by John McEvoy
Maureen and E. D., those dirty bastards, Doyle thought. Heat rushed to his face as a tide of embarrassment swept over him. Goddam, they’d played him for a world-class sap. And what had he fallen into with these FBI agents? He shook his head, attempting to rattle some sensible thoughts into place. Then he motioned the two of them inside and closed the door.
“Mr. Doyle, how about a cup of coffee?” Karen asked, a hint of kindness in her low voice. “Then we can sit down and discuss your situation.”
“Why not?” Doyle replied, wondering what kind of situation this might be. Rock fucking below bottom, maybe. He thought about calling a lawyer. The problem was, the only lawyer he had ever employed was Dave Rutchik, who had represented him in his two divorce proceedings. Doyle got skinned both times, and after his parting from Erma had fired Rutchik, telling him “I’d rather be represented by a junior bail bondsman than another night school lawyer like you.” Doyle dismissed any thought of legal advice for the time being.
The three of them went into the tiny kitchen of Doyle’s three-room furnished apartment, decorated in a theme of contemporary haphazard. The apartment had a small bedroom; a living room that contained the couch, armchair, bookshelves, and a desk that fronted the north-facing windows; and the kitchen, whose stove was spotless from not having been used except for boiling water since Doyle had taken up residence. Also unchanged was the large poster of Thelonius Monk left behind by the previous tenant, a local jazz pianist currently working out of town. Doyle was an avid jazz fan, and he also liked the expression on Monk’s slyly knowing face.
Tirabassi and Engel sat at the small table as Doyle boiled water, then filled cups with instant coffee. Even this small effort seemed to exhaust him; whatever E. D. and Maureen had doped him up with, its residual effects were strong. Doyle needed a day on the couch, then a night at the gym, maybe including a stint in the sauna, to work all this out of his system.
The agents broke their silence as Karen asked, “Do you have any cream? Or milk?”
Doyle started to rise, but she moved before him to the refrigerator. After peering inside, she said, “Are you culturing specimens for a laboratory?” Doyle remembered the several carryout items he had intended to either reheat or remove, items that continued to lurk on his refrigerator shelves.
“The milk is toward the back,” Doyle said. “I don’t take it with coffee. I hardly ever use milk,” he added weakly. Karen sniffed at the quart carton. “No kidding,” she said. “You should throw this out.” Without waiting for a reply, she did so.
Doyle put his elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands. Then he said, “When you’re all done critiquing my housekeeping, could one of you maybe get around to where you tell me what business you think you have with me?”
Though his head was still pounding, the coffee was working to help clear Doyle’s mind. He began to further size up his uninvited visitors.
Tirabassi appeared to be close to Doyle’s age and was of similar medium build. His forehead was furrowed with worry lines. He reminded Doyle of Father DiCastri, the assistant pastor at the parish of his boyhood, a man so laden with concern for his fellow man that his rare smiles were widely reported by parishioners whenever they appeared.
The woman, Karen, was another, decidedly different story, in Doyle’s grudgingly admiring estimation. With her tall, athletic figure, attractively wide-set eyes, and open expression—one that suggested she was not going to be as quick to judge Jack Doyle as was her partner—Karen sat in pleasant contrast to Tirabassi, who impatiently tapped two fingers of his right hand on the table as he coldly regarded his host.
The woman was the first to speak.
“We’re here, Mr. Doyle, as a result of information we received suggesting your involvement in a fixed horse race.” She paused, allowing time for that to sink in.
Doyle felt his heart skitter briefly into overdrive, but he looked at Karen without changing expression. He said nothing.
Tirabassi said, “The race in question was at Heartland Downs. It was a race won by a horse you used to work with when you were in the employ of a trainer named Angelo Zocchi.”
Doyle cleared his throat. “Yes, I worked for Zocchi. Then I quit working for Zocchi. So what? And what ‘fix’ are you talking about?”
Tirabassi shrugged. “Maybe ‘fix’ is overstating it,” he said. He leaned toward Doyle, frowning, the intensity of his expression nearly bringing together in a horizontal line Tirabassi’s thick, black eyebrows. “But maybe not,” he said. “Something went on with that race, something kinky.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “And you were part of it, Mr. Doyle.”
Doyle said, “Something kinky? What the hell does that mean? I think you’re blowing smoke,” he added, looking at Karen.
Said Tirabassi, “Let me spell it out for you. The Bureau was alerted to this situation by an extremely reliable source, a man named Scotty Roxborough. He’s a bigtime linemaker in Las Vegas. Roxy sometimes helps us out with information, and sometimes we help him out. He informed us that there was an unusual amount of action on that race at Heartland Downs, most of it going down on that horse you groomed, City Sarah. Roxy said race books all over Vegas were hit with money on that horse.”
Tirabassi reached into his suitcoat and extracted a notebook. He began to read from it. “According to Roxy—and this is a guy who knows—the win payoff was suspicious in itself. The horse was listed in the track program and the Racing Journal at odds of twenty to one. But she went off at only eight to one. Even more suspicious was the number of bets using the horse in what Roxy called the ‘gimmicks’—exactas or trifectas. Roxy said there hadn’t been a race like this for several years, since a trifecta race at Gateway Meadows. That one eventually led to the conviction and imprisonment of half a dozen participants.”
Karen cut in. “Horse racing, Mr. Doyle, is one of the most closely monitored businesses in the country—both by its own operators and regulators and, in some cases, with help from people like Roxborough. For the most part, the sort of massive attention it gets works well to keep racing clean. As you may know,” she smiled, “there’s more fraud in banking than horse racing.”
“The racing people,” Tirabassi interjected, “want to insure that the sport is on the up and up in order to maintain the public’s confidence. And the Vegas people want it to be that way so that they don’t get taken by crooks putting something over on them. They react very unkindly to that. They watch horse race betting as carefully as they keep track of the off-the-field associations of NFL quarterbacks. And NBA referees, for that matter.”
Doyle shifted in his chair, but remained silent. The pounding in his head had settled into a low, steady thrum, punctuated by an occasional sharp flash of pain, as if Mongo Santamaria were at work in there. Even the pleasant sound of Karen Engel’s voice failed to offset this rhythmic discomfort. He thought, fleetingly but bitterly, of Maureen and E. D.
“We were alerted to all this by the agent in our Chicago office who maintains contact with Roxborough,” Karen said. “He checked with his local sources, who confirmed that there was something out of line about that race. The same agent spotted you while reviewing routine surveillance tapes of a man named Moe Kellman. We knew who he was. The restaurant owner, Dino, told us who you were.”
“What’s ‘routine’ about a surveillance tape?” Doyle snapped.
Karen ignored the question. “Moe Kellman, as I’m sure you are aware, is one of the Chicago Outfit’s major money movers. We know that, even though we’ve never been able to build a case against him. Kellman oversees the operation of many of the Outfit’s legitimate businesses, ones that have been started with money he helped to launder years ago.…”
Doyle pondered this information, which was brand-new to him. He’d suspected that Kellman’s background was not exactly pristine—after all, the talk of “my people” between a couple of such men of the world as themselves suggested otherwise.
But, Doyle k
new, Chicago was full of phonies claiming to be “connected” to the Outfit, or “clouted up” at City Hall, or in the police department; Doyle had met, and seen through, a number of them. He realized now that Kellman’s subtle hints over the course of their conversations were, unfortunately for Doyle, the real thing; that the little man actually stood tall in the local criminal hierarchy. This knowledge made Doyle’s headache worsen.
“I know Kellman,” Doyle admitted. “We work out at the same gym. But so what? There’s undoubtedly all kinds of other twisted citizens there morning and night. Keep in mind, the membership roster is heavy with lawyers and securities traders.”
Doyle began attempting to retrieve pieces of the conversations he’d had with Kellman over Dino’s dining tables. When some of these pieces came back to him, especially discussions of City Sarah’s racing schedule, Doyle felt a wave of unease. To his immense relief, he heard Tirabassi say, “We don’t have any audio tapes of you and Kellman, or Kellman and any other of his interesting dining companions, for that matter. That’s an Outfit hangout, and Dino’s is checked for bugs daily by one of their best security men.”
Doyle struggled not to grin at this revelation. “So, why are you hassling me?” he said to Tirabassi. He was beginning to feel better on all fronts.
Karen immediately deflated him.
“We’ve tied you to Kellman,” she said, “and we’ve established that you worked for Zocchi. Not only that, but that you worked on the horse in question, this City Sarah. And we know you left Mr. Zocchi’s employment shortly after that race.
“We’ve been to the track and checked with Zocchi about you. He described you, I’m quoting, as an ‘uncooperative’ individual whom he was ‘not at all sorry to see go.’”
Fuck you too, Zocchi, Doyle thought.
“Did you ask Zocchi about this so-called fix?” Doyle said.
“We interviewed all of the stable personnel,” Tirabassi replied. “All but you, that is, since you’d so abruptly quit. Probably with the money you’d made from setting this thing up.”
Doyle winced at that statement. To Tirabassi he said, “All you’ve unloaded on me here seems to add up to a bunch of nothing. You may not know it, but I used to make my living in advertising and sales. I’ve got a built-in bullshit detector, developed during those days, and it’s pulsating…it’s humming, the more I listen to you two.
“If you had anything solid on me, we wouldn’t be having this cozy little coffee klatsch. You’d have served me a warrant at the door and hauled my ass downtown.” He got to his feet and stretched his arms expansively, trying to look nonchalant.
The agents exchanged glances. Then Tirabassi said to Doyle, “We’ve got a Mexican illegal, a busboy from Dino’s, who is facing deportation charges. Bye bye Chico, you know what I mean? He’s very willing to testify that he overheard parts of a conversation in which you and Kellman talked about a fixed horse race.”
Doyle snorted. “For Chrissakes, come back to the real world, man. Dino doesn’t keep a busboy down there who knows more than ten words of English. If he did, they might hit up Dino for a huge raise to get them in range of the minimum wage. No, I can’t imagine your deportee as some kind of star witness in court.
“I think you two are blue-skying here, as we used to say over at…well, my former place of business.”
“Mr. Doyle,” Karen responded, “please sit down a minute and consider a few things. One, we can cite you as a ‘known associate’ of Moe Kellman, and we’ve got a file on him that’s thicker than the Chicago phone book, even though he’s never been convicted of anything. Plus, we can tie you to the scene of the reported fixed race. You worked with that horse, you can’t deny it.
“Now, these things might not add up to a conviction in your case,” she conceded. “But they certainly add up to a package of damning information we could dump on the desk of any legitimate employer you might seek to find work with in the future.
“This is not the kind of background information that’ll lead you to a corner office anywhere. Think about it.”
“Well, well,” said Doyle, “and here I was under the impression that all those old J. Edgar Hoover techniques of threat and implication were things of the past. I thought I’d been hearing all about the ‘New FBI.’ You’re shaking my faith in federal law enforcement.
“I don’t get it,” Doyle continued, genuinely puzzled. “You tell me all this stuff about a fixed race, involving me, you say, but you admit you don’t have a case against me. Still, you make threats about messing me up with future employers. What’s the deal here, folks? Out of the immense citizenry of this great nation, why has your little corner of the Federal Bureau of Investigation selected Jack Doyle’s life to play with?”
Karen looked over at her partner, who nodded for her to continue.
“Actually, Jack, there’s something you could do for us. Something that would serve to wipe your slate clean with us.”
Doyle said angrily, “Whatever you’re talking about, it’s got blackmail written all over it. I know very well how personnel managers react to visits from people like you.”
“Let’s start thinking of this more as an invitation to cooperate,” Karen smiled, “an opportunity to ‘give something back,’ as the professional athletes say. You put one over in one area of the horse business. Maybe we can’t prove it, but you did it. You know it, and we know it. It was unworthy of you, Jack. This is a chance for you to make up for it.
“Just listen to what we have to say. It won’t take long. It’s not distasteful, or dangerous, but it might actually prove satisfying to a risk-taker like you. And it’s in your best interests,” Karen added.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Doyle said in amazement. “What the hell could I do for the FBI?”
Tirabassi broke his silence. “You ever hear of a man named Harvey Rexroth?”
Chapter 6
Twenty minutes later, Doyle and the two FBI agents sat in a well-worn, high-backed red booth at the rear of Petros’ Restaurant, two blocks from Doyle’s apartment.
When it appeared that his conversation with Engel and Tirabassi was going to go on for some time, Doyle told them, “Look, this is all very interesting. But I’m not exactly at the top of my game this morning. I need some breakfast.”
“I assume you mean ‘Not here,’” Karen said, grimacing in the direction of Doyle’s refrigerator.
“The only time I eat in is when I have carry out,” Doyle said. “Let’s go down the street.”
Petros’ was one of the thousands of Greek-owned restaurants in Chicago, the vast majority of them featuring reasonable prices, decent food, and moderate pretensions. Petros, Doyle informed the agents as they walked south on Clark Street, was a bald-headed import from Mikos who was convinced he looked exactly like the old television detective Kojak, portrayed by Telly Savalas, and loved to be referred to by the actor’s first name.
As they entered and walked toward the back booth, Doyle gave his usual greeting to Petros, who was seated at a table with clear sight lines to the cash register and its buxom female operator. “Hello, Smelly—no, Telly,” Doyle called out. Petros scowled. “Go sit down, Jeck, I’ll tell Gus to start up burning your eggs.”
Karen ordered a muffin, Tirabassi just coffee. “Give me the full load, Elaine,” Doyle said to the waitress. When it arrived, that proved to be scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausages, and three slices of buttered toast.
Karen shook her head. “Cholesterol concerns aren’t exactly on your front page, are they?”
Doyle grinned. “Not a factor, my dear. I come from a long line of Micks that thrived on bacon and eggs until they died in ripe old age. My cholesterol count is almost in a dead heat with my weight, one-sixty. When we’d take our annual physicals at Serafin Ltd., my doctor used to turn pale with envy every time he reported this to me. He’d throw the test results down on his desk and spit out the information.”
Tirabassi finis
hed his first cup of coffee. “Do you think we could get back to the matter at hand, Doyle? Or are you going start bragging about your triglyceride count?”
The matter at hand, and particularly the subject of Harvey Rexroth, was not one he was “tremendously familiar with,” Doyle admitted. “I know who Rexroth is, some kind of media mogul. He’s mentioned in the papers every once in awhile, or there’ll be his photo at some fund raiser. Homely-looking sucker, as I recall. But,” Doyle asked as he finished his third piece of toast, “where does he come into this picture of yours that’s got me in it?”
Over the next hour, interrupted only by the periodic appearances of Elaine the waitress with coffee refills, the two agents combined to provide a summarized oral biography of Harvey Theodore Rexroth, age forty-four, owner of palatial homes in Kentucky, Florida, and Montana and a $12 million condo in New York City where his business was headquartered.
***
Harvey Rexroth descended from a family of wealthy Montana ranchers, their presence in the Treasure State tracing back to the turn of the century. Harvey’s great-grandfather, Horace, maintained two hundred thousand sheep on thousands of cheaply acquired acres. Horace for years was known in the West as the Mogul of Mutton.
His eldest grandson, Harold, was the first to branch out into business beyond the borders of the wide-open ranges. Sent east for schooling, he was graduated from Harvard, then its Business School, and soon began to diversify his family’s holdings, acquiring newspapers all over the West and Southwest. Later, following the Reagan Administration’s deregulation of the communications industry, he began adding radio and television stations to the huge media company that became known as RexCom.
Harold was recognized one of the most belligerent, avaricious, and successful figures in that sector of American commerce, “which is saying something,” as Karen pointed out. He was hated by his rivals and despised by many of his employees, which was no surprise, since Harold was as niggardly and notional as most of his fellow media barons. Rexroth’s workers were for the most part underpaid, yet expected to perform Herculean tasks at an accelerated pace. Harold Rexroth was well known in journalistic circles for his oft-repeated pronouncement that “editors are a dime a dozen, and reporters come cheaper.” He was a very popular speaker at national newspaper publisher conventions.
