Photo Finish: A Jack Doyle Mystery (Jack Doyle Series Book 5)

by John McEvoy

  Doyle plucked a breadstick out of the basket. “All right, Moe, you’ve got me. What the hell is a ‘Hebrew boilermaker’?

  “A shot of slivovitz washed down with a glass of Mogen David.”

  ***

  Owner Dino hustled forward to hover over the Kellman booth like an obsequious butterfly, well aware he would be able to write a large number on the Kellman tab once this joyous gathering had eaten and ungathered. Moe, Jack, and Ralph and Tenuta sat on one side of the booth. Across from them were Moe’s wife Leah, Rosa Tenuta, and the Sheehan sisters. Mickey said to Moe, “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to ride Plotkin.”

  Moe said, “You can thank your agent.”

  Kellman leaned over to whisper to Doyle, “My God, that little girl has a voice like a munchkin from the Wizard of Oz.”

  “Who cares what she sounds like? It’s how she rides that counts.”

  Their drink orders taken, Leah asked her husband, as if she didn’t know the answer, “Do you want to order for all of us?”

  “My pleasure.” Moe looked around the table. “We’ll get something for everybody. Family style.”

  Minutes later from the kitchen came two large platters of fried calamari, three different pasta dishes, and a huge salad bowl. “Meat and chicken come later,” Moe announced. He raised his Negroni in a toast. “Here’s to Plotkin!”

  Doyle went for the calamari, one of his favorite appetizers, dipping it in a horse radish- laden red sauce. He carefully observed the Irish sisters’ approach to Italian-American cuisine. Nora took some salad and one small serving of two pasta dishes, pronouncing everything to be delicious. Mickey, meanwhile, was putting away sizeable portions of everything available. Leah said, “Moe, would you watch this girl eat? She’s wonderful!” Leah patted Mickey’s hand.

  Moe said, “Mickey, how do you do it? Eat like that and keep your weight down for riding?”

  “I’ve always been lucky along those lines, Mr. Kellman. Never had a weight problem.” She stopped to take a forkful of pasta before saying, “I make 103 every day no matter what I’ve eaten. And this is wonderful food. We have nothing like this back home.”

  Nora sighed. “I don’t know where Mickey’s metabolism comes from. It sure isn’t in my genes. Mickey’s always been that way. When she ran mini-marathons as a kid in Dun Laoghaire, she’d wind up first at the top runners’ table and eat more plates than the embarrassed lads she’d outfinished down on the strand. Me, if I look at a scone, I put on a half a stone.”

  “But in the right places,” Doyle responded. He raised his nearly empty glass of Jameson’s and reached across the table to clink it against Nora’s wine glass.

  Leah Kellman said, “Jack, sit back. Here come the waiters with the chicken Vesuvio and the veal picata.”

  Her husband nudged Doyle with his knee. Nodding toward Nora, Kellman whispered, “Jack, you never change, you rascal. Trying to romance one of the visiting Micks. Good luck with Miss Nora. She doesn’t look like any pushover.”

  “I’ve never been interested in pushovers, Moe. What would be the fun in that?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rudy Allgauer, Eric’s older brother, watched as his wife Michelle pulled into their driveway, parked, and began to extricate several bags of grocery from the back of their white Kia SUV. Rudy opened the kitchen door and went out to help her. As he reached for the largest bag, he gave her firm little ass an affectionate pat.

  Michelle, black hair cut short, trim and fit at thirty-four, had spent a good deal of her adult life in pursuit of eternal good health. She jogged on a regular basis, was a Pilates enthusiast, a fan of acupuncture, cranial massages, colonic irrigation and, most recently, the addition of Chinese herbs to her vegan diet. That’s what sent her into Chicago’s Chinatown once every month to purchase supplies. She’d just returned from the city. As she had told Rudy, “These herbs really work for me.”

  Rudy did not complain. His horse-training business at Heartland Downs had gone from weak to dismal in the last half-year. But his sex life with Michelle was in the highest, finest gear he’d ever known. Maybe it was the herbs. Maybe it was because that was the only satisfaction he’d been experiencing lately.

  That day at the track, Rudy had started two members of his seriously depleted stable. As he held the kitchen door for her, Michelle said, “How’d they do?”

  “All they got was exercise. I’m in the slump of slumps.”

  “C’mon in the house, hon. I’ll blend us some margaritas. She hefted two sizeable bags.

  Rudy said, “I’m going to pass on drinks today.”

  “Why?”

  “Saw brother Eric today. Depressing. He’s acting more and more like the alky I think he’s become. Runs in our family. I want that run to stop with me.”

  “But you don’t drink much. Heck, nothing like Eric. Or your father, for that matter. What are you worried about?”

  He closed the screen door and placed the heaviest brown bag on the counter. He said, “I’m worried because I think it’s in the Allgauer genes. Our old man’s a secret alky. Eric looks to me like he’s following in those destructive footsteps. I don’t want to go there, you know? Anyway, I’ve got other worries on the front burner right now. My top groom quit on me ’cause she was offered more money from Buck Norman. Hell, I can’t blame Inez. She’s a single mom with three kids to support. Still, it’s another fucking blow. Ain’t been a good summer, babe.”

  ***

  Rudy, the elder by four years of the Allgauer brothers, had not preceded Eric to college. Coming out of high school, Rudy went directly to work on the backstretch of Heartland Downs. He’d ridden show horses as a kid, always been intrigued by everything equine. At the track, he began as a hot walker and stall cleaner, advanced to groom, then assistant trainer to an aged curmudgeon named J. Paul Maslin. He worked for Maslin, doing most of the heavy lifting, for eighteen months before starting his own stable with horses mostly owned by people his veterinarian father had recommended. Rudy’s first couple of years had gone great. The last two had been an increasingly slippery slope involving horses breaking down, owners pulling back having been caught up in the nation’s financial descent, and the horses that remained in his care performing the far side of poorly.

  Had it not been for the popular yoga classes Michelle conducted in their carpeted, mirrored, aromatic basement, this branch of the Allgauer family would be closing in on foodstamps and foreclosure.

  Michelle said to him last weekend, “What about asking your Dad for some help here? He’s got the money. You could tell him it’s, like, temporary. A loan to help us through here. Hell, he’s sitting on a pile of money.”

  “Forget it. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’s always had in the back of his mind that I would fuck up somehow. I’m not going to provide proof. Brother Eric’s his golden boy,” Rudy laughed. “Not me.”

  “Why are you laughing like that? What’s funny about Eric?”

  Rudy wiped his hand over his face, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s not a laughing matter. Eric, for years under the old man’s thumb, finally rebelled against the famous Dr. Allgauer. But he has not rebelled against the booze. He’s having a tough time with that. Losing Ingrid, losing most of his practice. Losing himself. I know that. I shouldn’t be knocking him.”

  Michelle said, “Explain that to me after I start dinner. I’ve got a Wolfgang Puck frozen thin-crust pizza. That okay?”

  “Not a speck of meat on it I suppose. Aw, sure, what the hell. I’ll make a salad.”

  Michelle preheated the oven. Finished off the first half of her margarita. Leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, inquisitive.

  “Rudy, what happened with Eric and Ingrid? Last time we saw them they looked to me to be very happy.”

  Rudy said, “That was weeks ago. I understand things have changed, mainly because of Eric’s drinking. Guys I know at the track talk about Eric’s drinking. But Ingrid, she’s on the way up. Ever
ybody seems to like her and her work. I don’t know, I just think my brother is not taking that very well. I said to him the other morning, ‘Man, you want to talk to me about what’s going on? ’ He just turned away from me.

  “I’m worried about him. And,” Rudy added, “I’m worried about me and my training business.” He walked to the refrigerator. “Maybe I will have a beer with dinner. Is that what Wolfgang Puck suggests for an accompaniment to his premier pizza?”

  “Very funny.”

  Rudy reached into fridge. “A can of Old Style. Perfect.” Michelle laughed and nudged him in the side as she carried the pizza to the cutting board. He put his beer down. Finished cutting up vegetables for the salad.

  ***

  Michelle, after downing her fourth pizza slice, said, “A funny thing happened in Chinatown today. Well, maybe not funny. But interesting.”

  “What was that?”

  “The herb place that I go to in Chinatown? I’ve told you about it. The man who runs it is Fred Yao Ming. Very nice old guy. Anyway, today when I was checking out at the counter, my Heartland Downs entrance pass slipped out of my wallet. He picked it up and handed it to me. He asked if I went to the racetrack. Sure, I said, my husband Rudy is in the business. He’s a trainer.

  “Mr. Ming smiled. He said there was another ‘horse racing man,’ that’s what he called him, who came to his store regularly. ‘Very good customer,’ he said. ‘Big shot trainer.’

  “Naturally, I said, ‘What is that trainer’s name. Mr. Ming said, ‘All I know is last name. Johnson. Mr. Johnson.’

  “I said, ‘Well, sure, I think I know who that is. Noel Johnson. He’s the top trainer at Monee Park, where my husband sometimes sends horses to run. What a coincidence.’”

  Michelle pushed her empty pizza plate aside and gestured to Rudy to hand her the salad bowl. No response. When she looked up, Rudy was up out of his chair, face as crimson as the red peppers in the salad. She was stunned. “What is wrong with you?” she said.

  Rudy’s put his hands on the table, glaring at his wife. He said, “Well?”

  “Well, what? You look like you’re ready to explode.”

  “Did you ask your Chink buddy what that son of a bitch Noel Johnson buys from him? To give to his horses?”

  Michelle dropped her head. “I didn’t think of doing that, Rudy. I’m sorry. I guess I should’ve.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Jack, c’mon out and take a look at this,” Tenuta said from his office doorway. Doyle was seated at the trainer’s desk, poring over the new Heartland Downs condition book in search of possible mounts for Mickey.

  “What’s up, Ralph? I’m busy.”

  “Just get your ass out there and take a look.”

  Doyle grabbed his coffee cup and walked outside. Seven-forty on a bright, cool, June morning at Heartland Downs. Tenuta impatiently waved him forward. Walking ahead of the trainer was veterinarian Ingrid McGuire. Assistant trainer Paul Albano held a shank on the brown horse Frank’s Fantasy. Ingrid, a look of delight on her tanned face, clapped appreciatively as Frank’s Fantasy neighed and stomped his left forefoot on the ground.

  “So what’s going on?” Doyle said.

  Tenuta said, “Jack, you remember how sullen and cross this son of a gun was before Ingrid started working with him? Frank’s Fantasy wouldn’t run, he’d hardly eat. Then, through Ingrid’s communicating, she found out that Frank’s Fantasy was in a funk because he missed that gelding Mister Twaggs who got claimed away. He and Frank were big buddies.”

  Albano offered, “This horse was such a pain in the as you had to pay grooms extra to deal with him. That was before Dr. McGuire started working with him.”

  “I’m telling you, Jack,” Albano continued, “Frank’s Fantasy had turned so mean spirited he reminded me of one of the first guys I worked with when I came on the racetrack. Old Jason Fennimore. Good horseman, but just a miserable s.o.b. Somebody said once that when Jason Fennimore died, they’d have to hire pallbearers.”

  Albano turned the compliant Frank’s Fantasy in a small circle.

  “What’s Paul doing with this horse?” Doyle said.

  Ingrid laughed. Her sun glasses were in the breast pocket of her denim shirt. Doyle was relieved to see that most traces of the Eric Allgauer-produced black eye had disappeared from her pretty face. “Paul will show you.”

  “Mickey worked Frank’s Fantasy first thing this morning,” Albano said. “Said he went great. He came back and got hot walked and cooled out. Went about it real nice, not like before Dr. Ingrid started working with him.”

  Tenuta said, “Frank’s Fantasy has enlarged ankles. Not uncommon among racehorses. I hose those ankles down every morning with cold water. That’s what the great trainer Frank Whiteley did with the great gelding Forego. Mr. Whiteley would spend an hour every morning doing that while Forego grazed on the patch of grass next to their barn. It sure as hell worked. Forego was Horse of the Year five times.”

  Jack fielded a cell phone call from trainer Buck Norman. “Saturday’s second race on your horse for Mickey? Great. Thanks.” He heard Tenuta say, “Paul, stop him there. We’ll show Jack what we’re talking about. Believe me, he won’t ever see this too many places,” Tenuta grinned.

  Doyle shaded his eyes from the advancing sunlight. He watched as Frank’s Fantasy moved in docile circles at the end of Albano’s shank. He nudged Ingrid. “Are you communicating with this horse right now?”

  “No. That’s been done earlier this morning. Just watch.”

  Albano stroked Frank’s Fantasy’s neck as Tenuta picked up the hose. He sprayed the horses’ ankles for a minute, Frank’s Fantasy standing stock still, head turned to the sky, luxuriating in the water treatment and the attention.

  Albano held Frank’s Fantasy’s head. Tenuta took the stream of water off the horse’s ankles. Lifted up the nozzle. Frank’s Fantasy eagerly thrust his head forward and got the end of the hose in his mouth. Water shot up in the air. Then he aimed the spray directly at where Ingrid and Jack were standing.

  They jumped back, Ingrid the quicker. Knowing what was coming, she ducked behind the surprised Doyle whose shirt and trousers were now soaked.

  Frank’s Fantasy let loose with a triumphant neigh while still maintaining control of the nozzle.

  Tenuta and Albano bent over laughing at the look on Doyle’s face. Frank’s Fantasy shook his head back and forth creating a moist patch of ground at Doyle’s feet. The horse abruptly dropped the hose and turned to look toward his stall. Show over. He waited for Albano to lead him back into his home place.

  Walking back to Tenuta’s office, Doyle said, “Ingrid, how can this kind of thing happen with a racehorse? I’ve seen videos of horse being taught to count, to maneuver any which way their riders want. Barrel racing, cutting horses, horses used for calf roping. Amazing stuff. But those are not highly bred thoroughbreds. How did you get Frank’s Fantasy to come around the way you have? “

  “What I’ve tried to do, Jack, is think about their lives from their angle.” She shrugged, looked away. “I tried to go into this with Eric when we were together. He just dismissed my approach. I suspect he saw the value of it. But, because it was me and not him that came up with this, he spurned it. Very disappointing.

  “My thinking was, and is, that what we are dealing with here on the racetrack backstretches today are thousands of genetically created descendants of herd animals. Our racehorses find themselves confined to stalls for twenty-two, twenty-three hours a day. Mother Nature made horses to be nomadic. Foragers. Social. That’s been pretty much bred out of them.”

  She took a call on her cell phone. “Tell Buck I’ll get to his horse by ten at the latest.” Ingrid looked at Doyle, expecting him to say something. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

  “Let me sum it up for you, Jack. Through communicating I am able to tap into what’s going on in some of their minds. By no means all of them. Some never respond. Others, well…yes. And that is very exciting and rewarding for
me.”

  Ingrid got up, stretched, checked her watch, and smiled at Doyle.

  “Pretty interesting morning, eh, Jack? You’d better get out of those wet clothes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  All the early morning fun of that June morning with the newly amicable and mischievous Frank’s Fantasy was obliterated by a development in Heartland Downs’ eighth race that afternoon.

  Racing Daily reported it this way the following day:

  Veteran jockey Wilfredo Gavidia was seriously injured in a riding accident at Heartland Downs yesterday afternoon.

  Gavidia was aboard Connie Can Do, the favorite in the eighth race, a mile and one-eighth event for fillies and mares on the turf course. Just after Connie Can Do entered the stretch three lengths behind the tiring leader, Gavidia guided her toward an opening next to the rail. At the same time, the horse running second, Loud Gina, under Billy Brinkley, swerved to the left aiming at the same hole. Loud Gina got there first. Despite Gavidia’s efforts to haul back on the reins of Connie Can Do, the filly clipped heels with Loud Gina, and went down, throwing Gavidia heavily to the turf.

  Gavidia was taken by ambulance to nearby Holy Family Hospital. He underwent emergency surgery last night to fuse vertebrae in his spine. His wife Juanita said that the prognosis was “not encouraging.” Her husband, it is feared, will be permanently paralyzed from the breast bone down.

  Count on Connie, suffered irreparable leg injuries in the fall and was humanely put down by a track veterinarian.

  Gavidia, forty-two, is a native of Panama. He came to the US as a teenager and soon thereafter began his riding career in Florida. He has ridden some 2,700 winners. A long-time officer of the Jockeys’ Union, he is one of the most respected leaders of that national organization. Pat McCarron, Union national president, said ”Our prayers are with Wilfred, Juanita, and their three children.”