by John McEvoy
“So, how could he give you any winners, Lenny?”
“If he wanted to, he could. I understand he had his main man, somebody named Albano, training his horses while he was suspended. But then Tenuta got some hotshot lawyer and had the suspension delayed or something. I’m sure Ralph is still calling the shots. So, how do we convince him to cooperate? To how to convince him to give me some winners?”
Teresa reached into the portable cooler on the seat between them. Yanked out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Lenny grinned. “You must be feeling better,” he said. “You want to stop for lunch?”
“Not hungry. For food.”
She reached across the seat and put her hand on Lenny’s right leg, patting it. “I know you’re sorry our attack went bad, Lenny. I do.”
He felt himself harden as she stroked him. “Later, babe, later. Let’s try to find this cabin in the woods.”
The key was where he’d been told, hanging on a hook at the back of an old porch swing. The one-story cabin was musty, dusty, cobwebbed. Teresa opened all the windows. Located a broom and went to work. Lenny lay on the lumpy bed, laptop on his chest. As usual, no e-mail for him. He’d “friended” five people on Facebook. None ever contacted him. He slammed the computer top shut.
Teresa came over to the bed and sat next to him, smiling. Took off her Lady Gaga tee-shirt. Lenny placed a hand on one of her heavy breasts. She leaned down. He leaned back on the pillow, hands behind his head, next to his pony tail. Theresa bent down and placed one of her erect large brown nipples against his tongue. “Lick,” she ordered, moaning. She began to unbutton his jeans.
Twenty minutes later, they lay side to side, exhausted. Teresa said, “I’ve been thinking.”
Lenny laughed. “Even during all that?”
“Lenny, I’m always thinking,” she said sternly. She sat up and pulled her tee-shirt back on. “Obviously, revenging yourself by killing your cousin Ralph wouldn’t accomplish anything. You can’t make any money doing that.”
“Teresa, give me some credit. I figured that out.”
“So we’ve got to come up with a way to scare the shit out of Tenuta so that he’ll cooperate with you.”
She slapped his hand away as he began to stroke her right breast, got off the lumpy bed and walked to the portable cooler. Extracted another can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Drained most of it as she looked out the window at the sun that was beginning to set above the smoothly flowing Illinois River.
Lenny said, “Teresa, you got any idea about how we could go about doing that to Tenuta?”
Theresa crumpled the beer can in her hand and tossed it out the window into the weeds. Slammed the window closed.
“Oh, yeah, Lenny. I do.”
Chapter Fifty-two
Doyle picked up Nora from the apartment just after nine that morning. Mickey was due to be released from the hospital an hour later. “Or shoved out the door,” as Doyle bitterly put it. “Honest to God, this must be like Third- or Fourth-World medical scheduling. Pisses me off.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Nora said. She looked drawn. “I didn’t sleep much in Mickey’s room last night. I finally got out of there and called a cab about four. She was resting well. I appreciate you coming to get me, Jack—I mean us—this morning.”
“That’s what we jockey agents do,” Doyle laughed.
Mickey Sheehan arrived at the hospital entrance in a wheel chair. She looked to Doyle as if she had somehow shrunk. But the expression on her face was cheerful. Nora kissed her gently on her bruised cheek, then helped the hospital aide, a sullen young man who may have been near the end of his shift, guide the wheel chair to the curb where Doyle’s Accord was parked.
Doyle had been leaning against back door. He tried to conceal his shock at Mickey’s appearance as he opened the door for her, saying, “Well, here you are, Mickey. You don’t look too bad. How are you feeling? Why the wheelchair?”
“Hospital rules,” growled the attendant. “You spend time in ER, when you come out of there it’s in a wheelchair.”
“Or a hearse,” Doyle shot back. The attendant spun the empty wheel chair around and walked rapidly back into the hospital. “Charming fellow,” Doyle snarled.
Nora grinned. “Jack Doyle. Diplomatic marvel.” He ignored her comment.
“Morning to you Jack,” Mickey said from the back seat. “Can we get going now? I’m terrible hungry.”
“Didn’t they give you breakfast in that place?”
“Some sort of grainy, gray gruel,” Mickey said. “Awful stuff.”
Nora sat next to her sister in the back seat. Doyle pulled away from the curb while watching the two of them in the rear-view mirror. Despite her facial bruises, Mickey looked to be the livelier of the sisters. She said, “Ralph called early this morning to ask about me. That was nice of him. He said he and Rosa would visit me in the hospital this afternoon.” She laughed. “I told him they wouldn’t be finding me there.”
Doyle could see Mickey smiling as she looked out the car window. “In Ireland,” she said, “they teach you early on not to be scared. We all know what we do is dangerous. We just take it a day at a time. If you fall, you have to bounce back and forget about it. If you keep it the back of your mind, you won’t be successful. When I went down off Plotkin and didn’t break a major bone, I knew I would be good to go pretty quick.”
Paused at an intersection on Rand Road, Mickey said, “There’s a McDonald’s up the way there Jack. Would you stop there? I’m starving.’”
Doyle shook his head. “You’ve still got an appetite after what you’ve been through?” She proved she did when Doyle pulled up to the drive-through window and she asked him to order “Two of those lovely egg McMuffin things, two sausage biscuits, and a large juice. Orange.”
Dora said, “Nora, you want anything?”
“Just black coffee, please, Jack. Is this little sister of mine amazing or not?”
Mickey finished her breakfast within minutes. She noticed that day’s copy of Racing Daily tucked between the front seats next to Jack’s elbow. “Okay if I read this, Jack?”
“Help yourself.”
Her eyes widened as she read Ira Kaplan’s front-page article on the death of 70-year-old veterinarian Maury Burnside, described as a talented practitioner who “cared for numerous champions but who pulled off one most notorious racetrack betting coups in US racing history.”
“I can hardly believe what I’m reading,” Mickey gasped.
“Believe it,” Doyle said.
According to Kaplan’s story, Burnside in 1977 purchased two very similar looking horses in Uruguay. One was a talented speedster, the other an obscure, slow claimer. A year later, Burnside claimed the good horse had died in an accident on Burnside’s farm. He collected a $150,000 insurance settlement. Burnside then came up with a certificate of foreign registration for the slow horse, providing a photo of the fast one.
“On September 14, 1978,” Kaplan’s story continued, “Burnside ran the fast horse under the slow horse’s name in a race at Belmont Park. He reportedly bet $1,200 to win and $600 to show. The horse won easily. Burnside cashed tickets totaling more than $90,000.
“Burnside appeared to be home free with his scam until a sharp-eyed racing official in Uruguay spotted the photo of the winning Belmont horse. He knew at once this was the fast horse, not the deceased slow one. He alerted New York authorities.
“The trial lasted weeks. Burnside was eventually sentenced to a year in prison and was fined $10,000 and barred from ever holding another trainer’s license.”
Mickey folded up the paper and put it back between the seats. “Ballsy,” she said, “what that man done.”
“And costly,” Doyle answered. “Sure, he made a big cheating score with his bet and screwed other horse players by subbing those horses. But this was all for what, ninety grand? And he loses his license and his livelihood.”
“Couldn’t have been worth it,” Nora said.
Doyle drove to the entrance of
their apartment house. He turned in his seat to face the sisters.
“There was a famous vet down in Kentucky years ago, involved in all kinds of supposedly nefarious, but unprovable, actions. Very smart, talented guy. The word down there on him was, ‘He’d rather make $500 with a scam than $5,000 legitimately.’ Go figure,” Doyle shrugged.
Chapter Fifty-three
Kieran Fallon was relaxing in the den of his Dun Laoghaire seaside mansion, contentedly watching the videotaped replays of that afternoon’s Curragh races, sipping champagne, which for some topflight European jockeys was the preferred vehicle of appetite depressant. Some successful journeymen riders relied on beer or vodka to alleviate hunger.
Fallon was comfortably stretched out on the on the long, beige leather couch. Next to him on a table was a small dish of caviar, some water crackers, a few slivers of low-fat cheese. Alice Dugan sat in the nearby leather chair, engrossed in Tana French’s latest novel. Alice, a twenty-six-year-old employee of Kieran’s accountant, had been in residence nearly three months now. She was dark-haired, smart, pretty, diminutive, quiet, and a sexual athlete of such skills as even to impress the practiced Mr. Fallon.
Kieran’s cell phone rang. He hesitated before picking it up, preferring to relish the beautifully timed winning finish he’d produced in that afternoon’s feature race at the Curragh. Then he picked up.
“Kieran. It’s Nora. I have some news for you. Mickey went down hard here in a race at Heartland Downs. I thought you should know.”
He sat straight up, heart pounding.
“How bad?”
“Not as bad as it looked. But it scared the life out of me.”
“Was she conscious?
“Pretty much at first, now completely. And feisty as ever. Said she thought there was something terribly wrong with her mount. That’s Plotkin. The two-year-old she’s been doing so well with.”
Kieran hesitated before asking, “Any spinal damage?”
“No, thank God. She landed face first on the infield turf. She was wearing this new protective jacket that her agent bought for her. I guess they work wonders in absorbing shock. So, there’s nothing to be concerned about along those lines.
“Her face is a mess. She hit face first. And she evidently damaged some ligaments in her left wrist.”
“Are they keeping her in hospital?”
“She was in only overnight,” Nora said. “For observation. Jaysus, they shuffle the patients through hospitals here like mail through a slot. But the main thing is, she’ll be okay. I don’t know if you realize how tough she is. This accident is not going to keep her from getting back into the saddle. She’s got a wonderful agent here, Jack Doyle, a very kind, thoughtful guy. And she works for a wonderful trainer, Ralph Tenuta. Actually,” she sighed, “Ralph has got a problem now with an illegal drug finding. But I guarantee you, both Jack and Ralph have Mickey’s best interests at heart.”
Kieran took a sip of his champagne. Gestured an offer to replenish Alice’s flute. She shook her head no.
“Nora, you think I should send Mickey some flowers?”
Nora laughed. “She’d probably grind them into the dust. You know, brother, you’re not high on Mickey’s list of favorite people. Not after you ignored her for so many years.”
Fallon’s face flushed. “I had my reasons for that, Nora. I didn’t want to see the kid get into this rough business. I tried to discourage her by ignoring her. Obviously, it didn’t work. Believe me, I’ve had my regrets.”
Alice offered to refill his champagne glass, but Kieran waved her off. “Nora, give Mickey my love. I mean it. For you, too. Actually, I’ve been reading your Internet blog about Mickey’s American experience. Brilliant stuff.”
Kieran sank back on the couch.” My best to you both, Nora,” he said softly. Before breaking the connection, he added softly,”You’ll be seeing me over there in the near future.” He hung up before Nora could reply.
Alice joined him on the couch and snuggled up to him. Kieran brushed her off and leaped to his feet. “I’ve got to take a walk.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Checking the racing news on the Internet that Friday morning, Doyle nearly dropped his coffee cup onto the keyboard. He read the item again before reaching for his cell phone. Nora Sheehan answered on the second ring. “Morning, Jack.”
“Did you know your brother Kieran will be at Heartland Downs two weeks from Saturday? One of his main employers, Aiden O’Malley, is sending over a colt named Boy from Sligo to run in the Heartlands Juvenile. Against us. I mean Plotkin. Did you know anything about this?”
He could hear her groan. “I called Kieran last night to tell him about Mickey’s fall. At the end of the conversation, he said something about ‘seeing us soon.’ That’s all I know. I guess I should have called and told you. But it was late. Kieran never even said what race he was coming for. You’d think big brother would have the class to give his sisters details of his intended visit. Ah, forget that notion,” she said bitterly. “Kieran goes his own way.”
“This is going to be major racing news,” Doyle said. “Top Irish jockey come here and faces his young sister in a million-dollar race. I’ve got to talk to Mickey about this.”
“I’ll tell her the details about the Futurity and all,” Nora sighed. “Hard to believe Kieran would handle this situation this way. But that’s what a cold-hearted bastard he can be.
“What about Kieran’s chances?” Nora said. “Do you know anything about Mr. O’Malley’s colt?”
“Not yet. But I will. I know O’Malley’s reputation. He’s a tremendous horseman with an eye on the chance. Ordinarily very conservative in his choice of races. ‘The Prince of Parsimony’ he been termed in the international racing press. O’Malley must believe he’s got a big shot in the Juvenile to spend all that shipping money for him, his horse, and his jockey.
“I don’t believe Kieran has ever ridden here in the States before. I’m surprised he’s agreed to do this. I need to talk more with Mickey about this. I’ll see you at the track this afternoon.”
Chapter Fifty-five
Driving to Heartland Downs, Doyle called Moe. “You ready for some amazing news, my friend?”
“Mickey’s fall was enough amazing news for me this week. But go ahead. I’ll bite. Did the economy bounce back? Is the market soaring? Did the Wicked Witch of Wasilla have her lips sutured shut?” Doyle could hear the little furrier chuckling.
“You’re in a fine mood. Let’s see if that holds after you hear what I’ve got to tell you”.
Doyle filled Kellman in on the very live prospect of Kieran Sheehan crossing the ocean to ride against his sister in the Heartland Downs Juvenile. Kellman responded with calm. “So what, Plotkin takes on an Irish horse and his notorious jockey? I spoke with Ralph Tenuta yesterday. He called me to correct an error he’d made in the month’s training bill he sent to us in care of me. The error was in our favor, as our honest trainer pointed out. Anyway, he said Plotkin had never been doing better. He’s training up a storm. Worked five furlongs this morning in :58 flat. Best work of the day. So I say, hell, let the chips fall. I just hope Mickey doesn’t get thrown off stride going against her big brother. You’d better talk her through that.”
“I plan to. Jockey agent/counselor Jack Doyle at your service.”
“How are you doing, Jack? I know you’ve been under a lot of stress and strain. Plotkin’s being doped. Mickey’s fall.”
Doyle waved at the security guard and drove through the Heartlands gate toward Tenuta’s barn. “I’m all right, Moe. Maybe not tip-top. The impending appearance of Kieran Sheehan worries me somewhat. I went on the Web last night and did a little research on him. I printed out one passage from a book about him. Let me read it to you.”
He pulled into his parking space and reached for the paper on the seat next to him. “This says, ‘Tomorrow never comes for Kieran Fallon. It’s probably the child in him. He was a country lad who played endlessly in the woods instead o
f being in school, who hurled and boxed against lads twice his size without thinking, who believed authority would never quite catch up to him.’
“Kieran in Gaelic,” Doyle added, means “little dark one. I hope he doesn’t bring any darkness to his sisters from whom he’s been estranged.”
Kellman said, “Jack, I think you need a little break from all your worries and concerns. How about me taking you to an event tonight that you might like? I can have Pete Dunleavy pick you up at your condo at seven.”
Doyle didn’t hesitate. “You’re on.”
Chapter Fifty-six
Dunleavy valet-parked the Lincoln and walked with Doyle and Kellman into the St. Regis school gym which had been converted, for the night, into a boxing arena. The ring was at midcourt of the basketball floor. Rows of portable seats surrounded it, most of them filled for this fund raiser for this financially struggling school on Chicago’s west side.
Kellman handed an usher their tickets. He led them to seats in the second row, directly behind the judges and other state boxing officials. Above the ring was a large banner whose inscription defined the night’s event: “Celtic Thunder.”
“All right, Moe,” Doyle said, “what are we about to see? What the hell is Celtic Thunder?”
Kellman ordered and paid for beers from a vendor for the three of them before answering. “This is a charity card. All proceeds go to St. Regis. It matches Irish-American boxers against Scottish-American fighters. Four bouts are scheduled, three rounds each. This could be entertaining.”
Doyle waved down a program seller. The opening match pitted Sean Daley against Angus Morton, 124 pounds. Then followed Eoin Purcell—Robert Bennet, 135 pounds; Brian Callahan—James Robertson, 160 pounds; and Rory O’Rouke—George MacDonald, heavyweights.
“These guys are all amateurs, right, Moe?”
“Right.” Moe turned back to Dunleavy and resumed their long running debate over who was the better fighter, the retired Julio Cesar Chavez, as Pete claimed, or the current best pound-for-pound professional in the world Manny Pacquiao, as Moe contended.