by John McEvoy
“Jack, I don’t get it. Over so quickly, and Rawlings doesn’t even look like he’s hurt,” Cindy said as the black fighter rapidly departed the ring.
Albertani’s Elmwood Park posse charged through the ropes and lifted him to their shoulders. A reprise of the “Rocky” theme song blared.
“Well, I enjoyed that Mr. Kellman; I mean, Moe,” Cindy smiled as they walked to the Horizon exit. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
Kellman reached forward for a hug, eagerly provided, then said, “Jack, what did you think?”
“Don’t buy any shares in Albertani’s contract.”
Kellman said, “You’re right. I don’t know, some of these old dagoes, they get excited when they discover a young stud. Fifi said to me last week, ‘The kid reminds me of Rocky Marciano. Tough, strong, determined.’”
Doyle said, “Hah! This kid’s more like Maraschino, the cherry.”
They all waved goodbye.
Chapter Twenty-One
June 11, 2009
Doyle was watching replays of the previous day’s races on Tenuta’s television in the office when the trainer came bustling through the door. “Jack, listen to this,” he said, waving a copy of Racing Daily before him. “There’s another kind of hustle going on. It’s un-damn-believable,” he fumed. Tenuta’s face was the color of a hydroponic tomato. Doyle took Tenuta by the arm. “For Chrissakes, Ralph, calm down.What’s going on?”
Tenuta opened the newspaper to page three. “It’s this story here. There are trainers now using shock wave therapy on their horses. Shock wave therapy. This happened in Australia, where they suspended a couple of those guys.”
Doyle reached for the paper. It was turned to a piece by Racing Daily’s senior columnist, Jeff Hovey, who described a veterinary procedure administered to a major race winner Down Under named Rick’s the Man. He read, “The horse received a session of extracorporeal shock wave therapy (ESWT) five days before the race. This is a procedure most commonly used on humans to pulverize kidney stones without invasive surgery. Used on horses, it is believed to have a perhaps healing and pain-killing effect. The treatment works to hyperstimulate nerves so that they no longer transfer pain.”
“Ralph,” Doyle said, “you ever hear of this before?”
Tenuta walked over the office coffee maker, poured himself a cup. Composed now, he sat down in his chair. He shook his head. “When I came up in racing, the rule was feed your horses only oats, hay, and water. That was all. Sure, there were some guys hopping horses back then, taking an edge, but most of them were caught. There were others who’d do something along the same lines as this wave therapy. They’d have their vet cut the nerves above an injured horse’s bad ankle or foot. Then the poor animal couldn’t feel the pain. It was called ‘nerving.’ That, thank God, got banned a long time ago.
“But damn, Jack, things are moving so fast in this business. There are what they call ‘designer drugs,’ which are undetectable for awhile. Once they’re detected, some chemist will come up with a new version designed to make horses run faster. We went through all the ‘milk shaking’ years,” he said. Tenuta was referring to the practice of loading bicarbonates into a horse’s stomach through a rubber tube. The purpose was to lower lactic acid in their muscles and the bloodstream, thus supposedly preventing them from tiring. This illegal scam was eventually discovered by racing authorities and banned. Violaters were severely punished. “Now, shock waves!” Tenuta said. “Enough to make you weep.”
Doyle looked across the desk at this distraught, honest little man. An upright, rule-following advocate of “what’s best for the horse” from the get-go. “Ralph, I’m sure the local authorities are on to this. I know they’ve developed tests for blood-doping, the kind used by those Tour de France cycling marvels.”
Doyle, knowing what the answer would be, but wanting to ask the question anyway, said, “Honest to God, Ralph, are you ever tempted to try some of these new methods on your horses?”
“Get serious,” Tenuta replied. “When I lead one of my horses over to the paddock to run, I know that horse is drug-free.” He paused. “The only thing I do that doesn’t come from the old days is sometimes I hire a massage therapist to work on my stock. You get a horse that’s real tightened up, his muscles bunched, I call this woman. Name of Ingrid Rosengren. She comes and gives the horse a forty-five minute treatment. Man, it really works. Massage and acupuncture. Not on every horse, but definitely on some of them. The horses love what she does. She charges sixty bucks an hour. But to see the way my horses respond, Jack, it’s worth every penny.
“A lot of the vets around here won’t give her the time of day. She’s probably cutting into their business.But I’ll tell you, she’s on to something. Ingrid says when one thing is out of balance on a horse, things start to snowball. She’s a big believer in preventative treatment. Doc Jensen, my regular vet, has started to use her a lot. He’s become a believer in what Ingrid can do.”
Doyle said, “Are you talking about that tall, statuesque Swedish-looking lady that I’ve seen in the track kitchen. Very pretty blond woman?”
Tenuta looked down. He said, “Well, yes. That’s probably her.”
Doyle said, “Ralph, am I perhaps seeing you blush at the very mention of her name?”
“Don’t give me any of your perhapses,” Tenuta barked. Doyle was getting a kick out of this, never having seen the trainer flustered. Answering Doyle’s question, Tenuta said, “Yeah, that’s probably Ingrid. I mean Ms. Rosengren. Very nice woman, everybody likes her.”
Doyle said, “I can certainly understand why.”
Tenuta glared at him. “I’ve been married to my first and only wife Rosa for almost thirty years. I don’t fool around, Jack, or have eyes for other ladies. That’s not what I do. Capice?”
Doyle, grinning, got to his feet. “I happen to know another Italian-American paragon of marital virtue named Tirabassi. FBI guy. Far as I know, Tirabassi is as faithful as Old Faithful. You two guys,” Doyle said, moving to the door and shaking his head,“are kind of tarnishing my image of the Italian, what do you call them, Lotharios? Casanovas? Sinatras? They marry young, quickly father children, then move on to explore other, um, romantic interests. I thought it was in the blood.”
Seeing how he’d gotten his friend riled up, Doyle could not resist. “Doesn’t what’s her name, Ingrid the massage lady, kind of remind you of that Swedish beauty in one of the old James Bond movies? Ursula Andress? The one who came out of the sea wearing not much more than an appealing look?”
Tenuta swiveled his squeaky chair around, turning his back to his stable agent.
“Get the hell out of here, Jack.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
June 15, 2009
It had been a long, demanding day for Chris Carson. A breakfast meeting address to a group of newly minted CPAs. Lunch with one of his major clients, an electronics magnate who paid Carson an annual retainer larger than Carson’s father earned in ten years as a printing plant foreman. Finally, a well advertised and received speech, delivered pro bono, to a group of Milwaukee County high school seniors who had expressed interest in becoming certified public accountants. Carson thought that “exhausting but rewarding” would be the way he would describe his day to his wife Portia when he finally got home.
Home for the Carsons was a restored farm house on a small country road north and west of Chris’ Milwaukee office. The commute usually took at least forty-five minutes, fairly long for Wisconsin but, in Carson’s view, well worth it. He and Portia loved the privacy and serenity of the place, formerly home of a wealthy dairy farmer.
Carson turned his dark blue BMW coupe off the highway onto County Road W. It was a dark but well-paved stretch of minor highway, running parallel to a line of bluffs on the left side. A deep ravine bordered it for a half-mile on the right. Carson knew the road well and was familiar with its users, neighbors for the most part, who rarely drove this stretch after
dark. So he was surprised to see pair of bright headlights advancing rapidly toward him. Not relaxed now, Carson tightened his hand on the steering wheel. He punched the radio button into silence. “Who the hell is flying along here at this hour?”
The approaching vehicle, a black SUV, sped closer. When it was a hundred yards away from Carson’s car, its bright lights went off, then back on. Carson quickly flashed his own brights on and off, trying to signal for relief. The SUV’s brights came back on. The oncoming vehicle picked up more speed. When it was some fifty yards away, it suddenly veered out of its lane and headed directly at Carson.
“God almighty,” Carson shouted. “What is this guy doing?” Instinctively attempting to avert a head-on collision, Carson pulled hard on his steering wheel. To the right. Onto the narrow gravel shoulder. There, now out of his control, his car slammed through the old wooden guard rail and sailed through the air into the dark maw of the ravine.
The blue BMW bounced high off a jutting boulder before it plummeted onto larger rocks and turned over three times, coming to an explosive halt at the ravine’s bottom.
The SUV’s driver braked sharply a couple of hundred yards down the otherwise deserted road. He quickly U-turned and drove back to the gaping hole in the guard rail. He didn’t have to leave his seat in order to see the flames shooting up from Carson’s car. With his window down, all he heard was grackles’ excited calls from the ravine’s trees. He was too far away to hear the crackle of flames.
Orth put black his black Jeep Cherokee back into drive. “That, dude,” he said, “is what we call a game of Ultimate Chicken.
“You lost.”
***
Two mornings later, Doyle bought a copy of Racing Daily in the Heartland Downs track kitchen. Carrying it and a cup of coffee on his way back to Ralph Tenuta’s barn, he abruptly stopped when he glanced at the front page and saw a story written by Ira Kaplan.
MILWAUKEE, WI—Milwaukee County officials yesterday reported the death of Chris Carson, prominent in horse racing circles as one of “The Significant Seven,” owners of the outstanding runner and sire The Badger Express. Carson’s auto was spotted by an early morning motorist at the bottom of a ravine off of County Road W outside of Milwaukee. The motorist called the county sheriff’s office immediately.
Carson’s car was hundreds of feet off the road, and the motorist made no attempt to climb down the steep ravine to the vehicle that had evidently been burning for some time.
Carson’s wife had earlier reported him missing.
County Coronor Paul Lendeman, in a preliminary report issued late yesterday,said he would not speculate as to whether Carson died of injuries from the crash or from the resultant blaze.
County Sheriff Ed Kaminski said it appeared Carson had veered off the road and through the wooden barrier. “I can’t figure out why,” Kaminski said. “There are no skid marks on the pavement.
“I knew Mr. Carson very well, from our Elks Lodge,” Kaminski continued. “He had a very successful business. He never drank alcohol to my knowledge. I’m sure he was not a drug user, although the autopsy will determine that, of course. My heart goes out to his family.”
Carson, 53, owned a prominent accounting firm in Milwaukee. A long-time racing fan, he and six of his friends from their student days at the University of Wisconsin-Madison came to national attention when they won a record Pick Six bet at Saratoga Race Course in New York seven years ago. The Significant Seven, as they were known, proceeded to build upon that success by purchasing and racing the major stakes winner The Badger Express.
Carson is the third member of The Significant Seven to die this year. Judge Henry Toomey drowned in Wisconsin’s Lake Geneva after suffering an apparent heart attack while swimming. Steve Charous, an insurance executive in Illinois, died suddenly as the apparent result of a violent allergic reaction in a Des Plaines, IL, restaurant.
Carson is survived by his wife Portia; sons Chris Jr. and Tim; and a grandson.
Funeral services are pending.
Chapter Twenty-Three
June 18, 2009
“I know you aren’t wondering why I asked for this meet,” Doyle said. He was seated in the back of Damon Tirabassi’s drab government issued green Ford Taurus. He had entered it moments before when Tirabassi and agent Karen Engel pulled up to the curb in front of Doyle’s condo.
Tirabassi drove carefully north on Halsted, then east toward the Outer Drive.
Karen said, “What’s going on, Jack?”
Doyle said, “Hold it until we park at the golf course.”
“If that’s how you want it,” she said.
Doyle, seething, tapped his fingers impatiently on the worn plastic seat. The sun continued its slide up the east side of Lake Michigan, spreading a deep orange blush across the horizon. It was a Thursday, just after daybreak, in the second month of Doyle’s employment by Ralph Tenuta and the U. S. government, Tenuta being the lone paying entity for Doyle in this arrangement thus far.
Tirabassi pulled into the parking lot of the Judge George Lincoln Marovitz public golf course. Even at this hour, it already held several cars. Doyle could see golf nuts of all ages hauling bags and carts out of their cars, ready to duff their way through the morning dew. Thousands of Chicagoans played here every week, many of them first thing in the morning or, after work, in the shroud of dusk.
Tirabassi said, “Let’s use that picnic table over there away from the clubhouse.”
Doyle followed the agents to the table, which was moist. The agents were dressed for work in their downtown Chicago office in dark suits, shades. Karen carried a McDonald’s bag. She took out a handful of napkins and wiped the bench seat on their side of the table. Doyle waved off her offer of the sodden wad when she’d finished. “I’ll stand.”
Karen said, “Jack, an Egg McMuffin? Or several? I bought a bunch of them. I remember your appetite and cholesterol-defying eating habits.”
“Any coffee in that bag?” Doyle growled. “I’ll start with that.”
“So, Jack,” Tirabassi said, “tell us what’s happening. You sounded a little, maybe overwrought, when you left us your message last night. Or, maybe, half-smashed.” He bit a chunk out of his sausage biscuit.
Doyle ripped the top off of his coffee container before answering. “Why wouldn’t I be, Damon? Why wouldn’t I be?” He rummaged in the carry out bag until he located a small container of half and half. The agents waited patiently.
“Coming up on ten weeks now,” Doyle began, “me going faithfully to work at Heartland Downs, seven days a week. Nosing around. Eyes wide open. Ears to the ground. Senses attuned. Have I found the sponger, or the sponging team? No. Do I feel as if I’m making progress? No. Do I think it’s time for me to turn in my junior G-Man badge this morning and resume my regular life? You bet I do.”
Karen said, “Jack, there hasn’t been one sponging incident since Princess Croft. Maybe these crooks know what you’re there for and are backing off. Who knows? Maybe your presence has served as a deterrent. Maybe the spongings are over. That’s a kind of progress, isn’t it?”
“A mighty slight sort,” Doyle said. “Even if there is actually a non-coincidental connection between my presence there and the reduction in spongings. Which I am by no means convinced of.”
Tirabassi put down his half-eaten sausage biscuit. He looked tired, frustrated, defeated. Doyle felt a pang or two of pity for this boring little civil servant with whom he had so frequently crossed swords.
Tirabassi sighed. “Jack, you’re all we’ve got working for us on this case. The few informants we pay so far have been worthless. The fact that there have been no recent spongings is great. But we still need to arrest the person or persons who carried out the previous spongings. That’s what we are charged with.We’ve advertised a reward, gone on radio and television pleading for any useful information. You have any idea how frustrating this is for us?
“But Jack,” Tirabassi co
ntinued, “we, or you I mean, can’t give up now. Just say you’ll stay on the job for another nine or ten weeks. By then, the Heartland Downs racing meeting will be over. If we haven’t found the sponger by then, you’re done. We wouldn’t ask anything more of you. If this were not such a major case for Karen and me, believe me, I wouldn’t have asked you to get involved at all.”
Doyle finished his coffee and paused with the empty cup in his hand. He crushed it. Walking to a nearby metal waste basket, he slammed it in. He turned his back to where the agents sat and looked out over Lake Michigan. The sun was now climbing in full force above the dark waters.
“Ten more weeks,” Doyle said. “Until the track closes. I’ll go along. Then I’ve got to get on with my life. Such as it is,” he muttered.
Tirabassi said, “Thanks, Jack. I mean it.” He extended his hand across the table.
Karen said, “Goes for me, too, Jack.” She stood up and tossed the McDonald’s bag into the metal basket with the practiced ease of the athlete she’d always been. She was frowning, though, when she came back around to Doyle’s side of the table.
“Jack,” she said, “have you ever considered taking a course in, well, controlling your angry impulses? I’m serious. We’ve known each other for a few years now. You always seem to have a lava load of anger buried just beneath your surface. Have you always been that way? Don’t you feel it’s hard to live like that?”
“Karen, darling,” Doyle was grinning at her now, “it’s in my genes, my heritage, my DNA, my psyche. Built in. I’ve tried to change routes several times in my life. I always get back to riding down life’s third rail, if you know what I mean. It’s just me, babe. But thanks for asking.”
