by John McEvoy
Doyle read the Racing Daily story about Gavidia in his car after he’d stopped to buy the paper in the Heartland Downs track kitchen. “Damn,” he said after he’d finished. He got out of his Accord and walked to Tenuta’s office. Mickey Sheehan was already there, sitting on a downturned feed bucket near the door, her head in her hands. She looked up when she heard Doyle say, “Mickey.”
Tear tracks were evident on her earnest, freckled face. “Jaysus, Jack, this thing with Wilfredo is a crusher. I don’t know if I want to ride today.”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, kid, I could hardly blame you if you didn’t want to.”
Mickey gave him a fierce stare. “You don’t think it’s about fear, do you? I hope not.” She took a deep breath. “It’s about respect.”
She jumped up off the bucket, which loudly overturned, and walked to the nearby first stall in the barn. “Plotkin,” Doyle could hear her say, “how are you today, my friend?”
Plotkin eagerly poked his head out over the stall door. Mickey reached up and put her arms around his neck. Doyle could see her shaking with sobs. He stood still. Tenuta came out of his office, concerned. Doyle waved him back inside. Mickey gave Plotkin a final pat on the neck and walked back to Doyle.
“Jack, this is not about fear, me riding today or not. I’m sorry I was so angry with you. What I’m feeling today is all about Wilfredo.” Mickey turned away to snuffle up another bit of weeping. Turned her head back to Doyle. Wiped her nose on the sleeve of her gray tee-shirt. “You’re a patient sort, Jack.”
“That’s me all over.”
Mickey turned the bucket upside-down again and sat down. She said, “Wilfredo is a great person. From the time I walked into the riders’ room here, when nobody knew me, he was right away very nice to me. He told me where to go to get things I needed—a valet, a locker and bench, towels, so on. The other lads were cool, but distant. Wilfredo encouraged me to think I could do well here. Later, he introduced me to his wife and family and we’ve had dinners together.
“When I say other riders were cool to me, and that most of them under Wilfredo’s leadership were at least respectful, that doesn’t mean there weren’t a few arseholes riding here. Men who hate the idea of a girl rider competing with them. Especially one from out of their country.
“Wilfredo never saw it that way. The first week I rode here, I’d be walking from the jocks’ room to the paddock, and he would make it a point to come and walk beside me. Protective, like, you know? And encouraging after the races. He’d point out what I’d done wrong, or could do better. Made me think.
“The second race I rode in here,” Mickey continued, “was for Ralph Tenuta. My horse won by a nose. Who do you think I beat in that photo finish? Wilfredo. When we were galloping out past the finish line, Wilfredo pulled up alongside of me and gave me a high five. I’ll never forget that.”
An announcement boomed over the track’s backstretch public address system, the racing secretary’s office declaring that entries were “About to close for Saturday’s program.”
Mickey stood up. “What I said before, about you taking me off my mounts today? Forget it. I’ll ride today, Jack. Wilfredo would want me to.”
That evening, driving home, Doyle thought of his client and said to himself, “What a tough little item is Mickey Sheehan.”
She’d won three races that afternoon, leaping into fifth place in the Heartland Downs jockey standings.
He dialed Moe Kellman on his cell phone.
“Guess what our little leprechaun did today?” Doyle said.
Chapter Sixteen
Doyle and Tenuta sat on the bench outside the trainer’s office the next afternoon. None of Ralph’s trainees were running that day. Mickey had no mounts that day. She’d gone with Nora into Chicago to see the Michigan Avenue sites and the famous Bean in Millenium Park and do some shopping. All in an attempt to get their minds off Wilfredo Gavidia’s condition.
Gavidia’s physicians had concluded that their patient would be paralyzed from the waist down and wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life. Tenuta said, “Just like Ronnie Turcotte, who rode Secretariat. Turcotte has carried on pretty damn well. I hope Wilfredo can do the same.”
Doyle said, “We should go to that fund-raising dinner they’re having for Wilfredo in a couple of weeks. Should I buy us a table? I know Mickey would want to go. Probably Nora, too.”
“I’ve already called us in and made the reservation. Lady running it said they were getting a great response.”
“What do I owe you for, well, us. Me and Mickey and Nora. How much are the tickets?”
Tenuta said, “Seventy-five apiece. But this is on me, Jack.”
Doyle took a call on his cell phone from Steve Holland, who said he wanted Mickey to ride his entry in the fourth race Sunday. “You’ve got her. Thanks, Steve. And good luck.
“Every once in awhile,” Doyle said to Tenuta, “I think about what these riders do. It amazes me. Danger has to be in their minds. But they seem to ignore it.”
“Jack, I’ve been around jockeys for more than thirty years. The ones that make a living riding don’t let fear come into focus. It’s the way they are. One of the older riders told me once that some people wonder which part of the racetrack is the most dangerous. He said, ‘You can get hurt anywhere.’ And that’s the truth.
“Jocks have been killed in the starting gate when their mounts leaped up backwards and crashed their heads into the iron. That’s how the great Alvaro Pineda died years ago in California. He was a friend of mine.”
Tenuta paused, looking across the yard to where a horse was being carefully washed by a female groom as Ingrid McGuire looked on. Ingrid waved at Doyle and Tenuta.
“You heard about the fund-raiser for Wilfredo?” Tenuta called to Ingrid.”You going?”
“Sure am.” Then she turned her attention back to the nervous black filly she was dealing with. Doyle and Tenuta watched as she smoothed a hand down the filly’s neck, calming her. The filly stopped squirming and stood still. Ingrid leaned close to the filly’s left ear. After five minutes, Ingrid grinned and gave the now relaxed filly a slap on her rump as her groom started to lead her back to her stall.
“Man, I wish I knew how to do that, Jack,” the trainer said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about that black filly of Buck Norman’s that was over there. I’ve seen her act up crazy, throwing a fit morning after morning. Buck didn’t know what the hell to do with her. Then I told Buck, ‘Try Ingrid.’ He did. Buck has been mighty damn grateful ever since. That filly won a race last Wednesday like breaking sticks. She’s probably worth three times this morning what she was three weeks ago. You can thank Ingrid’s work for that.”
Chapter Seventeen
“That bitch. She’s ruined me.”
Eric Allgauer pounded one of his large fists against a wall in his brother Rudy’s office on the Heartland Downs backstretch. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
Rudy said, “Eric, c’mon, calm down. Sit down. I think your knuckles are bleeding. What the hell’s wrong with you? You look like shit. You haven’t shaved. You’re behind in your showering. I’ve never seen you like this, my brother. Damn!”
Eric wiped the blood from his hand onto his tee-shirt. He took a deep breath. Walked to one of the chairs in front of Rudy’s desk and sat down, put his head in his hands. “She’s ruining me,” he muttered.
Over their years, Rudy had listened to many of his brother’s tirades. Used to happen often when they shared their bedroom in the Allgauer’s home. Eric would get lit up with some slight he thought he’d had from a chemistry teacher. From a bad interference call against him on their high school’s vaunted football team. From losing that school’s vice presidency of the senior class by less than a dozen votes to an opponent he derided as “that little nerd shit.”
But, Rudy thought, in those days his brother would become angry, try and usually fail to get even, but a
lways bounce back fairly quickly. Eric had graduated from high school with honors, six varsity athletic letters, gone off to vet school at the University of Illinois on partial academic scholarship, and thrived.
Rudy said, “Eric, you’ve gotten a bad deal from those trainers who dropped you. Ralph Tenuta. Buck Norman. A bunch of others. But you can’t just blame all that on Ingrid. Let’s be honest. You’ve been drinking too much, my brother. The word got all around the racetrack. You’ve been screwing up. Now, you’ve got to find a way back.”
“And like you’re doing so great?” Eric snarled.
Rudy said, “Believe me, I’m not saying that. I haven’t saddled a winner in three weeks. I don’t have very good stock here. You know that. I’ve never sunk so low before this season. I need help.”
Eric looked appraisingly at his older sibling. “What kind of help?”
“I’ve got a horse going Friday that I need, I mean need, to win with. Friar Tuckie. Owned by one of the few remaining loyal owners I have, Mac Doherty. He’s shown a lot of patience with me. But I can tell by talking to him, his patience is about to run out.”
Eric said, “Is Friar Tuckie any good? Can he run?”
“Yeah, he’s got some talent. Just not enough to win an allowance race.”
“Why the hell don’t you drop him down into a claimer?”
Rudy said, “Because the owner, Mac Doherty, won’t let me. He named this horse after some old asshole buddy of his from college. He ordered me never to risk Friar Tuckie being claimed away from him.”
Eric got up and went to the refrigerator behind Rudy’s desk. “You got any beer in here? I didn’t think so.” He snatched out a can of ginger ale.
“What do you think, Eric? Have you got something that’ll help this son of a bitch run faster?”
“Yes. I know of something new around here. It’s called erythropoietin. It works to boost endurance.”
Rudy said, “Say what?”
“EPO is what it’s usually called. It’s a blood doping agent. It boosts the number of red blood cells. Just like in humans, a horse’s muscles need oxygen for fuel. Because red blood cells carry oxygen from the lungs to the horse’s muscles, more red blood cells help the horse run faster. A higher red blood cell count equals more oxygen equals more muscle energy. Makes them run harder, faster, longer. It can impressively increase endurance. It’s a very powerful performance enhancer. I’ve talked to a couple of guys who have used it. They swear by it.”
“Shit,” Rudy said, “I’ve never heard about this stuff. What do you do? Give it to the horse in its feed?”
Eric laughed. “No, Rudy, no. It has to be administered with a needle. Into the jugular vein. Horses are used to that procedure. When their blood work is taken to be checked, it’s by means of a needle in the jugular. Don’t worry. This magic stuff won’t harm the horse. Just make him go faster.”
“Do you need me to help you do this, Eric?”
“Hell, no. I’m a trained vet, remember? You know,” Eric continued, “most vets, like ninety percent of the world’s people, are right-handed. So they always use the jugular vein on the left side of the horse’s neck. As you know, I’m left-handed. I’ll use the other side of your horse’s neck. Yeah, I know I have to be careful. Occasionally, the vein gets punctured and the horse can develop an infection. Not with me. I know what I’m doing. Not to worry, bro.”
Rudy sat back in his chair, thoughtful, nervously twirling a pencil in his hand. He thought about Michelle’s report of “Mr. Johnson” and the Chinese herbs. Coupled with that memory was one of his diminishing bank account and escalating late bill payments.
“Christ, I don’t know Eric. I guess I’ll have to have you try this. Can you fix Friar Tuckie up before his race next week?”
“No problem.”
Rudy said, “Where do you get this stuff?”
“You don’t need to know, Rudy. Let’s just wait and watch it work its magic.”
“Wait,” Rudy said, “how about it being detected? What are the chances of that? Jesus, that’s all I’d need, a drug-positive coming back on one of my horses.”
“Chances of it being detected?” Eric laughed. “Just about nil. The testing labs aren’t onto this stuff yet. You wait,” Eric grinned, “you’ll see Friar Tuckie flying to the wire when you send him out there next time.”
Eric picked up his jacket and moved toward the door. “You know, Rudy, I’ve got something else that lights these horses up. It’s called elephant juice. A real performance enhancer as they say.”
“I don’t get it, Eric. If it’s so effective, why wouldn’t you use this elephant juice on Friar Tuckie? Instead of that blood doping stuff?”
Eric said, “Because I don’t want to use something on a horse of yours that would be detected by the state testing lab. And I’m damn sure the EPO won’t be.”
Chapter Eighteen
In his column of June 28, Racing Daily’s Heartland Downs correspondent Ira Kaplan wrote:
“Injured jockey Wilfredo Gavidia has been transferred from Holy Family Hospital to the Chicago Rehabilitation Institute where he will undergo further treatment and begin a program of physical therapy.
Gavidia’s fellow riders and friends have planned a fund-raising dinner for him. Heartland Downs director of relations Joan Colby said the date, time, and other details would be announced later this week.
In other news today, Mrs. Ralph Tenuta’s promising juvenile colt Plotkin will be traveling to Saratoga Race Course next weekend to compete in the historic Sanford Stakes. Plotkin’s regular rider, young Irish jockey Mickey Sheehan, told Racing Daily that any earnings Plotkin might accrue from the purse of the race would be donated to the Wilfredo Gavidia Fund. Her jockey fee, too. “These are wonderful and generous people who own this horse,” she said. “I’m praying we can do well in that big race.”
Mickey was across the aisle from Doyle, wide-eyed and excited as she settled into her seat in the first-class section of American Airlines Flight 1498 from Chicago’s O’Hare to Albany, New York.
Nora sat next to her in the window seat. To Doyle’s right was Moe Kellman, engrossed in that morning’s copy of the New York Times, the little man comfortably settled in and buckled up in his window seat. In the row immediately behind these two sat Ralph Tenuta, obviously unnerved. As they had shuffled their tedious way through O’Hare Airport security, shoes and belts off, and on, Tenuta confided to Doyle his fierce fear of flying. “I’ve never understood how it works,” Tenuta said as they sat in adjacent chairs, re-tying their shoe laces. “You’re in this giant machine that goes up into the sky? What keeps it there?”
Doyle looked back over his first-class seat at the trainer’s worried face. “Ralph, have a little glass of wine. Here comes the stewardess. Sit back, try to relax. Just put your mind on Plotkin’s race Saturday.”
Tenuta thanked the stewardess and took a gulp of his merlot. He tapped Doyle on the shoulder. “I don’t know if this is going to put my mind at ease, Jack. I’m not sure we’ve done the right thing here.”
Kellman put down his paper and took off his glasses. He reached around between the seats to pat Tenuta’s trembling leg. “Ralph. This will all work out. One way or the other, we’re going to have some fun. Relax. Enjoy.”
As he picked up the newspaper Kellman said to Doyle, “You’d think this story would be in a supermarket tabloid, not the Times. You can’t make up some of this stuff.”
“Like what?” Doyle answered. He was ready to put his seat back after takeoff and take a nap. He’d been awake for hours helping to implement this excursion by Chicagoans to Saratoga.
Kellman said, “There’s this guy in Russia they re-elected as head of the World Chess Federation.”
“So? The Russians have always been big in chess, right?”
“Yeah, but this guy obviously had kind of different qualifications. He claims, according to the Times story, that he had been abducted by space aliens. That he’d later met with extraterrestrials
wearing yellow space suits. In his Moscow apartment. That they convinced him chess comes from outer space.” Kellman turned to look out his window. Said, “Hello out there.”
Finally in the takeoff runway, American Airlines Flight 1498 roared down the tarmac and sliced into the sky. Doyle turned to give Tenuta a reassuring look. The trainer’s hands gripped the arms of his seat. His eyes were closed, lips moving. “May the power of prayer help you out, my friend,” Doyle murmured.
Doyle looked across the aisle at the Sheehan sisters. They were chatting about the upcoming on-flight movie choices, perfectly at ease.
“This Russian chess leader,” Doyle said to Kellman.
“What about him?”
“Maybe he could launch his version of our Tea Party movement over there. Sounds like he’s qualified.”
He heard Moe chuckle as he moved his seat back and closed his eyes.
***
After the amazing Plotkin, a fifty-grand purchase, won his first three starts, the latest a small stakes race called the Heartland Downs Juvenile, a member of the racing department at famed Saratoga Race Course left a message on Ralph Tenuta’s office voice mail encouraging him to enter Plotkin in one of his track’s upcoming big races for two-year-olds at his track. As Tenuta later related to Doyle, “I thought it was a joke. Being pulled off by one of my trainer friends here. I just kind of laughed it off.
“But this nice guy in the Saratoga office convinced me he was serious. That’s when I mentioned it to you, Jack. Hell, I’ve never taken a horse to Saratoga. But then you talked it over with Moe. You told me Moe said, ‘Life is short. Let’s take a shot.’”
A quarter-hour or so after liftoff, Tenuta finally began to relax a little. He glanced around first-class. There appeared to be one other racetracker on hand, an intense, thirtyish man making multicolored notations in the margins of his Racing Daily past performance section. He wore a long-sleeved blue tee-shirt. The white writing on its back declared “The Maven Knows.”
