by John McEvoy
Doyle and the other 32,456 fans on hand waited anxiously for the result of the sixty-eighth Heartland Downs Futurity to be posted.
***
It was 5:55 p.m. in Miami when Moe Kellman heard his cell phone ring. He moved out of the crowded living room of the late Solly Brockstein’s ranch house, a room filled with the post-burial crowd, and onto the adjacent patio.
“Jack, I figured the race to be over ten, fifteen minutes ago. What happened in the Futurity?”
“Photo finish, Moe. We won.”
Chapter Seventy-one
Twelve hours after his narrow loss in the Futurity, Kieran deplaned at Dublin Airport. Walking toward the exit, he passed a line of newspaper vending machines. A headline on that day’s Irish Times stopped him in his tracks. It was atop an article describing the previous day’s sudden death of “prominent Irish businessman Paddy Hanrahan,” who had succumbed at his Connemara estate of “a massive stroke.”
Kieran was still stunned when he heard his cell phone ring as he neared the airport parking lot. It was Martin McCluskey. “Welcome back, Kieran. We need to talk. If you’re not jet-lagged, or too depressed at losing that big race to your sister, we should meet. How about our usual place. Tomorrow morning.”
***
As usual, McCluskey was there first at the end of the long Dun Laoghaire pier. Dawn’s arrival had failed to force any sunlight through the thick layer of fog that carried with it a fine layer of mist. McCluskey’s tweed cap was pulled low over his broad forehead. Kieran grimaced as he saw the dog Behan at his tall, bulky master’s side. He remembered how much he despised that huge brute.
“Can’t say I’m sorry about your man Paddy,” Kieran said.
“I didn’t expect you would be. And you’ll not be sorry about what I’m about to tell you, either.”
McCluskey paused for the length of a foghorn blare. “With Paddy Hanrahan gone to his rest, I’ll be delivering no more demands on you to fix horse races. You’ll hear no more from the Hanrahan clan. Or from me. I’m retiring from that sort of business.”
A look of surprise preceded one of relief on Kieran’s face. “That’s a grand bit of welcome news.”
McCluskey bent down to adjust Behan’s collar before saying, “I never much liked making you do what you did. We’re now finished. You’ll have to find another way to finance your poor son’s maintenance.”
“I will. I’ll ride more winners and spend less money on my lifestyle. Sure, there’s a lot I can cut back on there.”
McCluskey nodded to Sheehan and turned to walk away down the long pier. “It’s goodbye to you then,” Kieran called after him. “By the way, that dog of yours is looking grand.”
Chapter Seventy-two
Doyle turned into the O’Hare International Terminal parking lot just before four p.m. Five minutes of searching the crowded aisles produced an open slot at the far end. He got out, opened the trunk of the Accord, and pulled out their suitcases and carry-on bags.
Nora reached to help him, but he said he’d grab a cart to convey all the baggage to the Aer Lingus check-in counter. This cloudy September afternoon, filled with blustery winds and the smell of early autumn, was a far cry from the day several months ago when he had first met the Sheehan sisters here. This was an airport trip he had not expected to make, at least not at this time.
The sisters were quiet as they followed him to the elevator. So was he. The previous morning, Doyle was sitting in Tenuta’s office, working on the week’s scheduled stable entries on the computer, when Mickey rapped softly on the screen door and entered. “Good morning, Mr. Tenuta. Jack, I need to talk to you.”
The usual brightly cheerful little jockey’s face was drawn, her expression serious, if not doleful, as she slumped down on the couch.
“What’s up, Mickey?”
“Jack, best you take me off those horses you lined up.” She hesitated. “I’m going home. So is Nora. We made the decision a few days back. She’s already bought the airline tickets.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Doyle said. “You girls have raised the element of surprise to a new level.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. I was just with Nora two nights ago. She didn’t say a word about this to me.”
“Nora was reluctant to tell you, to hurt your feelings. She left it to me,” Mickey said sadly.
“I miss home. So does Nora. I miss my folks, and my boyfriend. And Nora has been offered a position with the Irish Times. The people there were impressed by her blogging about me and what I did here. It’s a great opportunity for her.”
Doyle said, “Mickey, have you thought about the opportunities you’ll be throwing away here? You’ve just won a million dollar race. Trainers are falling all over themselves to retain your services. Trainers here and around the country. The racing press loves you. You’ve been written up in the papers and the weekly magazines, you’ve been interviewed on TV. You’re in a position to have a memorable career. Plus make a lot of money. How can you walk away from all that?”
“By putting one feckin’ foot in front of the other,” she said. “You think we haven’t thought this through? You’re not the only one who thinks they know best, Jack.” She blinked away tears. “Oh, don’t pay attention to me, Jack. I’m sad that we’re leaving you, but I’m not showing that in a very nice way. I shouldn’t be lashing out at you.”
She rose from the couch and came around behind the desk where Doyle was now standing. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. He could see tears starting to accumulate. She hugged him tightly, her forehead pressed against his breast bone. “You’ve been marvelous to me, Jack. I feel terrible about the way this is ending. Nora feels the same. But we’ve decided that going home is what’s best for us.”
Doyle’s cell phone rang just as Mickey walked out of Tenuta’s office. It was Nora. “Has she told you?”
“Yeah, she has. I would have appreciated hearing it from you, Nora. We had a wonderful time just two nights ago. You gave me no hint of your decision to go back home. That kind of pisses me off.”
There was a brief silence. Nora said, “Understandable, Jack. I didn’t handle this well. I thought you’d be disappointed, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do that to you myself. Mickey volunteered. I don’t mean to hurt you, Jack. Nor does Mickey. Although I believe you’re a hard man to hurt.”
“You’re not quite right on that, darlin’,” Doyle said softly.
He heard a riffling of papers on the other end of the phone. “I’m going over my pre-trip notes,” Nora explained. “We have a lot to wrap up, what with the apartment deposit, bank accounts, so on. Here’s a note I made about you. Does Mickey have to sign anything to end her business relationship with you?”
“No, Nora. Mickey and I have never had a written contract. Jockeys and their agents here in the States don’t have such things. It’s always a verbal agreement. When a rider and his or her agent end their association, for whatever reason, the racing press always describes it as ‘an amicable parting.’ I certainly have heard of some that had absolutely nothing amicable about them. But that’s not the case here. I’ll make sure Mickey is forwarded all of her final earnings from Heartland races.”
Nora said, “Perhaps some day you’ll come to us in Ireland.”
“Perhaps.” He hesitated as he waved a hello to Tenuta who had come into the office. “How about if I take you two to the airport tomorrow?”
“Are you serious,” she said with a laugh. “You would?”
“Serious as ever,” Doyle said. “I’ll pick you up at two.” He turned off the phone and took the Heartland Downs condition book out of his jacket pocket. He ripped it in half and threw the torn pieces into the waste basket. “Won’t need that anymore,” Doyle said bitterly. “Mickey’ll be my one and only jockey client.”
Tenuta said, “What’s going on here Jack?”
“Ralph, I’m out of business. The Irish are leaving us to go back home.”
***
The car was mostly silent
on their ride to O’Hare. Doyle answered a few questions from Nora about Eric Allgauer’s horrific demise, adding that “in the remnants of his clothing, the coroner found traces of both Nembutol and EPO.”
“What a terrible man,” Nora said, “drugging that old guard and trying to drug Mickey’s horse again, even after all the damage he did to her the first time.”
“He was nobody’s idea of virtue exemplified,” Doyle said.
Doyle paid the toll and turned into the airport lanes. He said, “Mickey, I’ve meant to ask you. What did you and Kieran say to each other when you were galloping back after the Futurity?”
He could see her grin in the rear view mirror. “First was what you would call an exchange of unpleasantries. I screamed at him for hitting Plotkin with his whip. He swore at me for beating him. It was lovely. Then, as we pulled up our horses, Kieran suddenly grinned at me. Said, ‘Sister, you should come back home. You’d be a sensation, the best female rider in Irish history.’”
***
The two women passed through airport security as Doyle watched from the cordoned-off area. Mickey carried her travel-on bag, whip attached, that he had first seen her with months ago. She turned to wave a final goodbye. Nora, head down, preceded Mickey down the long corridor to their gate. He waited a few minutes, hoping there might be a miraculous re-emergence of the Sheehans.
Doyle turned and walked rapidly to the exit escalator. His cell phone buzzed. He heard Moe Kellman say, “So, the Irishers are off?”
“How the hell do you know that?” Doyle snapped.
“Because Nora called me three nights ago to say what their departure plans were. And to ask me, as your friend, how best she should break the news to you. She was very concerned. I gave her my best advice about dealing with you.
“I’m sorry it wound up this way,” Moe continued. “I know this is a hurtful development for you. The Sheehan girls are great people. And you had a helluva good summer with them, am I right?”
“You usually are. That doesn’t make me feel any better right now.”
He keyed open the Accord, sat down and back, exhaled, heard Moe say, “How about dinner tonight at Dino’s with Leah and me?”
“Naw. But thanks. Give Leah my best.” He paid the exit fee and gunned the Accord toward Mannheim Road. He realized Kellman was still on the phone.
“I’ll miss Mickey and Nora, too, Jack. But remember one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll always have Plotkin.”
Doyle’s black mood lightened. Grinning, he pounded the steering wheel for emphasis as he said, “Yes, by God, Moe, we will.”
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