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

by John McEvoy

  As the national anthem was being dragged along for what seemed to Doyle to be for minutes by an overweight, attention-seeking Irish tenor, Doyle’s thoughts turned to his current pressing issues. Mickey Sheehan’s health, physical and mental. The effect her brother Kieran’s arrival would have on her. And the mystery of who was doping Ralph Tenuta’s horses. He was relieved when the fighters for the opening bout were introduced and quickly proceeded to go to work on each other. The raucous crowd seemed to be evenly divided as to which fighter they were rooting for.

  It was a decently fought bout, Sean Daley taking a narrow decision after a trio of busy rounds. “Those guys were pretty good,” Doyle said as the referee raised the grinning Daley’s hand

  Moe said, “Daley was the Chicago Golden Gloves champ at that weight two years ago. I don’t know where the wee bonnie lad came from. But he pretty much held his own I would say.”

  During the intermission between bouts, six burly bagpipers climbed through the ropes into the ring. All wore kilts, thus exposing their knobby knees, which the Irish backers in the crowd made loud fun of. The musicians responded with a lengthy and loud version of “Scotland the Brave.”

  Tom Donovan, chairman of the state boxing commission, was on his way to a lavatory when he spotted Moe. He came over, the men shook hands, then huddled for a minute or two of quiet conversation. Doyle shook his head. He said to Dunleavy, “Honest to God, Pete, it seems that everywhere I go with our little friend he knows somebody or somebody knows him.”

  “Been that way ever since I’ve known Moe,” Dunleavy smiled.

  The second bout was over quickly. Midway of the first round, Purcell unleashed a powerful right hand that dropped Bennett to the canvas. He could not make it up by the count of ten. The Irish backers were on their feet, whistling and shouting at their side’s lead of two-to-nothing.

  Doyle watched as a black-suited man hustled into the ring carrying a portable microphone. He announced that there would now be “a ten minute interlude prior to Bout Number Three.”

  “Interlude?” Doyle said. “I thought it was an intermission. Who the hell is that guy, Moe?”

  “That’s Packy Sheridan. Alderman from Rogers Park and a Democratic Party gadfly. He went to an Ivy League school. Maybe that’s where he got ‘interlude’ instead of intermission.”

  Moe and Pete left for the wash room. Doyle sat back in his seat. Mention of the word interlude brought back vivid memories of the Rush Street tavern of that name. Doyle had frequented it during his first couple of years in Chicago.

  The Interlude had not lacked for colorful characters. Hugo, the one-armed karate champ. Effie Manna, who late at night would stand up in a booth and pluck the Venetian blinds, making what he considered to be harp-like sounds. Little Ralphie, a dwarf who ran a nearby Chicago Avenue news stand and could outdrink anyone in the place. And, the bulk of the clientele, students at the nearby Loyola law school. It was the latter group that frequently drew the ire of the Interlude’s owner-operator, George Small. He allowed the students to run tabs and often had a difficult time getting those tabs paid. He was dismissive of these young men’s abilities. As he frequently stated in a loud voice, “If I were in trouble, I’d rather have a Jewish bailbondsman rep me than a Loyola lawyer.”

  Action, such as it was, resumed with the middleweight match. Brian Callahan was a red-headed, generously freckled young man who bounced impatiently in his corner awaiting the opening bell. Across the ring, James Robertson waited stoically. He appeared to be very confident.

  Robertson’s confidence was justified in the ensuing nine minutes. There was nothing artful about his performance, but the eager Callahan was worse, swinging wildly and so hard he several times almost lost his footing. “I don’t think the Irish kid has hit Robertson once,” Doyle said to Moe. “Robertson has a great defense, all right. But he’s only thrown about a dozen punches. What a boring fight this is.” Robertson was declared the winner. The cascade of crowd boos was not aimed at the decision but as comment on the bout’s lack of meaningful action.

  The card concluded with heavyweights Rory O’Rourke and George MacDonald, Rafferty having weighed in at an announced 221 pounds, MacDonald at 245. As the referee gave his instructions at mid-ring, these two did more glowering at each other than principals in an average divorce court hearing.

  “MacDonald looks more like 265,” Moe said. “Look at that blubber gut.”

  “Hey,” Doyle said, “O’Rourke isn’t exactly a svelte-like figure. His belly wobbles like my Aunt Florence’s Christmas jello mold.”

  All this excess avoirdupois contributed to what was easily the most boring bout of the night. The two men spent all three minutes of each of the rounds clinching, grunting, only occasionally flailing to no effect. The fight was declared a draw. High volume booing from a critical crowd almost drowned out the announcement of the decision.

  Walking to the exit, Doyle said “Celtic Thunder? They should have billed this fiasco as Celtic Twilight.”

  “Yeah, Jack, most of those guys are probably better at driving and unloading beer trucks. But, what the hell,” Moe continued. “There’s always going to be young men fighting. Better this than shooting each other in the streets. And remember, it was for a good cause.”

  Settled into the backseat of the Lincoln as Dunleavy headed for the northeast side of the city, Doyle flinched when he heard his cell phone ring in his pocket.

  “Jack, it’s Nora.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Can you make an early morning stop here at the apartment before you go to the track tomorrow?”

  “Sure. But why, Nora?”

  “Mickey is not in good shape. I mean mentally, emotionally. I’ve never seen her so down as she is now. I’m worried about her. Maybe you could help to get her back to her real self. I know she respects you greatly.”

  Doyle said, “Well, I’ll do what I can. I can be there by 6:30. Will Mickey be up by then?”

  “Oh, yes. The girl barely sleeps at all these days. Thank you, Jack.”

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Outbound traffic was light on the Kennedy and Edens at this early hour Thursday, and Doyle made good time. He passed it by listening to a summary of world and national news on NPR—too depressing—then a CD by jazz pianist Jacky Terrason that improved his spirits.

  Nora opened the apartment door, greeted Doyle with a light kiss on the cheek, and led him into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “Yes. Thanks,” Doyle said.

  The tension she felt was evident in Nora’s posture as she ground the beans and activated the coffee making machine. She said, “I’m a bit of a mess, Jack. I’ve never seen my sister depressed.” She paused and looked out the east window at the elm trees shaking in a prestorm breeze. “Mickey has always been just a super ‘up’ kind of person, no matter what. After our parents’ deaths. After being ignored for years by brother Kieran. Day in and day out. Until yesterday and this morning. She is sadly different. Shall I take you in to see her?”

  “First, let me ask you something. Is there anything else bothering Mickey? Besides the fall? And her injuries? “

  “Well, Jack, there is the homesick factor. Mickey and I both miss our parents, especially Mickey. She still lives with them when she’s in Ireland, you know. And she definitely misses Jaimie Donovan, her boyfriend. More and more, it seems to me, in recent weeks.

  “As for me, I must admit that I am, as the auld ones say back there, feeling ‘the tug of the Emerald Isle.’ Not that I have not enjoyed my time here with you, of course.”

  Jack paused before saying, “Of course.”

  Nora opened Mickey’s bedroom door. Doyle followed her into the darkened room with its window blinds closed and no lamp light. Mickey sat on the floor, her back against the foot of her bed. She wore a short-sleeved Heartland Downs tee-shirt, jeans, white sweat sox on her small feet. It was obvious her facial bruises had burgeoned. She looked up and smiled weakly. “Hello, Jack.”

&
nbsp; “Hey, my girl. How goes it?”

  “Please sit down. You, too, Nora. I’m not in a great mood, Jack. But I could not turn you away, could I?”

  Doyle gestured at the floor near where Mickey sat. There was a scattering of poker chips and paper clips. “What are you doing with that stuff?” She reached down with her injured hand and wrist. Her fingers trembled. She managed to extract one clip and one chip. She looked up, smiling. “Hey, that’s the best I’ve been able to do with this. So far.”

  Nora said, “That’s an exercise her physical therapist at the hospital recommended. It’s supposed to help repair the damaged ligaments she suffered.”

  Doyle leaned down and kissed his employer’s freckled forehead as she grinned up at him.

  “Don’t worry, Jack, I’ll be back. Soon. Count on me.”

  “I would never count you out, kid. But I don’t like seeing you at a possible disadvantage with that injured hand and wrist.”

  “No, no,” Mickey said. “The hand and wrist aren’t everything.” She rose quickly from the floor and sat down on the bed next to Doyle. “Can I tell you something I’ve come to learn about riding racehorses? Sometimes you can goad a horse to run faster by striking him with the whip. Or shouting at him. I mean just ‘sometimes.’ Most horses don’t like being whipped or yelled at. Who could blame them?”

  She walked over to the bedside table and picked up the rubber ball she squeezed several times an hour in an effort to build up her hand strength. “The valuable thing I’ve discovered,” she said, “came from watching brother Kieran’s races on television and on tape. He’s not a smooth rider by any means. But he surely gets the job done. And one of the methods he uses, although he’s never been inclined to inform me of it, is thrusting his weight down on the hind legs of the horse where the traction is. You have to have strong legs, especially thigh muscles, to do this. He has. So do I, I’ve found. When he actually gets that weight of purchase through the back legs, a rider can make his mount go faster. Jack, you look stunned.”

  “Incredulous, I would call it. When did you figure this out, Mickey?”

  “About a year ago. Especially when I saw Kieran win the Irish Derby on Old Croft. It was evident what Kieran was doing with his weight on that horse. And it worked brilliantly. After that, I began going to a physical trainer to help me build up my leg strength. Nora used to drive me to the trainer three times a week. The stronger I got, the more races I won.”

  Nora said, “Mickey is a very determined girl.”

  “Comes from a very determined family,” Doyle said. He glanced at his watch. “Got to get going. I told Ralph I’d do the entering of his horses today.”

  Mickey said, “Thanks for coming, Jack. And don’t worry. I’ll be back in shape to ride Plotkin in the Futurity. Did Nora tell you that I ran four miles earlier this morning? I can’t ride now. But I’ve got to stay in shape so that I can ride.”

  Just two weeks to go till the Futurity, Doyle thought as he walked to his car. I hope to God Mickey can do it.

  He started the Accord. Turned on the windshield wipers. The thunderstorm that an hour ago had been a threat was now a reality.

  But the sun shone brightly seven days later when Doyle collected Mickey from her apartment shortly after dawn. She bounced down the stairs and hurried to the car. “Morning, Jack. I can’t wait to get back to riding.”

  “How’s the hand and wrist?”

  “Nearly as good as new. And the bruises on my face are almost all faded away. I’m feeling great.”

  Mickey’s buoyant mood was obviously contagious once she and Doyle reached Tenuta’s barn. “Hola, Mickey,” shouted one of the grooms when he spotted her. He was grinning widely. So were others of Tenuta’s work crew. “Un gusto veria,” the groom added. Several of the female hot walkers rushed up to give her hugs as Mickey said to Jack, “What was that Pablo said?”

  “I’ve forgotten most the high school Spanish I learned. But I think Pablo was welcoming you back.”

  “They love that little jock,” Tenuta said. “Great to have her here again.”

  In the next ninety minutes, Mickey worked four of Tenuta’s horses, displaying her usual professionalism on each. “Looks like her old self,” Tenuta commented. Many of the jockeys and exercise riders on the track were also warm in their welcomes as Mickey galloped by.

  Doyle was both relieved and heartened as he walked toward the racing secretary’s office to enter three of Tenuta’s trainees for the next race day. One week until the Futurity, he thought.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Eric had left a pass for Rudy at the entrance to the Player’s Lounge at Heartland Downs. This was a private area for subscribed members that overlooked the track from the third floor. It was large room with desks and individual HD television screens for watching races as well as a sizeable dining area and small bar. Three pari-mutuel clerks waited to take bets. Numerous self-help mutuel machines far outnumbered these clerks, members of a union that track management was attempting to drive to its knees.

  This was where the “whales” congregated, the biggest bettors, the men and some women who bet in the five figures each day they were present. Among them was Lou Liebman, a whale so valued by Heartland management that they sent a limo to transport him to and fro each day.

  Eric waved to his brother from a table near the window. He was working on his second Bloody Mary of the morning, looking pleased with himself. His face was nearly the color of the table’s crimson placemat. More and more, Rudy thought, Eric is starting to remind me of our old man. Eric signaled the waitress, ordering another Bloody Mary and an Old Style for Rudy.

  The brothers bumped fists before Rudy sat down at the table. “You hungry, Rudy? They make a good breakfast here if you’re interested in that. The lunch menu is a standout, too.”

  “Maybe a little later, Eric. I don’t have much of an appetite right now.” He ordered coffee from Cindy, the attentive waitress. “What I am is kind of worried.”

  Surprise was evident on Eric’s face. “Worried? What’s bugging you, brother? For Chrissakes, worried what about? You’re riding high, man. Thanks to me and EPO. What’s to worry about?”

  The month just passed had seen Rudy Allgauer’s stable come to life with a bang. From being near the bottom of the Heartland Downs trainers’ standings, Rudy had rocketed up into the top five with nine winners from his last twenty starters. He was batting nearly fifty percent during that span, a remarkable percentage for anyone, much less him. And most of his winners had been scoring at long odds, to the delight of their betting owners.

  “Look, Eric, don’t get me wrong. This recent run of mine has probably salvaged my career. And I have you to thank for it.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  Rudy sighed and slumped back in his chair. “You know how the racetrack rumor mill works. Some people are wondering openly about this great improvement in my runners. They were a rag-tag, unproductive bunch before. Now, they’re running like rats in a barrel. Rumor has it I’ve put them on some magic juice. Even though none of your EPO has ever shown up in a post-race test.

  “Remember that trainer in New York a few winters back? Went from the bottom of the pile to the top of the heap overnight? He was claiming horses for $20,000, winning stakes races with them the next week. Everybody figured he was using some new drug that couldn’t be detected. He probably was. They never publicly said they caught him, but something happened. Suddenly, his streak ended. He went back to being a little less than mediocre. Guys around here are suggesting that could all happen to me.”

  Rudy leaned forward, talking softly. “I’m worried, Eric. I’m tossing and turning at night. Michelle knows there’s something bad bothering me, but I haven’t told her what it is.”

  “Well, what the hell is it?” Eric said.

  “I’m convinced now that using your magic juice is no way for me to win races. If I can’t win legitimately, I should find something else to do with my life. And I’m sc
ared as hell the test lab is going to find me out. Word is they’re on the verge of a new test for EPO. They get that going, I’ll be toast.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Eric snarled. “If they’d perfected a new test, I would have heard about it. I’ve started to date that cute technician, Sandy Hartung, who works in the on-site lab here. She can’t keep her mouth shut about anything. She’s a nice, convenient fuck, though.”

  He drained his cocktail glass and signaled the waitress for another. His face was flushed from the liquor and his anger as Rudy’s comments sunk in. “I hope you’re not going to wimp out on me with this EPO campaign. I’ve cashed some very nice bets on your suddenly fast horses. Without a job, I need the dough. A couple of more scores will set me up for a year. So, let’s not tuck and run at this point. Besides, this burst of success has served to revive your dismal career. Didn’t you tell me the other day that you’d had calls from several owners wanting you to train for them?”

  “That’s true, Eric. And I think if I can get my hands on better stock, I can continue to win races. Without the help of EPO.”

  Eric leaned across the table and spoke softly. “Two more EPO specials. Maybe next week. I’ll bet, collect, and be done. You’ll improve your position in the trainer standing with a couple of more wins. How does that sound?”

  Rudy reluctantly agreed. How could he refuse Eric after all his brother had done for him? “What are you going to do then, Eric?”

  “After the Futurity has been run here, I’m going to be in the wind. I’m thinking the California tracks. I’ve still got my license. And nobody out there will know about my situation here. Maybe I’ll even cut back on the drinking. We’ll see.”

  They ordered food, a half-pound cheeseburger for Eric, a chicken burrito for Rudy. The burrito was so large it wouldn’t have fit in Shaquille O’Neal’s hand. Rudy attacked it appreciatively. Minutes later, Rudy checked his watch. “I’ve got to go saddle Friar Tuckie for the fourth race.”

  “He’s primed and ready,” Eric grinned. “I bet him a thousand to win, $500 to place.” He looked out at the odds board. “He’s five-to-one. That’s cool. Wait. I’ll come down to your box and watch the race with you.”