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

by John McEvoy

  Tenuta smiled as he saw the Sheehan sisters discussing the luncheon menu card. All of them, co-owner Doyle and Plotkin’s jockey, her sister, Plotkin’s trainer, were riding this magic carpet to New York courtesy of Moe Kellman. “If we’re going,” he’d announced to Doyle, “we’re fucking going in style.”

  ***

  En route to upstate New York in less glamorous fashion had been Plotkin, his departure two days earlier from Heartland Downs in a van from the Botzau Horse Transport Company. He’d walked up the ramp and into his stall like a seasoned traveler. Plotkin’s lone companion was Tenuta’s trusted groom Paul Albano. Paul had never been to this centerpiece of America’s summer racing. He was asexcited as he’d ever been during his decades as a worker in the thoroughbred business.

  Van company owner and driver Tom Botzau had carefully planned their journey. He pulled off the interstate the east side of Cleveland late the first afternoon into the back portion of a huge rest stop. Albano led Plotkin down the van ramp and into a nearby wooded area. Plotkin obligingly pissed powerfully into the weeds, shook his head, and looked for food. Paul gave him a half-bucket of honey-flavored oats. The oats went quickly.

  By the time driver Botzau returned from the rest stop men’s room, a small crowd of children had gathered around Plotkin. Their parents, munching candy bars and chips and sipping sodas from the rest-stop vending machines, looked on.

  Paul said, “Folks, please stand back aways. This is a racehorse. He’s not a pet.” He led the docile Plotkin up the ramp to his stall and closed the van’s back door.

  Botzau turned from the driver’s seat. “All set back, there, Paul?”

  “Ready to go, Tom.”

  Botzau eased his truck and attached van up the exit path to the Interstate. He smiled into his mirror.

  “You colt is a pretty damn good traveler.”

  They drove straight through, eighteen hours, more than 800 miles to Saratoga Springs, making a few more rest stops along the way. Plotkin nodded off a few times in his stall, Albano and driver Botzau not at all.

  The Botzau van pulled up at the Saratoga Race Course back stable gate just before dawn on Friday. Botzau had to blink his lights to get the guard’s attention. He showed the man their entrance papers and was directed to the stakes horse barn. Botzau had never been to Saratoga either. He very carefully drove down the still darkened gravel driveway.

  Albano led Plotkin down the van ramp. Waited while the colt looked at his new surroundings and inhaled the new morning air. Following the guard’s directions, Albano led Plotkin into his well prepared stall—hay on the floor, water in a bucket.

  Botzau waited and watched. Dawn began to peek over the old track’s eastern fringe of trees.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The white stretch limo Kellman hired was waiting for them at the Albany airport. The drive north to Saratoga Springs took less than an hour. Robert Karnes, the limo driver, engaged Doyle, who was in the front passenger seat, in conversation. Where was this party from? Who were they? What was their business in Saratoga Springs?

  “Jesus,” Doyle said good naturedly, “you are a nosey bastard, Robert.” Karnes was impressed as Doyle told him of their connections to a horse that was one of the runners in the next day’s Sanford Stakes.

  But Karnes’ eyebrows went up when heard the name. “Plotkin?” he said. “Never heard of him.”

  “You have. And you will,” Doyle said.

  Karnes efficiently delivered them to their downtown Saratoga Springs hotel. Kellman tipped the driver generously and asked him to return at six o’clock to take them to dinner at the famed restaurant adjacent to the racetrack. “That’s a big deal, Mr. Kellman,” Karnes said. “I guess you’ve got reservations?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kellman answered. “I have a good friend who knows the owners.”

  ***

  The Kellman party of five was led to a table immediately after arrival. It was near the kitchen doors. Moe motioned to everyone not to sit down, to wait. The Sheehan sisters shrugged and looked around the jam-packed restaurant. Moe had a brief conversation with the maitre d’. Currency from the Kellman rubber-banded bankroll was offered, accepted, and swiftly tucked away. The maitre d’, a veteran of the restaurant placement campaigns, led them to a table in the center of the large room. He pulled out chairs for the Sheehan sisters and left, smiling.

  “How do people talk in here?” Doyle said to Moe. He had to learn forward and speak into his friend’s ear to be heard. “Christ, there’s more yapping going on in here than at the Westminister Dog Show.”

  “Jack, Jack, relax. Look around you. This is the cream of Eastern horse racing society on hand here tonight. Some well known owners from the Midwest and West Coast, too. It’s good to check out the opposition once in awhile.”

  Drink orders taken, they listened to a dramatic three-minute recital of “tonight’s specialties” from their young spike-haired waiter, who identified himself as Bruce.

  Doyle sat back in his chair. To his right was the redoubtable furrier. Across the linen-covered table, the Sheehan girls. To his left, Ralph Tenuta, so relieved not to be airborne he actually seemed to be somewhat at ease, maybe even about to perhaps enjoy himself.

  Mickey gasped when on the menu she read rack of lamb listed at 54 dollars. Nora was examining the choices and their stated values with similar wonderment.

  Moe leaned forward. “Listen, my friends. Don’t be put off by these ridiculous prices. You could probably get everything on the menu at half-price once the Saratoga racing season is over. But, we’re here to do here what they do. Order whatever you want. I’m covering it.” He raised his cocktail glass of Negroni to them.

  “Whatever you order,” he assured them, “it’ll be good. Enjoy.”

  Doyle said, “I read a newspaper story about this place a couple of weeks ago. One of the owners was quoted as saying, ‘Our vegetables were in the ground this morning, the fish were in the water yesterday.’”

  “I think that’s probably true, Jack,” Moe said.

  “I assume you’ve been here before?”

  “I’ve been here and a lot of other places like it before.” Moe raised his glass. “Salud, Jack.”

  Doyle passed the basket of rolls and bread sticks around the table. He said to his employer, “Mickey, what looks good to you on the menu?”

  “Jaysus, Jack, just about everything.” She took a sip of her club soda and whispered to her sister, “What are you having?”

  Nora said, “I’ll be having what’s called here ‘the Cassel Farms Rack of Lamb.’ Courtesy of Mr. Kellman. Imagine, at that price they must hold it quite dear.” She saluted Moe with her wine glass.

  “Well, I’ll have that, too,” Mickey said. Putting her menu down on the table, she looked around the large room. “I don’t believe I see another rider here,” she murmured. The restaurant was replete with men wearing expensive blazers, many of their women chattering from beneath prodigious hats they’d worn to be seen with at the races that afternoon.

  Nora smiled at Doyle. “We’re a long way from Dun Laoghaire,” she said. “This is great, great fun.”

  As they waited for their entrees, Doyle said, “Ralph, have you figured out how you want Mickey to ride Plotkin tomorrow?”

  Tenuta winked across the table at Mickey. “She’s going to ride to win.”

  Irritated, Doyle said, “I’m serious. Have you two come up a strategy of any sort?”

  “Strategy can go out the window when the gate opens, Jack. Am I right, Mickey?”

  The little jockey said, “You just never know at the start, Jack. You can get banged from the left or bumped from the right. The ground can break out from under your horse when he’s leaping forward. Another horse could cut right in front of you without you seeing it coming.”

  She paused to take another sip of her club soda. Grinning, she said, “That’s what makes it so exciting and fun.”

  “Jack,” Tenuta said, “years ago I had an owner named Mary O�
��Hara Klein. Nice Irish lady married to a major Jewish real estate developer in Chicago. She knew a lot about horse racing, but not enough. Just enough to be dangerous.

  “One day, in the paddock at Heartland Downs, Mary walked up to where I was saddling her horse. She was carrying a piece of paper. I tried to see what was on it, but she turned away. She was waiting for her jockey, Billy Hurtack. Good rider, veteran, dependable, I used him all the time. But he had his own way of going about things. Very, very independent guy.

  “Anyway, this particular afternoon, Mary steps up to Billy and shows him this paper. It was like a map of how she wanted her horse to be placed, from the start to the finish. She’s standing there, pointing at its highpoints, and I can see Billy Hurtack starting to steam. Before I can step into it, Billy yanks the paper, or the race map, out of Mary’s hands and tears it to bits and throws it down on the ground. She’s amazed. Billy says to Mary, ‘This son of a bitch will win or lose the way I ride him.’

  “The horse wins. Mary never gave any of her jockeys another map after that.”

  “Good for Billy Hurtack,” Mickey said.

  Moe leaned forward, elbows on the table. “An old friend of mine, a horse owner named Ray Freeark, a bigtime personal injury lawyer and a very good customer of mine, also had strong opinions about how he wanted his horses to be ridden. Ralph, you never trained for Ray, did you?”

  “Nope. I heard he was a good owner, paid his bills, but was kind of a handful.”

  Kellman smiled. “Yeah, Ray could be that. He had a pretty good stakes horse named Noble Jack, a gray gelding, one with big ears, wore white blinkers, he looked like a giant running rabbit. One day I’m with Ray at Heartland. Ray’s horse, Noble Jack, is in the feature that afternoon.

  “Ray loved to bet, and he was good at it. But he was very, very disturbed that Noble Jack had not been ridden in the way Ray wanted him to be ridden in his races. Ray says ‘Come with me.’ He takes me downstairs and we walk into the paddock. We wait for the saddling to begin.

  “The jocks come out of their room and Ray waits and shakes hands with, you’re gonna laugh at this Ralph, none other than Billy Hurtack. Ray pulls a $100 bill out of his pocket. Tears it in half. Gives one half to the jockey. Tells him, ‘Billy, just do what I say with this horse. Take him back early, wait and wait and wait, then make one run on the outside of horses, down the middle of the track at the sixteenth pole and, win or lose, if you do what I’m telling you to do, you get the other half of this $100 bill. Okay?’

  “Billy Hurtack rode Ray’s horse exactly the way Ray wanted him ridden. Noble Jack comes down the outside at the sixteenth-pole and wins going away. Pays $14.60. Ray, I knew, had bet a bundle.

  “We go down to the winner’s circle. Hurtack weighs out and smiles at Ray. Ray reaches over and gives the jock the other half of the $100 bill. Ray says, ‘Tuck it in your boot, Billy. Good work’.”

  Mickey said, “Did your friend use that rider again on that horse?”

  “Sure did, honey. Billy Hurtack won five more races that year on Noble Jack.”

  Bruce the waiter reappeared to ask if they were ready to order. They were.

  ***

  Three or so furlongs away from the famously expensive restaurant, on the edge of the Saratoga backstretch, Paul Albano took a seat at one of the numerous long picnic tables under the large white tent. He had bedded down Plotkin, safe and sound and happy, in his stall in the nearby stakes barn.

  Jose Moran, a groom with a horse in the stall next to Plotkin’s, had introduced himself and told Albano “We’re all invited to a free dinner tonight. All us backstretch people. That nice lady, Mrs. Whitney who lives up here, she and her husband put this dinner on every year before the Sanford Stakes. It’s great. Come along.”

  Albano said, “Well, thanks. But how do I get into this dinner? I just got here with our one horse.”

  “You got an ID badge from security, right? That’s all you need. Let’s go. I’ll have my little brother keep an eye on your horse. He was over there early and ate already. It’s a big, buffet deal.” Moran led Albano down the shed row.

  Albano knew the Saratoga stable area housed some 1,800 horses attended to by nearly 2,500 workers, the majority of them Hispanic. At least half of that work force turned out enthusiastically for these free dinners, Moran told him.

  Albano followed Jose into the tent and to the buffet line. Jose waved to several diners, already seated, who called out his name. It was a lavish spread. Paul was not a big eater, never had been. He picked up a slice of roast beef, a baked potato, a small scoop of mixed vegetables. Jose preceded him to a table in the far corner. He carried two plates for himself, both full. “How do you like this, Paul?” he smiled as he sat down.

  Albano smiled. “I like it fine, Jose. Thanks for telling me about this.”

  “No problemo, man,” Jose said. “Now, Mister Chicago, let me ask again, how do you like your horse in the big race tomorrow? And pass me that salt shaker, por favor.”

  Albano handed the shaker across the table. He said, “Does your owner have a horse in tomorrow’s race?”

  Jose smiled but kept chewing. He said, “Oh, yes, my friend. Mister Mosely’s got a bueno colt in there. Called Go Yale Blue. He’s started twice and won both times pretty damn easy. He’ll be the favorite in that race tomorrow.”

  “Well,” Albano said, “he’d better have his running shoes on. To answer your question, my friend, our horse can run.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Kellman’s party had just finished their hors d’oeuvres when a heavy-set middle-aged man approached their table. His face was flushed. His blue blazer was unbuttoned, providing relief to his protruding stomach. His club tie was pulled down from the collar of his white shirt. He stumbled slightly before positioning himself, chubby hands on the table between Moe and Jack. They all looked up at this intruder.

  “So, you’re the folks from Chicago? Heartland Downs?” he said loudly, slurring his words. “Brought a horse up here named Plankton or something. Some piece of junk from the hinterlands?” He turned his head to insure his party at the adjoining table could hear him. There was a sheen of sweat on his broad forehead.

  Doyle rose rapidly to his feet and in the same motion gripped the man hard on his left wrist. “Our horse is named Plotkin. Who the fuck are you?”

  Moe stepped in and attempted to pull Doyle back down onto his chair. “Jack, take it easy with this idiot. He’ll go away.” Doyle remained standing and did not ease up on his grip.

  The man’s jaw dropped when he heard himself described as an idiot. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m Teddy Moseley. I own Go Yale Blue. I suppose the name doesn’t mean anything to you hicks. My colt goes tomorrow in the Sanford. Against your horse.”

  Moe said, “What’s your point, Moseley?”

  Moseley again glanced back over his shoulder to the table that held his party of eight. They were watching avidly.

  “My point, mister, is I think you’re out of your league here,” Moseley said loudly. “Because your horse was entered in the Sanford, my colt drew badly. Way on the outside. Your horse got a better post position.

  “I wish you would have stayed the hell back in Chicago. But,” he sneered, “you’re not going to get anything here anyway.”

  Moseley steadied himself by grabbing the back of Tenuta’s chair. He made an awkward reach for Ralph’s water glass. Tenuta was on his feet now, fists clenched. Doyle moved in front of him. “Ralph, sit down. I’ll handle this.”

  Doyle grabbed Moseley by an elbow and spun him around. “Get your drunken fat ass away from us, pal, or I’ll kick you out the door.” He shoved the now compliant Moseley toward his table. The maitre d’ cautiously approached.

  “No, no. Wait a minute,” Kellman said. He walked over to Moseley. “You’re very sure your horse is better than ours?”

  “Goddam right,” Moseley mumbled.

  Kellman said, “Why don’t we make a little bet on that? Man
to man. Horse against horse. Plotkin against your Ivy League horse, Go Yale Blue. Elie Elie rah rah. 5,000 bucks. The horse that finishes before the other wins the money. What do you say?”

  Moseley, aware that his party had heard this challenge, jerked nervously at his tie. One of his tablemates gave him an affirmative nod. “You’re on,” Moseley barked.

  Kellman smiled. “Good. Looking at the box seat holder tag you’re still wearing on that ugly jacket you’ve got on, I’ll know where to find you at the track Saturday. Name tags,” Moe said, shaking his head. “You’d think most of you would know each other by now. After all the years together looking down your noses at everybody outside your circle.”

  Moseley slumped down heavily into his chair, reached for his wine glass, drained it. Two of the women patted his hand supportingly. One of the men signaled for the check. Breathing hard, Moseley said to his friends, “You want to come in with me? Bet horse against horse for 5,000? With that little guy over there with the funny head of hair? Looks like a Don King knockoff to me, but he’s no afro. Isro, maybe.” Moseley thumped the table in appreciation of his own wit. His friends did not respond. “Fine, then,” Moseley bellowed, “I’ll go it alone against the little sheeny from Chicago.”

  His wife slapped him on the shoulder. “For God’s sake, Teddy, keep your voice down.” She looked around the table. “I think we should leave.”

  Kellman sat down in his chair, well aware of the looks of astonishment on the races of the Sheehan sisters after the confrontation with Moseley. Tenuta grimaced, tense. He picked up his glass of pinot grigio, appearing almost as worried as he had before the American Airlines flight had set down safely at Albany airport.

  Moe began grinning the grin Doyle had seen so many times after the little furrier had completed a set of fifty pull-ups in the Fit City gym. Or after he’d sold another expensive coat to his old friend Fifi Bonadio.