The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  Doyle, warmed up now, feeling better already as he let loose on the light bag, laughed as he asked, “Is Hah? a kind of probing question? A declaration of doubt? Believe me, I had a late night.” He sent the speed bag spinning with a final two-handed flurry.

  “How late was your night at Ravinia? With Ms. Rison? Two nights back?” Kellman stopped jumping and hung the rope on a wall hook before reaching for a towel.

  “How’d you know about that?”

  Kellman said, “Guy I know happened to see you there. Happened to mention it to me.”

  Doyle sighed. “Have you ever thought about offering your services to our government? You know, to find Osama bin Laden? Jesus!”

  “Jack, don’t get riled. It was a coincidence that my friend spotted you. What’s the big deal? So you’re still working for the Feebs trying to catch whoever is sponging horses. And now you’re maybe going to provide protection for Arnie Rison’s very, very attractive daughter?”

  Doyle gave the speed bag another furious rap. He said, “It just seems that sometimes, Moe, you seem to know more about where I’m going than I do.”

  Doyle walked over to the heavy bag. “Hold this for me?” Kellman complied, steadying the one-hundred-fifty-pound canvas bag hanging from its ceiling chain. Doyle let go with a series of combinations that dented the bag and caused Kellman to set his feet as he tried to keep the bag straight. Doyle shifted his stance and changed the angle of his punches, increasing their intensity, as he worked through what he estimated to be a three-minute round. Then he stepped back, sweating, grinning.

  “Did you see my left?” he said to Kellman.

  “Not bad, kid. A veritable blur.”

  Doyle said, “Not bad? Like a goddam piston. Of course,” he grinned, “it’s a lot easier to do to a bag that doesn’t hit back.”

  Showered and dressed, they went to the Fit City juice bar. Kellman quickly downed two twelve-ounce glasses of pomegranate-cranberry juice. Doyle asked for water.

  “You want anything to eat, Jack? I’m buying. I’ll wait and have breakfast at my office.”

  “Naw, Moe. Thanks. If I feel up to it, I’ll stop at Petros’ on my way to the track. Get a load of restorative grease before I go to work. I don’t have much appetite this morning.”

  Kellman said, “What’s got you so down this morning?”

  Doyle fiddled with his napkin before saying, “A couple of things. I’m not making any progress finding the horse sponger. And these guys that keep dying, Ralph Tenuta’s clients in The Significant Seven, that’s fucking depressing. I feel sorry for Arnie Rison. He’s a done deal with that lung cancer. I feel sorry for Renee, worrying about her father’s current safety. His short future. A load of woe, Moe,” Doyle said softly.

  They sat in silence. Then Kellman said, “Let me tell you a story. But first I got to ask you, you know that book by a writer named Mark Harris? About baseball players? Called Bang the Drum Slowly?

  “I haven’t read the book, but I saw the movie years ago on television. Robert De Niro, Michael Moriarity. One of their team’s coaches was that comedian Phil Foster?”

  “Right.”

  Doyle said, “I loved the movie, even though De Niro, batting, looked about as authentic as, well, little broads with big silicone boobs.”

  “There’s a line in the book,” Kellman said, “that I’ll never forget. One of the coaches is talking about the De Niro character’s impending death. This revelation, he says, is ‘Sad. It makes you wish to cry.’ But another coach comes back with, ‘It is sad. It makes you wish to laugh.’”

  “I remember that in the movie.”

  Moe said, “What I’m getting at is this. I’m in Miami one winter, doing some business. Yes, in case you’re wondering, people buy furs in Miami.”

  “I wasn’t wondering. Go on.”

  “One of my oldest friends has come with me, so we could play a little golf, take in some night life. Jerry Greenberg, from the old West Side. We grew up together. Very funny man, always with the dead pan humor. Could have been a comic, but went into the clothing business and made a fortune instead.

  “Meanwhile, back in Chicago, is another very good friend of both of ours. Al Goldstein. Another kid from the west side. Diagnosed with leukemia months before, treated, didn’t work, forget it. Great guy.”

  Kellman paused to order another glass of juices. “So,” he said, “Jerry and I are sitting at the bar at Joe’s Stone Crab in south Miami Beach, waiting for our dinner call. Bartender says to me, ‘Mr. Kellman, there’s a call for you. It’s your wife. She says it’s urgent.You can take in that corridor around the corner of the bar.’

  “’Leah,’ I say, ‘what’s the matter?’

  “She says, ‘Al’s gone. Can you come home tomorrow? They’ll be sitting shiva at their house.’ I tell her yes, of course, and put the phone down.”

  He drank more juice as Doyle checked his watch, knowing that there was no hurrying his friend on a memory like this.

  “I never cry, Jack, not since my first month in Korea when my two best buddies got torn to bits with mortar fire on the same goddam bitter cold morning. But… I broke up after this call from Leah. Tears are coming down my face. Al Goldstein was like a brother to me. I walk back to my seat at the bar where Greenberg is sitting. He sees how upset I am. He says, ‘Moe, what is it?’

  “I tell him, ‘Jerry, our great friend Al passed away this afternoon.’ I put my face down in my hands. Maybe a minute goes by. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up at Jerry. He says, ‘Uh, Moe? Were there any calls for me’?

  “Jack, I thought about hitting him in the nose, but it broke me up laughing even with the tears on my face. I said, ‘You son of a bitch.’ I didn’t say thanks. But I should have.”

  He drained his glass and stood up. “Sometimes, Jack, you just have to try to laugh your way through. Dance between the rain drops. Know what I mean?”

  Chapter Forty

  August 6, 2009

  This was one of the best times of the day for Marty Higgins. Between six and six-thirty on a clear summer morning. Breathing in the cool air as he stretched his legs on the patio of his River Woods home. He had on shorts, a cut-off gray sweat shirt, a Chicago White Sox ball cap, his New Balance cross-trainers.

  Ever since Higgins had taken up jogging a dozen years back, this period of anticipation always made him smile. The next best period was when he finished his daily four-mile run through the Cook County Forest Preserve path that bordered his home. In between, well, it could get a little tough for him around mile three. “Ain’t getting any younger,” he told himself, “but still moving.” Then he’d kick it into another, final mile gear. Marty had turned fifty-five three weeks earlier. When he stepped on the bathroom scale once a week, he weighed one pound less than thirty-eight years ago, when he was a defensive back at Mount Carmel High School, perennial football power of the Chicago Catholic League. Coming out of high school and entering the UW, he knew his football career was over. Too small for the Big Ten. But he took pride years later in his dedication to fitness. The endorphins from these morning runs seemed to propel him through his busy business days.

  ***

  Orth had parked his Big Dog cycle off the Forest Preserve tree-lined roadway behind a thick stand of bushes. He’d gotten there just after dawn. Assured by Sanderson that this was “one of Higgins’ jogging days,” Orth made his preparations, then began waiting patiently in the cool silence. At six-fifteen, a slender young woman trotted past on the bicycle path that ran parallel to the roadway, pulled forward on a long leash by an energetic black Labrador. Not another person came by. Orth knew Higgins never used the bike path, preferring the roadway.

  The sound of pounding footsteps alerted him. Orth peered from behind his helmet shield to make sure it was the target. He recognized Higgins from the photos Sanderson had provided. Higgins passed him. Orth looked at his watch. He waited the ninety seconds he calculated Higgins would need to reac
h the bridge across the Preserve Creek. He pushed his bike out from behind the bushes and drove up the roadway.

  Orth had been on the bridge an hour earlier. Working with a small light in the dark, he strung a light gray trip wire two inches off the ground from one side of the bridge’s far end to the other. It took him less than a minute.

  Throttled down in the quiet morning, Orth moved ahead. Higgins was running in the middle of the roadway, running easily. He heard the cycle begin to accelerate. Irritated at this unusual and unwelcome sound, Higgins muttered, “All of a sudden we’ve got a biker on my route. Damn.”

  He started to sidestep off the roadway and onto the bridge walk. His left foot caught in the nearly invisible trip wire. Higgins yelped as he pitched forward onto his chest, face smashed down against the pavement.

  Orth did a quick wheely with the front of his “Big Dog” in order avoid the trip wire. His back wheel rolled over it easily. Orth brought the front wheel down on Higgins’ prone figure. He had to struggle to retain balance and keep the bike wheels from sliding off Higgins.

  Twenty yards down the sidewalk, Orth braked his cycle and turned it around. He drove back slowly. Higgins was inert. Orth saw the trail of blood leading down the curb and the definitive geometric angle of Higgins’ broken neck.

  Orth raised his helmet and wiped sweat off his forehead. He felt the exhilarating adrenalin rip that always accompanied his kills. No feeling in the world like it for him, not ever.

  He pulled the helmet back down again and drove quickly to the east end of the Forest Preserve where he’d parked his small truck and trailer, rented from an outlet more than one-hundred miles south of his Wisconsin cabin. The parking lot was empty except for his vehicles. He loaded the Big Dog into the trailer, jumped into the truck, and took off. He’d have to remember to clean the blood off the Big Dog’s tires when he got home.

  Chapter Forty-One

  August 11, 2009

  Doyle walked into Petros’ Restaurant, waved at Darla the waitress, and went to his regular booth. Minutes later, Damon Tirabassi hurried through the door and slid into the booth across from Doyle, who said, “Coffee?” Doyle signaled Darla.

  “Where’s Karen?”

  “She’s in D.C.,” Tirabassi said, “meeting with the director about one of our cases.”

  “Obviously not the sponger case, since we’ve gotten nowhere with that.”

  “Obviously,” Tirabassi said.

  They sat in silence until Darla brought their coffees and took their breakfast orders. Then Doyle said, “What other case?”

  Tirabassi frowned. “You think I could tell you if I wanted to? Forget it. Just keep in mind that various segments of Illinois politics will keep FBI agents busy here for years. The newspaper business may be dying. Not the corruption business.” He set his cup down. “That’s enough talk about that. What did you want to see me about?”

  “Well,” Doyle started, “I’ve been up and down the Heartland Downs backstretch every day in the past few weeks. I’ve talked to trainers I know, some I didn’t, plus grooms and hot walkers and security people. You can add on bartenders, waitresses, mutuel clerks, veterinarians and their assistants and, in one case, Travis Hawkins, a blacksmith. The entire result of this research has been nada. Major nada.

  “Whoever is doing the sponging must be like a ghost. Never seen, never suspected. It has to be somebody good with horses. That,” Doyle said, finishing his coffee, “narrows the list of suspects down to about two thousand. Damon, I’ve got to say it: this assignment you’ve given me is a no-hoper—unless the sponger makes a major mistake. And I wouldn’t bet on that happening.”

  Tirabassi spun his coffee cup, eyes down, shaking his head. “The Bureau brass in D.C. are laying a lot of pressure on our boss here, Dave Goodman. And he’s transferring it to Karen and me. The big boys hate to read about fixed races. Some of them in D.C. go back almost to days of J. Edgar, who was a big horse-racing fan.”

  “He had reserved boxes at racetracks all around the country is what I’ve read,” Doyle said. “And he was a big bettor.”

  “And an occasional night-time cross dresser,” Tirabassi replied with an embarrassed grin. “You didn’t hear me say that, Jack,” he added.

  “Say what?”

  Tirabassi nibbled at his raisin toast as Doyle concentrated on Petros’ new special-of-the-house breakfast offering, “A Greek burrito, with gyros and goat cheese and olives and etcetera,” as it was described on the menu.

  “I don’t know how you can eat like that and still move your limbs in the afternoon,” Tirabassi said.

  “Hey, if I didn’t eat like this, I wouldn’t be able to,” Doyle said.

  Darla swept past, dropping the check in the middle of the table, like a hockey ref letting go of the puck at the start of a period. Doyle reacted at once, sliding the piece of paper on to Tirabassi’s place mat.

  Tirabassi shrugged and picked it up. “The Bureau can expense this out,” he said. “Ready to go?”

  “No. Let me ask you something. You have any thoughts or theories about all these horse-racing partners, The Significant Seven, dying off so rapidly? “

  Tirabassi said, “Sure, I’ve read about that. Very strange. But there’s never been a criminal complaint that I know of. Nothing has come to us. How many have died?”

  “Five. In the span of a couple of months. Pretty fucking weird.”

  Tirabassi waved Darla back. “One more coffee refill, please,” he said. She was quick about it.

  Tirabassi said, “I’ve had a few cases where partnerships went very bad. Old friends, new friends, acquaintances, whatever. One of them would wind up killing another of them, or trying to get somebody to do it for him, or burn down the failing business. It always, always, had to do with money. One partner needed cash badly for whatever reason—women, gambling debts, escape from his boring life. He’d try to get it by somehow stealing, or raiding, or getting control of the partnership’s assets. In the worst sort of way. There is crap like that going on all the time.”

  “I can’t see that applying to this Significant Seven stuff,” Doyle said. “I mean, these guys were friends since college, and on. Years and years. And starting what, six, seven years back, they started making tons of money in horse racing. All divided up equally from what I know.”

  Tirabassi said, “Maybe.”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe the divisions of the spoils, or profits, is not as much as some of them, or maybe one them, wants. Greed plays a big role in these scenarios.” Tirabassi made a weak attempt to slide their breakfast check back to Doyle, but Jack caught his wrist and stopped him. Doyle said, “I’ll take care of the tip.”

  Tirabassi gave Darla his Bureau-issued credit card. He signed the receipt and placed his copy in his well worn wallet before saying to Doyle, “You know what a Tontine is?”

  “Say again?”

  “Tontine.”

  Doyle laughed. “My old man used to tell me about the Lone Ranger and his faithful companion Tonto. Is that what you’re talking? Are you kidding me?”

  Tirabassi’s jaw set. “Would you pay some attention to me, Jack? I’m serious about this.”

  “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Back in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, there was a brilliant banker in Italy. I think Naples. Maybe not. Anway, his name was Leonardo Tontine.”

  Doyle said, “I thought Italy only had one memorable Leonardo.”

  “Don’t be such a smart-ass. Now that I think of it, I’m sure the man’s name wasn’t Leonardo, it was Lorenzo. Lorenzo Tontine. You want to hear this or not?”

  Doyle said, “Damon, please proceed.” He sat back in the booth, arms crossed, a model of receptivity

  “Lorenzo Tontine’s brilliant idea was for a money fund that a group of people would contribute to over the years. It was kind of like insurance, or a lottery. That kind of idea was pretty rare back then. From what I’ve read, Lorenzo c
ouldn’t get his scheme going in Italy, so he went to France with it, and he found people there who were interested. The idea was that the last surviving member of the group of contributors to the fund would wind up with all the benefits. He was able to get quite a number of people, rich people only, of course, interested and involved in this. Naturally, Tontine took a cut of the action.”

  Doyle said, “So, people put in money. Monthly? Annually?”

  “I think Tontine had different programs for different groups. Listen, this guy was a tremendous hustler and salesman. He made plenty setting this thing up. As I said, he sold it as a form of insurance, an annuity. And it worked. People liked it. Especially the last man standing. Tontine got a whole bunch of these deals going before he died.”

  “Did he invest in them?”

  Tirabassi said, “Not that I know of. But I guarantee you that Lorenzo skimmed his percentage off the gross. Very bright guy.”

  Doyle sat back in the booth, arms extended over its back, thinking. He said, “What we’re talking here with this Tontine set-up is, essentially, one final winner. Right? The so-called last man standing gets all the money in the deal they created?”

  “From what you’ve told me about The Significant Seven’s deal, yeah, I guess it is a Tontine situation. Among people who trust each other. They must have thought they were doing the right thing when they set this up. They were very fortunate men who made a lot of unexpected money in horse racing, deciding to give back to the sport, right? I’m sure they never imagined that the Tontine would be so, well, accelerated by all these deaths. Weird,” Tirabassi said. He got up out of the booth.

  “Beyond weird,” Doyle said. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  August 14, 2009

  The message Doyle found on his home machine was barely understandable, punctuated as it was by muffled coughs and long pauses. After two replays, he figured it out. Arnie Rison was asking to see him. Doyle called Cindy and cancelled their plans to attend that night’s White Sox-Red Sox game at the Cell. “There’s some urgency to this,” he told her. “I’ve got to do it.” She said she understood.