by John McEvoy
“Nobody but that nerd at the front desk who checked me in.”
“What name did you use?”
“I went with Eddie Mathews. My old man’s favorite Milwaukee Brave. How about you?”
Sanderson said, “I’m here as Don Moore. About as forgettable as I could come up with.”
“How about some food?” Orth said. “All they had on the damn plane were five buck junky looking sandwiches in plastic. I need something.”
Sanderson swung open the door of the mini-bar. He took out two beers and a can of mixed nuts. “Make do with this for now,” he said. “We’ll order from room service later. Gotta talk first.”
“Shit,” Orth said as he twisted the cap off his beer. “This must be serious, you putting business before food. What’s up? Anything wrong with our contract?”
“No, no. The deal is still on. The money keeps coming in. I came up here to talk to you about slightly alterering our schedule. Not a major change, but a change. I figured it was best for us to go over this in person.”
Orth frowned. “Go on,” he said.
“The original number of targets,” Sanderson continued, “was six. Now it’s seven. The change is that the seventh target is not from the group we’ve been, well, dealing with. And we’ve got to move fast in taking out the last one of the original six. That’s vital.”
“Why?”
Sanderson said, “We don’t have to get into the reason for that. The less you know, the better.”
Orth, who had been lying on one of the beds, stretched out and relaxed, sprang up and moved over to the window. He reached down to the air conditioner controls and dropped the temp to sixty-five, fan whirring. He said, “Who’s the new number seven?”
“Guy named Doyle, Jack Doyle. A little older than us, a former amateur boxer, no military. Worked in advertising or some kind of white-collar shit, then at a little racetrack south of Chicago. I found him on Google. A few years back he was in the newspapers when he helped the feds convict a ring of rich guys killing their horses for insurance money in order to get richer.”
Orth said, “Tell me how and where and why this Doyle comes into it? Is he hooked to this Significant Seven bunch?”
“No, no, no. But our client is concerned that if Doyle sniffs around too long trying to figure this all out, he’s liable to get lucky. He’s close to the situation. He’s evidentally a sharp guy. The client thinks Doyle may figure out something the client doesn’t want him figuring. Doyle is just a concern that the client doesn’t want to deal with, okay?”
Orth kept looking out the window. “I hate changes like this, Scott. You know that. We had a schedule, targets, boom boom, it’s fuckin’ over.”
“Hey, bro, it’s no big deal. We had to change course way more than our underwear back in the hell hole of Iraq, right? We did it and survived. Hell, thrived. Doyle works for some horse trainer at a track near Chicago. So he was a fucking AAU boxer, big deal. There’s no way he’s like us. Just eliminate the man, okay?” Sanderson finished his beer and tossed the can halfway across the room directly into a waste basket.
Orth turned from the window and lay down on the carpet on his back. “I got to do some sets, man. Just like in the old days. Helps me think.”
“Go to it,” Sanderson said. He sat back in the chair closest to the TV, which was turned to a dance contest program featuring a very aged actress trying to spin and vamp her way back into her past. He had to laugh; she was pretty good.
Sanderson counted silently as Orth did two-hundred crunches, two-hundred pushups, another hundred crunches. This took slightly less than nine minutes. When Orth finished, there was not a hint of perspiration on his tanned, taut face. He sat up on the floor, not even breathing hard.
“You bastard, you’re still in unbelievable shape. Not like this married father,” Sanderson smiled, patting his belly. He waited.
Orth said, “Okay. I’ll go along. What’s the schedule?”
Sanderson let out a whoop and jumped up from his chair and gave the still sitting Orth a series of low fives. “My man,” he said. “I got some recon to do. I’ll let you know real quick. Number six from the original group has to come first and quick. I’m talking this week. Doyle comes after that. Then we’re done.”
Chapter Forty-Six
August 18, 2009
“Would you look at that dipshit,” Ralph Tenuta shouted, yanking his truck’s steering wheel to the right and aiming its wheels off the pavement on the Heartland Downs backstretch road. He slammed to a halt. Ahead of the truck, completely unaware that Tenuta had barely missed crashing accidentally into him and his stable pony, was Frank Lester, the track’s leading trainer. Lester was in charge of an upscale seventy-horse local stable. As usual, Lester was wearing his designer sun glasses, embroidered jacket, white hat, saddle-soaped leather chaps, $500 boots. Lester continued to ride slowly across the narrow roadway completely oblivious to the fuming Tenuta.
Doyle said, “I believe Frank Lester is texting on his cell phone. On horseback. As oblivious as one of those little woman drivers who veer into your lane with their big SUVs while yakking on their phones. Frightening sights.”
“What do you mean, ‘texting’?”
“Ralph, let’s not go into that.”
Tenuta said, “I’d blow my horn and tell numbnuts Lester there to get his head out of his ass, but I don’t want to scare the pony. Remind me to give him a call later.”
“Will do,” Doyle said, “if you can get through to him.” He leaned back in his seat as Tenuta pulled off the grass and back onto the road leading to the entry clerk’s office. It was just before eight. The truck’s front windows were open, letting in the distinctive aroma of newly cut grass and, between barns, scents from the growing mounds of horse manure. The sun dominated the cloudless blue sky. Doyle tried to Zen himself into enjoying this particularly pleasant part of his working day. It didn’t work. He and Tenuta were soon talking about the latest Significant Seven fatality, Marty Higgins. “That’s five of the guys in the syndicate gone, Jack. Unbelievable.”
“Except it’s happened,” Doyle said. After thinking about the apparent hit and run accident that had killed Higgins, Doyle phoned Renee Rison at her travel agency. She said she, too, was shocked at Higgins’ death. “Promise me,” Doyle said, “that whenever you come out to the track you’ll let me know.” She said, “I will.”
“How’s the other security working out?”
“Fine, Jack. Dad is still very shook up about Mr. Higgins. Of all the other six, Higgins was the one my father felt closest to. And, naturally, he’s worried about Mike Barnhill. And me. But I feel very protected now, and I think Dad does, too. Jack. I’ve got to go. One of my best customers just walked in.”
Doyle looked down at the notebook in his hand. “Ralph, why are we putting Clever Carolynn in to be claimed? She’s run pretty decently in her allowance races.”
Tenuta shook his head. “Clever Carolynn is losing confidence. That’s natural. She’s been in over her head. I’m trying to help her out here.”
“What if she’s claimed?”
“It will be what it will be, Jack. I’ve had this filly for almost a year. She started out real promising. Then she hit a kind of class wall.”
Doyle said, “What’s that?”
“Look. You take a horse like Clever Carolynn and run her over her head, she’ll try. That time. The second time you do it, she’ll try again, but not as hard. Third time, your biggest problem is going to be getting her to the paddock. Because of what’s happened in the last two races, she is not going to want to go there and run. These are dumb animals, but they are not stupid.
“So, what I’m doing is I’m dropping Clever Carolynn down in class, into a $50,000 claiming race. I think she’s going to sit back there early, and then come running and beat some horses, not like in her last three races. I think she can do it, probably even win. Clever Carolynn’s reaction is going to be, ‘Hey, okay
now. I’m getting good.’ That’s because she’s in the class where she belongs. She’ll be a happier, eager horse. Horses know this, Jack.”
There was a blare of horns. “Holy fuck, Ralph! What the hell are you doing? You almost threw me onto the damn dashboard.” Doyle glared at the trainer, who had wheeled his truck into the parking lot and hit the brakes in a dust-producing thrust. Tenuta said, “You didn’t see that I just missed that little Mexican kid on his bike who came around the corner? What else could I do? Take it easy.”
“No,” Doyle said, “you take it easy.”
Tenuta glanced sideways at Doyle. “Aw, Jack, I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m just kind of agitated this morning about poor Marty Higgins. Plus, I’ve got agita. Reach in the glove compartment there will you and get those Tums.”
“Agitated I can understand,” Doyle said, “since you almost ran down Frank Lester and the horse he was texting from. But what’s agita?”
“It’s a kind of super heartburn. It comes from stress, or too much drinking, or spicey food. I don’t drink much anymore. Let’s say my case comes from stress and bad food.”
Cindy Chesney and Doc Jensen drove past in the veterinarian’s truck, both waving. Doyle waved back. Tenuta, morose, stared straight ahead, hands on his steering wheel.
“Well,” Doyle kidded, “as they say so often today, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’”
Tenuta sighed. “What can I say, Jack? I think my wife is trying to kill me.”
“C’mon, Ralph. Rosa? That sweet woman. What are you talking about?”
Tenuta said, “Okay, okay, not trying to kill me. Just destroy my desire to live. With her goddam Kentucky cook book. Jack, you wouldn’t believe what Rosa’s been putting me through. I haven’t had a decent meal in weeks. This, from a woman my mother taught to cook!”
Doyle had to turn his head to avoid looking at his doleful employer.
“I know you’re laughing, Jack. Don’t try to hide it. You think this is some kind of domestic comedy. It isn’t,” Tenuta said, slamming his hand down on the dash board.
They sat in silence. Doyle said softly, “You want to say anything about last night’s dinner?”
“I really don’t even want to think about it. But, yeah, I’ll tell you. You’ll get an idea of what I’m up against here. Hand me those Tums again.” Tenuta crunched and swallowed two.
“I come home, I’m starving, thirsty, I make myself a big cold martini, then go to the dinner table and open a bottle of nice red. Minutes later from out of the kitchen Rosa comes with some kind of shrimp cakes under green chili sauce. Something she called an ‘Asian stir-fry vegetable salad.’ Then there was a tiny piece of meat, a little filet, I had to scrape another terrible smelling sauce off the top of it. There were I think green beans under a yellow sauce with toasted nuts on top, cashews maybe, I don’t know. And something Rosa said was Wasabi or something mashed potatoes. They looked like mashed potatoes.
“By now I’m starting to ask myself, ‘Who the hell in Kentucky eats like this?’ Nobody I know.”
Doyle struggled to restrain his laughter. He said, “Was there dessert?”
“Poached pear and kiwi tart,” Tenuta said bitterly. “No biscotti like Rosa used to make. The best. Or the homemade gelato from the machine she has in our kitchen. No.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
August 21, 2009
Sanderson laid the plans for target number six. Orth listened in disbelief. Standing in the parking lot of the Boulder Junction Qwik Stop, he said, “Are you telling me this guy Barnhill is still going about his regular routine? Business as usual? No precautions, no guards? Hard to believe, man.”
Sanderson said, “Hey, the guy’s an old football player. Maybe he took too many hits and they’ve caught up with him. I don’t know, and I don’t give a fuck. I’m just telling you where you can find him, where you might take him out. I’m leaving it up to you as to how. One thing he has done,” Sanderson added, “is electrify the fence that runs around the back and sides of his property. Why he did that and didn’t install an alarm system is a mystery to me. Maybe he thinks he’s invincible or something.”
There was a pause before Sanderson said, “You getting your money all right?” Orth hardly heard him. For him, it was never really about the money. He said, “Oh, yeah. The Bahamas account is booming.” He didn’t thank Sanderson. Both of them knew Sanderson should be thanking him for the monetary bonanza for which Orth was the primary provider.
“Call me when it’s over, bro,” Sanderson said before hanging up.
***
Orth scouted the Barnhill home for two days. The electrified fence would be no problem. There was an overhanging tree branch easily thick enough to hold the rope he would knot and toss over it before pulling himself up and launching himself into the yard. Nothing to it for a man in his condition. With his night vision glasses, he had been able to stay on the other side of the fence, which bordered a forest preserve, and confirm Sanderson’s report on Barnhill’s after-work routine.
***
Mike Barnhill’s wife Peggy opened the door leading to their basement and hollered, “Mike, how much longer? Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen.”
“Give me twenty,” came the grunted answer. “I’m almost done here, then I’ll take a quick shower. Okay?”
“All right, honey,” Peggy said, closing the door.
On the floor directly beneath Peggy’s kitchen was her husband’s workout room. He had converted an old basement storage space into an area containing a treadmill, weight bench and stand, weights, and mats. He’d finished this project three years earlier. “I can’t jog anymore,” he’d explained to Peggy, “my old football knees are making it too hard. And I’ve put on weight, which I don’t like. I’ve got to get back in shape.”
“Why don’t you join a health club?” Sharon asked.
Mike said, “I’ve spent more time in locker rooms and athletic facilities with bunches of other guys than I ever want to do again. Now, if somebody directed me to a nearby health club near here with a co-ed locker room, I’d consider it.”
“Go ahead and do the basement,” Peggy shot back.
They both laughed before Mike said, “Tell you the truth, I like working out alone. No distractions. Just concentrating on what’s got to be done. Call me old school.”
Barnhill’s three nights per week routine was soon launched. He returned home via Metra from his Chicago Loop law office by six o’clock each Monday, Wednesday and Friday, quickly changed into sweats, took a couple of bottles of water out of the kitchen fridge, and told his wife, “I’m going below.”
“Up periscope,” Peggy would respond, making both of them laugh.
This evening Barnhill toweled himself off after stepping down from the treadmill. His old gray sweatshirt, with its cut-off sleeves, was dark with sweat. Since starting this regimen, Barnhill had dropped twenty of the most droppable pounds he’d accumulated. He slapped at his much diminished belly before walking over to the black-leather covered, rectangular weight bench. A quick look at his watch convinced him to do just three sets of ten reps with the barbell holding one-hundred fifty pounds of plates. He didn’t want to have Peggy chide him for delaying dinner. He tugged on his gloves, sat down, and lay back on the bench. On the wall in front of him, ESPN’s Sports Center was on the television, running highlights of that afternoon’s Major League baseball games. He smiled as he reached for the weight bar, saying aloud as he usually did, his own self-motivating mantra: “Not so bad for a fifty-five-year-old one-time jock. Let the bench press begin.”
Sports Center producers had for some reason called in basketball Hall of Famer Charles Barkley to offer some of his questionable opinions about baseball. Barnhill reached down beside the bench and hit the mute button on his television remote. He started lifting, slowly at first.
As Barnhill went through his routine, avoiding Sir Charles’ fulminations, he chuckled as he recalled the incident a
sports writer friend of his, Neil Ruklick, described to him regarding another famous American sports announcer, Howard Cosell.
According to Ruklick’s report, a New York Jets cornerback had been overnighting at the Manhattan apartment of the team’s star quarterback following a Sunday victory over the Steelers and a long night of carousing. Near noon, the cornerback emerged from his bedroom and saw his famous host and teammate being interviewed by the famous announcer. Bleary-eyed, the cornerback walked up to Cosell to say, “Jeez, I came out here to turn you off. I thought you were on television.” He then ruffled the famed announcer’s toupee and went back to bed. The memory of that incident always brought a smile to Barnhill’s face.
He was still smiling as he began his last set of reps. Engrossed in the exercise, Barnhill barely felt a brief flush of cool air invading the room. Figured it was the air-conditioning kicking on. When he knew it was six o’clock, he reached for the remote and turned the television to PBS and the Lehrer NewsHour.
Orth silently slid shut the basement patio slider door he had pried open with his knife. The sound of the television drew him across the carpeted part of the basement to the workout room. He peered around the doorway as Barnhill put the remote down and his hands up on the weight bar. On the television Jim Lehrer said, “Good evening. Here are today’s top stories.”
Barnhill boosted the barbell well over his head, extending his arms. It was abruptly snatched from him. Startled, he looked up and back of him at the black clad figure now holding the one-hundred fifty pounds. He said, “Wait…” But the intruder did not pause. He flung the barbell directly down on top of Barnhill’s throat. Larynx crushed, Barnhill had time only for one last look at the nightmare figure behind him. Then he stopped breathing. Orth felt for and found no pulse. He slipped out the patio door and hauled himself back up on the rope and over the fence.
At six-fifteen, during Judy Woodruff’s report from the Obama White House, Peggy Barnhill opened the kitchen door to the basement. “Mike, c’mon, honey. It’s getting late for dinner. You’ve still got to shower. Please.”
