by John McEvoy
He intended to kiss Nora goodbye. But she pivoted and hurried back to Mickey’s room before he had a chance.
Walking through the parking lot to his Accord, Doyle wondered about Mickey’s future. During his amateur boxing days, he’d observed sharply varying reactions to bad beatings. His buddy Max Middleton, a promising light heavyweight, one of the toughest guys Doyle had ever known, had gone undefeated, just mowing down opponents, until he ran into a Chicago buzz saw from Cabrini Green. Middleton got the crap beat out of him. He tried to come back and fight six months later, but he was never the same. Wisely, he retired.
But then there was another stablemate of Doyle’s, a featherweight named Jackie Thomsen, who had taken a brutal whipping during an AAU tournament in Waukegan. It was his first loss. He bounced back into the gym two weeks later, recovered and eager to proceed. Thomsen won the Chicago Golden Gloves championship the next year. Went on to have a very successful amateur career. Doyle thought, you just never know with people, which way it’s going to go.
Chapter Forty-eight
Doyle edged into the stream of east bound traffic on Golf Road when his cell phone rang. It was Moe.
“I heard on the radio just now that Mickey got thrown. Busted up. Jack, how is she? What went on? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Believe me, my friend, I was busy. Sorry.”
Moe said, “Leah’s driving me nuts looking for news. She loves that little jock.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Doyle gunned up the entrance ramp onto the Edens Expressway. “Okay, here’s what happened.” He described Plotkin’s completely uncharacteristic behavior prior to the race. The disaster that occurred in the race. Mickey’s presence in Intensive Care at Holy Family.
There was a breathless silence on Kellman’s phone until he said, “God damn it, Jack. That this should happen to our leprechaun, that sweet little person. I’m afraid to ask. But what is the prognosis for Mickey?”
There was a pause in the conversation as Doyle adeptly changed lanes to avoid a red sports convertible whose driver was weaving through the traffic lanes while apparently texting with one hand. Doyle realized he had never before heard his pragmatic little friend venture so far toward the border of sentimentality.
“Moe, she’ll be okay. Her physical injuries will heal. It’s a question of the rest. Will she decide to get back into race riding? Ralph Tenuta thinks so. Knowing how much she loves riding, what a huge part of her life it is. But, my friend, you never know.”
“What I don’t understand, Jack, is that Plotkin had never done anything like that before, right? Acted so goofy? Am I right?”
“You are.”
Kellman sighed. “I hope you don’t think it callous of me to ask about Plotkin’s condition. Did he fuck himself up after tossing Mickey over the fence?”
“No. According to what the stable help told Ralph on the phone an hour or so ago, Plotkin is unhurt. The main groom, now Ralph’s assistant trainer, Paul Albano, said Plotkin looked ‘healthy, but deflated. And guilty.’”
Doyle turned right off the expressway onto Lake Street and pulled into the parking lot of Mark Meyers’ Tavern, a venerable watering hole and horse players’ hangout, famous for its hamburgers and generously poured drinks.
“Moe, I’m stopping for a sandwich and a drink or three. Then I’m heading home to get some rest. I’ll call you with an update on Mickey’s situation as soon as I get one.”
He found a parking slot between a battered old Nash Rambler and a panel truck advertising “Great House Painting. Inside or Out. Up or Down. Done for Almost Nothing.”
Before leaving the Accord, he got a call from Ralph.
“Anything new on Mickey?”
“No, Ralph. We’ll know more tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like you to schedule Ingrid McGuire to come over to your barn in the morning to communicate with Plotkin. Are you with me?”
Tenuta said, “I’ll call her right now.”
He called Jack back five minutes later. “She’ll be there at seven.”
Chapter Forty-nine
As Doyle and Tenuta waited in Tenuta’s office for Ingrid, Doyle said, “Did you watch the replay of Plotkin’s race?”
“Four or five times.”
Doyle said, “I couldn’t bring myself to look at it more than once, seeing Mickey go down like that. But my question, Ralph, is did some other jockey have a hand in causing this disaster.”
“No, Jack.” Tenuta got up from behind his desk to refill his coffee cup. “Plotkin just freaked on his own. He’s skimming along the rail. All of a sudden he props. Shifts his shoulders. That’s when Mickey went off. Plotkin just kept charging ahead.
“I know what you’re thinking, Jack, that jockey error can cause jockey disaster. Or that a jock intentionally does something to another rider. Rivalries develop among these very competitive athletes and some of them become bitter. But ninety-nine percent of the time they only amount to dirty looks and muttered threats.”
Doyle said, “What about the other one percent you mention?”
Tenuta sat back in his chair, a smile on his face. “One of the great examples was back in the forties with my fellow Dago, the late Eddie Arcaro. The guy they called ‘Banana Nose.’ He came out of Covington, Kentucky, where his dad was a bookmaker. He was a riding natural. My old man told me this story about Arcaro.
“Eddie was riding in New York, either Aqueduct or Belmont, and one day in the feature race he got into a bumping match with a rider from Havana named Vincent Nodarse. They had some kind of bad history from a previous race where Arcaro thought Nodarse had intentionally fouled him and cost him the win. It seems these two guys hated each other. So, this afternoon I’m telling you about, Arcaro’s got Nodarse pinned down on the rail. Nodarse falls off his horse after Arcaro’s horse bumps into him. Fortunately, Nodarse is not badly hurt.
“The New York stewards call in Arcaro. They asked him, ‘Were you trying to injure Vincent Nodarese with what you did in that race?’
“Arcaro said, ‘No. I was trying to kill that Cuban bastard.’
“The stews gave Arcaro a year’s suspension. It was later reduced to six months when one of the big-shot owners he rode for exerted his influence. Eddie never did anything like that again. The next year, he won the Triple Crown with Citation. He eventually was elected to the Hall of Fame. A lot of the old veterans still consider him the best American rider ever.”
Ingrid McGuire rapped on the office door before entering. “Good morning, men. What’s the word on Mickey?”
Doyle said, “They’re pushing her out of the hospital late this morning. Amazing, our health care system. I guess if you want to stay in there for a couple of days you’d have to be spurting blood from all portals. I’ll pick Mickey up and take her to her apartment with Nora. She’s going to be out of action for awhile.”
“She was lucky, Jack. It could have been much worse,” Ingrid said.
She walked to the table with the old Mr. Coffee machine. Poured herself a cup. Sat down next to Jack after gently clearing the cat Tuxedo out of the way.
“I wasn’t late getting to the track this morning,” she said. “I stopped to see Plotkin before coming to meet you guys.”
Tenuta sat up in his chair. “How does he look? Is he okay? When I saw him at feeding time early this morning, he looked kind of, well, downtrodden. Wouldn’t touch his feed tub.”
Doyle said coldly, “Did you ‘communicate’ with that little villain?”
“Well, Jack,” she shot back, “actually I did. Plotkin is shaken up. Told me he feels terrible about throwing Mickey. He said he felt very strange going into that race. Said a man came into his stall the night before last and gave him a shot of something that drastically changed the way he felt. For the better, because he felt stronger. Faster. For the worse, because he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.”
Doyle said, “Plotkin said all this to you?”
“Yes, Jack.”
“Jesus.
” He got to his feet, shaking his head. He looked to Tenuta to say something, but the trainer was as stunned as Doyle, who said, “Did Plotkin say who it was that gave him that shot?”
Ingrid laughed. “Jack, horses can’t name names. No, Plotkin didn’t tell me who it was. Get serious.”
“I’m as serious as I can be with this scenario,” Doyle barked. “Is it real horse communicating talk, or complete bullshit? That’s what I’m thinking.”
Ingrid’s face flushed as she jumped up from the couch to almost chest-bump Doyle. “I am telling you what Plotkin told me,” she spat out. “If you don’t believe me, Jack Doyle, the hell with you.” She turned to leave but Tenuta came around his desk and took her arm. “Ingrid, please. Take it easy. C’mon, sit back down. I’ll get a coffee. Jack didn’t mean what he just said.” They both looked at Doyle.
Jack raised his hands in a surrender gesture. Took a deep breath. “You’re right, Ralph. I was out of line. Ingrid, I apologize. I know you are doing your best.”
He returned to the couch and out-stared Tuxedo before the cat reluctantly moved so Doyle could take a seat. He said, “I guess all this crap that has happened in the last twenty-four hours has thrown me, well, off what little balance I fight to maintain. I can’t get the picture of little Mickey’s battered face out of my head.” He slid closer to Ingrid and put his arm around here. “Really, I’m sorry. I believe in you, Ingrid.”
Chapter Fifty
The shot that had been secretly administered to Plotkin was identified by the Racing Commission’s testing laboratory three days later. When the Heartland stewards received the report, Ralph Tenuta was again summoned to their office. State steward Henry Arroyo met Tenuta at the door. Shook his hand. They had known each other for more than twenty years. Arroyo said, “Come in, Ralph. I’ve got something to tell you that I can hardly believe.”
When he sat in a chair before the stewards’ long desk, Tenuta’s puzzled look extended to the two associate stewards present who flanked Arroyo.
“What’s this all about, Ed?”
“Ralph, it’s about your horse Plotkin, who threw Mickey Sheehan. As the losing favorite in that race, his blood and urine were sampled and sent to the test lab.” He paused to look at the printed ruling. “They reported that Plotkin was positive for Etorphine. Usually called elephant juice. The same illegal medication found in your trainee Madame Golden a few weeks back.”
Arroyo shook his head. “The lab people say this drug makes horses feel livelier. Run faster. It caused a scandal in Australian racing back in the eighties.”
“This is unbelievable,” Tenuta shouted, jumping out of his chair. He walked over to the large window overlooking the race track. Forced himself to take a deep breath. When he sat down again, he said, “Men, I’ve been training for more than thirty years. As I told you when I was here last time, I have never, I mean never, given any one of my horses anything but hay, oats, water, and very legal and prescribed vitamins. Before Madame Golden, I had never had a ruling against me. Your lab must have made another mistake.”
Arroyo sighed. “Ralph, our lab rushed a split sample to Cornell University, one of the country’s major testing facilities. They confirmed the finding. Your horse Plotkin was loaded with this stuff they call elephant juice. That’s probably what led to him going nuts and dumping your jockey.
“I know, I know, “Arroyo continued. “I am sure you did not give Plotkin that drug, or order anybody else to do so. But somebody sure as hell did. And, under this state’s absolute insuror rule, you have to be held responsible.”
“Even though I had absolutely nothing to do with this,” Tenuta said bitterly.
Arroyo said, “The rule is the rule. In every racing state in this country. If something illegal is given to a horse you train, you are punished. It doesn’t make any difference if you had been thousands of miles away last week. What happened here at Heartland Downs to Plotkin is your responsibility under the rules of racing. That’s just the way it is, Ralph.”
The shaken Tenuta struggled to his feet. “Henry, what’s the punishment for this fiasco?”
“You are suspended for an additional sixty days on top of your thirty-day ruling from Madame Golden. Starting today, even though you got that lawyer Englehart to obtain a stay order pending appeal on the first one. And you are fined $10,000.”
Tenuta had his head in his hands before looking up and saying, “I’ve got thirty horses in my barn. They eat every day and have to be exercised every day and have to run as often as possible so that their owners get their bills and pay me. I charge $65 per horse per day. What happens to all that if you put me on the sidelines?”
Associate steward Joe Kristufek, a sympathetic look on his old face, said, “Ralph, don’t you have an assistant trainer now?”
“Yes. Paul Albano. He’s worked for me for years. But he doesn’t want to be my assistant. He says there’s too much pressure. He wants to go back to being my head groom.”
Arroyo said, “Well, Ralph, you better convince him to stay on in the interim as the stable’s trainer of record while you’re suspended. At least that would keep your operation going.”
“Thanks, Henry. I appreciate that suggestion. I’ll get right back to the barn and talk to Paul and tell him what’s going on.”
The four men got to their feet. Arroyo said, “You understand, Ralph, that you cannot go anywhere near your barn for the next sixty days. I’ll make an exception for today so you can meet with Albano. And you’re not barred from Heartland Downs or watching the races from the stands. But you are absolutely prohibited from spending any time on the backstretch during this period. Sorry, my friend.” He extended his hand. Tenuta, still in mild shock, shook it.
Tenuta said, “Henry, with all the state’s involvement in catching out these positives on my horses, which I know absolutely nothing about, are you people going to try and find out who the hell is doing is this to my horses? And to me?”
Arroyo shook his head no as he politely ushered Tenuta to the door.
“Ralph, that whole question is not up to us to answer, though we’ll have track security do what they can. It’s also up to you. Something’s going on here that you had damned well better try to find out about as soon as you can. Good luck, my friend.”
Tenuta stopped in the washroom at the end of the corridor. After he’d washed his hands, he scrubbed the wet toweling over his sweaty forehead. In the wide, polished mirror he saw a face that appeared to have aged at least five years since he had entered the stewards’ office.
Doyle had driven Tenuta to the meeting but chose to wait in the car for his friend. “I don’t feel like stepping into that pressure cooker again,” he’d said.
They sat in Doyle’s Accord in the parking lot, Doyle twitching with anger, Tenuta silent and morose. Doyle yanked his cell phone from his sport coat pocket. He quickly punched in attorney Art Engelhardt’s number.
Tenuta said, “What are you doing, Jack?”
“Same thing we did after the first ruling against you, the 30-day one on Madame Golden. I’m going to have Engelhardt file for a stay order of this latest ruling pending a hearing on your appeal. He e-mailed me this morning while I was sitting here that the order on the Madame Golden case came through early this morning. I would imagine a similar stay order would cover the Plotkin case. So you’ll be able to continue going to the track and properly training your horses for the time being at least. Okay?”
“Fine by me. Call Engelhardt and tell him about the Plotkin ruling. Tell him to get busy.”
Doyle smiled as he saw Tenuta’s expression brighten. Tenuta said, “Years ago, I read a statement made by the great trainer John Nerud. He said that ‘A bad day at the racetrack is better than a good day anywhere else.’ It wasn’t until these last couple of weeks that I understood exactly what Nerud meant.”
Chapter Fifty-one
They took Theresa’s old but reliable Taurus and headed out of Berwyn. Lenny drove. Theresa slumped against the
passenger door, holding an ice pack to her still swollen jaw. She was starting to nod off, the handful of Advil kicking in.
“Where are we going, Lenny?” she mumbled.
“I’ve got the key to a friend’s cabin down near Ottawa. Take us a couple of hours. It’s near Starved Rock State Park. Real nice area. We can kick back there for a couple of days. Okay?”
“Who is this guy? Where do you know him from?”
“Guy named Eddie Bostwick. We were in high school together. Until we both got booted for smoking weed.” He laughed. “I went into the Army. Eddie went into his old man’s landscaping business. He’s been doing great.”
They drove in silence for the next hour. Theresa, revived, sat up and swiveled the mirror so could examine the jaw injury Doyle had inflicted days before.
“How do you feel?” Lenny said.
“Like shit. But the swelling’s gone down a lot. I guess I’m lucky that bastard Doyle didn’t break it.”
As they drove closer to Ottawa, the afternoon brightened. Teresa opened her window and shut off the car’s air-conditioning. The road ran alongside the south side of the Illinois River. There were many people fishing and canoeing. Others hiked on the trail that paralleled the water. She spotted a bald eagle at the top of a tall spruce tree. She said, “How long you figure for us to stay down here in Hicksville?”
“C’mon, Treese. Lighten up. I’m sorry I made the mistake of trying to attack that fucker Doyle. I admit it. And I’m sorry you got hurt in the process. Really.”
Lenny pulled into the left lane and passed two cars. “The hiring of the hit man idea,” he said bitterly. “That was a fucking mistake. I don’t know how in hell that Doyle found out about it. But it was a stupid idea from the get-go. I understand that now.”
“What do you mean?”
Lenny sighed. “Cousin Ralph dead sure couldn’t help me. I don’t know what I was thinking, considering that action. Maybe it was just the old Italian desire for revenge. Now, Tenuta is supposedly under suspension. Unless he gets another delay.”
