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

by John McEvoy

  “You know, Ralph,” Doyle added, “you’d probably be smart to get an attorney.”

  “An attorney,” Tenuta said loudly. “What the hell for? I’ve done nothing wrong. There must be a mistake here.”

  Paul Albano leaned his head through the doorway. “Ralph, what do you want to do with Plotkin today?” Albano’s surprise at the stricken look on his ordinarily good-humored boss’ face was evident.

  “Paul, check his workout chart. Use your best judgment. We’ll talk later. I can’t deal with workout schedules right now.”

  Albano carefully closed the screen door. Tenuta, head in his hands, said, “Rosa will not believe this is happening. I don’t believe it is happening. Somebody screwed up in that testing lab. That’s all I can think of.”

  Doyle said, “There’s something else to think of, Ralph.”

  “What?”

  “What if somebody got to Madame Golden and injected her with this EPO? Even though you know nothing about anything like that, under the famous ‘trainers’ insurer rule,’ you’re still responsible.”

  Tenuta said, “I’ve never given any thought to that rule, Jack. Never had to.”

  “Well, you better acquaint yourself with it. What it says, simply, is that you are responsible for your horse at all times. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference even if you’re three states away at another racetrack with another horse. The horses back here under your care are all your responsibility. It sounds Draconian, but that’s the rule.”

  “Sounds like Dracula? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Doyle wanted to laugh, but held back. “I didn’t say Dracula. Never mind about Draconian. The main thing is you’ve got to fight this ruling and suspension. Ralph, take my advice, you need a good lawyer to represent you.”

  The phone rang. Tenuta attempted to compose himself as he talked for a few minutes with an owner about her filly’s next race. This was the aspect of training horses that most repulsed Doyle. Having to schmooze with many well- meaning but often idiotic clients. Most of Tenuta’s owners were time-tested veterans who knew to leave things in their trainer’s hands. But every year he was forced to add a few “fresh horses,” as he called them, meaning their owners, not their runners. Tenuta was usually patient and accommodating in these phone calls. This morning, he cut this call short and slammed the phone down.

  He leaned forward, crossed his arms, put his head down on the desk.

  Doyle was angered. He hated self-pity, either in himself or others.

  “Ralph, tell me one thing right now. Are you going to fight this case or not?”

  Tenuta slammed his fist on the desk again as he stood up. “Damn right, Jack. But I don’t know how to get a lawyer.”

  “I do.”

  Tenuta grabbed his jacket from the hook behind his desk. “I’ve got to go home, Jack. I can’t break this news to Rosa over the phone. And I’ll have to call my owners to let them know.We’ve got no horses running today, so I don’t have to hang around. You staying here?”

  “Yeah. Mickey’s got mounts in the fourth and seventh. I’ll watch those races before I leave.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You need anything, Ralphh, call me on my cell.”

  “What I need is a Twilight Zone moment where none of this actually happened today.”

  Doyle waited until Tenuta had left the office to dial Moe Kellman, who was at Fit City, in the middle of his daily workout. Moe picked up his cell phone. “Jack.”

  “Do I hear you breathing heavily, old fella?”

  “I don’t have time to fuck around, Jack. What do you want?”

  Doyle quickly described the Tenuta situation. Kellman said, “I’m surprised to hear that. Everything I ever knew about Ralph Tenuta was that he was the straightest arrow in the quiver. Anyway, what do you want from me, Jack?”

  “Do you know a good racetrack lawyer who would represent Ralph?”

  Kellman paused to wipe the sweat off his brow. He’d just finished forty reverse-hand pull-ups. “Yeah. I do.

  “Guy’s name is Art Engelhardt. He’s got a small law firm with an office on south LaSalle Street. Very sharp guy. Does a lot of racetrack business. Representing jockeys in their appeals of suspensions. Trainers like Tenuta in this case with drug positives.”

  Doyle said, “Is this guy real expensive? Ralph, God bless him, is a pretty close to the purse strings kind of man. I don’t want to push him toward somebody who charges like Spence or Dershowitz or Valukas. He’d never go for it.”

  “I can help our friend Ralph come to an accommodation with a lawyer. People, if you ask around, are going to recommend another Chicago barrister with racetrack experience. Frank Cohan. Brilliant guy, but people I know refer to him as The Dip. Because, they say, he dips into the accounts he’s supposed to be overseeing for aged widows. Forget Cohan. Engelhardt would be your guy.”

  “Moe, you know him good?”

  “Jack, if I didn’t, you think I’d even introduce him into this conversation?”

  Doyle could hear Kellman instructing his driver Pete Dunleavy to “bring the car around in twenty minutes.” He said, “Jack, I’ve got to shower and go. Any more questions?”

  “This Engelhardt. Has he ever had any big cases? That he’s won?”

  “Do you think I deal with nebbishes? This guy is as slick as black ice. And mainly honest, too.

  “I know you remember the great boxer Archie Moore,” Kellman continued. “He had a brilliant, conniving manager named Jack Kearns. They made a pile of money together, even when Archie was at a very advanced boxing age. Archie once said about the old hustler Jack Kearns, ‘Give this man a bundle of steel wool and he could knit you a stove.’

  “Artie Engelhardt, Jack, is in that kind of category. Tell him I sent you.”

  ***

  With Tenuta’s okay, Doyle called Engelhardt’s office later that morning. He set up a meeting with the attorney for that afternoon at 4 p.m. As soon as he had, the secretary called back and said, “If you don’t mind, Art would like to meet you at Mother’s Lounge. He does a lot of business out of there, especially later in the day. Do you know where that is?”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Minutes after Tenuta’s departure, Doyle looked up from perusal of Racing Daily at the polite tap on the screen door. “Ingrid, come on in. What can I do for you?”

  Ingrid McGuire answered, “How about coming out here, Jack? I’d like to sit on the bench. There’s a nice breeze. I’ve already had a long, hard morning. One of Buck Norman’s geldings started to colic, but I think we caught it in time.” She paused to brush back a wisp of blond hair from her sweaty forehead. “I see Ralph’s car is gone. Does he need me for any work today?”

  “He didn’t say. And, Ingrid, I guarantee you his morning was longer and harder than yours. Let me tell you about it.”

  When he’d finished, Ingrid said angrily, “This is preposterous. No way Ralph would hop one of his horses. No way. I think…” She was interrupted by a loud announcement from Paul Albano, who was standing midway of the shed row looking at a silver-sided food vendor truck that had just pulled up.

  “Aqui viene al entrenador de las cucarachas,” Albano shouted. The stable workers put down their rakes, brushes, and buckets and headed for the truck.

  Doyle laughed at the puzzled look on Ingrid’s face. “What did Paul just say? Do you know Spanish, Jack?”

  “Very little. But I’ve learned what that statement means. Somebody here calls it out every noon hour. It means, ‘Here comes the roach coach.’ C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch. The food is actually pretty good. And sanitary.”

  They stood in line behind the dozen of Tenuta’s employees working their way forward to the truck’s counter, chatting happily. Doyle bought a chicken burrito, Ingrid opted for two fish tacos. They took their food and cans of Dr. Pepper and walked to the south end of the barn to sit on the grass beneath an aged elm tree.

  Ingrid said, “I’m s
ure Ralph is not responsible for this drugging. I wonder who is?”

  “No idea. How about you?”

  She finished her first taco. “Got to be somebody who is familiar with the backstretch. And who has it in for Ralph.”

  “Could it be another trainer?”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like that around here. Couple of years ago, when I was still in vet school, I remember one prof talked about case in Oklahoma. One trainer tried to dope another one’s stable star, trained by his brother-in-law no less. But he was caught in the act.

  “It’s certainly true,” she continued, “that trainers are under tremendous pressure to win. So, damaging the chances of a rival might be tempting to some. Every trainer, you know, is like a small businessman. He’s got obligations to the owners of the horses he trains, who are like shareholders. And he’s got obligations to the people he employs who care for those horses.”

  Doyle said, “As long as I’ve been around here, I’ve never known Ralph to have any enemies. Everybody seems to like the guy.”

  “True. But there were a couple of problems he had with personnel earlier this year. There was a disgruntled groom Ralph fired for sloughing off and smoking pot. Hector Martinez. I was there at the barn that day. Martinez was furious. Took a swing at Ralph until Paul Albano got him under control. He’s still around. Got a groom’s job a couple of barns over.

  “Then there was a real old veterinarian named Ambrose Pennyfeather. He worked for Ralph for many, many years before Eric and I came along. People thought Pennyfeather should have retired long before. But Ralph, loyal as he is, stuck with him until Pennyfeather completely misdiagnosed a promising filly Ralph trained. The filly almost died of colic. After that happened, Ralph let Pennyfeather go and hired me and Eric to replace him. I understand Pennyfeather was furious. Vowed revenge. Made threats. Nothing every came of it. Until, maybe, now.”

  She swallowed the last of the second taco and used a napkin to wipe her mouth and hands before gracefully getting to her feet.

  “Thanks for the lunch, Jack. I owe you one. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Mother’s Lounge was a venerable, popular watering hole for the LaSalle Street law brigades. Doyle had never been there, but he was familiar with what he saw once he walked through the front door. He’d been in joints like this before. Dark lighting, two busy bartenders roaming behind a long mahogany bar, a juke box featuring Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Miles Davis, Sarah Vaughan, Peggy Lee, Carmen McRae, Betty Carter, Mose Allison. Paused in the doorway letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light, he felt the clap of a heavy hand on his back. Doyle pivoted. Heard a deep rumble of a voice say, “Hello, Jack. I’m Art Engelhardt. Moe told me you wanted to see me. Follow me.”

  Doyle walked behind the attorney, who was wearing what looked to be a $2,000 suit that hadn’t been pressed in weeks. He was a big man with a long stride. Arriving at a booth in the rear section of Mother’s Lounge, he gestured for Jack to sit. Thinking of Moe’s placement at Dino’s Ristorante, Doyle said softly to himself, “All these hotshots take booths.”

  They ordered drinks. “A very cold, shaken, vodka martini, one drop of scotch at the start, no vegetables,” Engelhardt told the waitress, saying to Doyle, “She’s new. Doesn’t know my regular order yet. How about for you?” Doyle asked for a Jameson’s straight up, water back.

  “So, Jack, tell me about your friend Ralph Tenuta’s problem.”

  Their drinks quickly arrived, but Doyle didn’t touch his until he’d finished summing up Tenuta’s situation. Midway of his recounting, he said, “Art, aren’t you going to take any notes about what I’m telling you?”

  Engelhardt drained his martini glass and waved to the waitress for a refill. Jack declined another drink. A smile spread across Engelhardt’s large face. He leaned forward. “Jack, if I have to take notes at this stage of my career, my career should be over. I’ve been doing this for forty-two years. Know what I mean?”

  Doyle, at this point only half sold on attorney Engelhardt, said, “Have you had drugging cases like this before? Or alleged drugging cases, I should say.”

  Engelhardt smiled tolerantly, slowly shaking his big head from side to side. “Jack, I’ve had every kind of so-called drugging case you could imagine. One client last year was using cocaine for himself and on his horses. I couldn’t win that one. But I’ve had many, many successes. One of my toughest cases was ten or so years ago.” He paused to take a drink of his refilled martini glass. “A trainer friend of mine asked me to help with a drug violation in Louisiana. I’d known this guy for years. So, I flew down there to Baton Rouge. On expenses and with a decent retainer, I might add.

  “I told my client, I’m not licensed to practice in this state. But I’ve got the name of a local attorney who knows the ropes. And the people. And what it takes. His name was Ed Bonnert. My client and I met him at the courthouse in Baton Rouge, where a judge was to be assigned to our hearing.

  “Bonnert was a mighty crafty piece of work. One of those good ’ol boys with an aw-shucks facade. I listened to him for three minutes before I realized I wouldn’t trust this guy to wind a cheap watch for me. But I suspected, and I was right, he was the man for us.

  “Bonnert walked us through the door of the courthouse building to this long corridor of judges’ offices. ‘Wait here’, he said. We watched. He went into the first door on the right. A few minutes went by. He came out and went into the second door on the left. Never looked back to us.

  “Finally, he came out of the fourth door on the right. Came back to us, smiling. ‘We’ve got the judge we want,’ Bonnert said. My client’s case was assigned to that judge, who dismissed it the next day. Only in Louisiana. It’s a different world down there. Bonnert took us on a tour of the Cajun country. We passed a liquor store that had a drive-through window. These old pick-up trucks were lined up for half a block. They were offering a Friday afternoon special. ‘Boilermakers three bucks, long necks a deuce.’

  “Couple of blocks down the street from this liquor emporium,” Engelhardt continued, “there was, I am not making this up, a drive-through crematorium. Their billboard advertised ‘A Done Deal for $200. Urn Is Xtra. Cardboard Containers Free of Charge.’ They weren’t doing any business that day. But what an enlightening experience that was for me.”

  Engelhardt signaled for a martini refill. He said, “I remember barrister Bonnert told us his fee was ten grand. I’m sure he shared some of it with the helpful judge, man named Allen LaCombe, as I recall. But that was a bargain. Otherwise, my client faced a long suspension. He’s a famous trainer today. If I told you his name, you’d sure recognize it. But I won’t,” Engelhardt smiled. He emptied his most recent martini glass and this time waved off the attentive waitress.

  “My point is, Jack, I have experience in these cases.”

  Doyle said, “Art, with all due respect, don’t tell me you can somehow grease the Illinois Racing Commission to forget this alleged Tenuta drug violation. I don’t want to get Ralph in any crap like that.”

  “No, no, no,” Jack. “That’d be impossible. Even if we had it in mind. As I’ve learned from some past experience. What we’ll do, if Tenuta hires me, is we challenge the laboratory finding. Stress Tenuta’s previously pristine record. ‘Why would an extremely successful trainer like this, an officer of the horsemen’s association, bulwark of the backstretch, etc. etc., resort to using an illegal drug on his horse’, etc. etc.? I know I can get a stay order in circuit court if I have to. I know I can help your man,” Engelhardt said. “And, obviously, as you know, he needs help.”

  “That he does.” Doyle sat back in the booth, watching as Engelhardt fired up a silver, polished-from-use Zippo lighter to apply to his Marlboro in this, one the last bastions of smoking, not legally of course, in Chicago. Mother’s Lounge was starting to fill up with late afternoon customers. Someone turned up the volume on the juke box so that Sinatra’s version of Chicago layered out.

  My kind
of town Chicago is

  My kind of people, too,

  People who smile at you…

  Doyle said, “Okay, Arthur. Let’s talk about money. Your fee. Tenuta is not planning on expending big bucks. He’s just that way.”

  Englelhardt sat back, smiling. “Did you read the story in ‘Tribune’ today about the court-appointed lawyers working to recover money that Bernie Madoff stole?”

  “No, I didn’t see it.”

  Englehardt said, “According to this report the ‘average pay’ of these recovering lawyers was $437.89 per hour.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking along those lines for Ralph Tenuta,” Doyle barked.

  “No, Jack. I am mentioning these numbers only to be instructive. The key lawyer who billed over a thousand hours charged, are you listening to this, $830.43 per hour. That’s what I call Attorney Hall of Fame chutzpah. And he’s evidently going to get paid these obscene sums.”

  “The forty-three cents per hour at the end of this bill. What the hell could that be for?”

  “Maybe postage?” Art said, sitting back in the booth, laughing. He listened as Doyle murmured, “You couldn’t make up some of this shit.”

  The waitress hovered but was politely dismissed. “Arthur, give me a number. What would you charge my friend Ralph Tenuta?”

  “One grand. Flat fee. That’s it.”

  Doyle was surprised. “That’s a pretty, well, modest fee. For a man like you. How come?”

  “Moe Kellman is an old friend of mine, Jack. And friends of his are friends of mine. We take care of each other. Okay?”

  “Fine with me, Art. I’ll have Ralph Tenuta mail you a check tomorrow. When do you want to meet with Ralph?”

  “I’m bringing some friends to the races at Heartland Downs Saturday. Let’s say we meet in the Players’ Room before the first race.”

  Doyle said, “I’ll have Ralph there.”

  “Fine. Listen, Jack, you want to hang around awhile? They make a great hamburger here, prime Angus on a toasted Kaiser bun, plenty of garlic laced into the meat. I’ll buy you one.”