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

by John McEvoy

  Benbow began talking to his wife, both of them ignoring the Sheehan sisters. Nora said, “You know, Mickey, I think Jack makes a good point. About words being inaccurately tossed around. Like this morning, when I got on the computer, there was a news item about a famous actor quote secretly losing his hair unquote. What can be ‘secret’ about it if it’s on the Internet?”

  Mickey laughed and patted Nora’s hand. “What do you call these things? Sermantics?”

  “No,” Nora said. “I think you mean semantics.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I just didn’t go far enough in school,” Mickey said.

  Mickey excused herself, the Benbows paying her no attention whatsoever, and walked to the next table and invited fellow apprentice jockey Calvin Bolt to join her on the dance floor. She was nimble. He was earnest. They embraced as the song ended. Turned out, Mickey was a natural at Texas two-step dancing. When the music stopped, Calvin Bolt bowed deeply to Mickey, then raised her right hand in the air. The jockeys and their dance partners looking on roared their approval. Bolt led her back to her table, where they sat and watched Nora and Jack move around the dance floor to “The Tennessee Waltz.”

  Jack smiled at his enthusiastic partner. “You’re quite lithe on your feet,” he said, giving her a twirl.

  “Lithe? Or light? Oh, Jack, we Irish dancers are both.” He hugged her as the song ended and they returned to the table. The Benbows had departed. It was just Mickey there with young Calvin Bolt.

  Bolt rose from his seat to introduce himself to Nora. Jack said, “Hello, Calvin. I know who you are. You take some mounts away from my client Mickey. Good to see you.”

  Calvin, Doyle had observed, was yet another impressive jockey talent from out of Louisiana’s Cajun country. Many of his predecessors from that unique section of America had been voted into racing’s Hall of Fame. They were introduced at early ages to 200-yard, bare-backed dashes on unsaddled horses charging down brown dirt chutes on Sunday afternoons filled with encouragement from friends, family, and beer-drinking bettors. Calvin, Doyle knew, had his first ride in that colorful world of competition when he was six-and-a-half years old.

  “Mister Jack, I’m happy to meet you, sir.” Like most of his predecessors and contemporaries, Bolt was given to forms of formal address. A man’s name was always preceded by Mister, a woman’s by Miss or Mrs. It was a Cajun thing, reflecting how he was raised. Doyle always marveled at this polite practice that was so alien to most American athletes.

  Mickey, her face flushed from the exertions of dancing, reached for her water glass. She said, “Calvin, tell Jack about the trail rides with music down from where you’re from. They sound like terrible great fun.”

  “Well,” Calvin said, “there’s one that drew, I don’t know…2000, 3000 people last year. Called the Pineywoods ride. They ride their horses on this long, winding trail. End of the day, they wind up at a big farm where there’s food and music. And dancing. This is near my home town, Lafayette. It’s great, Mr. Jack. Folks are real friendly. If you horse has troubles, they’ll lend you a trail horse for you to take. They’ll hand you a beer real quick, too,” he smiled. “And a good boudin sausage to go with it.”

  He turned to Mickey. “There’s another real popular one out of St. Landry Parish. That’s in the fall. Called Step-and-Strut. I did that once. Also great, Mr. Jack.”

  Doyle was intrigued. “Who supplies the music? Bands or tape? And what kind of music?”

  “Oh, bands, or small groups of players,” Calvin said. “We got two kinds of music. Both from Acadiana. We’ve got Cajun music, a lot of it. Kind of sad, slow, but pretty, you know? They have to have good fiddlers to make this right.

  “Then, you’ve got zydeco. A lot of black guys from the Creole area do this. They use accordions, washboards. It’s kind of a bit livelier. But,” Calvin said, “both kinds of the music lead to a lot of fun.”

  The band stopped playing. Overhead lights dimmed to signal the start of an intermission. Melody Benbow stumbled her way back to her seat. “Have you seen Mel? I’m ready to go home.”

  They said no. Said goodbye to her, Nora even giving Melody a pat on the shoulder as she passed.

  “That was nice of you,” Doyle said.

  “She’s kind of a sorrowful person,” Nora said.

  “Well,” Doyle said, “the songs are over. But Melody lingers on. Jesus, she seems like a sour little bitch to me.” He got up. “I need a drink. Can I get you ladies anything?” They declined.

  “I’ll have a glass of wine later, Jack,” Nora said.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Drinkers were stacked three deep at the temporary bar. Doyle recognized his friend from the track, the bartender Las Vegas Lou, who nodded to him over the heads of the two short women in front of him.

  “Jameson’s, Jack?”

  Lou expertly poured a healthy measure and handed it to Jack over the heads of the chattering women. Doyle tried to give him a five-dollar bill. Lou shook him off. “On me, my friend.”

  “Thanks, Lou.”

  As he started back to his table he felt a tug on his sleeve. Irritated, he spun around. It was horse owner Steve Holland. “Sorry, Jack. I just wanted to say hello,” Holland said apologetically.

  Doyle relaxed. “Steve, please remember never to grab a man by the arm with which he’s holding his drink. It’s an old Irish saying.”

  Holland smiled and looked around the large room. “It’s a very good turnout here tonight. I’m glad to see it. Racetrack people stick together.”

  “Agreed. I hope they dig down deep for the Wilfredo Gavidia cause. Catch you later, Steve.”

  ***

  Shortly before nine, after the dessert table had been thoroughly utilized, Heartland owner R. L. Duncan made his way to the front of the room where a microphone had been set up. People began to quell their conversations. Duncan tapped the mike. The room became quiet.

  Duncan, a multimillionaire businessman who had bought Heartland Downs a dozen years before and a prominent figure in thoroughbred racing, said, “I’m so glad to see you all here tonight. Your presence is a great tribute to Wilfredo Gavidia, one of our finest jockeys, and gentlemen, and a friend of so many of us.”

  He paused to drink from a water glass. “As you know, Wilfredo faces a long, long, uphill battle. A battle that will be expensive both in emotions for him and his family, and in medical bills. We are here tonight to help Wilfredo and his lovely wife Juanita and their young son and daughter face the financial challenges. We are depending on your generosity.

  “Very few people outside of our sport,” Duncan continued, “understand the consequences of what is so often a very dangerous athletic pursuit both for horse and rider. Our jockeys, needless to say, are extremely talented people athletically. But by the very nature of what they willingly do, they are often in jeopardy. They accept that reality. And they live with it.

  “In an attempt to emphasize this to some of the non-racetrackers who have joined us here tonight, I have asked Dr. Louise Gendel to address us. Dr. Gendel is one of the major practitioners at the Chicago Rehabilitation Institute, the world renowned institution devoted to aiding seriously injured members of our society.”

  Dr. Gendell got up from her chair at a front row table and walked to Duncan’s side. A middle-aged, heavy-set woman, she held a fistful of note cards in her slightly shaking hands. Duncan gave her the microphone. Doyle shifted in his chair, having an empathy moment for this nervous woman. She glanced down at her note cards. Slid her glasses up higher on her slightly sweating face. After shuffling the note cards one more time, she plunked them down on the lectern. Removed her glasses. Took a deep breath. Finally smiled and looked out at her audience.

  “Good evening to you all,” Dr. Gendel said. “I am by no means a practiced public speaker. I’m a physician. And a researcher. I had prepared a long presentation of statistics, background and foreground, an elaborate PowerPoint presentation describing the work we do at the Institute. I’v
e decided not to go into all that detail here tonight.”

  Dr. Gendell paused. Took a deep breath. Looked increasingly more at ease. “Many of you know the saying that when jockeys are at work, riding horses in their races, theirs is a job that sees them always followed around by an ambulance. Every race. Every day in this country. Unfortunately, there is a very good reason for that. Theirs is a dangerous occupation that demands it.

  “The studies we have done at the Institute over the past several years have produced some pretty amazing statistics involving jockeys. At least sixty percent of them, during their careers, suffer multiple fractures resulting from falls. Of those fractures, fifty-three percent occur in the upper body and chest. A depressing percentage of those injuries result in either deaths or lives spent as quadriplegics. These are depressing statistics that we must ponder and attempt to improve while we care for those already impaired. We urge you to be generous in contributing to the Wilfredo Gavidia Fund tonight. Thank you.”

  Doyle glanced across the table at his little employer. Mickey had listened raptly to Dr. Gendel, her hands clenched. Nora had an arm around her sister. A pang of fear shot through Doyle. Could such a terrible thing happen to Mickey? He knew the answer was, of course it could. To any one of these brave, determined little athletes. On any given day, at any given racetrack.

  He turned his attention back to the front of the room where Duncan was thanking Dr. Gendell and encouraging “everyone present to donate as much as you can to the Fund. There are envelopes on tables near the exits. Thank you all very much for coming here tonight.”

  ***

  Doyle drove the sisters to their apartment. Nora sat in front, Mickey in back, chin propped in her palm, looking out the window. There was little talk. Finally, as he steered the Accord up to the entrance of the building, Mickey said, “That was pretty depressing stuff from that doctor there tonight.” Doyle said, “I guess it’s better to know those facts than not.”

  Mickey tapped him on the shoulder. “Jack, I heard everything there tonight that you heard. All the sad statistics about what happens to riders. What I want to say to you is, don’t back off on me. I want to go on riding here. I love it. I need it.”

  She opened her car door. “You’re kind of what at home we’d call an ‘old soul’ when it comes to me.” He could see her in the mirror, smiling. “Don’t be,” she said emphatically.

  “I know Ralph has me riding three tomorrow. And Plotkin’s coming up to that little stakes prep for the Futurity. I’m looking forward to that. See you tomorrow, Jack. Later, Nora.” She sprinted up the walk to the doorway.

  “Mickey’s in a hurry to call her back-home honey. It’s early morning over there.” Nora sighed. “See what I’m dealing with here, Jack? Mickey will never voluntarily leave this worrisome sport. That’s just the way she is.”

  Nora pushed her seat back. “I don’t think there’s any way for you to come in tonight for a memorable visit, Jack.”

  “Not with Mickey on hand.” He turned on the Accord’s CD player. “Want to listen to something wonderful?”

  Nora said, “Of course.”

  It was saxophonist John Coltrane with the great baritone Johnny Hartman, McCoy Tyner on piano, Hartman singing “They Say That Falling in Love is Wonderful.” They listened appreciatively. Nora put her hand on his leg, turned her face to his.

  “Would you say you’re falling in love with me, Jack?

  “I’ve already fallen in lust with you, my dear. Love is an entirely other matter.”

  She laughed. “I appreciate your candor. Your feelings are much the same as mine. I guess we’re lucky to have it that way. No great expectations.”

  Doyle kissed her gently. “I love the looks of you.”

  Seconds later a gray Lexus pulled up behind Doyle’s Accord, its impatient driver thumping on the horn. Doyle bristled. He prepared to get out of his car and walk back to the Lexux and set this asshole straight.

  Nora said, “Not to worry about him, Jack. He lives across the hall from us. A real boring busybody. His name is Bakken. Horace Bakken, I think. The building manager told me Bakken is either unmarried, or divorced. I’d guess the latter. He’s always knocking on our door to see ‘How you young Irish girls are doing?’ A real pain the arse. His breath smells like mothballs. Don’t laugh. I’m not kidding.”

  She picked up her handbag. “I should go in. Mickey’s probably done talking with her hometown gem.”

  “Listen to this first.” He advanced the CD to “Lush Life.”

  When the song ended, Nora said, “Wonderful. Thanks. I will have to buy that CD.”

  He reached into his glove compartment. Extracted the CD and its case. Placed it in her hands. “Take it as a gift. I’ll get myself another.”

  “You have many gifts, Jack.”

  Doyle said, “I won’t disagree. I’m very good at kissing. Fondling. Clever stroking. Tenderness.”

  Nora laughed as she pulled his face down close to hers. He winced when her hand touched the lessening but still present bump on the back of his head. She heard him whisper, “Those are among my specialties.”

  Minutes later, after Nora had said good night, Doyle approached the Lexus. He saw in the driver’s seat an old man so small and wrinkled he reminded Doyle of gnomes he’d read about in a long ago children’s book. The man wore a black leather cap, a gray suit, and an expression of exasperation.

  “What’s your problem, Pops?”

  “You are blocking the entrance to the front door, young man.”

  Doyle said, “I guess you’ve forgotten how to pull around? Take it easy.” He stood up, tapped his palm on the driver’s side window, and went to his car.

  Turning out the apartment building driveway, Doyle heard one more agitated blast from the Lexus. “That’s the spirit,” he said, laughing.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Doyle and Tenuta met for breakfast in the track kitchen just before seven the next morning. They bought coffee and donuts and sat at a window table overlooking the crowded parking lot.

  “Well, Ralph, even after listening to those depressing statistics about jockey endangerment from last night, my little employer is determined to continue. What a tough little person she is. I couldn’t talk Mickey out of riding racehorses no matter how much I’d like to.”

  Tenuta shrugged. “Look around this room, Jack. See how many jockeys are here? Exercise riders? Upbeat, jiving, laughing at each other? It’s like this every morning at every racetrack I’ve ever been at. These people are all cut from the same bolt of cloth. Dedicated to horsebacking. God bless them, I say.”

  Doyle said, “You want another coffee? Fried pastry?”

  “No, thanks.

  “When I got home after the dinner last night, Ralph, I got on the computer and did some research.”

  “About what?”

  “About the protective equipment riders are wearing. Very interesting.”

  Tenuta said, “In what way?”

  “According to what I was able to unearth, the advancement in protective gear for jockeys has been ridiculously slow. Glacial. I read that it took more than twenty years in the early 1900s for jockeys’ goggles to be put into use. You’ve seen countless times what the goggles jockeys wear now look after a race on a muddy track. They’re covered with dirt. That’s why riders go out there with six pair of goggles, so they can flip down a clean pair as the race goes on. Imagine what it must have been like all those years before goggles covered their eyes. Jocks must have come out of those races half-blinded and stinging.”

  Doyle sipped his coffee and waited for Tenuta to return with his third morning doughnut. “Go on,” Tenuta said.

  “Protective helmets for the riders. They didn’t come into use until the mid-fifties. The jocks used to wear little leather beanies under their caps before that. That wasn’t a whole lot of protection. Like wearing a yarmulke at a Klu Klux Klan rally.”

  Tenuta shot him a look. “I’m only kidding, Ralph. I made up the yam
ulka comparison. It wasn’t on the Internet.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Now, Ralph, hear me out.” Doyle looked down at his notebook. “The so-called flak jackets that they wear now became mandatory for riders in most US racing states in the nineties.”

  Tenuta said, “Yeah, I remember that. Most of the jocks that rode for me didn’t want to wear the flak jackets. They complained they were too bulky. Too hot in the summertime. And, of course, they were different. Believe me, in horse racing, no matter what it is, if it’s new, there’s going to be resistance to it.”

  “All right,” Doyle said. He flipped over another notebook page. “Ralph, you ever hear about this thing for jockeys called the air jacket?”

  “No. What is it?”

  Doyle said, “These items were developed in Japan. First, for motorcycle racers. Then some of the horse world people over there caught on and bought them for their riders.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack. What the hell is an air jacket?”

  “It’s really a vest that fastens around the rider’s torso. There’s a lanyard attached to it. The lanyard clips to the rider’s saddle on one end and to a carbon-dioxide cartridge on the other end. If the jockey is thrown off the saddle, the lanyard unclips from the cartridge. That triggers, I am quoting here, ‘the release of the CO2 that inflates protective pockets inside the vest.”

  Tenuta said, “I’m trying to picture this, Jack. Go on.”

  “Okay. The inflation of the vest is super fast. The air pockets in the vest help cushion impact on the ground on the base of the neck, or spine, or the chest, or the ribs. Research shows this inflatable vest can provide more than fifty percent more spinal protection than the flak jackets our riders here now use. I’m quoting again. ‘The risk of rib fractures and organ damage can be significantly decreased with use of these vests.’”

  Doyle closed his notebook. “If Wilfredo Gavidia had been wearing one of these things, he might not be paralyzed.”