Photo Finish: A Jack Doyle Mystery (Jack Doyle Series Book 5)

by John McEvoy

  Doyle laughed. “That sounds like a sandwich right up Moe Kellman’s alley.”

  “Oh, sure, Moe and I have eaten here many, many times. He’s one of my main men.”

  “He’s gotten to be one of mine, too. Thanks for the invitation, but I’ve got to go, Art. And thanks for the drinks and the advice. Ralph and I will see you Saturday at the track.”

  Doyle would have liked to hunker down in Mother’s and schmooze with the colorful attorney, but he had promised the Sheehans he would take them to an early movie and dinner.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tuesday, the only day during the week that Heartland Downs was not open for live racing, was the day the track stewards met with alleged rule violators.

  Their office was on the third floor of the large building that housed the track’s various offices, down a long, carpeted corridor from the elevator. Doyle and Tenuta sat restlessly in the foyer of the stewards’ office, awaiting Ralph’s turn and also the arrival of attorney Engelhardt.

  Doyle read that morning’s edition of Racing Daily. Tenuta was equally silent, nervously tapping his foot. The receptionist, Lucinda Borland, a matronly exemplar of good manners after her nearly twenty years in this job, gave up trying to engage either one of them in conversation.

  Earlier that morning, Doyle had run into blacksmith Travis Hawkins in the track kitchen. Hawkins said, “Jack, you got a minute? Let’s sit.” They walked to a corner table.

  Hawkins, his heavily muscled forearms on the table, leaned forward. “What’s going on, Jack? I know Ralph got some kind of ruling against him, but he won’t tell me anything about it. I know it’s killing him. When I was there yesterday morning, I heard Ralph holler at Paul Albano. Never seen that before. What the hell is going on, man?”

  “Travis, I think this is a bullshit situation. There’s no way Ralph Tenuta ever drugged a horse. No fucking way. He’s got a meeting with the stewards later this morning. I’ve gotten him a lawyer. I ‘m hoping we can get this mess straightened out.”

  Hawkins leaned back in his chair. “Damn, I sure hope so, Jack. Ralph Tenuta is a great guy. He was the first white man to give me a chance in this business as his blacksmith. I know he took some shit from some of those redneck trainers for using me. But he saw what I could do, and he let me do it. Ralph, man, he’s as honest as they come. It kills me to see him in the bad spotlight like this. I agree with you, Jack. No way Ralph Tenuta ever juiced a horse of his.”

  ***

  Waiting to be called into the stewards’ office, Doyle and Tenuta continued to sit uneasily on a long leather couch, Doyle getting up to pace every few minutes, checking his watch every minute or so.“Art Engelhardt should be here by now,” he said.

  Tenuta said, “Jack, sit down. You’re making me more nervous than I am.” He folded up the Racing Daily and handed it to Jack. “Read that front page story about the problems these thoroughbred retirement associations are having.”

  According to Ira Kaplan’s story, the numerous well-intentioned people who wanted to provide homes for retired racehorses had run into a tsunami of trouble. Major money from generous contributors had in some cases been misused, in other cases unwisely distributed, or halted. There had been ill-cared for horses found on some of the farms involved in these projects despite a generous endowment from the estate of one of the sport’s most prominent sportsmen.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Doyle said as he returned the paper to Tenuta. “I know these people mean well when they try to provide for retired racehorses. I’ve just never understood the math.”

  Tenuta said, “How’s that?”

  Doyle sighed. “Ralph, every year, American breeders turn out between 20,000 and 30,000 potential racehorses. Maybe half get to the races. Maybe half of that half win a race. Then, when their racing days are done, where are they supposed to go?

  “These nice people behind the retire-the-horse movement are not being realistic. Ain’t no way any retirement organization can place, feed, and care for thousands of horses coming to them each year. Do the math.”

  Tenuta said, “I’ve been lucky. I’ve been able to comfortably retire most of the horses that leave my stable. Some are converted to riding horses, or hunters, or show horses. One mare, Nurse on Call, is the star of one of those therapeutic riding outfits out near Elgin. You know, programs for physically and mentally handicapped children. These kids really respond to horses. I’ve got a guy who specializes in these placements.”

  “Ralph, you can’t tell me you’ve found a home for every animal leaving your barn.”

  Tenuta shook his head. “No, Jack, of course not. Some of them have been sold to what they call the horse knackers. They die in processing plants and wind up on French and Belgian and Italian dinner tables via Mexico. Or Canada. It’s called humane destruction, as I understand it, Jack,” Tenuta said, extending his hands. “What are you going to do with all of them? Let them gallop up and down our interstates? It’s the way of the world.”

  Doyle retrieved the paper. “It says here that in Ireland the number of horses killed for human consumption has more than tripled in the last three years. It’s blamed on the economy. The story says ‘All the horses were slaughtered under strict veterinary and food hygiene rules. The French buy horse meat for ‘steaks, barbeques, and stews…The Italians are the biggest consumers of horse meat in Europe. They like higher-fat marbled meat for processing into salami and sausage products.’ I’ve got to remember that the next time I’m ordering at Giordano’s Deli, ‘Purveyor of Imported Italian Products,’ as their slogan puts it.”

  “You probably wouldn’t even know if you were eating horse meat, Jack.”

  “I’d know. Ralph, listen to this. These US do-gooders had a huge political movement that wound up getting horse slaughtering plants closed up in this country by the Congress in 2007. As a result, these herds of old horses are being shipped long distances out of the country. To plants in Mexico and Canada. Because the slaughter is taking place outside the States, they lose what were considered humane slaughter protections in the US.

  “According to this article,” Doyle said, “2006 was the last full year that equine slaughter took place in this country. About 140,000 domestic horses were slaughtered that year. The number is not dropping. It’s just happening now beyond our borders, often under less humane conditions than our people had maintained. What a brilliant solution!” He tossed the paper down on the couch next to him.

  Doyle looked up at the wall across from where they sat. There were striking photos of great horses such as Citation, Buckpasser, Secretariat, John Henry, Zenyatta, Rachel Alexandra. “I guess the great ones are the lucky ones,” Doyle said. “They get to live long lives.”

  The door banged open. Art Engelhardt walked in, huffing and puffing, and apologetic. “Jack. Ralph. Sorry I’m late. There was a bad accident on the Edens. Truck turned over, wiped out two cars to the inside of him. Traffic didn’t move for a half-hour. Did the stewards call our case?”

  “Not yet, Art. But here comes their secretary.”

  “Mr. Tenuta,” she said. “The stewards will see you now.”

  ***

  It was a large office with wide windows overlooking the racetrack. At a round table sat senior state steward and former jockey Henry Arroyo. To his left, young Joe Lynley. On his right the senior member of the panel, Peter J. Kosnicki, who was sucking on an empty pipe. He looked at Doyle. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Mr. Tenuta’s. And a licensed jockey agent. Jack Doyle.”

  “Take a seat, men,” Arroyo said.

  Engelhardt opened his brief case. “I have here,” he started to say before Arroyo cut him off. “Art, forget the formalities. Let’s talk realistically.” He sat back in his chair looking at Tenuta.

  “Ralph, I’ve known you for many years. Always admired your work and your horsemanship. That’s why I was shocked when Madame Golden turned up with a positive test. I would never have imagined anything like that. Is there any way
you could explain how that happened?”

  Engelhardt leaned forward. “Mr. Arroyo, I’m here to represent Ralph Tenuta. He believes that if, and it’s a big if, Madame Golden did indeed prove positive for this Elephant Juice stuff, that he had nothing to do with her getting it. I am formally asking you today to send a split sample of that test to Cornell University’s testing lab to see if they corroborate the findings of your Illinois lab.”

  Arroyo said, “I have no objection to that.” The other two stewards nodded in agreement. “But,” Arroyo continued, “we have no other choice than to suspend you, Ralph, in the course of this inquiry. You’ll have your license taken away for thirty days. That’s our rule.”

  Engelhardt was working his way up to an objection when Arroyo held up his hand, stopping him. “Counselor, I understand your feelings about this. You’ve got a client with an impeccable record over thirty-plus years. But the rule is the rule. If a horse turns up a positive test, it doesn’t make any difference how that happened. It is the trainer, in this case Ralph, who is responsible. And that’s that.”

  Arroyo got up and extended his hand to Tenuta. “We’ll get this sample test off to Cornell by Fed Ex this afternoon. I wish you well, Ralph.”

  As they left the stewards’ office and walked down the long corridor to the elevator, Tenuta’s face was ashen. “What in the hell is happening to me here, Jack? It’s a damned nightmare.”

  Engelhardt pressed the down button. “It’s early days, Ralph,” he said heartily. “We’ll see what the Cornell lab comes up with. And, even if they validate the local finding, I’ll get a stay order that will allow you to continue training your horses. There’s something going on here that we haven’t figured out. Give me a chance to try to do so. Count on me,” he said, thumping Tenuta on the back.

  They prepared to enter the elevator whose doors slid open. Emerging from it was Albert Greathouse, an apprentice rider whose horse had been disqualified as the result of Greathouse’s reckless maneuvering in the previous day’s sixth race. “Mornin’, Mr. Tenuta,” he said. Doyle looked at Engelhardt out of the corner of his eye, wondering how much “count on me” was going to be worth.

  They walked to the parking lot. Engelhardt said, “Ralph, I’ll call you as soon as I get the stay order. Jack gave me your office number. Do you want to give me your home number?”

  “Mr. Englelhardt, I’d rather not. My wife Rosa is already so upset about all this, I don’t want be taking any calls at home. She’s not sleeping at nights. Neither am I. If you need to reach me, call me at my track office. Or call Jack.”

  Doyle said, “You’ve got my cell phone number, Art. Right?”

  “Yes. I’ll be in touch.”

  Engelhardt walked briskly to his gun-metal gray Mercedes 300 Luxury Sedan. He laid some rubber down as he aimed his auto toward the east exit gate.

  Doyle said, “Ralph, how about I buy you some breakfast?”

  “No thanks, Jack. I’m not hungry.”

  On their way to Jack’s Accord, the two men passed groups of Latino workmen bent over their gardening tasks in the lush flowers that bordered newly-mown grass, a lawn that emanated one of Doyle’s favorite smells. Ordinarily, he would stop and smile and breathe deeply. Not today. They trudged silently to Jack’s car.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Eric Allgauer knocked loudly on his brother Rudy’s condo door. Michelle opened it. “Eric. What are you doing here? Rudy’s not home. But he will be in a half-hour or so. C’mon in.”

  She led him to the kitchen, Eric admiring her tight-bunned walk as she preceded him. “I was just going to make some margaritas. Interested?”

  “You bet.”

  They chatted about her yoga business, no mention being made of Eric’s professional decline. Twenty minutes later Rudy entered through the back door with an armful of Racing Dailys and some Heartland Downs condition books. “Hey, bro. Good to see you. What’s up?”

  Rudy declined Michelle’s offer of a margarita. “Hand me a Coke, will you hon?” He pulled up a chair at the centered counter. “Eric, what brings you here.”

  Eric smiled. Picked up his margarita glass and drained it. He motioned to Michelle for a refill.

  “Couple of things, Rudy. Did you see in the paper today about that son-of-a-bitch Tenuta getting caught with a positive test on one of his horses?”

  Rudy said, “Hey, everybody was talking about it. Couldn’t believe Ralph Tenuta would do anything like that.” He sat back in his chair, gave his brother an appraising look. “Should I presume Ralph didn’t juice that horse?”

  Eric smirked before knocking back most of another margarita. “Presume what you will, brother. Presume what you will. The fact that bastard got nailed has made my day.”

  Rudy sat back in his chair. “Could I presume that you had something to do with that bad test on the Tenuta horse?”

  Eric shrugged. “Listen, let’s get off that subject. You’d better be thinking about our next adventure with Friar Tuckie.”

  Michelle filled Eric’s glass for the third time. “I’m going to leave you boys alone. I’ve got to do some billing in my office for some slow-to-pay clients. Nice to see you, Eric.” She brushed a kiss on his cheek as she left the room and headed for the basement stairs to her work area. Then she stopped and turned back. “Eric, if you don’t mind me asking, have you heard anything from Ingrid?”

  “Ingrid who?” Eric snarled.

  Michelle turned away and went down the stairs. The brothers sat in silence for several minutes, Eric tapping a forefinger on the table, Rudy regarding him with worry.

  Finally, Rudy said, “You here for dinner, bro? Michelle won’t cook tonight. We could order out. Or go out.”

  “No, not tonight. Thanks for the invite, Rudy. Your bathroom still in the same place? I need to use it.”

  When he reappeared, Eric had washed his face and slapped his cheeks and appeared to be at least semi-sober, Rudy thought. Rudy said, “So?”

  “When have you got Friar Tuckie entered again? Is there a race for him?”

  “Yeah. A week from tomorrow. Mac Doherty is all excited now after Friar Tuckie’s win last time out. Mac wants to put the Friar into an allowance race.” Rudy paused. “I don’t know, man. Whether this horse can move up and do good at that level. But, I’ve got to go along with the owner’s wishes.”

  Eric said, “Set your mind at ease. I’ll have Friar Tuckie ripe and ready for that race. I’ll give him his booster shot the night before. You’ll have to meet me at the barn so that we can get this done safely. Okay?”

  “You sure that you, or we, can pull this off again? The blood doping revving up Friar Tuckie?”

  Eric said, “You know, Rudy, I don’t think you’ve ever had as much confidence in me as I deserve.”

  He got up and opened the refrigerator door. “Jesus, Rudy, what’s in here? It looks like a Whole Foods produce section. All veggies.”

  “Don’t let Michelle hear you making fun of that. Have a goddam carrot, Eric.”

  They both laughed. Growing up, they had observed their mother Margaret’s attempts to introduce vegetables to the nightly dinner table presided over by their overbearing father. But Dr. Allgauer was not a vegetable person, no matter all his well-intentioned wife’s attempts. “Pass the fucking pork roast,” was the single most memorable statement Rudy remembered from those mostly tense meals, followed by Dr. Allgauer retreating to his den, decanter of brandy in hand, slamming the door.

  ***

  In the early morning hours eight days later, Eric arrived at Rudy’s barn. The brothers walked the length of the shed row, Rudy glancing nervously about. None of his grooms or hot walkers had yet arrived, and he had dismissed his night watchman before his brother’s arrival.

  Rudy opened the door to Friar Tuckie’s stall. He smoothed his hand over the horse’s broad forehead. Eric stepped into the stall. Pulled a loaded syringe from his jacket pocket. He administered the shot of the potent blood-doping substance and was finished
within thirty seconds.

  “I hope this works, brother,” Rudy said as he shut the stall door.

  Eric said, “You talking to me? Or the horse?”

  “To both of you. C’mon, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got some things to do this morning,” Eric said. “And, you know Rudy, there’s no reason why we couldn’t help out a few more of your disappointing horses with the EPO.”

  ***

  Ira Kaplan’s story the following week was on page three of Racing Daily.

  Owner Mac Doherty’s resurgent runner Friar Tuckie scored his second straight upset victory at Heartland Downs yesterday. The former claimer beat a good field of allowance horses, winning easily and returning $28.40.

  Interviewed in the winner’s circle, where the jubilant Doherty was joined by some two dozen friends and family, trainer Rudy Allgauer said, “Friar Tuckie has just recently come into himself. We always thought he had ability. Now, that promise is showing through.”

  Owner Doherty commented, ‘It’s been a long while since I’ve made any money in this business. This is great. You know, we bought this horse as a yearling and named him for my oldest friend. This is a great thrill for all of us. Now, we hope we can move up the ladder with Friar Tuckie.”

  ***

  A week went by before Rudy called his brother. “Some worrisome news, man.”

  “Like what?” It was just after seven on a sultry August morning and Eric got out of bed and turned the thermostat down, activating the air conditioning. He was sweating.

  Rudy said, “There’s a story in Racing Daily that the Illinois Testing Laboratory is getting close to being able to identify this blood doping stuff you’ve used on Friar Tuckie. According to the story, they’re not going back to re-test previously taken samples. But from now on, they’ll try to identify them. Ain’t that a kick in the head?”

  Eric leaned his head back against the kitchen wall, phone at his side.

  “Hey, Eric. You still there?”