by John McEvoy
“Damon,” Doyle said, “you’re talking needle in a haystack shit here. Say I went to work for this Tenuta. Say I wander around, doing my usual nosy business, eight, ten hours a day. What are the chances of me finding the person or persons who are doing the sponging?”
Karen said, “You were a huge long shot to bring the insurance creeps to justice. But you did it. We’ve got no one in the Bureau who can carry off working as a plant on a racetrack backstretch. A reward has been offered, a good one, $50,000 by the racetrack and the horsemen. But nothing’s come of it. Jack, you’re our best bet.”
Doyle walked over to the living room window. He looked down at traffic-heavy Halsted Street, considering. He laughed again before turning back to the agents.“Tell me about Tenuta.”
Tirabassi said, “Man’s been training for years and doing well. He’s got more than forty horses in his barn. He could use a stable agent to keep track of business, workouts, scheduling of owner visits, generalized stuff that Tenuta the horseman doesn’t want to deal with. He had a guy like that, but he retired. Now he needs another. That, Jack, would be you. It would give you perfect cover on the Heartland Downs backstretch.”
“How did you talk Tenuta into this?”
Karen said, “It was easy. Ralph is a super straight shooter. He’s appalled at this sponging stuff. And his brother-in-law, Bud Dorsey, is a good guy in our Chicago bureau. Tenuta called him, asking for help. Then the track’s security people chimed in. That’s how FBI involvement in this investigation started.”
“Well, hell,” Doyle said, “why don’t you rope the brother-in-law, Dorsey, into this and not me.”
“Bud Dorsey knows nada about horses or horse racing. But he told us Tenuta would be agreeable to a set-up like this. He swears Tenuta is a good guy, honest, loves racing, doesn’t want to see it tarnished.”
“Why can’t the horses be tested before their race?” Doyle said. “You know, use the endoscope on them before they run?”
“Can’t be done,” Tirabassi answered. “A horse undergoing an exam like that wouldn’t be able to run that day. That kind of pre-race testing is impossible. For one thing, it’s too expensive. Also, most horses do not take kindly to such an invasive examination. It can throw them off for a day or two.”
Doyle sighed. “Our government must be in dire straits for its representatives to tab me as a best bet.” He looked out the window, shaking his head. “You gotta laugh at this situation,” he said. “Count me in.”
Chapter Three
August 29, 2002
A week after their triumphant return from Saratoga, the newly christened Significant Seven met for an afternoon of racing, and business, at Heartland Downs northwest of Chicago. They sat in Arnie Rison’s seven-person box, situated under the cantilevered roof and in the shade, enjoying its comfortable chairs and small television that enabled them to watch the racing action not only down on the track in front of them, but around the country. Hovering nearby was a friendly young woman armed with a portable bet recorder. Thus, they didn’t have to leave their seats in order to wager. Also on hand was a waitress eager to take their food and drink orders. Little Chris Carson had the winner of the first race and was alive in the double, so he was somewhat distracted as the field for race number two pranced onto the track. The rest of the men gave Arnie Rison their complete attention.
“Everybody’s done their homework on trainers. We’ve exchanged notes or phone calls. I’m ready today to recommend Ralph Tenuta as our trainer. He’s a local guy with a great record for performance and honesty.”
Judge Toomey said, “I’ll go along with you, Arnie. Tenuta is a brother-in-law of an old law school buddy of mine, Bud Dorsey, who’s been an FBI agent for years. He says Tenuta is the straightest shooter since William Tell. Gives him big high marks.”
“I went over his training records,” Chris Carson said. “Very impressive. He led the Heartland Downs trainer standings the last three years in both total winners and winning percentage. And he doesn’t have that big a stable. He’s an ex-jock, a little guy, very sharp where he places his horses. And, as Henry mentioned, he’s got a great reputation for honesty.”
“A major factor,” said Marty Higgins, “in picking a trainer.” They laughingly agreed.
Rison said, “A retired trainer named Robby Voelkner was very candid a couple of years ago, talking to our friend Ira Kaplan, who quoted him in Racing Daily. Voelkner was furious because another trainer, a real slick operator, had apparently outmaneuvered him. Ira identified him only as Trainer X, but everybody knew who he was talking about. He had signed up a new owner that poor Voelkner thought was all set to hire him. Voelkner told Ira, “That new owner has the money, Trainer X has the experience. Within a year, that will be reversed.’
“We can laugh,” Rison said ruefully, “but I’m sure there’s a helluva lot of truth in that statement.”
Steve Charous raised his hand for attention. “You remember what that writer William Murray said about trainers?”
“What?” Judge Toomey said.
“Murray said it doesn’t do any good to ask a trainer if his horse has a good chance of winning. Because the bad ones don’t know, and the good ones won’t tell you.”
Rison said, “Guys, I got to laugh and pinch myself thinking of the seven of us here today, talking about hiring a trainer. Us, guys who most years left the track beaten and bowed. This is fucking great! Furthermore, I think we’d get a real quality guy in Ralph Tenuta. Even Kaplan, who’s a practicing skeptic when it comes to some of the current training talent, gives Tenuta very high marks.”
“Beaten and bowed. That’s an understatement for some of our worst days,” Zabrauskis said. “Remember when we all bet that horse at Monee Park that jumped the railing into the lake and drowned? I took some abuse from my wife about that one.”
“You’re talking verbal, right?” Carson grinned.
“Naturally. My wife is a saint. She’d have to be, living with me.”
“But they can be brutal,” Charous said. “Irene never failed to greet me with, ‘Where’s the money, Big Time?’ Well, I don’t face that question anymore from my sweetie. Not after Saratoga.”
Rison signaled the bet taker. “Race Four, Number Three, $25 to win, $15 to place.” The young woman punched in the numbers and the machine produced Rison’s mutuel ticket. “You guys want anything in here?” he said. They indicated not.
Judge Toomey said, “To get back to our discussion. My wife’s favorite line? When I used to come skulking in the back door, heading for the liquor cabinet, hoping I’m not spotted for at least a few minutes? Maureen almost always quickly appeared in the doorway. This woman can hear ice cubes hit a cocktail glass from blocks away. She says, ‘Another tough card, dear?’ Not mean spirited, just packed with irony. I’m not going to have to hear that anymore!”
“My Rita,” Carson said, “asked me once, ‘Did you really dump Billy’s tuition payment in that stupid fourth race trifecta you said you loved?’ I had to tell her, ‘Yes.’ There’s no lying to that woman. But, like the Judge said, no more worries along those lines.”
Barnhill said, “I came home one time after a terrible, ball busting day at the track. ‘How’d you make out?’ Peggy says. ‘Ran into an off track,’ I said. ‘Didn’t do too good. It rained all afternoon. The mud was like gumbo.’ Peggy says, ‘Every dodo there had to deal with the muddy track. Unless they had sense enough to go home early.’ Then she flounces off and goes upstairs to watch TV and order pizza for herself and the kids. No dinner for yours truly that night.” He drained his beer cup. “But those days, boys, are over.”
They’d gone around the box with their pari-mutuel war stories. Rison’s horse won the third by open lengths. “I’ll get this tab today, boys,” he said, before adding, “One time I came home from here. I’d lost two photo finishes. In consecutive races. Also had a winner of mine disqualified in the nightcap. Lucy sees me coming in the door, like I said be
fore, ‘beaten and bowed.’ Smart ass that she can sometimes be, Lucy says to me, ‘Oh, honey, did you have another pari-mutuel learning experience?’ I had to charge across the room and rush her off her feet and give her a big kiss, make her laugh, make me laugh. What else could I do?
“Once,” Rison said, “I’m not kidding, I dreamed that I got home from Heartland Downs and Lucy greets me at the door and says, ‘Darling, exactly how did the races unfold this afternoon? Please, give me all the details. And let me make you a good strong old-fashioned, my big, brave, betting man.’”
They all laughed along with Rison. “Anyway,” he said, “no more of that talk, men. Now, whenever we come home from the racetrack, we walk in like kings! Am I right?”
Chapter Four
April 19, 2009
Moe Kellman leaned across the table in Dino’s Ristorante and looked at Doyle in disbelief. He said, “Jack, it takes a lot to surprise the shit out of me. I guarantee you that. Not even Madoff took me by surprise. But you’ve managed. You, going back into the clutches of the Feebs? Are you fucking crazy?”
They were in Kellman’s usual cushioned booth at the back of the restaurant’s large main dining room, its walls adorned with huge photos of Sinatra, Bennett, Damone, Tommy LaSorda, and several lesser Italian-American luminaries who’d been hosted here by owner Dino Nigro. The large, bustling restaurant, a favored spot for Chicago’s movers and shakers, had been a frequent meeting place in recent years for the sixty-nine-year-old Kellman and Doyle. The two men had first met while working out in the small boxing room of the Fit City Health Club, Kellman ripping off sit ups like the U.S. Marine he had been during the Korean War, Doyle pounding the big bag with a vicious energy. They became friends. Doyle had reluctantly accepted a commission from Kellman to fix a horse race. Since then, in a legitimate venture and again at Kellman’s behest, Doyle had helped rescue Monee Downs, a failing suburban racetrack, from financial ruin. He was now, at age forty-three, unemployed and resting on his assets, as he put it, assets gleaned primarily from recent Kellman-inspired adventures.
As usual, Kellman was immaculately dressed, this day in a tan suit, black linen shirt, and white tie. With his trademark Don King-like head of white hair and his sly smile, he looked, as was always the case in Doyle’s experience, absolutely at ease, ears open for perhaps some new gift from life’s supply of welcome surprises. “It’s good to see you, Jack. I can usually count on you to bring some elements of interest into my life.” Kellman reached for his Negroni. Doyle pushed his Bushmills and water to the side and leaned forward. Kellman drained his maroon-colored cocktail and signaled their waiter for a refill.
“Moe,” Doyle said, “all that happened was that your name came up in our conversation. But this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Tirabassi and Engel know all about you and me, our friendship. You’ve been outside their reach for so long, I think they’ve pretty much given up trying to tie you to your old Taylor Street buddies. They’re working this horse sponging case. Since it involves betting, and interstate commerce because of simulcast wagering, it’s a big case for them.”
Kellman snorted in disgust. “My taxpayer dollar looks like a piece of one-ply Charmin floating down the gutter to the sewer. Why aren’t the Feds going after the mortgage fraud monsters? The Iraq war profiteers? I had a guy argue with me that one of the big war suppliers was doing it on a pro bono basis because that’s what the company president claimed. The guy was serious, otherwise a pretty smart guy. I said ‘they’re about as pro bono as bail bondsmen.’”
Doyle sat back, enjoying Kellman’s tirade. The little man was usually a paragon of cool calculation, but once in a while something could strike a dormant nerve in him. Moe signaled for another round of drinks. Doyle said, “Skip me this round. I’ve got some homework to do.”
“I’ll say this, Jack. I’m kind of relieved. For awhile there, I was starting to feel like I was operating an employment agency with you as my only client.”
Kellman settled the bill as he always did, with a wave at Dino. They had some kind of tab deal going that Doyle had never been told about, and really didn’t care to know. Kellman had many such dealings, Doyle was sure. He just enjoyed the crafty little businessman, product of a Chicago neighborhood where he had grown up Jewish among what would become the Chicago Outfit’s current elite.
They walked outside. Doyle waved at Pete Dunleavy, Moe’s driver, who had the black Lincoln town car nestled against the curb. Dunleavy was one of several retired Chicago policemen now in Kellman’s employ whom Doyle had previously met. “How goes it, Pete?” Doyle hollered.
“Good and good again,” smiled Dunleavy.
The three men turned when they heard a female voice say, “Mr. Kellman, Mr. Kellman.” Moe smiled broadly, opening his arms for a hug from one of the young women approaching him. Moe, Doyle thought not for the first time, was one of the busiest huggers of women he’d ever known.
She was about Kellman’s height, five-one or so, late twenties maybe, with a body that hinted younger, eyes that indicated otherwise. Her black hair was cut short. Her widely set eyes were large and black, making for a strikingly attractive face. She was wearing an expensive-looking black business suit over a white camisole. Her self-assured half-smile reminded Doyle of Charlotte Rampling in an old Paul Newman lawyer movie. She gave Kellman a hearty squeeze. The little furrier loved it. They separated, and Kellman said, “Jack, Pete, say hello to Renee Rison. She’s the daughter of my old client and friend Arnie Rison, the horse racing guy. Although Renee pretty much stands back from the racing.”
That the little furrier would know Rison, “the horse racing guy,” did not surprise Doyle. Kellman seemed to know almost everyone famous, or notorious, in Chicago. He was friendly with many present or former aldermen and alderwomen, incumbent or incarcerated; influential judges, leaders of the Board of Trade, clergymen close to the cardinal, officers of the Jewish Council on Urban Affairs, and the element he’d known in his youth, main men of what remained of the Chicago Outfit. In considering Kellman, Doyle could not help but measure him against other small men of major impact. Attila the Hun. Napolean. Houdini. Sammy Davis, Jr.
“Renee runs her own boutique travel agency here in the city,” Kellman told Doyle before asking, “Now, honey, who’s this charming woman with you?”
Renee said, “This is my business associate, Teresa Chandler. Teresa, meet Moe Kellman. And Mr. Dunleavy, and Mr. Doyle.
“Nice to see you again, Pete,” Renee said to Dunleavy before extending her hand to Doyle, who said, “My pleasure, Ms. Rison. I’ve read a lot about your father and his buddies, The Significant Seven. What does Moe mean, that you ‘stand back from that?’”
“Oh, I’m not much of a horse person anymore, Mr. Doyle. I jumped them when I was a kid, and I still like watching them run, but I’m not involved in the business itself, no matter how often Daddy asks me to get involved. I like to make my own way, in my own way.” She smiled, looking up at him from the top of her eyes, a playfully cool stance that couldn’t help but impress Doyle. That’s a very practiced move, he thought, and the practice pays off.
Teresa, two or three inches taller than Renee, a brunette with a self-contained look and the body of a long-distance runner, let Kellman take her hand. Her features were as sharp as the stiletto heels she wore. “Great to meet you, Teresa,” Doyle said. Renee stepped back a half-step. She looked at Doyle inquiringly. “Are you the man who almost got killed in the crash of the helium balloon at Heartland Downs a few years back? Who helped crack the insurance fraud ring?”
Doyle said, “Modesty becomes me. But honesty forces me to say, yes, ’twas I.”
“He did some nice work a year or so ago at Monee Park,” Kellman added. Doyle feigned surprise. “Ladies,” he said, “I’ve been paid about as many public compliments by Mr. Kellman here as the Cubs have won pennants. I am shocked.” Renee laughed. Teresa allowed herself a half smile as she looked Doyle up and down. She must b
e the money manager in their business, Doyle thought.
“Honey,” Kellman said to Renee, “you here for lunch?” The little furrier was the only urbane man Doyle knew who could get away with calling a contemporary urban woman “honey” without risking injury.
“Just for a drink with Gordon Zenner, the hotel man. He’s going to be a major new client, I hope.” Zenner, Doyle knew, was one of the Chicago’s wealthiest businessmen. “Daddy’s known Mr. Zenner for years,” Renee added. “Daddy helped arrange our luncheon meeting today. Now, it’s up to Teresa and me to sell him the deal.”
Just keep batting your coal black eyes like that, Doyle thought, and you’ll have Zenner on the dotted line before the first cocktail arrives.
After a few more pleasantries, the women said goodbye. The men watched them walk to the restaurant door. “Now, that’s a pair of lovely movers,” Doyle said. Renee stopped at the door to turn and give them a final wave.
“Nice girl,” Kellman said. “I wish her luck.” He opened the back door of the Lincoln Town Car as Pete walked around to the driver’s side. “Am I right, Jack, or am I right, that this town has got as many knockout broads as anywhere on the planet?”
Inside Dino’s, as they waited for the hostess to escort them to their table, Renee said, “I do remember reading about Jack Doyle. Cool-looking guy.”
Teresa Chandler said, “I don’t know. He reminds me of one of the men I sometimes dream of having known in a past life.”
“So?”
“They were never lives that turned out well.”
Chapter Five