled with graduate students when he presented his annual lecture on how General George Custer’s hairstyle might have affected the Battle of Little Big Horn.

  ***