by John McEvoy
“Yeah, Rudy, I am. I guess I knew this was going to be coming some day. Hell, the shady chemists come up with some magic potions, then it takes the regulatory labs a few years to uncover them. That’s what’s going on here. But, Rudy, ‘getting close’ isn’t getting there. I think we’ve got a little more time to carry out these EPO capers.”
Rudy said, “Mac Doherty wants me to run Friar Tuckie in a little stakes race next week. What are his chances?”
“Without the magic juice?” Eric said. “Are you kidding? That bum Friar Tuckie could hardly beat me in a dash across the parking lot. I won’t go near Friar Tuckie again once they perfect their testing procedures. You better figure out how to prepare Mac Doherty for a coming major disappointment.”
“Shit.”
Eric bristled. “Listen, I’ve managed to revive your career. At least temporarily. Don’t overlook that fact.”
“You’re right, Eric. I am grateful.”
“And I’ve got some planning to do, Rudy. I’ve got some unfinished business with that bastard Ralph Tenuta.”
Chapter Thirty-two
They met at the end of the East Pier, the long granite extension that stretched from Dun Laoghairie’s shore into the Irish Sea.
Kieran Sheehan walked briskly through the early morning haze. He wore a black windbreaker over a black turtle neck sweater above black jeans. With his dark glasses and black ball cap pulled down low, he was as unidentifiable as he could be.
Twelve hours earlier, Kieran had lain on the riders’ room massage table in the basement of the Curragh Race Course’s large building. He’d won two good races that afternoon. He was being administered to by the German-born masseuse on staff, Hilda Schulte.
Trainer Aiden O’Malley came through the door. Walked to where Hilda was working on Kieran, nodded a hello to her. O’Malley smiled as he heard the pounding of Hilda’s hands on the jockey’s heavily muscled back. Sheehan’s head was face down, but he was aware O’Malley had approached.
“Hilda, my dear, hold off for a moment, will you? Why don’t you get me a bottle of water. Aiden, what brings you here an hour after the races ended?”
“Kieran, I wanted to let you know right off that my owners want to send Boy from Sligo to the Heartland Downs Million Juvenile in late August. This is quite exciting for me. I’ve never been over there to that great track. I don’t believe you have, either.”
He pulled up a short stool next to the head of the massage table so that he could directly address Sheehan. “First, of course, Boy from Sligo has to run well next week in the Healy Handicap at Leopardstown. I do believe he will. He’s been absolutely brilliant on his gallops in the mornings, all last month.”
Sheehan cocked his left eye up at the trainer, his frequent employer. Sometimes even now, after his years of riding, the excitement of being involved with a very good horse could be contagious. O’Malley, a brilliant horseman, was only in his early thirties, but he was well on his way to becoming a legend. Sheehan marveled at and could not help but envy O’Malley’s enthusiasm.
Sheehan had lost most of his some years earlier, though he persisted in carving out a memorable riding career.
“Well, Aiden, we’ll have to see how Boy from Sligo does in the Healy, won’t we? He’s got the talent, all right. We’ve known that since he went unbeaten after his first three races. But I’m not convinced this colt has the mind for stern competition. He can be a feckin’ flake. Remember when he jumped the tractor path at The Curragh in June and almost tossed me?”
O’Malley smiled. “Of course I do. You did a brilliant job of hanging on and straightening him out and winning. You’ve got a great gift, Kieran.”
Hilda Schulte returned with the bottle of water for Sheehan. She said, “Mr. O’Malley, can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, Hilda. I just need a couple of more minutes here with Kieran.” She walked over to a bench on the far side of the room and sat down.
O’Malley said, “Kieran, I’ve spent many hours working with Boy from Sligo in these last two months. No doubt about it, he’s got that hot-blooded, impetuous Nasrullah breeding in his pedigree. Very fast and talented horses, but very hard-headed horses, challenges to handle. Demanding their own way.
“But I believe, Kieran, that I’ve got this colt settled down and now serious about his racing business. As they say in America, he can ‘run a hole in the wind.’”
“Yes, Aiden, he can. When he wants to.”
“Well, I want to try him over there on that dirt track. If he runs well, his owners would like take a shot with him in next year’s Kentucky Derby.”
“That would be brilliant,” Sheehan enthused.
O’Malley got up off the stool and patted the jockey on the arm. He nodded a goodbye to Hilda. She was a tall, sturdily built woman with close-cropped blond hair and the largest, strongest-looking hands he’d ever seen on a woman. She began working on Sheehan’s legs. Eyes closed, head down, Kieran moaned, either in pleasure or in pain, O’Malley could not tell which.
Walking to his auto, O’Malley considered strong, sturdy Hilda, thinking of her in terms of an hilarious satirical movie his parents had laughed about long ago titled, Ingrid, She-Wolf of the SS.
***
Early as he was for this 6:30 meeting, Kieran saw that the person he was there to meet had once again arrived before him. A big, broad-shouldered man wearing a gray overcoat and felt hat. He had his back turned to the shoreline as he gazed across the roiling gray waters, but nevertheless was aware of the jockey’s arrival.
“Morning, Kieran,” Martin McCluskey said, smiling as he turned.
“Morning, Martin.” Kieran paused. “Christ, what is that creature you’ve there alongside you?”
“My new dog, Behan. I’m training him to stay with me as I go about my business.”
Behan was a brindle-colored Irish wolfhound. About three feet in height, 130 or 140 pounds, a member of the tallest of all breeds of canines. Saliva was stringing out of both sides of his huge muzzle. “Jesus, Martin, he’s big enough to run in the third race at Leopardstown tomorrow.”
McCluskey said, “Just be careful with him a bit. He’s only eleven months old. He’s got a bad habit of thrusting his nose into peoples’ crotches. Quite embarrassing at times. Although not to him, so far.”
“Well, I suppose that would be,” Kieran said, watching the dog warily.
Behan ambled up to Sheehan, who thought, This is one of the stupidest-looking animals I’ve ever seen. Sure enough, Behan poked his snout at Kieran’s private parts. Kieran responded by giving Behan a hearty kick with his right boot into the stomach. The dog backed off, whining. McCluskey stayed quiet, observing. Then he said, “Well, maybe that’s the way to train the poor young fella.” He leaned down and patted Behan’s head. Went into his overcoat pocket for a dog treat, which was eagerly accepted. Behan struggled to his feet, shook himself, and ignored Kieran Sheehan.
Kieran and McCluskey had been doing business for a few years. McCluskey’s employer, one of European racing’s biggest bettors, a financier and secret arms dealer known as a brilliant, ruthless opportunist, was Padriac (never Paddy) Hanrahan. He was known, nevertheless, behind his back, in the Irish underworld, as “Paddy the Man.”
Hanrahan had selected Kieran Sheehan as a potentially valuable accomplice, or “usable tool,” as Hanrahan described him to McCluskey. And he had been proven correct. The careful Hanrahan never directly dealt with Sheehan, always using his muscle man McCluskey for that.
Their association began when Hanrahan learned that Kieran had fathered a son named Liam. Out of wedlock. And never to be in wedlock, according to the boy’s mother, an independent young nurse from Donegal named Maureen Hogan, one of Kieran’s numerous sexual partners. She’d gone to the Galway races one afternoon, met Kieran in a nearby pub late that night, and they began their often contentious relationship.
Shortly after being born, Liam was diagnosed with cerebral palsy. Sheehan was not present for eit
her the birth or this alarming announcement. Maureen, sobbing on the phone, had called Kieran. He felt both appalled and responsible. After hanging up the phone, Kieran said to himself, “Why did I not use a condom with that girl?” He sat down, remembering the first of their sex experiences, in this attractive woman’s tiny rental apartment. She was so lovely to him. He treasured that memory for a week. Then he got on a plane to France,won two major races at Longchamps on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Had a great evening in his hotel that night on the Isle St. Marie with two adventurous and attractive Air France stewardesses.
Maureen and Kieran agreed to place Liam in a very expensive private hospital just outside Dublin. And there the child had remained, his parents communicating only by phone or checkbook. Maureen visited Liam every week.
She well knew Kieran would never marry her. He had made that clear from the time of Liam’s birth. She considered, then rejected, the thought of taking this story to one of the frothing English tabloids. She trusted Kieran to keep his promise regarding Liam’s care.
Kieran had made just one visit to what he considered the depressing facility in which his son was housed. He’d taken a quick look at this small, damaged child, and, tears in his eyes, brushed past Maureen on his way to the exit. “I’ll never be back,” he said to her over his shoulder.
Not wanting to impinge on his comfortable life style, financed by his racetrack earnings, Kieran had listened to McCluskey when they first met on the East Pier. McCluskey made Hanrahan’s offer of major, not-taxable or reported money. Kieran accepted. He intentionally lost seven races designated by Hanrahan in the first year they did business. For this he earned 80,000 Euros, which he used to pay for Liam’s care.
Maureen Hogan telephoned Kieran on his cell once a month to report on Liam’s progress. There was little. Kieran always thanked her and sent an envelope of cash to her apartment. Some nights, Kieran dreamt of Liam. His twisted little body, palsied limbs. Kieran would awaken in a sweat and churn the covers of his bed. More than eager to get up and go to Aiden O’Malley’s training center, where all he need think to about was the refreshing early morning air, the horse between his knees.
***
McCluskey and Sheehan both looked up at the blaring sound of a nearby foghorn. Behan stayed with his head down, apparently sleeping. “Let’s talk now, Kieran.
“You’re set to ride Aiden O’Malley’s Boy from Sligo next week in the Healy Handicap. Am I right? He’ll be a powerful favorite, I’m told. Mister Hanrahan wants you to lose with that horse. There’ll be huge wagering on Boy from Sligo. Mister Hanrahan is taking a large position against him winning in the exchange betting.”
Kieran slumped forward on the bench, head down. McCluskey stood in front of him. “Are you hearing me, now, Kieran?”
There was a foghorn repeat that again startled them both. So did a colorfully dressed female skateboarder as she zipped past them to the end of the pier before stopping with an accomplished move. They waited. She turned back and passed them, waving. Behan briefly raised his head, then laid it back down between his paws.
“Feckin’ unbelievable what some of these youngsters do on those skate things,” McCluskey said. “But that’s not our concern here this morning.”
He reached into an overcoat pocket and took out a bulging envelope. Handed it to Kieran. “Mr. Hanrahan calls that a down payment. On Boy from Sligo Down failing in the Healy as a result of your clever efforts. Considerable money for one small afternoon of work, I would say. Are we clear on this now, Kieran?”
Kieran turned the envelope over in his hands, not opening it. They sat in silence on the bench. They watched as two middle-aged women swimmers walked bravely from the strand into the frigid waters of the Irish Sea. Kieran shivered thinking about what they must be feeling. He gave them a congratulatory wave they never saw as they fully immersed themselves and stroked forward.
He got up off the bench. Said to McCluskey, “If I lose on Boy from Sligo, his owner might just decide not to send him to America, the big race near Chicago that Aiden has set on his schedule. I’ve never ridden in the States. That would be a huge opportunity for me. Something I’ve always wanted. Jesus, man, could you not get that across to the Big Pat?”
McCluskey chuckled. “Like he gives a shit about what you want? Try to be serious, Kieran.”
Behan unleashed a thunderous fart. He turned over on his back. McCluskey quickly went to the dog’s side and rubbed his chest. “I think he needs to be taken for a little walk, now.” Kieran did not answer. He thought what he’d most like to do right now was throw this big, ugly beast far out into the water.
McCluskey said, “Think of it this way. You don’t have to do anything to harm Boy from Sligo’s reputation. You could just do one of your acrobatic bailouts when you come out of the gate. Like you did last year, at Epsom, on that big filly favorite of O’Malley’s. Sister Sinead. That was a grand piece of work.”
“I don’t know. I’m still sorry I did that. The filly didn’t deserve it, and Aiden didn’t deserve it. He had his heart set on winning that race.”
McCluskey sighed. “Sentiment doesn’t enter into this, Kieran. It’s just business we’re about here, not your tender feelings.You must realize that by now. Mr. Hanrahan had his heart, not to mention his money, set, too. On a big score. You were paid, as I recall, 30,000 Euros for that bit of work.”
Kieran walked over to the railing. “I was paid. I still regret that I did that.” He paused. “I don’t know if I can do the same thing to Aiden and his owners with Boy from Sligo.”
“Well, Kieran, you’d better know soon. Mr. Hanrahan has laid his plans for a betting coup dependent on you doing your part.”
Kieran looked up angrily. “And what if I don’t agree to carry this one out for you people?”
“Ah, Kieran, don’t try to venture down that path again.” McCluskey rubbed his big hands together. “You’ll do what you’re told. Just like you’ve done the past three years. Mr. Hanrahan depends on you.” McCluskey leaned down and adjusted Behan’s enormous collar. “Otherwise, Kieran, you’ll be facing major trouble.”
Kieran laughed bitterly. “What are you saying, man? If you or your thugs hurt me, your feckin’ crooked game is over.”
McCluskey turned away, gazing at the roiling gray waters. “Kieran, if you don’t go along with us, the hurt would be in a different direction. We know where your poor damaged son is housed. And where his mother lives.”
Kieran’s face drained of color. Fists clenched, he stood chest to chest with McCluskey, who smiled and used one large hand to easily push the jockey away from him. “You’ve crossed the line here into blackmail,” Kieran shouted. “You and your man Hanrahan.”
McCluskey patiently looked down at the enraged jockey. “And how many lines have you crossed, Kieran?”
McCluskey snapped his fingers. The giant dog struggled to his feet, shaking his head, spurts of saliva coming out of each side of his mouth.
“I hate that feckin’ dog,” Kieran said.
McCluskey leashed Behan and started off the pier to the auto parking lot. At the end, he turned around. Kieran trailed him by a dozen yards.
“Do it right, Kieran. The money will be there for you.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Doyle hated Fridays at Heartland Downs. In an attempt to attract a younger crowd than its usual complement of seniors, the track hosted locally based rock-and-roll bands, offered beer and pizza at bargain prices. It was a strategy that seemed to work. The park area was full of twenty-somethings in casual dress, eager for a good time, which Doyle considered to be encouraging. With the average racetrack attendee eligible for membership in AARP, an infusion of youth was a good thing.
But the afternoon’s racing program did not start until three, too late, in Doyle’s view. He had Mickey booked on just two mounts that day. One in the first race, the other in the ninth and final race. As a result, he was stuck there for the long afternoon and early evening.
; He sat in Ralph Tenuta’s box, nursing a beer, attempting to ignore what he thought of as the raucous ruckus from that day’s featured band, Humpty and the Dumpties. They were thrashing their way through a long set. The voice of their lead singer, rarely on key, seemed to grow even more ear-shattering as the afternoon went on.
Doyle, a dedicated jazz fan, had never been much interested in rock and roll. He ignored the Rolling Stones, none of whose musicians he thought could actually play worth a damn despite, or perhaps because of, their on-stage antics. His parents were huge fans of the Beatles. Listening to that group at home in his formative years, he was bored to death. Their song “In My Life” was the only one lodged in his memory. There were a few rock performers, Janice Joplin, Bob Seger, Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen, some of whose work he enjoyed. But that was about it. Sipping his beer, he smiled as he remembered the story about the late, great jazz drummer Buddy Rich. Hospitalized and seriously ill, Rich was being rushed on a cart toward an operating room when a nurse, running alongside the cart, said, “Mr. Rich. Are you allergic to anything?”
“Country and western,” Rich responded.
Doyle felt pretty much that way about rock music.
***
Mickey cleverly rode the winner of the ninth race, coming from mid-pack after seemingly being pinned down on the rail down the backstretch to shoot through to the lead in the upper stretch. Nora had joined Doyle in the Tenuta box, so they walked down together to await Mickey. She burst through the jockeys’ room door twenty-five minutes later. Her hair was still wet from her shower. “Now, how was that, now?” she grinned.
“A great ride, sister,” responded Nora.
“That’s for sure,” said Doyle.
He took the sisters to dinner at the nearby Panino’s Ristorante. Doyle had the large Italian salad, as did Nora. Mickey enthusiastically worked her way through a huge plate of lasagna. It did not take them long to finish their dinners.
Doyle drove the sisters to their apartment. Mickey jumped out of the back seat. “Thanks for dinner, Jack. I want to hurry in and make a call.”