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

by John McEvoy

  It was just the two of them on the downward bound elevator, so Rudy felt free to pose a question. “Why did you say you would stay here for the Futurity?”

  “I didn’t say. But I’ll tell you now. I’ve got one more surprise in store for that fuckin’ Tenuta and his fuckin’ horse Plotkin.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Lenny carried the cooler with its beer and sandwiches, Teresa a manila folder stuffed with papers. They walked from the sparsely populated Forest Preserve parking lot to one of the numerous vacant, wooden tables. This popular recreation area would be packed with picnickers on the weekend. But on this warm and humid Thursday afternoon, the only other person present was a Cook County maintenance crew supervisor sleeping comfortably beneath an elm tree fifty yards away from where they set up.

  Without being asked, Lenny took a Pabst from the cooler and handed it to Teresa. Next out was an Italian beef sandwich. He repeated the process for himself and sat down across from her, forearms on the worn and scarred table top. “So, Treece, what have you got there for me?”

  “For us, Lenny,” she corrected. “For us.”

  She bit off a chunk of sandwich and washed it down with a swig of PBR before continuing. “I’ve got some good info about pipe bombs.”

  His jaw dropped. “Pipe bombs? What the hell do I care about pipe bombs?”

  “Lenny, you should hear me out. You can use a pipe bomb to scare the shit out of Ralph Tenuta. Convince him to go along with you. Give you tips on his horses. In other words, make you some fucking money.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how to make a fucking pipe bomb. I think you’re losing it.”

  “No, no, no. And you don’t have to make one. There’s a guy I know comes in the store to buy lottery tickets and smokes. Eddie Scaravilli. He works as a pipe fitter. He kind of likes me. And he would know all about making one of these things. Here, let me tell you some stuff I got off the Internet.”

  She opened the manila folder. “Keep in mind that these are quote extremely dangerous devices unquote.”

  “Terrific,” Lenny said.

  She ignored his look of concern. “I’ve gotta read this to you from what I downloaded. I can’t remember it all myself. Here goes. ‘Pipe bombs are used as an alternative to conventional explosives. The components are very easily available and assembled.’”

  Lenny said, “Sure as hell not by me, Treece.”

  She grinned. “That’s where helpful Eddie Scaravilli comes into it. He can choose the explosive stuff that’s used as filler. Filler goes into a closed metal pipe. You set it off by a fuse running into the pipe. Once it’s lit, the pipe pretty quickly quote ruptures with great force unquote. All Eddie has to come up with are the fuse, the explosive stuff, TNT I guess, and the pipe that they go into. And put them all together.”

  “Your Eddie isn’t going to know what this thing is going to be used for, right? What are you telling him?”

  Teresa said, “I gave him a bullshit story about my imaginary nephew wanting to use a pipe bomb for a science project.”

  “That must be some high school your nephew goes to,” Lenny snorted.

  “Hey, that’s just a detail. Main thing is that Eddie will make one of these things for me. For us, I mean.”

  Lenny swiveled on his bench and looked toward the thick forest that bordered the picnic grounds. “Jeez, Treece, I don’t know. And where is Eddie going to get TNT?”

  “No problem. Eddie says you can find and buy anything you need for a pipe bomb on the Internet.” She reached into the cooler and pulled out another beer to hand him. “So, Lenny, what do you think?”

  “What does this Eddie want for his work?”

  Teresa grinned. “What he wants is a night out with me. Which I told him he wasn’t going to get. That I was going with a guy. I didn’t say who that was, don’t worry. Anyway, I said I’d give him 100 bucks if he’d make the bomb. Eddie was cool with that.”

  Chapter Sixty

  HEARTLAND DOWNS, IL—A sparkling field of eleven two-year-old colts and geldings was entered here Thursday morning for Saturday’s $1 million Heartland Downs Futurity. The one-mile race, one of the richest in the nation for juveniles, is carded as the eighth event on the card. Post time is 4:45 p.m.

  Entries were taken at a special press breakfast in the track clubhouse. Heartland odds-maker Donald Terry made the Irish invader Boy from Sligo the favorite at 5-2. He was closely followed by Go Yale Blue from the barn of so-called Super Trainer Rodney Fletcher at 7-2 and Rosa Tenuta’s locally-owned Plotkin, 9-2. Go Yale Blue is one of some 250 horses conditioned by Fletcher. His huge, widely spread stable leads the U. S. in purse earnings with more than $11 million accumulated to date this year.

  Boy from Sligo’s trainer, Aiden O’Malley, has given a return call to leading Irish jockey Kieran Sheehan. In a racing rarity, Plotkin will be ridden by Sheehan’s younger sister, apprentice sensation Mickey Sheehan, thus making for a sibling matchup. Angel Velasquez Jr. again has the assignment on Go Yale Blue.

  The Irish invader boasts a record of four wins in five starts, all Group 1 contests. The lone blemish on his record came in the Healy Handicap when Kieran Sheehan tumbled off him shortly after the start.

  Plotkin, a winner of five of seven outings, all his victories coming over the Heartland strip, and Go Yale Blue previously met in Saratoga’s Sanford Stakes. Plotkin finished a good second, Go Yale Blue four lengths behind him in seventh .

  Boy from Sligo is a bay son of Ireland’s leading sire Giant’s Dream. Go Yale Blue was a $1.2 million yearling purchase. The modestly bred Plotkin was reportedly purchased for $50,000.

  On the phone to Kellman, Doyle quickly scanned Kaplan’s Racing Daily story. “Plotkin drew the three hole, which Ralph says is fine. He’s listed at nine to two in the morning line. Ralph was in a grand mood this morning after Art Engelhardt called to say he’d gotten a stay order of the Plotkin ruling. So Ralph can saddle Plotkin Saturday.”

  Kellman walked to east window of his office overlooking that morning’s gently rippling, blue-green Lake Michigan. “Who would of thought,” he said, “you and I would have a $50,000 horse in a million-dollar race?”

  “And with a good chance,” Doyle enthused. “We already outran Go Yale Blue at Saratoga when Plotkin finished second and he finished seventh. So, I’m not worried about him. Ralph thinks Plotkin as gotten a lot better since then. He believes it’s the Irish horse that’s the danger. His trainer, O’Malley, rarely ships to the States. But when he does, he does awfully well.”

  Kellman said, “How does Mickey feel about riding against her brother in the biggest race of life?”

  Doyle laughed. “This kid doesn’t have ice water in her veins, she’s got ice. She says she can’t wait to compete against Kieran and then pose in the winner’s circle with Plotkin. I wish I had her confidence.”

  ***

  Some 3,600 miles away Niall Hanratty sat in front of a computer in the Kinsale, Ireland office of his bookmaking firm, Shamrock Off-Course Wagering. He scrolled down to the end of Ira Kaplan’s Heartland Downs Juvenile story, which appeared on the Internet as part of that day’s Paulick Report from the US. “That’s going to be very interesting come Saturday,” Hanratty said.

  Office manager Tony Rourke said, “What’s going to be interesting, Niall?”

  Hanratty swiveled in his chair next to the window that overlooked the long Kinsale waterfront. “The clash of the Sheehans, that’s what I mean, Tony. Mickey versus big brother Kieran for the first time in their riding careers. And in one of the biggest races of the year. Why, this scenario is positively drippin’ with drama.”

  “That’s not all it’s doing,” Rourke replied. “Ever since we started taking wagers on American races last year, this Futurity promises to be one of the biggest betting attractions we’ve had.”

  “Because of the Sheehans.”

  “Yes, because of the Sheehans,” Rourke said.

  “In what direction is the early betting
going?”

  “The slight majority is on Plotkin so far.”

  Hanratty’s surprise was evident. “You mean the team of Kieran Sheehan and Aiden O’Malley isn’t leading the way in the betting like it usually does here?”

  “That’s right, Niall. Our clerks report that there’s been a lot of support from women bettors for little Mickey Sheehan. We’ve knocked Plotkin down to five to two favoritism as a result.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Hanratty said.

  Rourke picked up the printouts from Hanratty’s desk, preparing to return to his adjacent office. “I must say that your man Doyle has done a brilliant job with Mickey. She’s come a long way in a short time. The American racing press is crazy about her. So are the fans.”

  Hanratty smiled. “Ah, Jack Doyle. A sometimes difficult but always resourceful sort of fella. I should give him a call one of these days.”

  “What do you think about our Kieran in this Futurity?” Rourke said. “He wouldn’t be up to any of his suspicious capers now, would he?”

  Hanratty said, “There’s no chance of that. As far as I can tell, most of his shenanigans come in the lesser races. I don’t think he’d contemplate doing anything funny while on the international stage like he’ll be on Saturday.

  “Besides,” Hanratty added, “Kieran’ll be roaring to beat his little sister with Boy from Sligo. He’ll ride the hair off his horse, Tony.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  For Doyle, Futurity Week dragged on like a scoreless soccer match. He’d attended one of them on Sunday night, the Chicago Torches versus the Minneapolis Northerners, at the invitation of the Sheehan sisters, enthusiastic fans of what Nora described as “this beautiful game.” Each sister had a favorite team back home in Ireland. Doyle thought he’d never been so bored at any other sporting event he’d ever attended. But he didn’t say so, not wanting to spoil Mickey and Nora’s fun. He occupied himself by drinking beer and reading the paperback version of Michael Connelly’s latest Harry Bosch novel.

  Monday and Tuesday were both “dark days” at Heartland Downs that week, but that didn’t mean Doyle was idle. He spent his mornings watching the workouts with Tenuta, paying particular attention to Mickey, who rode with grace and assurance, so much so that Doyle was confident enough to put her on three mounts Friday. If all went well, on Futurity Day, she’d have assignments on another three of Tenuta’s trainees in addition to Plotkin.

  Doyle called Nora Tuesday afternoon. “How about dinner tonight? We could go to that new Mandarin restaurant near your neighborhood.”

  Nora laughed. She was well aware of Doyle’s pronounced aversion to any cuisine that had its origins in the East: Far East, Near East, Middle East. He’d tried them all at various times and each had failed his taste test. “You’re a great kidder, Jack. But, seriously, I’ve got to turn you down. I’m spending most of my time with Mickey these nights. She keeps busy doing her the therapy exercises for her wrist and hand plus watching tapes of some of Kieran’s races. She ordered them over the Internet.”

  “What’s her purpose in that?”

  Nora said, “Mickey wants to be sure she knows as much as she can about Kieran’s riding style, tendencies, whatever. Occasionally, she’ll marvel at his ability and start to worry a bit about her chances against him in the Futurity. That’s when I step in and pick up her spirits.”

  “Has she seen something useful to her on those Kieran tapes?”

  “Yes. She says Kieran, like most Irish and English and French jockeys who come over here, lose lengths at the start of their races. They’re used to rather slow beginnings, with their horses’ speed reserved for the latter part of the race, as it is where they come from. She says if Kieran persists in that practice, she’ll be able to get the jump on him Saturday.”

  “Getting the jump is one thing. Getting to the finish first is another. I know Kieran is famous for being a powerful finisher.”

  “Jack, she’s not underestimating her brother. She’s estimating him.”

  Doyle sighed. “So, you’re going to be busy with Mickey every night this week?”

  “Yes. I’ll make it up to you next week, Jack.”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  It was what happened when he walked into the State Street Off-Track Betting parlor that Wednesday noon that set him off. First thing he heard was loudmouth Terry Schneider holler, “Hey, here’s Lenny the Loser. Back for another day of money burning.” The three young guys sitting at the table with Schneider laughed loudly. Lenny tried to ignore them. Schneider, who Lenny first knew as a schoolyard bully in Berwyn, had been on his case for weeks. The fact that they’d wind up years later betting races in the same place was amazing to Lenny, who walked over to his regular little cubicle at the far end of the large room. Spread his Racing Daily on the small table in front of him, also the notes and speed figures he’d compiled.

  During weeks like this, Lenny just could not figure out where he’d gone wrong with his wagering. He knew as much, if not more, about racing as any of those buffoons at Schneider’s table. They drank beer and bet every weekend day from noon on. Never seemed to run out of cash. Frequently signified their successes with raucous hand-slapping and high-fiving.

  Lenny, meanwhile, had recently been plagued by a terrible streak of bad luck. He’d lost eleven straight photo finishes. Unbelievable! These disappointments had been spread out all over the racing’s simulcast nation of events from the US. To be so close all those times was killing him. His bankroll had diminished disastrously, so much so that he’d been forced to limit his purchases of crystal meth from the Latino kid on the corner of his Berwyn block.

  He couldn’t sleep nights. He couldn’t do justice to Teresa in their love-making. He’d never suffered through a streak as bad as this.

  It continued through the afternoon. Lenny’s pick won the first race at Belmont Park, so he was alive in the daily double and encouraged. But his horse in the second race stumbled on the soggy turf course and lost decisive lengths right out of the gate. Lenny slammed his newspaper down on the table. He ordered a double shot of Captain Morgan and Coke at the bar. Downed it and hustled into the men’s room where he took a hit of meth.

  Riding the El train to downtown Chicago that morning, Lenny had decided to make his major move of the week on two races at Heartland Downs that afternoon. Each had a horse in its field trained by cousin Ralph Tenuta. Lenny had four times tried to call Ralph—he’d gotten his home number from his mother Elvira—but failed to reach him on the first three tries. Then Ralph finally called him back to say, “Look, Lenny, I’m not giving you racing advice. I’ll give you some other advice. Stop betting on horses, get a real job, and move out of your mother’s basement. That’s all you’re going to get from me.”

  Lenny was about to slam the phone down when he heard Tenuta say,

  “Wait. Listen. I know you’re interested in horses. You want to come work for me? On a trial basis? At Heartland Downs? You’d have to start at the bottom, walking horses, cleaning stalls, cleaning feed buckets, that kind of stuff. But I’m willing to give you a try as a favor to your mother, who’s a great person. What do you say?”

  Lenny spat out, “That’s all you’ve got to say to me? You want I should get up in the middle of the night to work for your measly pay at the racetrack? Shoveling horse shit? No fuckin’ way, cousin.”

  He was still steaming after he’d ordered and drained another CM and Coke. “To think that bastard wouldn’t even tell me anything about the horses he’s running today,” Lenny muttered. “Well, I’m going to beat them with my picks. Fuck cousin Ralph.”

  Terry Schneider hollered across the room, “Hey, Lenny, Tenuta’s got a horse in the next race at Heartland. You heard anything about it?”

  “Like I’d tell you if I did, you loud mouth?”

  Lenny walked to the mutual window and put 20 dollars to win, 20 dollars to place on the favorite in the Heartland race. The horse got soundly bumped after coming out of the gate and didn’t run
a lick after that. Tenuta’s trainee won and paid $18.60.

  “Have that winner, Lenny?” Schneider chortled. “We sure as hell did.”

  Lenny snatched up his newspaper and notes and headed to the door. “Hey, Loser, you giving up already?” he heard Schneider say. Lenny ignored him.

  Back home in Berwyn, Lenny called the racing results telephone line. Ralph Tenuta’s second runner that day also won. “Payoffs of 22 dollars to win, 11 dollars to place, 6 dollars to show” said the recorded voice.

  Lenny hurled his cell phone against the wall. He was shaking as he sat back in his Barcalounger, sweat popping out on his forehead. “Does that fuckin’ Tenuta think he’s gonna get away with shittin’ on me like this?”

  His mother opened the door at the top of the basement stairs. “Lenny, I didn’t know you were home already. I’m going to the five o’clock mass. So, we can eat about six-thirty. I made mushroom and chicken risotto. Okay?”

  He struggled to control himself. “Yeah, Ma, that’s great. See you later.”

  Elvira closed the door. Lenny waited a minute before reaching into the slit right arm of the brown Barcalounger for his plastic baggie of meth. Minutes later he felt himself come really alive, restored. He retrieved his cell phone and dialed. “Teresa, I’m ready to go with our plan for Tenuta. Did your pal Eddie deliver that thing?”

  “He dropped it off last night. What time you think we should go to Tenuta’s house?”

  “I’ll pick you up around eleven.”

  “Remember, Lenny, wear dark clothes. You got Tenuta’s address?”

  “You bet your big, beautiful ass, Treece.”

  Chapter Sixty-three

  That evening, as Lenny Ruffalo was resting up in preparation for his pipe bomb foray, Doyle walked out of the Heartland Downs racing secretary’s office carrying a half-dozen condition books and two Racing Dailys in one hand. With the other, he fumbled his sunglasses as he took them off to place in one of his sport jacket’s inner pockets.