by John McEvoy
Doyle took a glass of champagne off the waiter’s tray for Nora and asked the server for “another Jameson’s when you’ve got the chance.” Nora was chatting with Sheila Hanratty near the fireplace that was lit with a small peat fire. He could hear Dr. Whitesell’s braying even from yards off. Jack watched as Niall turned away from the Michigan physician and signaled the attentive Fiona to ring the Lough Inagh’s little bronze bell marking the end of cocktail hour, the start of dinnertime.
Nora and Jack shared a dinner table with the Hanrattys. Talk was of Irish politics and racing, American racing and politics as well. Jack deferred the few questions about his current FBI-aiding project back home. Overlaying their conversation was the aggravating noise emanating from a nearby two-person table occupied by the irritating Dr. Whitesell and his mousy spouse. Even trying to tune Dr. Whitesell out, Jack could not completely escape the loudmouth’s stated views on the vicissitudes of current air travel, the irritating drivers on Irish roads, the disappointing salmon fishing he’d experienced the previous day, and the horrible deficiencies of the current U.S. presidential administration. At one point Jack started to rise and have a word with the doctor, but Nora held his arm. “No, Jack. That’s what that idiot is looking for. Attention.”
They concentrated on the meal. A starter of filo pastry containing goat cheese preceded a hearty vegetable soup. Broiled salmon surrounded by duchess potatoes and fresh asparagus followed. A lavish cheese plate was offered, as well as a lovely cherry trifle. Nora pronounced the entire meal “brilliant,” Doyle and the Hanrattys heartily concurring.
Niall suggested an after-dinner drink in the library, but Jack and Nora declined, “too tired, but thank you.” Sheila said “I’m with you on that, come on Niall,” and gave them a goodnight wave.
Nora started up the stairs with Jack preparing to follow when he felt Niall tap him on the shoulder. The handsome bookmaker’s happy expression from the previous several hours had been replaced by a serious look.
“Jack. Can we go for a walk early tomorrow? We need to talk.”
Doyle said, “Sure, Niall. What time?”
“Let’s make it seven. I’ll meet you out front.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Doyle was up at six, ignoring the effects of jet lag and Friday’s long drive through the Irish countryside. He smiled appreciatively at the deeply asleep Nora who lay on the other side of their large, comfortable bed, and looked out one of the large windows. Through the early morning mists, he was able to discern the humpy shapes of the famed Twelve Bens, the renowned range of Irish mountains that in the geography of Montana, say, or Colorado, probably would be dismissed as relative hillocks.
He quickly showered, dressed, quietly closed the suite door behind him, and trotted down the carpeted stairs to the first floor. They creaked a bit, which was not surprising since the impressive building had been constructed as an estate home in the late nineteenth century and not revived and renovated until many years later.
After a quick peek into the dining room, its tables already set for the breakfast crowd, Jack pushed open the heavy front door and paused on the top step to take deep breaths of the cool air. In sweatshirt and pants, he’d started some of his usual early morning, pre-jogging stretches, when he heard a familiar deep voice behind him at the door’s entrance.
“Morning to you, Jack. Ready for a bit of a ramble?” Niall said.
“You bet. You look like you’re dressed for a long, slow hike. Is that what you have in mind?”
Hanratty zipped up his windproof jacket. He wore a sweater underneath it, corduroy trousers, walking shoes. “I’m not about to trot along beside you. It’s a nice, cool morning, as usual in these parts. A brisk walk will do for me. If you feel the need to gallop ahead, just come back to me for a chat, all right?”
Doyle pulled his sweatshirt hood up as the morning mist suddenly shifted into a weak stint of raining. “I just saw the sun a minute ago,” he said to Niall as they walked down the drive to the road.
Hanratty laughed. “No surprise there. And this bit of moisture will soon be gone. Jack, you might not be aware of it, but we can have several interesting elements of weather in a single hour here in this grand county. A soft little rain, like this one, which could get you wet enough given enough minutes. Maybe a pounding burst of it. Then a bit of clearing so as to showcase some big, beautiful, fluffy, floating white clouds, followed by a darkening sky, soft rain, and the wind coming into play. It can all happen in the time it takes to run the opening race at the Curragh. But, not today. We’re in for a nice, clear sky later on. The sun will make a comeback before too long.”
At the roadway, Jack looked right and left. Niall poked his elbow. “Not much need of such caution out here, my friend. You can hear traffic coming for a good distance, autos or the occasional horse-cart Let’s go left. There’s a path that leads down to the lake.”
They made their way past trees and grass still carrying dew, chatting about the previous night’s dinner. “A good group, Niall, you have working for you. They were enjoying themselves. And your hospitality, of course,” Doyle added, with a mocking bow.
“Most of them were. Though I thought Tony Rourke was kind of quiet, even for him. And Barry didn’t appear all that delighted to be there either. Maybe they’ve been to too many of these gatherings. And then, there was your fellow Yank, Dr. Whitesell, making his presence felt. What an obnoxious arshole, if you don’t mind me describing one of your countrymen. Must admit I was glad you were seated slightly closer to him than I was. Some of the guff he was spouting, I would have had to shut that off in a hurry.”
Doyle said, “I can offer no defense of Dr. Blowhard.”
They came to the end of the wide dirt path and took it to the shore. The dark green waters of Lough Inagh were rippling. Far out they could see three boats of sportsmen with their rods and reels. The sun had begun to probe the dark, heavy-looking western clouds that were retreating. Doyle bent to pick up a skinny flat stone and effortlessly skipped it across the water. “Four jumps with that one,” he grinned, looking back at Hanratty, adding, “do people swim in here?”
“Sure. This lake water isn’t that terrible cold. Not as bad as the sea near me.”
Doyle said, “Is that why you have a swimming pool at your house next to the sea? I really didn’t understand the thinking behind that, you know.”
“Have you ever tried to backstroke through fifty-two-degree waves, Jack? I didn’t think so. That’s why I put in my pool. It gives us a nice look at the sea from the water where we’d rather be.”
Niall stopped walking, hands on hips, looking out at Lough Inagh. “The waves this morning here are not quite what they were back home last week. When I was almost shot to death.”
“What?” Doyle stopped and turned to face his host. “Say that again?”
“You heard me right the first time, Jack. And that’s what I’ve brought you out here this morning to tell you about.”
Chapter Forty
“I was taking one of my usual early evening strolls on the strand down below my house. Talking on my cell phone. Getting the day’s net business figures from Tony Rourke. Leaving a message on Dermott McGrath’s answering machine, he’s my Kinsale office manager, about next day’s schedule. Then, right after I turn off the cell phone, I hear a crack sound and feel something zip very close to the right side of my head. I know it’s not a feckin’ gust of wind. Right off, there’s another cracking rifle sound just like the first one. That bullet kicks up sand just in front of my right foot. By now I’m moving. I heard one more shot. No idea where that one landed except it wasn’t, thank Jesus, in me.
“I moved damn fast then to the stairs leading up to my house. No shots follow me. I run in and shout to Sheila to get herself and the boys into the basement. I call the Kinsale Garda headquarters and, God bless ’em, they were out there pretty quick.”
Doyl
e said, “The shooter must have been in a boat looking in on you, right?”
“Yes. I’d noticed a small white motor boat maybe a hundred yards off shore that evening. We don’t have that many little crafts cruising in my neighborhood, but they’re not entirely uncommon. That’s why I didn’t give this one a second look.”
“I’d say you were a mighty lucky man, Niall.”
“No argument from me about that. Thankfully, this villain must not have been too strong in the nautical department. The bobbing up and down of the boat must have thrown his aim off enough to save my hide.”
Doyle said, “I imagine you gave a description of the boat to the police?”
“Not much of a one. I just saw it was a little white craft. Hell, I was paying it no attention at all until the blasting away at me got underway. I don’t even know if there was anyone in it along with the shooter. The Garda had no luck locating anybody else who saw the boat. They used metal detectors to locate two of the three bullets buried in the sand. If they don’t locate the shooter and his rifle, those findings won’t do them much good.”
Doyle bent down for another skinny stone and sent it on its skipping way. He brushed the sand off his hands. “Well, Niall, at least there’s one bright element about your recent experience.”
“What the hell would that be?”
“At least we know now, without any doubt anymore, that somebody’s trying to kill you.”
Hanratty’s dark look was succeeded by a booming laugh. “Brilliant. That’s a great comfort, indeed.”
***
The low, gray Saturday morning clouds suddenly spat out rain pellets that bit into Doyle’s uncovered head. By the time he’d pulled up his sweatshirt hood, it was over. Hanratty stood back, amused. “You’ve just gotten a brief primer in Connemara weather, Jack.”
Doyle pointed toward a log that stretched into the grass from the strand. “I want to sit a bit, Niall. I want to ask you again, why does someone want you dead?” Hanratty plunked down, frown back upon his face.
“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be here having this early morning discussion. I’ve no feckin’ idea. Other than those letters and cards from harmless looneys, I’ve not had a threat. You think crazy letter writer ‘Tim From Tipperary’ could get himself up to wobble about in a little boat firing at me? Hardly.”
Hanratty leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face toward the lake. “There’s only one man I know of who hates me enough to want to kill me. He just got out of Mountjoy Prison a few months back.”
“Mountjoy Prison,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “A classic Irish oxymoron. What man are you talking about, Niall?”
“His name is Ciarin Boyle. Ah, yes, he’d be bitter enough to try. But if he decided to do so, I don’t doubt that he would succeed and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
A gust of wind off the lake kicked up enough sand to force both men to momentarily shield their faces. “What does this Boyle have against you?”
“He’s got a grudge that he believes is righteous. Looking at it from his standpoint, I can see why. Ciarin and his band of merry men attempted one of the great betting coups. It involved a good horse named Gay Futurity that Ciaran owned.
“It all started in August some four years ago. There were a dozen different small race meetings going on around our country. As you know, a race meeting here is not the same length as yours in the U.S. Your meetings run weeks or months. Most of ours go from a day or two to a week or two.
“Ciaran entered Gay Futurity in a hurdle race at little Galway Park, in the very county we’re sitting in. It was on Monday of that particular August week, one of our many bank holidays. But neither he nor his cohorts bet Gay Futurity at Galway where he was to run. Instead, they drove to betting shops all over the country, including four of mine. They hoped this carefully timed strike force would go unnoticed by bookmakers. Ciarin himself, of course, didn’t put in any of these numerous wagers. He was using what you in the States would call ‘beards.’ Other men secretly representing him.”
“Why are they called ‘beards’?”
“Because they are disguising what they’re doing. Actually, I believe the term came from the U.S. I read once that Frank James, brother of Jesse, worked as a ‘beard’ for your famous early twentieth-century gambler Pittsburgh Phil after Frank’s brother passed and the bank robbing business dried up. Anyway, Ciarin’s plan was clever. He had his beards hook up Gay Futurity in trebles with two other horses in earlier races on that Galway program, two horses that Ciaran secretly owned. They were a pair of no-hopers, for sure. But he never intended to run these long-odds items that day. These multiple bets, as you know, are difficult to win and they pay healthy odds. Ciaran withdrew these other two horses early that afternoon, claiming they had suddenly developed fevers. Which they had. The veterinarian on hand determined that. Of course, there was no way to determine the cause of these convenient infections at the time.
“So, under our rules, any of these bets on Gay Futurity in the multiple wagers would become a single bet on Gay Futurity after the other two horses were taken out of their races. By going through this enter-and-withdraw charade, Ciaran attempted to hide—for at least until his race was run—the amount bet on Gay Futurity. Oh, this was a well-planned exercise in thievery.” Niall shook his head. “You have to give that bold chancer credit.”
The two men’s heads turned back to the nearby walking path, their attention attracted by a distressingly familiar voice. “Good God, it’s that dreadful doctor,” Niall said. It was indeed Doctor Whitesell and his wife coming along with the Hoys. Barry and the doctor were in the lead. Whitesell attempted to leave the walking path to approach Hanratty and Doyle. But Hoy clamped one of his large hands on the doctor’s arm and maneuvered him back into forward motion. Hoy looked over his shoulder as Whitesell resumed his monologue, mouthing to Hanratty, “You owe me for this, Boss.” The foursome were soon out of sight and earshot.
“Good man, your Hoy,” Doyle said. “But what about bad man Boyle?”
Niall said, “Well, his good horse Gay Futurity won that race all right. Like a thief in the night. At odds of 10-1 that Mister Boyle had in effect created. Entered in that race on his own, Gay Futurity would have been even money. Boyle was up for a payoff of some three hundred thousand Euros.”
“Wow!”
“Wow is right, Jack,” Hanratty smiled. “Except it didn’t happen. About two hours before that race went off, my man Tony Rourke got a call from his cousin Eddie Kilfoyle, who runs my betting shop in Bray. Eddie said strangers, patrons never before in his shop, had come in and bet heavily on a treble winding up with a horse named Gay Futurity. Two different huge bets in twenty minutes or so. Very, very unusual. Eddie asked if Tony knew anything about these horses.
“No such bets had been made at our Kinsale headquarters. Ciaran was too smart to do that. But Tony started calling around the country to our other shops, then shops of some of our competitors. Sure enough, same result. Out of the blue had come a ton of money on this supposedly longshot treble at this fairly obscure track on a normally very quiet Monday afternoon. But then, of course, when Boyle’s first two longshot runners were scratched, it became one huge bet on Gay Futurity.
“And, once we had this attempt at thievery figured out,” Hanratty grinned, “we all agreed, all the betting shops across the country, not to pay off Boyle and his men for the Gay Futurity caper. Boyle howled to the heavens before the national Racing and Wagering Board. When they heard the whole story, what they did was ban Boyle from all Irish racetracks for ten years, both as a horse owner and as a patron.
“Ciaran Boyle maintained that his clever taking advantage of odds was a stroke of genius, not a criminal act. The Board disagreed, unanimously, stating that the act warranted his exclusion. On top of that, Boyle was shortly thereafter charged in civil court with several counts of attempted fraud, found guilty,
and given a two-year prison sentence. Quite a comedown for that bold fella.”
Doyle said, “I don’t imagine Mr. Boyle took this well.”
“He surely didn’t. When he learned that his plan had been discovered by my Tony Rourke, he was furious. With Tony, with me. He came up with several muttered threats of revenge that were duly reported in the press.”
Hanratty shrugged. “That’s just in the man’s nature.”
The breeze off Lough Ina picked up, bringing with it a promise of more rain. “We’d better head back,” Hanratty said. He got to his feet.
Doyle remained seated on the log, reviewing all that he’d just heard. Finally, he looked up at Hanratty. “So, you’re convinced Ciaran Boyle hasn’t been behind these attempts on your life? What you call the ‘automotive mishaps.’ The errant rifleman on the little boat off your beach at home?”
“Absolutely, Jack.” Hanratty zipped up his jacket and pulled the collar up. “Believe me,” he said, “if Ciaran Boyle had been in charge of these events, I wouldn’t be talking to you on this soon-to-be-moist morning. I’m telling you all this primarily because of my dear Sheila’s urging. She’s having dreams about me being cemetery-bound just as I approach my prime.
“My friends in the Garda haven’t advanced this matter to their front burner. The leading private security firm I use has done no better in attempting to figure out who has it so mortally in for me. Or why. Sheila considers you to be a very impressive sort off your sleuthing successes in the States.” He shrugged again. “I’m inclined to agree with her. If you can help me here, I’d appreciate it.”
Looking somewhat embarrassed by even having to make this appeal, the famously tough and independent Hanratty said, “Let’s go on back to the Lodge.”
Doyle bent down to re-tie his running shoelaces. “I’ll see what I can do, Niall. I’m going to take my morning run now. Always a great thinking time for me. See you in an hour or so.”