Photo Finish: A Jack Doyle Mystery (Jack Doyle Series Book 5)
Page 25
Heartland’s backstretch gate guard glanced up from the little television on his desk that was showing a rerun of American Idol and absent-mindedly waved Eric’s black pickup truck through. Eric drove slowly on the main backstretch road and turned off his lights before parking in the shadows at the far edge of Tenuta’s barn. Closed the truck door gently. He pulled on a black ski mask. Pulled the Nembutol hypodermic out of his right hand pocket. Walked softly to the end of the barn and started up the shedrow. Some of the horses noticed his approach, but not Harry Schwartz, who was engrossed in his newspaper.
Plotkin nickered loudly and Harry looked up from his paper just as Eric quickly covered the last couple of yards of his approach. Seeing the masked intruder, Harry started to rise from his chair. “What the hell?” he said loudly. Eric pushed Harry back down and held him firmly in his seat with one hand. With the other, he plunged the needle into Harry’s neck. The Nembutol acted quickly and the old man slumped forward. Eric thrust that empty needle back into his pocket and replaced it with the elephant juice needle. He moved toward Plotkin’s stall. The horse backed away from him. “Goddam,” Eric muttered, “I’ll have to go in there to do him.”
Fifty yards away on the other side of the barn, Doyle spotted a familiar-looking pickup truck parked in the shadows. He hit the brakes of the Accord and slid to a gravel-spewing stop, threw open his car door, and sprinted toward the other side of Tenuta’s barn.
At the corner, Doyle stopped to take in the scene. He saw the apparently unconscious Harry Schwartz. The masked figure outside of Plotkin’s stall who was beginning to run straight at him. Eric lowered his shoulder and bowled over the crouching, startled Doyle. He sprinted to his truck.
“Son of a bitch,” Doyle said as he scrambled to his feet and started chasing after the man. Approaching his truck, Eric ripped off his mask. He wanted no distractions in his rapid retreat from the racetrack. Doyle clearly saw Eric’s face as the veterinarian’s truck sped past him. Doyle dashed to his Accord.
The stable gate was closed but had not been padlocked by the television-watching guard. Eric busted through it. Doyle saw that, but he stopped to address the guard, now standing open-mouthed in the doorway of the gate house. “That truck that just left here, that’s Eric Allgauer driving. Call the track medical department and security and 911,” Doyle said loudly. “There’s a security guard who’s been attacked. At Ralph Tenuta’s barn. Get them over there right away.” He rolled up his window as he tromped on the Accord’s accelerator.
Eric was several blocks ahead of Doyle, speeding north on Wilke. Not trusting the startled Heartland guard to quickly make all three calls, Doyle dialed 911 on his cell phone. “There’s a dangerous man driving very fast north on Wilke Road maybe a half-mile south of the Addison intersection. In a black pickup. He attacked a man at Heartland. His license plate is VET639. He’s probably flying on booze. He’s weaving all over the road.”
“Sir, who are you?” the dispatcher said. Doyle clicked off the connection to concentrate on catching the black pickup. He knew he was gaining as Allgauer’s truck careened around a slow-moving sedan where Grove Street crossed Addison. Doyle whisked past that car and its startled driver, missing it by a yard. He pressed down harder on the Accord’s accelerator.
Doyle heard the wail of a police siren. In his rear view mirror, he saw a squad car coming rapidly, its lights flashing. “C’mon, men, let’s get this bastard,” he muttered.
Three blocks south of the Wilke-Addison intersection with its Metra railroad crossing, Doyle roared up to within a block of Allgauer’s truck. He could see the white crossing barriers ahead beginning to descend and hear the ding-ding warning signal and the blare of the train engineer’s horn. He hit his brakes hard and his Accord slid to a halt at the Wilke curb.
Allgauer’s truck seemed to slow briefly before shooting forward again toward the crossing and its now lowered white barriers. The truck smashed its way through onto the tracks.“The crazy son of a bitch is trying to beat the train!” Doyle said.
The hurtling black pickup and the speeding train engine arrived at the middle of the Metra tracks simultaneously. Allgauer’s truck was propelled through the air with a wrenching noise. It landed in pieces a half-mile up the track, its cab crumpled like a discarded tin can. Doyle shuddered and laid his forehead on his steering wheel. “Crazy son of a bitch…”
An Arlington Heights squad car pulled up next to Doyle’s car. Two officers jumped out. One ran to the rail crossing and peered down the tracks toward the wreckage. The other one asked Doyle to step out of his Accord.
“Sir, are you the person who made the 911 call about this?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who was driving that truck?”
“Yes. His name was Eric Allgauer.”
“Can I see some identification please?”
Doyle gave the officer his driver’s license, which was carefully perused and returned, also his jockey agent’s license. The young officer looked at it before saying, “So, you’re a racetrack guy. What did you have to do with this accident, or catastrophe, this mess, whatever we call it?”
“It’s a long story,” Doyle said.
***
After his making his statement to detectives in the Arlington Heights police station, Doyle got back to his condo shortly after two o’clock. He downed a Jameson’s before attempting to sleep. Images of the horrendous collision at the rail crossing kept popping into his memory. It was Futurity Day for Plotkin and all his connections. Concern over the colt’s chances was another pressing issue.
He gave up trying to sleep just before six o’clock and was completing his second set of 100 sit ups when his cell phone rang. Moe said, “Jack, I just heard on CNN about some ‘fatality involving a Heartland Downs veterinarian, name withheld at this time.’ Who was it? What happened? You know anything about this?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He recounted the previous night’s happenings, the attack on Harry Schwartz, Doyle’s discovery of Eric Allgauer outside of Plotkin’s stall, the subsequent chase. “I was on Allgauer’s tail, the cops were coming up fast from behind.” He paused to drink from a water bottle.
“Then what?”
“Allgauer was either drunk, or desperate, or both. He tried to beat the train across the tracks in order to leave me and the police behind.”
Doyle got to his feet, cradling the phone as he opened another bottle of water. “It was a photo finish, Moe. Allgauer lost.”
Chapter Sixty-nine
The eastern sky was just hinting at morning illumination when Doyle parked his Accord behind Tenuta’s barn. For a couple of minutes he sipped from the coffee cup he’d brought with him while listening to the familiar sounds of water buckets banging, horses whinnying for their breakfasts, rapid exchanges in Spanish by their caretakers before he walked to the trainer’s office. Tenuta put his phone down when Doyle entered.
“Jack, how are you? Word is you were involved with what happened to Eric Allgauer last night. Am I right?”
Doyle pushed the resentful cat Tuxedo to the side and sat down on the couch. “I continue to be amazed at the efficiency of the racetrack grape vine. Unbelievable. Yeah, Ralph, I was involved.”
When Doyle had finished his recounting, Tenuta said, “My God, how lucky we are you arrived in time to protect Plotkin. And that Harry Schwartz came out of it okay. Delmar called me this morning. Said his old man had been kept in the hospital overnight but was out and about. Said Harry gave him money to bet on Plotkin.
“I had another call,” Tenuta continued. “Ingrid McGuire cancelled her appointments here for this morning. She was pretty broken up about Allgauer. She also said she was thinking about Plotkin and had been communicating with him. I guess she was trying to get her mind off the Allgauer disaster. According to her, the colt feels he’s going to run big this afternoon.”
Doyle raised his cup in a toast. “As my Aunt Florence used to say, ‘May it be so.’”
***
“She’s too hard on herself,” Tenuta said when he rejoined Doyle in the box. “So many things can go wrong in a race that a jockey can’t foresee. Maybe the horse isn’t feeling tip-top. Maybe he doesn’t like the track because it’s too hard. Or too soft. Maybe he gets bumped by another horse. With Mickey in that last race, Madame Golden really had nowhere to go until it was too late. Not Mickey’s fault, although she thinks so. Just the way the race unfolded.”
Doyle said, “She looks mighty tense today. I’ve never seen her like this before.”
“She’s never had a day like this before, Jack. Biggest race of her life. Facing her brother. She’s got a right to be uptight. I know I am.”
***
In the small room she shared with Elaine Yonover, Mickey changed into Rosa Tenuta’s red and white silks that she would wear in the Futurity. That race was an hour away. She thought about what Wilfredo Garcia had said to her on the phone the night before.
So Plotkin drew the one hole. With his speed away from the gate, you should be fine, Mickey. When I rode a speed horse like Plotkin, I always felt more comfortable being on the outside, where I’d have more options. It’s easier to get a horse to relax when he’s on the outside. He doesn’t feel closed in. But Plotkin has such great acceleration from the gate, you should make the lead without any trouble, without being pressured. Then you can dictate the pace.
“Just remember to stay relaxed, stay loose, in the post parade, in the gate. A horse can sense tension and react badly. The more relaxed you are, the better chance he’ll break good. But you know all that, Mickey. Any questions? No? Well, have a safe trip. God bless you.
Elaine Yonover came into the room carrying her helmet and whip, hair plastered against her forehead, having completed one of her rare riding assignments.
“How’d you do, Elaine?”
“Got fourth money. Mickey, the rail is fast, it’s golden. There’s a nice path there for you and Plotkin. Speed is holding today.”
Mickey nodded, saying “That’s what I thought, too, after Madame Golden’s race. Hope the rail stays that way.”
“Not to worry, girl. You gotta lighten up,” Elaine patted Mickey on the shoulder before heading for the shower.
In the adjacent jockey’s room, the large one housing the male riders, Kieran Sheehan relaxed in a lounge chair in the recreation section watching a ferocious game of table tennis being played to his right, a jibe-filled game of nine-ball progressing on the pool table to his left. He’d already donned the silks he would wear aboard Boy from Sligo.
Some of the riders had attempted to engage Kieran in conversation. But, as was his habit before a race, he politely rebuffed them, preferring to consider and concentrate on the upcoming Futurity. He’d often thought of the irony involved in his silent solitude in rooms like this contrasted to the vocal exchanges that often took place during races. He knew that most fans would be surprised to learn that riders talked back and forth during their races, especially the experienced ones. If they were good friends, they might joke with each other about their chances. Or they might angrily plead to be let through a hole that was closing in front of them.
The valet assigned to him for the day, Larry Hejna, approached with Kieran’s recently polished boots. “Thanks,” Sheehan said. “Nice job.”
“You want a cup of coffee or something, Kieran?”
“No, but thanks. But you can crack the champagne in about a half-hour or so, Larry.”
Hejna had been around the racetrack most of his adult life and heard countless expressions of confidence from jockeys, most of them unjustified. “So you say you like your Futurity chances?”
“Bet your money, Larry. Boy from Sligo is a runnin’ rascal.”
Chapter Seventy
As the eleven two-year-olds began to assemble behind the starting gate for the sixty-eighth running of the Heartland Downs Futurity, Doyle leaned forward in his seat, binoculars trained on Plotkin. He could see that Mickey had the colt moving easily toward stall number one. Kieran Sheehan on Boy from Sligo waited to be placed in stall eight. His colt was fractious and sweating heavily. Kieran reached down with his right hand and rubbed Boy from Sligo’s neck, attempting to settle him.
To Doyle’s right in the Tenuta box, Rosa was working her set of rosary beads. Doyle smiled as he felt in his sport jacket pocket the set of black worry beads Moe had given him months before. “I bought these in Tel Aviv when Leah and I were there two years ago,” Moe had said. “I reach for them on special occasions. Use them when you need them. They help.”
Rosa paused in her praying to wave at her husband. Ralph had chosen to watch the race from the rail. He interrupted his nervous pacing to wave back up at Rosa and Jack.
In one of the visiting owners’ boxes in front of them, Doyle noticed Teddy Moseley, the loud mouth from Saratoga, owner of number six, Go Yale Blue. Moseley put down an empty Bloody Mary glass and snatched a full one from the tray of the young waiter standing in the aisle adjacent to the box.
Doyle’s cell phone rang. It was Moe, checking in from Florida.
“Moe, it’s almost post time. I’m looking down a couple of boxes from us and who do you think is there but your Ivy League buddy Teddy Moseley. Should I ask him if he brought the $2,500 he still owes you from Saratoga?”
“Fat chance of that, Jack. Don’t concern yourself with that blowhard. How many minutes to post time?”
“Two.”
“What’s Mickey’s strategy?”
“Same as always. Use our horse’s speed. Like Ralph always says, ‘Give me a natural front runner every time. He’ll be gone from where the others haven’t gotten yet.’”
Doyle looked across the track at the gate. One-mile races such as the Futurity began in a chute at the far right of the oval. “They’re all in, Moe.” He resumed fingering his worry beads. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”
***
Plotkin broke from the gate like a shot. Doyle felt his heart leap. He heard Heartland Downs announcer John Tully say:
And that’s Plotkin away in stride to take the early lead. He has two lengths on Harlan Dee. Doctor Chuck goes third on the outside, followed by Don Terry, Go Yale Blue, Market Slump, Date of Play, Catcall Cal, the Irish invader Boy from Sligo under a tight rein in ninth. Then comes Roisterer Roy, In the Dark, and Quicker Time can see them all.
Plotkin continues to lead, his first quarter in a brisk :22 l-5, the half in :46 flat. As they approach the far turn, Doctor Chuck moves into second while Harlan Dee drops back. Go Yale Blue takes over fourth. And Boy from Sligo is starting to pick up horses while racing on the outside…
Kieran was stuck behind a wall of horses. He knew he didn’t want to go six horses wide with Boy from Sligo, losing all that ground. Not with Mickey’s horse going so well on the lead. He needed an opening. Exhibiting the patience that had made him one of the world’s best reinsmen, Kieran waited. And waited. And waited. Then, just inside the sixteeth-pole, Doctor Chuck drifted slightly inward and the weary-legged Go Yale Blue drifted out. Boy from Sligo shot through the resultant narrow hole into second place.
Doyle could hear the rattle of Rosa’s rosary beads, hear her imploring “C’mon Plotkin. C’mon Plotkin.” Doyle put the worry beads in his pocket and stood with his fists clenched. The roar of the crowd was escalating rapidly.
Plotkin had curved around the stretch turn tight to the rail, Mickey still sitting chilly on him. Straightened out for the long run to the finish line, she briefly peered back under her right arm to see Doctor Chuck starting to flatten out, Harlan Dee and Go Yale Blue shortening stride. But gaining ground in the middle of the track was Boy from Sligo. The finish
line momentarily seemed to be receding in front of Mickey. But she still hadn’t asked Plotkin for his best. As Wilfredo Garcia often advised her, “Jesus saves. You should remember to save something with your horse.”
Inside the sixteenth pole, Mickey felt pressure from her right. Kieran Sheehan had steered Boy from Sligo from the crown of the racing strip to a path just outside Plotkin and had pulled to within a half-length of Mickey’s mount. The rest of the field was far back. It was a two-horse race from here on in.
A hundred yards to go. Kieran steered Boy from Sligo over even closer to Plotkin. Kieran, frantically striving to gain the lead, had begun rapidly whipping Boy from Sligo in the upper stretch. He never missed a beat, switching hands from left to right and back. “He’s like a damned machine,” Doyle said to Rosa.
Fifty yards to go for the embattled pair when Kieran’s stick, now in his left hand, came across and cracked Plotkin on the nose. The startled colt threw his head up and momentarily slowed slightly. Boy from Sligo thrust his neck in front. “That bastard,” Doyle shouted to Rosa. “Did you see what Kieran did?” He knew that any review would find Kieran contending that his whip action was “inadvertent.”
If Kieran’s intention was intimidation, it didn’t work. Plotkin’s resentment over being struck on the nose transferred into resolve. Mickey could feel him power ahead. She urged him on with her hands pressing forward on his neck. They flashed across the wire nose to nose with Boy from Sligo as the crowd noise reached crescendo level.
Doyle kept his binoculars on the riders of Plotkin and Boy from Sligo as they galloped out past the finish line. They appeared to be talking to each other.
Around him, he heard other box holders debating the order of finish. “Boy from Sligo got it” from a man to his left. “No, no,” argued the woman beside him. “It was Plotkin.” Doyle hardly noticed when a red-face and obviously disheartened Teddy Moseley led his party up the stairs and toward the exits, brushing past Doyle without saying a word.