The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  Doyle said, “Sorry, Miss Ruth. Another large coffee, black, please.”

  Morty looked up anxiously when Doyle again sat down across from him. “Talk to me Morty.”

  “Jack, I need just a small, short-term loan from you. A thousand. I’m going to be in the Super Handicapper Contest in Las Vegas next week. I qualified in one of their satellite contests. But the entry fee is ten grand. I’ve got nine. I would have had the ten, easy, if I had perfected my new system a few days earlier than I did. But I didn’t. That’s why I came to see you today.” Morty, relieved that his pitch was delivered, sat back.

  Doyle looked across the table at the man known at Monee Park as a “Jonah,” the embodiment of a wagon load of bad luck, a train car full of futility, a loser of such disconcerting magnitude that Biblical analogies had to be applied to him.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Doyle said. “The longest winning streak I ever saw you on lasted about a race and half. Remember that horse you touted me on at Monee? Your quote, mortal lock of mortal locks, unquote? Comet Colin, the horse that led all the way around the track into the stretch and then jumped the fence and ran into the infield lake and drowned?

  “C’mon, Jack,” Morty said, his head down, “how could I forget?”

  Doyle said, “What would make you think you should enter a Las Vegas handicapping contest? Sharp shooters from all over the country will be there. And you, with your history of terrible luck? Morty, you’re a smart guy, and you know horses, but this plan has disaster emblazoned on it.”

  “Jack, I can’t argue, my horse playing history is not good. But,” Morty said, “all that is in the past.” He leaned forward. “I’ve got a new system for betting horses. Took me years to develop it,” he said softly. “But, Jack, it works. Like you’d never believe possible.”

  “A system. God help us,” Doyle sighed. “Damon Runyon said all horseplayers die broke. Which I don’t believe, because I know some that do make a good living at it. But somebody besides Runyon added, ‘System players die earliest.’ From what I’ve seen, I tend to believe that.”

  “Not my system,” Morty said emphatically. “Jack, it is honest to God amazing. After all my years in the game,” he said, looking around the room before continuing in a whisper, “I have found the treasure of Sierra Madre. The Yukon gold strike. What’s that other big thing? The Rosie Stone? Like what the great trainer Charlie Whittingham called ‘Where Molly hid the peaches.’ I have found the truth.” He was as earnest as a dog at dinner time.

  Doyle had always liked this little lifelong bachelor, resident of his aged mother’s Berwyn, Illinois basement apartment, industrious but paint-by-the-numbers racetrack publicist. To observe the glow of conviction emanating from his former Monee Park assistant gladdened Doyle. But giving him a grand to test the deep waters of the Vegas contest? Could this be termed enabling? “What’s the deadline for this thing?”

  “Tomorrow,” Morty said. “I’ve got to wire them the entry fee by noon. Jack, if you can loan me the grand, I’ll double it for you in three days. Swear to God.”

  Doyle was not sold, and Morty knew it. He took a thick envelope from his sport coat pocket and extracted five sheets of paper. They were covered with names and numbers describing horses and their odds, their finishes, the amount and kind of bets made on them, an ROI (return on investment) column. He said, “Please, just look this over. I’ll go get us some more coffee. Want a Danish?”

  “Just coffee.”

  Ten minutes later, when Doyle returned the papers to him, Morty said, “What do you think?”

  Doyle said, “I’ve got to admit, I’m impressed. Besides astounded. You, with a terrific return on investment. But this is just three weeks of system results here. How can you be sure you can keep winning at this rate over the long run?”

  Morty scooped up the papers and stuffed them back into the envelope. “Because I know, Jack. Because I know. This system is super legit. I swear it. Have I ever lied to you about anything?”

  Doyle finished his coffee. He said, “No, my friend, you never have. Come on. We’ll go to an ATM machine in the grandstand. You’ve got the grand.”

  “Aw, Jack, I knew I could count on you,” Morty beamed. He reached across the table and heartily shook Doyle’s hand. “You will not regret this, I guarantee.”

  “Words that have brought down major civilizations,” Doyle almost said, but held back. He thought of Sinatra’s famous version of “My Way,” its reference to “regrets? I’ve had a few,” and laughed.

  “Of all the regrets I’ve had, Morty, no matter how you do in Vegas, this loan will not be in my top ten. Great luck to you, my friend.”

  During their short drive to the Heartland Downs grandstand, Morty said, “Jack, would you think about coming out to Vegas during the contest? You could stay with me. Give me, you know, moral support. I’ve never been in a big contest like this,” he admitted. “ I might need a little boost from a friend.”

  “Let’s just get you your money today, Morty. Me joining you in Vegas? I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  June 28, 2009

  Orth emerged from the cool lake after his early morning swim and found a message on his cellphone. “Call.”

  Showered and breakfasted, he drove to the Qwik Stop outside of Boulder Junction and used the land line. Sanderson picked up on the first ring. “Need a meet. Can you be in St. Louis by tomorrow night?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “See you at the Airport Marriott,” Sanderson said.

  Orth drove to Madison the next morning and paid cash for an afternoon flight to St. Louis. He cabbed to the motel, registered as Edward Walsh, and was napping when he heard two taps on his door. They were light taps, but Orth’s trained response to anything aural within yards of him brought him off the bed and to the door in seconds. He looked through the eye hole before unlocking.

  After greeting each other, Sanderson ordered from room service, identifying himself as “Mr. Walsh in 318.” Neither he nor Orth ever used their real names when they met. Sanderson intended to catch a night flight back to Dallas-Fort Worth, a flight which like all other domestic air travel was dinner-free. He stayed out of sight as Orth accepted the tray and paid the bill in cash with a good tip.

  Sanderson eagerly dug into his shrimp salad, a turkey club sandwich with French fries, apple pie ala mode. Orth watched impassively. As long as Orth had known him, Sanderson always had an appetite that verged on gluttony. Yet, the sinewy bastard never seemed to put on a pound. “A man who has three growing kids and a wife that loves to spend money,” Sanderson had once explained, “your metabolism kicks into overdrive.”

  Sanderson finally put down the only remaining remnants of his meal, one of the cellophane decorated toothpicks from the sandwich. He reached into his shirt pocket, looked at a small piece of paper, and smiled.

  “We’ve got three targets left,” Sanderson said. “The reason I wanted to see you was that I understand the remaining targets are getting kind of nervous. Apprehensive. Cautious.”

  “Hard to blame them.”

  “Yeah,” Sanderson said, “and we’re going to have to be very, very careful dealing with the next three. They’re all bound to be on the lookout, maybe even have hired security. I’ll find out about that part in a day or two.”

  “Is the money still solid?”

  Sanderson smiled. “Oh, yeah. Five hundred grand total for us, plus expenses.”

  “I can count on you to pad the shit out of those, right?”

  “You got it, bro.”

  The next hour was devoted to planning. Sanderson kept looking at his watch until he saw Orth tightening his jaw, heard him say, “Forget the fucking time, you’ll make your flight. I want this figured out right. It’s my ass on the line out there.”

  “Sorry, bro. You’re right,” Sanderson said.

  Orth said, “If you’ll get me just a few important pieces of informati
on, I’ll take care of these last three.” He described what he wanted. “I’ll take care of it,” Sanderson said.

  When it was time for Sanderson to leave for the airport, Orth got up, stretched, walked over to the wide window overlooking the parking lot. His back turned to Sanderson, he said, “One thing before you go. I never asked you before during the other deals we’ve done. Never wanted to know. But I’d like to know now about this, our biggest project. Who are we working for? Who is paying?”

  Sanderson said, “Damn it, man, we’ve been super careful to create as many cut outs as we could. Right from the start. That’s how you said you wanted it, and that’s what I’ve done. I think we should keep it that way.”

  “I know you do,” Orth said. “But I don’t, not this time. I want you tell me, right here and now, who’s paying us all this money for this project.”

  Sanderson briefly thought of continuing the argument. But then he saw the look on Orth’s face. Sanderson spoke softly for less than a minute. When he was finished, the normally imperturbable Orth shook his head at what he had just heard. “I’ll be god damned.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  July 3, 2009

  The races were over. The Tenuta stable had enjoyed a very productive afternoon: three starters, one maiden winner, one second, one fourth. The grooms sat around the barn, relaxing on bales of hay and drinking beers that Tenuta had brought in a cooler, anticipating this morale-boosting and successful pre-holiday afternoon.

  Doyle nudged Tenuta’s arm, almost spilling the trainer’s iced can of Old Style. They were standing outside of Tenuta’s office, enjoying the early evening air. Doyle said, “Ralph, who’s that?” He pointed across the stable yard to a short, young, Latino man who was leaning back in a camp chair, leisurely smoking a cigarette. “I thought nobody was supposed to smoke back here. Too dangerous, right? Some of these old wooden barns. All this hay and straw.”

  “That’s the rule, Jack, but that punk over there doesn’t pay much attention to rules. Name is Junior Garza. There must have been a senior, but I never met him. One of these Garzas is enough. Junior works now for trainer Marty Alpert, who is stabled right over there. I sure as hell don’t know why,” Tenuta said disgustedly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Junior is trouble,” Tenuta said. “He came around a few years back, said he wanted to be a jockey. Didn’t work out. He got hurt pretty bad in his first and only year of riding. Broke a collarbone, wrist, ankle. Never rode in a race again. After he healed, he came back and started working as an exercise rider. He’s good at it. But I’d never use him on one of my horses.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t trust the little bastard, that’s why. Seems like wherever he works, things go missing. You know? Saddes, bridles, blankets. He’s never been caught, but most people think he’s the one doing the thieving. Alpert, well, Marty’s got a big heart. He says he wants to ‘give the kid another chance.’ We’ll see how that works out. How come you’re asking about him, Jack?”

  “I saw him here in your shed row last week, late in the afternoon. It was the day before Editorialist’s last race. I was waiting for your night watchman to come back from the wash room when I saw this kid near Editorialist’s stall. I hollered at him, ‘What’re you doing,’ something like that. He just looked at me, real insolent, and walked off without answering. I’m sure it was him, Junior over there.”

  “Glad you chased him off,” Tenuta said. “I don’t want him anywhere around my stable. Kid’s a thief, maybe worse. Everybody knows it, but nobody has nailed him yet. I don’t know why people keep hiring him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  July 9, 2009

  At the end of that week—one in which Doyle had again handled the stable entries, arranged for the services of the jockeys Tenuta wanted to use on them, paid some stable bills, placed feed and vitamin orders, and answered numerous phone calls in his role as stable agent—the little trainer invited him to his home for dinner. “I’ll call my wife, Rosa, and let her know you’re coming. Okay, Jack?”

  “Fine with me,” Doyle said. “I don’t get many home cooked meals, especially Italian, and I’m big on Italian food.” Tenuta gave him an odd look but didn’t say anything. They walked to their cars, Tenuta saying, “Just follow me. It’s about three miles. Five-eleven South Belmont in Arlington Heights in case we get separated.”

  Ten minutes later, Tenuta pulled his maroon Buick Regal into the driveway of a red brick ranch house, motioning Doyle to park behind him. The lawn and shrubbery, Doyle could see, were as well maintained as Tenuta’s racetrack barn. He was not surprised.

  The front door opened as they approached. Out stepped a short, dark-haired woman wearing a floral apron over a red blouse and black skirt. “Jack Doyle,” she said, extending her hand, “welcome to our home. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  She smiled warmly as Doyle said, “Thanks for having me.” Rosa then turned to her husband and offered her cheek, which he kissed briefly, giving her shoulder a hug at the same time.

  Jack and Ralph sat on the back deck of the house for a few minutes, drinking beer. From under a picnic bench limped an obviously very old dog. “That’s Sammy,” the trainer said. “C’mere, c’mere, you mutt,” he said fondly. He scratched the aged canine’s back for a couple of minutes until Rosa called them in, reminding Ralph to “wash your hands.” Sammy followed Doyle to the dinner table and slowly positioned himself beneath its center. Doyle made sure his feet were not a bother to the dog.

  Their first course was a salad that Doyle did not recognize. Rosa, digging into her plate, said, “This is a grapefruit display with French dressing, mushroom croutons, cream cheese balls, on top of red leaf lettuce.”

  Tenuta forced down a couple of forkfuls, groaning quietly. Doyle, whose ingestion credo had always been extremely liberal, cleaned his salad plate. Rosa beamed at him. “I’ll bet you’ve always been a good eater, Jack.”

  “I certainly have, Rosa.”

  Rosa took the salad plates into the kitchen. Ralph leaned across the table. “Jack,” he said softly out of the side of his mouth, “this meal tonight, most of my meals now, come out of a Kentucky cookbook that a friend of ours at Keeneland racetrack sent to Rosa early in the summer. These meals have been going on for over a month, because she’s really into it now. On Sundays, she relents, and we have my pasta, red sauce, veal meatballs. Rest of the week? All these Kentucky adventures. This, from a woman who could cater to angels using her old recipes. But I can’t talk her off it. Whoops! Here she comes.”

  Doyle looked on with some trepidation as the next course was set before him.

  “Have you ever had a genuine Kentucky Hot Brown?” Rosa said brightly. “It’s a Kentucky tradition, an open-faced turkey sandwich on white toast with bacon strips and a whitish Mornay sauce. There’s Parmesan cheese in the sauce and also a sprinkle as a topping.”

  “Well, it must be good, because it’s got good things in it,” Doyle said bravely. “Actually, I have had a Hot Brown. During the time I worked in Kentucky a few years back.” He began to cut the mound of food on his plate into bite sizes. Thinking about his previous culinary experiences in the Blue Grass State, he recalled his first breakfast at Louisville’s famed Brown Hotel, where the Kentucky Hot Brown had been created. He had ordered ham and scrambled eggs that morning and the waitress said, “Hon, you want country ham?”

  “What’s country ham?”

  The waitress drawled, “Well, it’s cured, and salty, and kind of tough, but tasty. We don’t serve them until they’re a year or more old.”

  Doyle had smiled up at this nice lady. “I believe I’ll go with the city ham,” he said.

  Tenuta broke into Doyle’s reverie to say, “When you were in Kentucky, that was when you were helping catch that horse killer, right?”

  Doyle nodded. Rosa looked from her husband to her guest. “Do I know this story?” she said.


  Between scoops of the Hot Brown, Doyle provided an abbreviated summary of his past while he was working on behalf of the FBI. “Is the guy still in jail?” Ralph asked.

  “Yeah. Federal prison. Many years to go.”

  Rosa said, “There are some real cuckoos in the racing business.”

  “I’ve trained for my share of them,” Ralph sighed, “though not crooks like that.” He reached for his wine glass. Glancing at his wife he added, “Including Salvatore ‘Slow Pay Sal’ Rizzo, Rosa’s cousin.”

  “Distant cousin,” Rosa huffed.

  “Not distant enough,” Ralph fired back. “He was a real pain in the you know what.”

  Rosa said, “Well, yes, Sal could be. Tell Jack about the dogs and Salvatore.”

  “I trained for Sal a little more than three years,” Ralph said. “Every year, his horses made money. Not a lot, but more than enough to cover his owner’s expenses. Which he hated paying. The guy was always two, three months behind in his training bills. If Sal wasn’t related to Rosa, no matter how ‘distantly,’ I would have given him the boot.”

  Rosa ignored that jibe. She said, “Ralph, get to the dogs.” Then she paused. “Wait,” she said, “let me get dessert. Just take a minute.”

  Doyle and Tenuta didn’t make any small talk in the short interim. Doyle concentrated on his friend’s apprehensive expression. Rosa quickly returned and laid the dessert dishes before the men, saying, “This is a mocha-macaroon freeze with lemon curd topping.” She smiled as she took her first bite. Her husband muttered, “Whatever happened to homemade cannolis?” But he dutifully dug in, as did Doyle, who thought this was pretty good stuff. “Go on, Ralph,” Rosa urged, “tell Jack about the dogs.”

  “Sal and his wife Myrna bred champion hunting dogs that were used in competive field trials,” Ralph said. “They had this one outstanding dam…”

  “Bitch,” Rosa corrected.

  Ralph said, “You talking about Myrna? Oh, you mean the mother dog.”