The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  “What was that about?” Doyle said.

  “Not much. A lonely lecher with booze on his bad breath bothering me when I told him I didn’t want to be bothered.”

  “Oh.”

  Renee handed Doyle the picnic basket. Lifting it, Doyle said, “Are you planning to feed the multitudes. What the hell’s in here?”

  She smiled. “Never mind, Jack. Just follow me.”

  He did, admiring the swing of her curvaceous little butt, as were men to both his right and left and a woman or two as well. Renee veered off the walkway, motioning him forward, until they reached the blanket that she had earlier spread beneath a tall oak tree. “I ran over and took this spot when I got here,” she said. “Okay with you?”

  “Looks fine.” He helped her straighten the blanket and unpack the basket. She’d brought a couple of small salads, some deviled eggs, chips and salsa, a roast chicken, other small plastic containers. She lit a small insect-repelling candle before setting out the napkins, plates and plastic utensils. He unveiled the portable wine cooler he’d brought containing its bottle of Veuve Clicquot, the $39.99 price tag still affixed. He quickly scraped it off.

  “Where did you get all this?” Doyle said admiringly.

  “There’s a deli in my neighborhood that does this kind of thing very well.”

  “What’s the neighborhood?”

  “Lincoln Park. I have a condo there.” Renee pried open one of the plastic containers and opened a small package of water crackers. “Would you like some of this caviar and cream cheese spread, Jack? It’s delicious. Even if I didn’t make it myself.”

  “How could I refuse?”

  They nibbled. On soft summer nights such as these, Doyle couldn’t think of too many other places he’d rather be. It was the setting, not necessarily all those populating it, that so appealed to him. Ravinia had perhaps the best sound system of any outdoor music venue in the U.S. And the crowd, which for Chicago Symphony Orchestra performances was generally whiter than the Arctic rim, tonight was liberally laced with people of color along with the usual majority of whities. A party of suburbanites passed pâté portions across their nearby portable, candle-lit table, the men careful not to drop canapés on their laps as they shared stock market news, their wives chatting about children, careful not to disturb the silver wine buckets sweating at hand. Next to that group, two African-American couples were lined up side by side in folding chairs facing the pavilion, the men good-naturedly arguing Cubs vs. White Sox. The two women were reading paperback books. They appeared to be sisters. The one seated next to the man who apparently was her husband would occasionally reach over with her hand on his arm and shush him down without looking up from her book.

  “Should we talk now?” Renee said. “Before we eat, and the music starts?”

  “Sure. Would you like some champagne now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Doyle said, “Mea culpa, but I forgot to bring cups. I’ll get some from the concession stand. I’ll be right back.”

  He picked his way over the blanket- and chair-covered green lawn that was now dappled by the retreating evening sun. Thousands of people were spread out across the park. Many more would arrive later from nearby restaurants and take seats in the large pavilion before the eight o’clock performance start. In the interim, jazz music floated from the numerous speakers barely visible in the trees. He dodged a couple of casually but expensively dressed youngsters who skipped past carrying Dove bars. Doyle thought of the two little black boys he’d seen early that morning as he waited in his Accord for the light at Diversey and Ashland. Sleep in their eyes, hope in their hearts as they offered for sale packages of M&M’s for, “Hey, mista, just a dolla.” He bought two.

  There was a long line at the outdoor bar. When Doyle finally faced the bartender, he said, “I’d like two large plastic cups. Put three ice cubes and enough Bushmills to top the halfway mark in one cup. Then add a splash of water. Nothing in the other cup.”

  The maroon-vested bartender, who didn’t look to Doyle to be old enough to even be in the presence of liquor bottles, filled the order with alacrity. Doyle paid and left a $5 tip. The young man’s face lit up as he said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Picking his way back through the increasingly large crowd, Doyle had to step carefully to avoid bumping into a well dressed young man who was evidently trying to put a move on one of the park’s few female security officers. She was smiling back at him. Doyle thought of his college pal Mickey Linn, who had such a thing for women in uniform it had gotten him lucky once, nearly jailed on several other embarrassing occasions. Doyle remembered Mickey announcing, “I don’t know why, these women can be as plain as vanilla yogurt, but damn, they turn me on with those outfits.”

  Renee was lying on her back, eyes closed, when Doyle returned. She quickly sat up, accepted the plastic cup, and said, “Aren’t you drinking champagne, Jack?”

  “Never liked it. I’ll open the bottle for you. I’m sticking with Irish whiskey and water.” He filled her cup. “Sláinte,” he said. “Sláinte,” Renee responded, “and, in honor of ‘The Widow,’ tchin, tchin, à votre santé.” They touched cups.

  Doyle put some of the caviar spread on two crackers, offering her one. He said, “So, what is this all about?”

  Renee vamped her reply, saying, “Are you asking why I lured you here tonight, monsieur?” Then the half-smile left her face. “I can’t even pretend to be light-hearted about this, because I’m not close to being that. I’m worried to death about my father. I need your help.”

  Doyle set his drink down. “Go on.”

  Renee said, “I’m sure you heard about what happened last week to Mr. Zabrauskis. He was the fourth of Dad’s friends, and partners, to die in the last few months. Dad said to me the other day, ‘I’ve never gone to so many funerals in one year in my life. I loved those guys. This is killing me.’”

  Renee paused and sipped her champagne. She shook her head. “Unfortunately, that’s not all that’s killing him.” She took a deep breath before adding, “My Dad has lung cancer. In a very advanced stage. He only has a few months to live.” She lowered her head.

  Doyle could see her long eye lashes moist with tears. “Jeez, I’m sorry to hear that, Renee. Very sorry.” He reached to pat her hand before realizing the ineffectiveness of that gesture. “When did Arnie find out about the cancer?”

  “He started feeling not well about five months ago. He was coughing a lot, he’d lost energy. But he’s had that damn smoker’s cough for years,” she said bitterly, “and I never thought much about it. I don’t think he did, either. My mother died of breast cancer eleven years ago, so the thought of cancer is never far from my mind. But Dad kept going. To work at the car dealerships, to work out at the gym three times a week. Then he started coming home very tired, not like him at all. I finally convinced him to see his doctor. Tests were taken, CT scans and MRIs and PET scans. We got three opinions, but they were all the same. Lung cancer in an advanced stage. I’ve taken him to the Mayo Clinic, Kettering in New York, Kellogg Cancer Center in Evanston. They all came to that same conclusion. He has an inoperable tumor that has metastasized.”

  Doyle looked away from her pained expression, momentarily watching the parade of music lovers heading toward their seats in the Pavilion. Renee said, “It’s unreal, Jack. Dad and his buddies were going great after their big winning bet at Saratoga, The Badger Express, all that. These were all healthy men in their fifties.” She wiped her eyes again. “One of Dad’s sayings over the years, I can almost hear his voice now, was ‘Dying is for other people. I just don’t have time for it.’”

  “If only that’s how life worked,” Doyle said softly. Renee extended her cup and Doyle filled it. Dusk was advancing and some of the lights in the Ravinia trees began to glow softly. Doyle remembered a statement once made by one of his favorite authors, William Saroyan. “Everybody has to die, but I was under the assumption I’d been granted an exemption.�
� Doyle decided not to share this recollection.

  Renee shifted to sit cross-legged at the edge of the blanket. She looked devastated. “I wanted to take Dad to Mexico. There are supposedly a number of cancer-fighting specialists there. I went on the Internet. There are new treatments. Holistic, otherwise. They all claim to be successful. But Dad refuses to try anything like that. He tells me, ‘That’s what I get for forty years of smoking. I’ve got nobody to blame but myself. And I plan to die right here in these United States.’ He can be a very stubborn man.”

  Doyle set his drink down on the blanket. “Obviously, you love your father very much, Renee. This must be brutal for you.”

  She looked away for a moment, shaking her head from side to side. She wiped her eyes again and brushed a swirl of black hair from her forehead. When she turned to Doyle, it was with a rueful smile. “Know what Dad said to me after we left Kettering? He put his arm around me as we were standing there on the curb in the rain, waiting for a cab. He said, ‘Mayo Clinic put the over-and-under on me at three months. I’ve already gone four. I’m going to get a few more, Renee. I promise you.’”

  Doyle smiled. “Your father is a strong man with a sense of humor and a sense of reality.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the blanket. “Do you have siblings, Renee?”

  “No. I had a brother, Cal, five years older than me. There were just the two of us kids. A great guy, a great brother. We were very close. After college he became a Navy SEAL.” She paused and held out her cup. Doyle filled it with champagne. “Cal was killed in the early stages of the Iraq War. Right after ‘Mission Accomplished,’ she said bitterly. “‘Gung ho from the get-go,’ Dad used to say about Cal. We were proud when he went into the service after college. Until…” She stopped and dried her eyes again. Doyle noticed the couple on the blanket next to them watching with concern.

  Doyle waited for her to compose herself. She said, “You must be wondering why I am telling you all this. Here’s why, Jack. My father is quite, no, extremely suspicious about the deaths of his four friends. He told me he thinks there is some kind of terrible plot being carried out, a conspiracy against The Significant Seven. He has no idea why. But Dad is convinced it’s happening.”

  Renee leaned forward. “I know it sounds crazy. You might think Dad’s theory is a product of the stress he’s under with his illness, his car business suffering along with the rest of the American economy. But, whatever it is, delusion or unwarranted fears, it is very real to him. And I don’t want my father to be worried about his safety at this…” She hesitated before saying “This late stage of his life.”

  “Well,” Doyle shrugged,” I don’t like to point this out. But if your father is, as you say, a guaranteed goner because of lung cancer, where does the other concern for his safety come into it? I mean, as I remember it, one of the Seven had a heart attack and drowned. Another died in a road accident of some sort. There was the poor guy who mistakenly got the bagel with peanuts in it. And the last one, Zabrauskis, died while camping out. This is wild stuff odds-wise, I grant you. So many deaths in such a short span of time among one close-knit group of humans. But, when it comes to your father, can you imagine him being the target of any serial killer zeroed in on The Significant Seven? If, and it’s a big one, such a killer exists? I mean, considering your father’s medical condition, what would be the point? Your father, unfortunately, is on his way out, on his own.”

  Renee glared at Doyle. “The point? The point? The point is my father wants to die in his own home. He’s already arranged hospice care. He’s planned his funeral and the wake and the burial. He does not want to join the list of weird deaths among his friends. He wants to die on his own terms. And I want to make sure that he can.”

  Doyle swirled the Bushmills in his cup before placing the cup down on the blanket. “All right. I can understand that, Renee. But where do I come into this?”

  “I want to hire some absolutely topnotch security people to guard my father. I don’t want to be calling these rent-a-cop firms full of minimum wage ex-cons or cons-to-be. I know you have connections to the FBI. I remember the insurance fraud case that you helped them with. You must know people who could recommend quality guards I could hire. Or, if you don’t know, you should be able to find out.”

  The Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra started warming up. Their sound erupted from the nearby speakers. Renee said, “I take Dad to chemo a couple of times a week. These are last-ditch attempts to fight off the inevitable. I spend most of my time with him now. So I don’t have time to vet this area’s security firms. I’m asking you if you could help me out by doing that. That’s all, Jack. We’d pay you well for your time.”

  Doyle hesitated. “I can’t imagine there’s a serial killer of horse owners at work here. What would be the point?” He stopped himself then, reflecting on this situation. Here he was, sitting across from this very attractive young woman, not showing any eagerness to accept money from her. What has happened to all my basic instincts? he thought. “All right, Renee, I’ll do it.” They bumped cups.

  “I’m going to tell you something that has to remain between us,” Renee said earnestly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Not yet.”

  Renee said, “The partnership agreement that my father and the rest of The Significant Seven entered into, when The Badger Express was about to go to stud, was very carefully constructed. At Moe Kellman’s suggestion, my father hired a Chicago attorney named Frank Cohan. Supposedly the city’s top contract lawyer. Cohan drew it up. The contract specifies that ‘Any profits from the stallion career of The Badger Express be equally divided among the partners. When a partner dies, whatever succeeding profits do not go to his heirs, but are to be divided among the remaining partners. This continues until the last partner dies, at which time that partner’s designated heir, or executor, shall devote the profits to a reputable organization that cares for retired racehorses.’ These men, my father and these friends of his, they loved racing and racehorses. They wanted to give something back.”

  Doyle said, “I’m impressed. You remember all that legalese?”

  “I have a good memory,” Renee said.

  “Okay, Renee. I’ll ask around and find the best security people that I can. It might be expensive to hire the best,” he warned.

  “Money’s not an issue. Preserving my father’s peace of mind is.”

  On the Ravinia stage, the great jazz orchestra finished tuning up. It was almost eight. Doyle drained his drink. He offered to pour Renee more champagne, but she declined. They both stretched out on the blanket now, Doyle with his windbreaker bunched under his head, looking up at the star-filled summer sky.

  In one of his first meetings with FBI agent Karen Engel a couple years back, at the start of the horse-killing case, the normally calm Engel had lashed out at what she considered to be Doyle’s obstinacy. “You’re colder than a bail bondsman’s heart,” she said.

  Ah, but not anymore, Doyle thought. I’m beginning to lurch toward generous gestures, again.

  He listened with his eyes closed as Wynton Marsalis’ golden trumpet soared above the dense, rolling sound of his band mates who were putting their all into Duke Ellington’s “Take the A-Train.”

  He glanced at Renee. Eyes closed, she was smiling, too.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  August 4, 2009

  They’d agreed to meet at Fit City at seven a.m. Doyle was there on the dot. Kellman, as usual, had arrived earlier than agreed and begun working up a sweat going through his fifty sit-ups and one hundred fifty push-ups before he attacked the treadmill. He waited to start jumping rope until Doyle was there. Doyle took one look at the little furrier as he increased his tempo and started criss-crossing. “Stop fucking trying to impress me,” Doyle said. “I’m already impressed. Besides, I could probably enlist a couple of young black girls from the projects who would you make you look ordinary.”

  Kellman smiled but did not
stop. He said, “I saw Sonny Liston jump rope when he was in training for his first fight against Floyd Patterson in Chicago back in the sixties. Liston trained up at a place near Lake Geneva, right over the state line. He was one of the scariest-looking men I’d ever seen. Liston used to just abuse all his sparring partners, then jump rope. They played the record of ‘Night Train’ while he was doing it. You remember that song? A big R&B hit. No, you’re too young. Anyway, his trainer kept it going on a record player set up next to the ring. Which was already splattered with some sparring partners’ blood. Over and over with the song. Liston was amazing. Glowering, sweating, moving his feet like he could do it forever. A frightening sight.”

  Doyle said, “I heard he fell down for Clay, or Ali, in their second bout. The so-called phantom punch. Years later Liston died in Vegas, supposedly of a drug overdose. But everybody who knew him said Sonny was scared to death of needles, this big guy, they made him tremble. That he never touched drugs.”

  “I wouldn’t know about any of that,” Kellman said.

  Doyle took off his sweat shirt and started to shadow box around the room, moving in the direction of the light bag for some energetic, rhythmic tattooing. “I’m starting slow. I had a late night.”

  “Hah,” came the derisive answer from the amazingly fit septuagenarian. Kellman, a grateful survivor of what he termed the “Fucking Korean Conflict that those of us caught in it called a war,” had been a workout fanatic for half a century. His level of fitness never seemed to vary. Kellman ascribed much of his age-defying endurance to an extraordinary diet of Italian food, many vegetables, garlic prominent among them, and the occasional treasured introduction of a “big Jewish hot dog or a fatty pastrami on onion roll.” Doyle often detected the odor of garlic in the film of sweat emanating from Kellman during these workouts.