The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  “That’s right. Our good friend, trainer Tenuta, goes along with his Rosa.”

  Cindy said, “Ralph is such a nice man.”

  “Here’s to him,” Doyle said, touching his wine glass to Cindy’s in a toast to Tenuta.

  They exited Trattoria 10 at nearly nine. In the Accord, driving north on the Outer Drive, past Navy Pier and its giant, revolving Ferris wheel, Doyle said, “Let me ask you something. How about you staying in the city at my place tonight? You don’t have to exercise horses tomorrow morning. Why not just take it easy?”

  Cindy looked out her window at the rippling white waves of Lake Michigan. She went into her purse for her cell phone. “Mom,” she said, “I’ll be staying in the city tonight. Where? At Jack’s place.”

  Doyle could hear Wilma’s cackling on the other end of the phone. He looked over at Cindy. She was blushing right through her tan. “Ma, stop it. Tyler’s asleep? Good. See you in the morning.” She put the phone back in her purse. She said, “I didn’t bring an overnight bag, you know.”

  “There’s a 7-11 on my corner. You can get a toothbrush there.”

  Cindy grinned. “I don’t imagine they sell night gowns there, right?”

  “Why would you need one?”

  “Why, indeed?” Cindy said.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  July 19, 2009

  Arnie Rison, Mike Barnhill, and Marty Higgins were met in the foyer of the White Eagle by the widow. This traditional gathering place for members of Chicago’s large Polish-American community hosted banquets, wedding receptions, business meetings and, today, post-funeral gatherings for the family and mourners. Little Louise Zabrauskis, about half the size of her recently deceased husband, hugged each of the three men. “Thanks again for being pall bearers. And thank you, Arnie, for what you said about my Joe.” Arnie put his arm around the widow. “I meant every word,” he said.

  Joe Z’s funeral at St. Stanislaus Kostka Catholic Church on Chicago’s near west side had been a sellout. Zabrauskis’ five children, seven grandchildren, six sisters, a brother, and his parents sat with Louise in the front pews of the old church, centerpiece of the first Polish parish established in Chicago, a building designed by an Irish-born architect from Brooklyn who was also responsible for the city’s famed Holy Name Cathedral.

  They heard Father Joe Bigalski say the memorial Mass. Listened as two of the Zabrauskis children, Jim and Jack, remembered their father. Heard Arnie describe the lengthy friendship he had enjoyed with the former UW lineman who had been found dead in the northern Wisconsin woods.

  Arnie recounted their first meeting in Madison as freshmen in the same dorm. The autumn afternoons Arnie watched his buddy mow down Big Ten running backs attempting to run off tackle. Their many days of horse playing, and the later Saratoga bonanza, and The Badger Express. “Joe took everything in stride and in good humor and, for such a big man, with great gentleness,” Rison said. “He was as good a friend, as good a man, as anyone could ever know.”

  The oldest eulogist was Gene Rafferty, Joe Z’s line coach at UW. “Joey was one of the strongest, toughest, smartest, and nicest football player I ever coached,” Rafferty said. “We kept in touch over the years. This,” the old coach said, gesturing at the coffin, “leaves a hole in my heart.”

  On his way out of the church, Arnie was clapped on the back by five of Joe Z’s former Wisconsin teammates. Three of them limped down the aisle as honorary pallbearers behind the coffin being carried by Arnie, Mike, and Marty on one side. Three of Joe Z’s tall, sturdy sons were on the other side. When they left the foyer of the air-conditioned church, the late summer heat slapped them.

  Burial was in All Saints Polish National Catholic Cemetery on West Higgins Road in northwest Chicago. When the last goodbye had been uttered, most of the numerous mourners entered their cars and followed funeral director Stanley Pocius and his assistants down North Milwaukee Avenue to the White Eagle.

  The Zabrauskis family, Father Bigalski, and the pall bearers were ushered to the head of the long buffet line. Rison said to Barnhill, “Wouldn’t our man loved to have had a shot at all this?”

  Louise Zabrauskis heard him. She turned around, smiling. “You know Joe’s favorite saying when we’d come here? Jedzcie, pijcie, i popuszczajcie pasa. Eat, drink, and loosen your belts.” Arnie patted her on the shoulder as she turned to stand beside her daughter Sophia.

  The Zabrauskis family paid just polite attention to the lavish buffet spread of hunter’s stew, three kinds of salads, potato and cheese pierogies, stuffed cabbage, kielbasa, poppy cake and cheese cake. So did the three remaining members of The Significant Seven. They put small portions on their plates and walked away from the buffet line. Rison said, “Let’s go down that hall. There’s a room we can sit in in private.”

  “I need a drink,” Barnhill said. “Arnie, take my plate. What do you guys want? I’ll bring them back.” Rison and Higgins both said “The usual.” Barnhill returned to the main room and headed for one of the large, busy bars.

  Higgins and Rison sat in silence, their food plates put aside. When Barnhill came back with the drinks, he handed them out. Raising his Manhattan, he said, “Here’s to our Joe. May he rest in peace.” All three touched glasses.

  Rison walked to the window overlooking the crowded White Eagle parking lot. Not turning around, he said, “What do you two think?”

  “About what, Arnie?” Higgins answered.

  “About the fact that the three of us are sitting here after the fourth funeral of best friends of ours that we’ve gone to in the last couple of months. I lie awake at night thinking about this. Henry, Steve, Chris, and now Joey, all gone. Like that. Henry drowns. Steve collapses in a restaurant having eaten a goddam bagel he was allergic to. Chris drives off his road going home? Chris, the accountant, one of the most cautious little men you’d ever meet? And Joey, Joe the Bear, eaten by one?”

  Rison thumped his empty tumbler down on the window sill. “There’s some shit going on here, my friends. I don’t know what the hell it is. But we better find out. Soon.”

  Barnhill jumped up, almost dropping his drink. “Damn right we better find out. There’s no odds that say this could be happening to the partnership, guys in their fifties dying off like this. But who would want to kill us?” He spilled some of his Manhattan. “Christ, I haven’t spilled a drink since high school. This is all really getting to me,” said the old fullback.

  They looked up when there was a knock on the door. Barnhill opened it. “Hey, Paulie, come on in,” he said to the oldest of Joe Zabrauskis’ large sons. Barnhill put his arm around Paul’s broad shoulders as he walked him into the room. The young man’s face was flushed. He had a can of Old Style in his big right hand.”I’ve got to talk to you guys.” Rison motioned him to sit down on the couch next to him.

  Paul Zabrauskis pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Paulie, what’s up?” Rison said.

  “I’ve just gotten a going-over out there from the other widows of the partnership. Not my Mom. She’s still pretty zoned out over this funeral deal. I’m talking the wives—no, the widows—of Judge Toomey, Mr. Charous, Mr. Carson. They got my brothers and me in a corner. Asking us, what the hell’s going on here?’ Four deaths of old friends in, what, three months? Your wife, Mike,” he said, looking at Barnhill, “she says what’s happened is ‘against all odds.’ How could I not agree with her?”

  Paulie drained the last of his beer. He crumpled the can like it was a piece of cellophane. “What do you guys think?” he said. “What’s going on here?”

  Rison reached into this pocket for a Marlboro, lit it quickly, and inhaled, setting off a series of violent coughs. “Damn, Arnie,” Higgins said, “when are you going to give up those things? You’re the only guy I know our age who still smokes.”

  With his cough finally under control, Rison said to Paulie, “If The Significant Seven is being eliminated, what’s the reason? It can’t be women, or jealou
sy, or revenge. Not that I can think of, anyway. Even if some nut was angry enough to bump one of us off, where do the others figure in?” He reached in his pocket for another cigarette, but when he saw the looks on their faces, he stopped. “What do you guys think?”

  “You hear about stuff like this,” Higgins answered. “Sometimes in the papers, sometimes on television. Whenever there is a question of ‘why’, the answer most of the time is money. Or maybe it’s some crackpot who envies or resents our success. Face it, we were about the luckiest horse players in the world. It could be some jealous nut. Who knows? The extent of human lunacy, who could tell?”

  Rison said, “How could it possibly be money in our case? Sure, the recession has hit hard. Hell, I could hardly give away cars off my lots these last few months. But we’ve made hundreds of thousands with our Pick Six that led to The Badger Express. The contract is intact.”

  “You mean the last survivor part?” Higgins said.

  “Yes. The last surviving member of the seven turns The Badger Express’ profits into a foundation that saves and cares for retired, discarded thoroughbreds. It’s there in black and white, just as we agreed years ago. If Marty and I die before you, Mike, you’re in charge of the money. And vice versa. I guess twice vice versa.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “Look,” Rison said, “with just three of us left, am I the only one thinking that maybe one of us could be causing these deaths? Yeah, yeah, it sounds nuts. The way we’ve been friends for more than thirty years. The way the contract is set up. But I can’t be the only one who’s thinking crazy thoughts like that.” He finished off his Manhattan, not looking at the other two. Paulie Zabrauskis looked at Rison in amazement.

  Higgins shook his head. Barnhill said, “You aren’t the only one that’s thought about that, Arnie. But I don’t believe that possibility for a fucking minute.”

  “Neither do I,” Rison said. “We’ve been great friends for more than thirty years. I can’t imagine one of us moving against the others.”

  “Neither can I, Arnie,” Barnhill said. “Me, either,” added Higgins.

  The partners stood up and huddled in the middle of the room in a clumsy three-man embrace. Paul Zabrauskis got to his feet and watched them.

  “We’d better go and spend some time with Louise and the rest of your family, Paulie,” Rison said.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  July 23, 2009

  Doyle parked his car next to Tenuta’s barn shortly after seven. The area was bustling. Grooms and hot walkers were leading horses onto two large vans. There were some two dozen runners involved. The air was filled with horse sounds, conversations and orders in both English and Spanish from the men and women carrying out an apparently hurried evacuation.

  Tenuta came out of his office and said good morning to Doyle, who asked, “What’s going on, Ralph? Aren’t those all Paul Barry’s horses?”

  “They were. They aren’t anymore.” Tenuta shook his head in disgust. “Some of these guys never learn, damn them.”

  Paul Barry, Doyle knew, currently ranked among the leading trainers at Heartland Downs. He was a veteran horseman who had escaped the ranks of professional mediocrity for the first time just this season with an explosion of winners. For the first time in Barry’s long career, horses he trained starting finishing first at a remarkable rate, not just for Barry, but for any trainer. Their improvement was so dramatic it was bound to attract scrutiny. Evidently, the scrutiny had proved disastrous for the middle-aged bachelor from Minnesota.

  “Barry is out of business,” Tenuta explained. “The stewards have suspended him ‘indefinitely.’ His owners, mad as hell, decided to move their stock elsewhere. Half of those horses are going to Oklahoma, the rest to Louisiana.”

  Doyle said, “I haven’t heard anything about this. What’s the story, Ralph?”

  “It’ll be in tomorrow’s Racing Daily, I guarantee you. When Barry all of a sudden started winning races in bunches, like he never had before, a lot of guys got suspicious. Still, all his winners passed their post-race drug tests. Time after time, winner after winner. The racing commission chemists never reported a positive finding on one of them!

  “Then, Ed Arenas, the state steward here, ordered a surprise search of Barry’s barn office. The security people swarmed over it yesterday afternoon. Know what they found? You won’t believe it,” Tenuta said.

  “So tell me.”

  Tenuta said, “They found several containers of cobra venom.”

  “Cobra venom? What’s that for?” Doyle was not taking this seriously. “You use it when you’re shooting craps trying to get somebody to roll snake eyes?”

  “Jack, this isn’t anything to laugh about. Cobra venom. I talked to two veterinarians this morning, asking them the same question. ‘What for?’ Both told me it was, I’m trying to remember this, ‘an unregulated neurotoxin.’ It works as a powerful pain killer. The damn stuff never shows up in the tests they’re using now. But it is very much an illegal medication under all horse racing laws in the world.”

  Doyle thought about this. “I get it. It can make a sore horse run better.” He paused. “Can it mask other drugs as well?”

  “I’ve got no idea about that. Could be. One way or the other, they’re going to nail Paul Barry for possession of that stuff. Cobra venom! Who could make it up?”

  They walked into Tenuta’s office. The trainer turned on the coffee pot. His dejection was obvious. “This Barry thing is going to be a big story, in the papers, on TV. It’s going to hurt all of racing. Makes me sick, Jack.”

  Doyle said, “Ralph, this Barry isn’t the first guy caught with illegal drugs.”

  “Of course not. There will always be some smart asses looking for an edge, an angle, some drug that can’t be detected. They almost always get caught. But the damage they do is to the reputations of all the rest of us, the guys who’ve always played by the rules, and never tried juicing their horses, guys like me, who still get branded when the Paul Barry stories hit. The papers will say ‘horse racing scandal.’ Hell, there’s more damn larceny in the banking business than there has ever been in horse racing. But people who don’t know us don’t know that. It’s a damn shame, Jack.”

  Four hours later all of the Tenuta stable’s morning work had been done. Horses worked, horses cooled out, watered, fed. Doyle and Ralph were in Tenuta’s office, working on the entry schedule for the weekend, when Travis Hawkins poked his head in.

  “I’ve got two on my schedule for you tomorrow, right, men?”

  Tenuta said, “Right, Travis.”

  Hawkins said, “Are you both coming to my party tomorrow night?”

  “Bet your life, Travis,” Tenuta said, “Rosa and I will both be there. Looking forward to it.”

  Hawkins looked at Doyle. “Jack?”

  Doyle said, “Travis, I don’t know anything about your party. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Thanks for the invite.”

  Hawkins smiled. “Ralph, tell your man here what it’s all about. I’ll see you fellows there.” He waved goodbye.

  “You’re in for a good feed, Jack, I’ll tell you that,” Tenuta said. “Travis makes the best barbequed ribs you’ll ever taste. His wife Taliyah produces side dishes to remember. Corn on the cob in the husk, a killer potato salad, tomatoes she grows on their property, an amazing sweet potato pie. I’m getting hungry as I think about it.”

  Doyle said, “How do I get to Hawkins’ home?”

  Tenuta gave him directions. “Things get going early in the evening. Are you going to bring Cindy with you?”

  “Nope. We were supposed to go to a movie, but she promised Tyler she’d take him to Six Flags Great America. Her mother’s going, too. Then they’re going to hit the Gurnee Mills shopping center before heading home. I’ll happily miss that scene.”

  Tenuta said, “All right. See you at Travis’.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  July
24, 2009

  Doyle bought a case of Heineken before starting his long drive to Travis Hawkins’ Lake County home. He never showed up at social events new to him empty handed. He even pulled into a roadside vegetable and flower stand on Highway 12 and bought an expensive plant for Mrs. Hawkins. It was a lovely summer afternoon. He thought of Cindy, Tyler, and Wilma at the undoubtedly crowded Great America amusement park and smiled at his good luck.

  The driveway was already almost filled with vehicles when Doyle turned in. He saw Doc Jensen’s truck, a bunch of cars with Heartland Downs parking stickers affixed to them. He could smell the enticing aroma of burning meat, hear a stereo system from which came Cannonball Adderly’s classic song “Mercy.”

  “All right,” Doyle said, walking up the driveway, “I think I’m going to enjoy this scene.”

  When Hawkins spotted Doyle lugging the case of beer with the potted plant on top, he grinned and hurried out from behind the two massive black cookers he was monitoring, steel half-barrels designed for barbequing. “Jack, you didn’t have to,” he said, picking up the plant.

  “Enjoy it, Travis,” Doyle kidded back.

  Hawkins took Doyle around the yard to meet Taliyah. She gratefully accepted the plant. “Thank you, Jack. It’s great to meet you. You probably know most of the people here.” Doyle smiled at Ralph and Rosa Tenuta, Doc Jensen, a bunch of younger men from the Heartland Downs racing office who were clustered around the two half-barrels of beer. “I know a lot of them,” he said. He waved across the yard at horse owner Steve Holland, whom he had gotten to know during his stint at Monee Park.

  The next hour was spent socializing and playing. Doyle pitched horse shoes against Hawkins, and got drubbed. “I should have known you’d be good at this,” he told the farrier. The Hawkins children invited him to play bean bag. They were as good at that as their father was in tossing the elements of his trade. When Shontanette Hunter, his former colleague at Monee Park, arrived, he went to greet her and her husband, Cecil Tate, a Chicago attorney.