by John McEvoy
“Morning, men,” Doyle said as he slid into the back seat next to Kellman.
Dunleavy said, “Hi, Jack. Good to see you.”
Kellman was on his cell phone, looking agitated. He nodded to Doyle, but kept speaking into the phone. “Feef, you ordered that Persian lamb coat for whoever your current squeeze is. Your wife is still visiting family in Calabria, right? So is it for Doreen the hair dresser? Angie from Dino’s? You said you wanted to surprise whatever broad it is when you take her to London for Christmas. I paid my people to get them started making this expensive item. Now you say you don’t want it? Bullshit. Whether you want it or not, you owe me for it. Pay up, pal.”
Moe listened for a few seconds to his boyhood friend, Fifi Bonadio, Outfit chief, before replying, “I don’t care whether you have any luck getting Doreen back in your fold or not. It doesn’t matter to me. If you’d stay at home, like a real Sicilian grandfather, you wouldn’t get yourself in these jackpots.” He clicked off the cell phone.
Moe sat back in his seat with a sigh. “I know this guy sixty years probably, and he still breaks my balls on a regular basis. Anyway, Jack, good morning. Wait a minute,” Kellman said as he fielded another call. There was a five-minute conversation that Doyle paid little attention to as he kept on reading Racing Daily.
Kellman closed his cell phone, smiling. “That was my granddaughter, Sinead Goldstein. Wonderful kid, just turned ten. She’s all excited because their prized dog Muggles had pups last night. They’re keeping two of pups. One they’ve already named Huggles. The other one, Jamie. Can you believe it? Whatever happened to Rover? Queenie? Scout? Buster? Bowser?”
Doyle smiled out the window so his friend could not see it. “I think I recall you grousing about the Irish names that your prized grandchildren have been given. And some of their friends as well. I seem to recall a Sean Bimstein. Am I right?”
“Don’t start me on that subject, Jack.”
Dunleavy adeptly steered his way up the crowded Ohio Street ramp to the Kennedy Expressway. He swore softly as a Chicago Streets and Sanitation Department truck suddenly started up and came off the right shoulder, forcing him to yank the steering wheel into a sharp left. “Those jerks must have all of a sudden finished their morning loafing,” he said. Minutes later Dunleavey had them in the clear on the Kennedy and heading north onto the Edens to the Willow Road Exit, where they turned west toward Heartland Downs.
Kellman took another cell phone call that he quickly dismissed. “Enough business,” he said. “Jack, let’s talk horses. How do we look in our race?”
“Moe, I can’t look at past performances and handicap our race that way because they are no past performances. All ten horses in our race are making their first starts. One of them, number three, named Ronnie Ruble, was bought as a yearling last year for $280,000, the top price paid at the sale he came out of. He could be tough.”
“And our Plotkin cost us just $50,000. I don’t know if I like those numbers, Jack.”
“Moe, Moe,” Doyle said, “Do you have any idea how many of the big sales yearlings never do diddly? There was one a few years back that sold for a world record sixteen million! Can that register that on your meter? Sixteen fucking million! Turned out to be a complete bust. He couldn’t beat an ant coming out of a fly trap. He never won a single race.
“But then you’ve got a horse like the great John Henry several years back. Sold for $25,000. Won about $7 million. Let’s look on the bright side.”
Doyle could see Pete Dunleavy smiling in the mirror, nodding in agreement.
Moe said, “And what exactly would that so-called bright side be?”
“Ralph Tenuta yesterday gave me money to bet on Plotkin for him and his wife Rosa. Ralph almost never bets. That’s the bright side as far as I’m concerned.”
The little furrier shifted in his seat. “But that name. Plotkin. Sheez.”
Doyle patted his friend on the knee. “A rose by any other name…” he began before Kellman brushed his hand away.
“Don’t give me that Shakespeare stuff, Jack. I’m starting to wonder why I agreed to this agreement.”
Doyle leaned back in his seat, smiling. He could see Dunleavy looking at him in the rear view mirror. “Moesy,” Doyle said, “not to worry.”
Dunleavy gave Doyle a subtle thumbs up sign as Kellman fielded another business call.
***
Dunleavy dropped them off at the Heartland Downs clubhouse entrance. Doyle picked up a track program at the entrance gate. The oddsmaker for that publication had made Plotkin’s odds twelve to one with the comment, “Relatively obscure breeding, but from a sharp barn.” The five-to-two favorite was a colt named Chemistry King, trained by Tenuta’s friendly rival Buck Norman. Second choice was the expensive purchase Ronnie Ruble.
Doyle led the way down the stairs to a spot on the paddock fence. They watched as groom Paul Albano walked Plotkin around the saddling ring.
Kellman said, “He’s kind of small, isn’t he Jack? Our horse?”
“So was the great John Henry. Relax. Ralph says this horse is ready to ramble.”
The jockeys emerged from the tunnel leading to their room and began advancing toward their mounts, wearing their colorful silks, some snapping their whips against their polished boots. Doyle waved at Mickey Sheehan, but she didn’t notice. She was walking purposefully to Plotkin’s stall, where she shook hands with Ralph Tenuta and gave Plotkin an affectionate pat on the neck. The call came for “Riders Up.” Tenuta boosted Mickey into Plotkin’s saddle. The ten young horses began their final move around the walking ring on their way to the tunnel and its path leading to the track. A few were docile, but most were not at this point, the beginning of their racing lives. Plotkin, Doyle was happy to see, was striding forward in a very professional manner, looking all business, little Mickey comfortable upon his broad back.
That’s when Doyle felt Moe grab his arm and heard him say, “Is that a leprechaun you’ve put on our horse? What the hell?”
Doyle patted his friend on the back. “That’s my jockey, Mickey Sheehan, the girl from Ireland. She’s like Plotkin, our horse. Small, but talented. Mickey’s just about as tall as you are, Moe, and probably just about as tough. Jesus, I can’t believe you questioning my judgment at this point. Relax. Tenuta’s very high on Mickey. C’mon, let’s go bet.”
Tenuta joined them on their walk. He had overheard this exchange. He said, “Moe, you shouldn’t worry. Mickey’s been working Plotkin in the mornings. They get along great. Believe me, this ‘little leprechaun’ as you call her, can horseback. You’ll see.”
Walking up the stairs from the paddock, Doyle and Kellman found themselves behind a group of women, all well dressed, chatting away, all wearing red hats and obviously enthusiastic about their day at the races. “Must be some kind of club,” Doyle said.
A woman immediately in front of Kellman said loudly, “And that horse called Plotkin? Who could bet on that poor thing with a name that ugly?”
Doyle nudged Kellman with his elbow as they reached the top of the stairs. “What did I tell you about names?”
***
By the time they arrived at Tenuta’s box overlooking the Heartland Downs finish line, Doyle had cooled off. Still a bit rankled, yes, having had his judgment questioned about Mickey. Kellman turned conciliatory. “I am not intending to denigrate our little leprechaun rider,” Kellman said. He stopped to shield his face from the now riveting afternoon sun and reached into his sport coat for sun glasses. Tenuta had his binoculars trained on Plotkin as the colt cantered around the first turn, Mickey Sheehan standing up in the stirrups. Moe said “Calm down, Jack. It’s only a horse race. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m cool, Moe.”
They took their seats in Tenuta’s box. Doyle fidgeted with his Racing Daily, track program, binoculars. Kellman said, “Jack, calm down.”
Three minutes to post-time. Moe said, “I heard this one yesterday. Irish guy from Chicago, visiting the o
ld country, meets a leprechaun while he’s hiking up in the Wicklow Mountains. The leprechaun says, ‘Well, you’re in luck, visitor. Today’s the day that I can grant a visitor like yourself one wish.’
“The Chicago guy answers, ‘I want to live forever.’
“‘Sorry,’ says the leprechaun, ‘I’m not empowered to grant wishes like that!’
“The Chicago guy steps back to think this over. Then he says to the leprechaun, ‘Fine. Here’s my wish. I want to die when the Cubs win the World Series.’”
“’You crafty bastard,’ says the leprechaun.’”
Tenuta, who had overheard this while watching Plotkin approach the starting gate, joined Doyle in the laughter.
They all heard rapid footsteps coming down the stairs to the box. It was Ralph’s wife Rosa. Big purse swinging, a large Coke in her other hand, broad smile on her face. “Just made it,” she said. She sat down in the front row of the box next to her husband. “How does our horse look?” She looked over her shoulder to smile at Doyle and Kellman.
“He’s looking fine,” her husband said.
The young horses danced and pranced and lagged back, some of them, on their way to the starting gate far across the infield on the other side of the track. Plotkin was acting, as Tenuta put it, “like an old pro. So far, so good. Mickey’s got him all smoothed out.”
Doyle felt his stomach muscles tighten. “God,” he murmured, “I hope Neil Hanratty and Ralph Tenuta know what they’re talking about.” He raised his binoculars and saw Mickey Sheehan drop her protective goggles over her eyes as she guided Plotkin smoothly into his stall in the gate. The assistant starters quickly shut the doors behind them. Two other members of the gate crew were struggling to control Chemistry King and persuade this high-strung animal to begin his racing career.
Whether it was Plotkin’s name, modest looks and breeding or the presence in his saddle of an unknown woman jockey, he went off at seventeen to one. The favorite, Chemistry King, refused to leave his stall in the gate, eliminating himself from the race.
Mickey Sheehan rocketed Plotkin out of the gate, putting him two lengths in front of his nearest rival after the first forty yards of the race. She guided him over to hug the rail. From then on, Plotkin easily increased his margin. He curved around the far turn right on the inner fence, changed leads like a veteran, all the while with his rider “sitting still as a statue,” as Tenuta later put it.
“Moe,” shouted Doyle, “he’s going to win easy!” Plotkin did. “Wins by seven,” Tenuta said, “and look at his time. Awful damn good.” Rosa’s face was flushed. In her excitement, she had dropped her Coke into the adjacent box to their left. It spilled upon the cuffs of the tailored trousers of Heartland Downs’ perennial leading owner, Frank Cosentino.
Rosa, embarrassed and apologetic, started to say something to Cosentino.
“Hey, I can’t blame you for being excited, Mrs. Tenuta,” Cosentino smiled. “Damn impressive race by your colt. Nice going, Ralph,” he added. “Have you thought about selling him?”
Doyle and Kellman were looking at each other in amazement, joy, and in Doyle’s case, relief. Moe said, “Jack, you son of a gun, you’d pulled off another one!”
Doyle mopped his brow. Took a deep breath. Leaned over to the front row of the box to grip Ralph’s hand, kiss Rosa on her cheek.
“C’mon,” Tenuta said, “we’ve got to hurry down to the winner’s circle.”
Jack started to exit the box, then stopped, waiting for Moe, who said, “No, Jack. I don’t want to give anybody any hint of my connection to Plotkin.” He stood up from his seat smiling. “I got to give it to you, Jack. You were right about this horse, and right about the little jock. This is a hell of a lot of fun for me. Go get your picture taken. Tell everybody I want to take them to dinner tonight at Dino’s. I’ll meet you at my car when you’re ready to leave. Pete will have it right in the center of the valet parking section.”
As they hustled their way down the stairway to the Heartland Downs winner’s circle, Tenuta said, “Jack, why doesn’t Moe want to come down here to get his picture taken? That’s what most owners that I’ve known love to be able to do.”
“Ralph, it’s not worth going into. Let’s just say that Moe Kellman is kind of camera shy.”
Doyle thought that he’d probably never seen Kellman as excited, as happy, as at the moment after Mickey Sheehan and Plotkin had flashed under the finish line in first. Well, maybe when Kellman’s favorite boxer Manny Pacquiao won his most recent title, with Moe having bet heavily on the super-talented and magnetic boxer from the Philippines.
They reached the winner’s circle just as Mickey brought Plotkin into it. A grinning Paul Albano put a halter on their winner. The veteran track photographer Bernie Greenwald, a perfectionist, was impatiently trying to arrange people for the shot. Doyle looked up at Mickey. The grin on Mickey’s flushed and freckle- sprinkled face spread across the winner’s circle.
Finally, everyone was positioned to the photographer’s satisfaction. Doyle had nudged up his way to stand between Ralph and Rosa, putting an arm around each.
“Bernie, I want a half-dozen copies of this one,” Doyle said.
Chapter Twelve
While their party was in the process of being seated at Dino’s Ristorante, Moe was greeted first by one of Chicago’s foremost aldermen, then an aged monsignor from the cardinal’s staff, and, at a nearby table, Vito Lombardino, one of Moe’s former grade school classmates before Vito eschewed scholastic pursuits and went directly into his uncle’s street-loan racket.
Watching this tribute show, Doyle again thought how ironic it was that Kellman, who had obviously acquired considerable clout in this city of the big shoulders and hidden-from-view power pockets, couldn’t get a racehorse owner’s license.
He heard Vito Lombardino say, “Moesy, nice win today at Heartland. Lot of the guys bet Rosa’s horse.”
“You’re looking tip top, Vito.”
As Kellman prepared to finally settle down in his regular booth, he was interrupted once again by a large, worried looking man in a rumpled gray business suit. They spoke together in hushed tones. Moe finally sat down next to Jack on their side of the booth.
Doyle said, “Some of your various friends and acquaintances I recognize. But who was that last guy?”
“Ah,” Kellman groaned, “I figured you would ask.” He took a sip of the Negroni that had been placed before his plate before he was seated, Dino’s staff always at the ready when Kellman came in.
Doyle waited. Moe said, “That schlub is Seymour Korshack. A very distant cousin on my wife Leah’s family side. On the failure side of that family, I might add. Seymour somehow got through John Marshall law school after numerous repeated semesters. Passed the bar on his fifth try. Opened a minor-league law practice in Rogers Park. Now, he’s managed, I don’t know how, to get himself on the ballot in the fall for a minor Cook Count Circuit judgeship.”
“What’s that have to do with you?”
“Jack, even though it’s distant, it’s family. Seymour says he needs my help. With a donation to his faltering campaign.”
Doyle said, “Will you do it?”
“For Leah’s family’s sake, a donation to Seymour’s cause has been made.”
Doyle said, “Why would you back this guy you describe as a loser? Just out of loyalty to Leah and her relatives?”
“Haven’t you ever done anything like that, Jack?”
“Not willingly.”
Moe sat back in the booth. “Actually,” he said, “I would have given Seymour the schmuck a boost just because of his campaign slogan. I’m sure he didn’t come up with it. Doesn’t matter who did.” He finished off his Negroni, signaled for another.
Doyle said. “What is Seymour Korshak’s campaign slogan?”
“Put a Mensch on the Bench.”
Jack laughed. “That’s great. If Seymour is such a nothing, who came up with that?”
“Probably his nephew. Myron Gold
stein. Very, very sharp young guy. He’s made a fortune on the Internet.”
“Doing what?”
Moe said, “Young Myron created a dating service to be used on computers. He located what he described to me as a ‘niche market.’ He was looking for some seed money. I listened to his pitch. I was impressed. The kid knows what he’s doing.”
“So, you invested?”
“Damn right. I’ve got twenty percent of Myron’s action. And it’s paying off very nicely.”
Doyle said, “Moe, you’ve got your fingers in so many pies I can hardly keep track of you. I’m curious. What is Myron Goldstein’s genius Internet business?”
“Jack, it’s a discreet, on-line dating service. He’s got subscribers from temples all over America. The enlistees are all carefully vetted by Myron and his growing staff of young, sharp people. You have to pay to belong. Myron’s subscriber list bumps up every month. It’s going gangbusters.”
Doyle reached for a breadstick. “If I wanted to check this out, Moe, what would I look for?”
“I don’t think you necessarily would, Jack. Although I’m sure I could use my influence with Myron to get you on board.” He couldn’t keep a straight face. Doyle was irritated. “What the hell is so funny, Moe?”
“Myron’s dating/marital marketplace website is called ‘The Jew for You.’”
Moe finished his Negroni and called for another refill. He sat back in the booth, smiling. Jack said, “What’s so funny now?”
“You know what a boilermaker is, right?”
“Of course. The guys I used to work with during the summers on construction drank them every day after work. Shot of whiskey, glass of tap beer. Sometimes they did it before they started work in the morning. I was too young to go in taverns with them. I waited in the cement truck, eating my hard-boiled egg breakfast, while they prepped themselves for ten hours under a hot sun. So what?”
“This clever little entrepreneur Myron Goldstein has made quite a splash for himself on his website while promoting the value of what he terms ‘the Hebrew Boilermaker.’ This has created some controversy. Which, of course, Myron delights in. The kid’s got a good sense of humor besides an excellent head for business.”