by John McEvoy
“No problem.”
Dunleavy drove south on Lake Shore Drive toward Moe’s residence, a two-level condo at the prestigious l100 North Lake Shore address. Jack sat in silence.
Moe said, “Why so glum, my friend? That wasn’t a bad night out for us.”
“Yeah, except for the news about Ralph Tenuta. Jesus. You couldn’t make this stuff up.”
Two blocks later, Moe said, “Can I tell you something? Might change your mood? Pick you up?” He was smiling as he turned in his seat to face Doyle.
Doyle shrugged. “Do your best.”
“I was in Los Angeles last week. Dealing with some of my oldest customers.”
Doyle interrupted him. “Who needs furs in LA?”
“Jack, be patient. Women can be living on islands in the South Pacific, or on desert oases, they still want furs. The items I supply for my LA customers are much admired. If I say so myself.”
“You just did,” Doyle said, turning to face his friend. “What do you want to tell me?”
Kellman said, “Let me tell you a story. I was at Hillcrest Country Club last week, meeting with a couple of my clients. You ever hear of that place?”
“Sure. They have a big professional golf tournament there every year. It’s on TV.”
“Correct. But Hillcrest is not as important as a golf course than it is as a societal statement. Back in the 1920s, Jews were not admitted to Christian or WASP or whatever you want to call those pricks, country clubs. So, they built their own. Hillcrest. Right in the middle of Los Angeles. All the big Jewish movie people chipped in major money. They wound up with a membership that included not just the studio moguls but famous performers like Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Danny Kaye, both Georges, Burns and Raft, Al Jolson. So on. The membership costs were way up there. $150,000. And they didn’t accept for membership non-Jews.”
Doyle said, “What was that? Reverse discrimination? “
“Fair is fair,” Moe said.
“Not always.”
“Ah, Jack, I know how you love to try and rattle me. It wasn’t what you say it was, ‘reverse discrimination.’ It was adjusting to life as it was.”
“Moe, I don’t need a history lesson here. What are you getting at?” He stirred restlessly in his seat.
“This. When I was there last week, I had lunch with several men including one of Hillcrest Country Club’s earliest members. Gus Greenberg. Great guy. Been there from way back. A scratch golfer in his younger days they say. Made his money in apparel. He’s up in his eighties. Wrinkled like an old brown envelope. But still sharp.”
Dunleavy turned onto Chestnut Street, preparing to slide the Lincoln to the entrance of Kellman’s building.
“Gus tells me this story,” Kellman continued. “Swears it’s true. Back in the forties or fifties, there was always a big poker game in the Hillcrest clubhouse, usually on Tuesday afternoons. The heavy hitters showed up for these games after other members had played morning golf. One of the members had invited a famous actor I’ll call Robert M. there for lunch and poker. You remember him?”
Doyle said, “My old man showed us the video of that movie he was in, Night of the Hunter. Who could forget that? Yeah, I know who he was. So what? And you mean they let non-Jews cross the Hillcrest threshold?”
Kellman said, “Yes, as guests. Robert is at a table with the famous comedian Milton B., who is killing them all with wisecracks and raking in pot after pot in the poker game. Robert starts drinking heavily. Getting in a worse mood with every hand he loses. Finally, he says to Milton, ‘I’m told you’ve got a big dick. You’re supposedly the best hung man in Hollywood. Well, I think I’ve got you beat on that. Even though I’m not beating you at cards today.’
“Milton says to him, ‘Bob, I think you’re wrong. And I’ll bet you $500 that you are.’
“Robert checks his reduced bankroll. He says, ‘You’re on. Let’s go to the men’s room. We’ll measure.’
“They both get up from the table. As they’re starting down the hallway to the john, Milton’s agent shouts out, ‘Milton. Only show him enough to win.’”
Doyle was laughing now. He said, “And?”
“A few minutes later, the two of them came back to the card table. Robert peels off some bills and tosses them down in Milton’s direction. And stalks off. End of story.”
Dunleavy stopped the Lincoln next to the entrance to Kellman’s tall building. A uniformed door man popped out. Moe opened his door. “This has been quite a night, Jack. I’m sorry that Feef asked you to see this Ruffalo kid. Laid some responsibility on you. But I don’t know anybody else he could have asked that could handle this matter better than you.”
“What high praise,” Doyle said derisively. “You and your old buddy Bonadio have more confidence in me than I have in me. I’ll think about all this, Moe. I’ll get back to you.”
Kellman gently closed the car door. Dunleavy drove Doyle to his condo on the north side.
Doyle picked up his mail and newspapers in the foyer of his condo building. Checked his phone. No messages. Watched the late news on WGN anchored by Mark Suppelsa. Suppelsa had moved a couple of times from channel to channel. Doyle always kept track of him. He liked Suppelsa’s work. He wasn’t as fond of the weathermen on these various channels, with their psychedelic screens and over the top reports. He’d never developed an interest in dew point readings or rainfall levels.
Doyle considered making himself a Jameson’s nightcap, then thought better of it. He was afraid he’d toss and turn tonight dealing with Ralph Tenuta’s problems and the challenge of this punk Lenny Ruffalo. He thought about calling Nora. Decided not to. Lay back on his couch, the television on mute. Smiled as he thought of the Greco Twins. And fell into a wonderfully deep sleep.
Chapter Thirty-six
Doyle walked rapidly from his Accord to Tenuta’s office. The trainer was talking on his phone. He waved Doyle to the couch. Doyle waited impatiently as Tenuta concluded his conversation by saying, “We’ll run that filly back in two weeks, Steve. Sure, we can use Mickey on her again. As a matter of fact, Mickey’s agent is sitting here in my office right now. Yeah, I’ll say hello to him for you.” He hung up the phone, smiling.
“Steve Holland,” Tenuta said. “Said he was mighty pleased with the winning ride Mickey put up on his filly Dazzling Diane yesterday. Wants Mickey to ride her back.”
“Fine. Glad to hear it. But that’s not what I’m here for. You have a relative named Lenny Ruffalo?”
Tenuta frowned. “Yeah. That’s my cousin Elvira’s loony son. I hadn’t seen him since he was a little kid until he came up to me near the paddock one day a week or so ago. Showed up out of the blue. Asked how my entrants would do that afternoon. The way he acted kind of bothered me. So, I asked around about him in the family.
“Lenny got into the Army a year or so ago,” Tenuta continued, “when they’d lowered their standards. He was out of high school, out of work, had always been crazy about those soldier video games. I’m told Elvira was happy he enlisted because she thought, or maybe hoped, he’d found a place in life. But the Army gave him the boot after a couple of months. I understand he’s back home, living in Elvira’s basement in Berwyn. Goes around wearing camouflage outfits. His Dad died years ago. I feel sorry for his mother. The little bum is mooching off her. According to the family grapevine, he’s gotten into betting horses in a serious way.
“A month or so ago, Lenny called me a couple of times, pestering me for tips. Then he comes up to me here that day in the paddock. I kind of brushed him off. He was pissed off when he stomped off away from me. I could see that.”
Doyle said, “Pissed off is an understatement, Ralph.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your cousin Lenny showed up the other night at Fifi Bonadio’s mansion in River Forest. He somehow talked his way past security and got into see Bonadio. You know who Bonadio is, right?”
“Supposedly a big mob guy.” Tenuta’s surprise was evident. “Len
ny at Bonadio’s home. What the hell for?”
“Lenny told Bonadio, who thought he was a raving asshole and probably on some kind of drugs, that he wanted to hire a hit man. That he wanted a man killed. Bonadio’s security guys finally got Lenny quieted down and their boss got some information from him. Then Bonadio had Lenny tossed out on his ass.”
Tenuta stood up and leaned his hands down on his desk. “I figured Lenny was trouble, Jack. But I never imagined he’d be nutty enough, or have balls enough, to approach Fifi Bonadio. Jesus! This kid’s off the rails.” He sat back down heavily in his creaky old desk chair, shaking his head.
“Maybe you’d like to ask me something, Ralph.”
“Like what? You’ve given me enough information already to spoil my morning. Although I’m not blaming you. I’m glad you told me about Lenny and Mr. Bonadio. What should I be asking you?”
Doyle said, “When Lenny Ruffalo told Fifi Bonadio he wanted to hire a hit man, that he’d pay $3,000 for such a service, Bonadio gave the signal to his men to have Lenny rapidly removed. But as they were hustling Lenny to the door, Bonadio stopped them for a moment. He said, ‘Who do you want killed?’”
“Well, that’s a good question,” Tenuta nodded. What did Lenny say? Who does he want killed?”
“You.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Doyle took the Edens onto the Kennedy, tussled through the late afternoon rush hour traffic before turning west on the Eisenhower Expressway. He arrived at 1815 Gunderson Avenue in Berwyn nearly thirty-five minutes later.
Gunderson was a quiet street of sturdy bungalows and well-tended lawns. Across the street from where Doyle parked, an elderly man wearing an old-style white undershirt, à la Stanley Kowalski, watered his lawn. Kids were playing kick ball in the street four houses down, their excited shrieks piercing the early evening air.
Doyle rang the front doorbell at 1815 Gunderson. Waited, rang it twice more. Nothing. He walked down the front steps to the east side of the bungalow where he saw a small stairway leading to a basement door. “Maybe that’s where this asshole lives,” Doyle muttered.
It was. Doyle knocked loudly and Lenny Ruffalo yanked the door open. The sounds of rock music and a racetrack announcer’s voice came from inside. “Yeah?”
Doyle didn’t immediately answer. He paused to regard Ruffalo, who was wearing fatigue pants, brown boots, a cut-off tee-shirt that exposed his pale, skinny arms. The inscription on the tee-shirt read “Alice in Chains—Greatest Band Ever.” Doyle estimated Ruffalo to be about five-foot seven, maybe one hundred fifty or so ill-conditioned pounds. His dark, greasy hair was brushed back from his forehead, ending in a tattered-looking pony tail. Ruffalo’s black eyes skittered from Doyle’s face to the nearby wall, then back again. This mother’s on some kind of drug load, Doyle thought.
Doyle leaned forward, hands on the sides of the doorway. “I’m Jack Doyle. A friend of your cousin Ralph Tenuta. I want to talk to you.”
Shock was apparent on Ruffalo’s face. He attempted to shut the door, but Doyle stopped it with his foot and pushed his way into the basement apartment. The major item in that long, red-carpeted room was a giant television screen tuned to one of the national horse racing stations. A battered Barcalounger was positioned in front of the screen, behind a table holding a laptop computer, copies of Racing Daily, a yellow legal pad laden with scribbled notes. The walls of the room were covered with posters of various heavy metal bands plus Penthouse and Biker Babes magazine foldouts. Several empty pizza cartons lay next to a haphazard stack of Bud Lite beer bottles. To Doyle, not himself a fantastically fastidious man but no slob either, the odor of unwashed clothes and at least one unwashed body was noticeable enough to make him wince.
Ruffalo glared at Doyle. Then he turned his attention to the television screen. There was a three-horse photo finish in the fourth race at Del Mar. Its result was apparently not satisfactory as far as Ruffalo was concerned. He howled, “You pinheaded jock. You just cost me another one. Mother fuck.” Lenny’s sallow face was flushed as he pounded his fist on the back of the Barcalounger.
Doyle grabbed Ruffalo’s left shoulder. Spun him round. Threw him down in the chair. Ruffalo attempted to rise, but Doyle kicked his feet out from under him and slammed him back.
“I don’t have time to fuck around with you, Lenny. Stay down. Turn off that fucking TV.”
Ruffalo smirked. Defiantly handed Doyle the remote control. Doyle hurled it as hard as he could against the back wall. Lenny yelped, “What’d you do that for, man? That’s expensive.” Shaken, he sat up straight in the chair.
Doyle stepped back. Took a long look at this poster-child for loserdom. He briefly thought, What am I doing here dealing with this societal remnant? The answer came when he thought about his friends Ralph and Rosa Tenuta.
Ruffalo made a lunging attempt to get up from the chair. Jack gave him another slap, this time a slighter one, right side of Ruffalo’s unshaven face. Yanked him back down by his pony tail. The pitiful look on Ruffalo’s face almost made Doyle soften his attitude. He squelched that inclination.
“Lenny, keep this in the front of your screwed-up mind. Do not ever again think about hiring someone to kill your cousin Ralph.”
Clearly surprised, Ruffalo started to deny having sought a hit man. Doyle gave him another slap, this one harder. “Sit still.”
Doyle walked to the little sink. After some searching, he located a somewhat clean glass and filled it with water and drank it down. Ruffalo shifted in his chair, Doyle watching him in the mirror over the dirty dish-laden sink. Doyle barked, “Sit the fuck back down.”
Turning back to Lenny, Doyle said, “If you ever try anything like that again, I’m here. You won’t see me coming, either. Things will get very fucking ugly for you. Get it?” He gave a tug on the pony tail that pulled Ruffalo’s now tear-streaked face up.
“Okay, okay,” Ruffalo said. “Jesus, how did you know about what I was doing?”
“That’s not the main question, how I know. The main question is why would you want to have Ralph Tenuta killed?”
Ruffalo jumped up from the chair, enraged.
“Because,” Lenny shouted, “your buddy Ralph, my relative, won’t ever tell me about any winning horses he’s got. He stiffed me good with one named Madame Golden. I was going to bet her if he’d given me any sign I should. Nothing. She won and paid a fucking bundle.”
He slammed his hand on the arm of the chair. “Isn’t blood supposed to mean something?” He slumped back down, head in his hands.
“Ralph is using this new rider from England, Ireland, wherever the fuck she’s from,” Ruffalo continued, “and she’s doing great. She’s new here. Nobody ever heard of her. I always bet against her, any race she’s in. But the little bitch keeps winning. She’s killing me in my betting. And so,” he added bitterly, “is cousin Ralph.”
“Lenny, you’re breaking my heart. I’m not concerned about what you bet and lose, get it? If you are such a loser, why not give up betting? Get a real job. Get out of your mama’s basement. ‘Off the maternal teat,’ as my Uncle Pete used to say.”
Ruffalo made another attempt to reach up and strike Doyle. Jack slapped on both sides of his face. Ruffalo moaned, but looked up defiantly. “I won’t forget this, you son of a bitch,” he snarled.
“I hope you don’t, punk. You ever try to do any harm to Ralph Tenuta, you won’t live to regret it.”
Ruffalo muttered something, but Doyle walked past him and up the basement stairs into the Berwyn evening, slamming the door behind him. He took a deep breath. “What a fucking day!”
Doyle curved around the side of the bungalow toward the front and the street where he had parked. An older woman came up the front walk toward him, head down, toting two heavy grocery sacks. She looked exhausted. But when she sensed Doyle’s presence, she stopped, startled, and put down the bags.
Doyle said, “Mrs. Ruffalo?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“My name
is Jack Doyle. I was just down in the basement, having a talk with your son Lenny.”
Elvira Ruffalo smiled. “Well, that’s nice. My son doesn’t have many friends. Or visitors. Pardon me. Your name again?”
“Jack Doyle. Tell your son not to forget what I said to him. Good evening, Mrs. Ruffalo.”
Stumbling around his apartment, Lenny managed to locate the TV remote control his menacing visitor had thrown against the wall. Amazingly, it still worked. He walked to his mini-fridge and took out a Mountain Dew. Back in the Barcalounger, he turned on the horse racing network that showed night programs from the East Coast. Shuddered when he thought about the way this Doyle had pushed him around. Wondered how in the hell Doyle had found him. Remembered one Bud Lite-ridden afternoon when he’d asked a couple of OTB shop so-called buddies how he could lay a hit on Cousin Ralph. He thought he could trust those guys, especially Large. Maybe not. He winced as he thought of his contemptuous dismissal by Fifi Bonadio, his painful expulsion from the River Forest mansion by Bonadio’s goons.
He’d have to come up with something else to convince Cousin Ralph Tenuta to help him with his wagering. He sat back in his chair. Took a slug of Mountain Dew, followed by a small dose from the large stash of meth he kept in the slit right arm of the Barcalounger.
Elivira opened the upstairs door to Lenny’s basement lair.
“Can we eat, Lenny? In about a half-hour?”
“Yeah, Ma. I’ll be up. I gotta make a phone call first.”
He dialed Teresa Genacro.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Ingrid McGuire parked her green Chevy pickup truck in her allotted slot behind her Arlington Heights apartment complex. It was nearly 7 p.m. She had put in another twelve-hour day treating horses on the Heartland Downs backstretch. She was exhausted.
Ingrid walked slowly into the building’s lobby and toward the elevator. Its door opened. “Why, hello, darling,” said a stocky, elderly woman, Ingrid’s next-door neighbor on the third floor of the building and one of the nosiest humans Ingrid had ever known. Samantha Gutteridge wore one of her several bright green pants suits, low-heeled shoes, earrings large and luminous enough to magnify light, and the look of expectation she always had when she was about to board the shuttle bus that would carry her to the Joliet, Illinos casino. She went three or four nights each week. Which was fine with Ingrid, because then this pest wouldn’t be knocking at her door wanting to talk about horse racing. A well-off widow, Samantha loved the races almost as much as the slot machines.
