by John McEvoy
Morley caught up to them, walking on Jack’s other side.
“We’re both damned glad to see you, Jack,” E. D. said. “Now come take a look at what you helped us to get our hands on.”
Bunny’s Al, a medium-sized chestnut, was pawing the ground and tossing his head about restlessly as he was held by a groom. A well-muscled horse, his gleaming coat evidenced his terrific condition. He was jumping out of his skin, as the racetrack expression has it.
But Bunny’s Al settled down as soon as Morley approached him. The big man handed his Panama hat and white suit coat to the groom, then expertly put the saddle on the now calm horse and cinched it securely. They had brought their own jockey with them from Florida, a youngster named Jesse Black, who had ridden Bunny’s Al ever since E. D. and Maureen bought him.
“Do it again, Jesse,” E. D. told him as he boosted him aboard Bunny’s Al. Those were Morley’s only instructions to the jockey.
The crowd of owners, trainers, hangers-on, and racing officials began to leave the paddock in the wake of the horses who headed through the tunnel toward the track. “Will you watch the race with us, Jack?” Maureen asked.
“Can’t,” Doyle said. “I’ve got another little matter to settle.” He glanced at the paddock odds board. Bunny’s Al was four to one. Doyle looked at the horse’s beaming co-owners. “In spite of everything,” Doyle said, “good luck to you.”
“I think he means it,” E. D. said to Maureen.
“Acourse he does,” Maureen said. “That’s a heart a gold beatin’ away in there behind that cobbly front the man puts on.”
“Watch where you’re stepping, Maureen,” Jack said as he left them. “The horseshit can get high around here, especially with you contributing to it.”
***
As the Right to Bear Arms smoothly advanced, Wanda shifted her gaze from the ground far below to the man at the controls. General Oscar Belliard was a short, squat, gray-haired and gray-bearded man of fifty-five. Tufts of gray hair protruded from his large nostrils, his large ears, and the backs of his little hands. Looking at him as they soared over Chicago’s western suburbs, Wanda thought the general reminded her of some character, she couldn’t quite pin down which one, in a book she used to read to her nieces, The Wind in the Willows.
General Belliard made his living managing one of Louisville’s discount club grocery stores. His only direct exposure to things officially military had been as an ROTC cadet during his brief stint in college. A congenital heart murmur, he said, had prevented him from enlisting in any branch of the service. But his interest in everything military—including his vast collection of war textbooks, games, weapons, and films—along with his ballooning hobby, consumed most of his non-working hours. His role as founder and leader of the Underground Militia was the most important thing in the life of this lifelong bachelor.
Confidently, General Belliard gave Red and Junior the go-ahead to attach their banner to the stainless steel cables at the rear of the gondola. The banner contained the messages their flight was designed to deliver. “Target in sight,” cried the general as he looked through his binoculars toward Heartland Downs. “Prepare to unfurl!”
Having issued that order, General Belliard relaxed and reached into his knapsack for his lunch. He removed a ziplock baggy from the supply he issued to Underground Militia members when they went on backcountry maneuvers. It contained a handful of gherkins and a bulging sandwich of fried squirrel in white bread.
“Love eating these little critters—and hunting them, too,” the general said as he munched enthusiastically. Between bites he asked, “You folks hear about the scare those pointy heads over at the university are talking about? Some nonsense about a virus connected with eating squirrel brains? Can you believe that? What a load of manure, pardon the expression, Wanda.
“My Uncle Merle,” continued General Belliard, “probably ate a thousand or twelve hundred squirrels in his life, brains and all. No exaggeration. I can’t begin to estimate how many pounds of squirrel that’d come to.
“Late in his life, when he found his gums could not tolerate dentures, Uncle Merle used to skin his squirrels after he’d shot or trapped them, take the bones out, cut the meat up in little pieces, and put it all in this big blender he had. Said it made for the most refreshing drink in the world.
“And Uncle Merle lived in just darned good health to ninety-seven and three-quarters. Hunted right up to the end, too,” the general said proudly, before he suddenly clutched his chest and keeled over sideways onto the floor of the gondola.
***
Jockey Willie Arroyo, who normally chattered away to Beth Anderson, the pony girl accompanying the Willowdale horses in every post parade, was silent this afternoon. Beth usually just nodded without really listening to Willie’s rapid talk, but she found its absence now to be somewhat unsettling.
“What’s wrong, Willie?” she grinned, her blond ponytail swishing as she turned to face him from her big white pony as they proceeded toward the starting gate. “It’s only another half- million-dollar race. Those little nuts of yours aren’t shriveling up even smaller, are they?”
Arroyo barely heard her. His usually laughing and expressive countenance was grim, marked only by a frown. He patted Lancaster Lad on the right side of his neck, then stood in the stirrups to begin jogging the horse slowly forward. When the brown colt responded, Arroyo looked even more worried than he had moments earlier.
Seeing Arroyo’s concern, Beth Anderson turned serious. “Hey, babe, I was only kidding with you,” she said. There was no reply, so Beth asked: “Willie, what’s wrong here? Do you feel something? Is this horse sore, or what?”
They were almost at the gate, now, where the eight other Heartland Derby starters already waited to be loaded, some patiently, some having to be rotated in circles by members of the gate crew before their turns came. A dark bay filly named Nurse on Call balked and had to be hustled forward by assistant starters who locked arms behind her and pushed her into her slot. The others began to enter willingly, Bunny’s Al whinnying eagerly as he moved forward.
Beth reached over and unhooked the shank from Lancaster Lad. Willie Arroyo finally turned to face her. “Theez horse don’t,” he said, “theez horse don’t seem….”
Then Arroyo stopped talking. As the assistant starter took hold of Lancaster Lad’s bridle and pulled him forward, Arroyo took one last look back at Beth Anderson. He lifted his shoulders in a mighty shrug, flipped his goggles down and turned to face the racetrack that stretched before him beneath the bright October sun.
***
As the first of the Heartland Derby horses was being loaded into the starting gate, track announcer Calvin Gemmer momentarily interrupted his memorizing of the jockeys’ colors and lifted his binoculars skyward. He spotted a red, white, and blue hot-air balloon that was heading toward the track property in distressed fashion: zigging, zagging, yo-yoing up and down.
Gemmer switched on his in-house intercom and reached track publicity director Dan Zenner. “Have we got some kind of balloon promotion I should be mentioning?” the announcer asked. “Not that I know of,” came the reply. “Okay, just checking,” Gemmer answered.
Gemmer took one more quick, concerned glance at the balloon, which continued to weave and lose altitude as it approached. It was now about three-quarters of a mile south of the track’s main parking lot. With his high-powered glasses, Gemmer could discern uneven writing on the long, broad banner that trailed behind the balloon. What he saw was ROOt AGAINST LaN. LAD—THE TYRANTS HoRSE.
A sudden wind shift revealed the message on the other side of the same banner: LITHUANIA…. 4eVER.
“What the hell is that all about?” the announcer said, startling his audience, for he had uncharacteristically forgotten that his microphone was turned on. But, old pro that he was, Gemmer quickly got back in his normal groove. “They’re all in the gate.…Aaand they’re off!” began his description of the Heartlands Derb
y.
“It’s a good thing geldings can’t understand that term,” Doyle grinned, speaking to the grim-faced Karen who was concentrating on the horses passing before her, “otherwise they might be too embarrassed to run.
“Oh, come on, Engel, ease up,” he added, “it’s only a horse race. In about thirty seconds or so, take a look back up there at Rexroth—I guarantee you’ll start enjoying this.”
“That’s Agile Andy going right for the early lead,” Gemmer announced, “Jean’s Tom lapped on him to the outside. Next comes Bunny’s Al, who is down on the rail and saving ground. He’s followed by Nurse on Call, Jimminy Quicket, Kaplan’s Dream, Pennoyer Park, Friar of Foxdale and Capper Rick. As they curve into the backstretch favored Lancaster Lad is the trailer, ten lengths behind the leader.”
Karen now had turned from watching the race to watching Rexroth. Above his binoculars, trained on the field as it approached the far turn, she could see the look of concern on his face. He momentarily dropped the glasses and, looking perplexed, said something to Stoner, who shrugged without answering. Rexroth’s jaw tightened as he put the binoculars back up to his eyes.
“Midway of the far turn, Agile Andy is drifting out and beginning to tire. Moving through the hole on the inside is Jean’s Tom, who takes command by a length. Bunny’s Al is also on the move along the rail. The rest of the field remains strung out and Lancaster Lad continues to trail, although Willie Arroyo is already asking him for his best….”
“Check him out,” Karen said excitedly to Doyle. Jack stood up and turned around to look at the Rexroth box. As he did, he saw the red-faced publisher throw his binoculars to the floor of the box, then begin pounding his big fists on the railing in front of him. A man in the adjacent box said something to him, and Rexroth snarled a reply that caused the man to hurriedly turn away.
“Bunny’s Al and Jean’s Tom are head and head for the lead as they reach the eighth-pole. Friar of Foxdale has found his best stride and is putting in a big run and Pennoyer Park is also gaining ground.
“With a sixteenth to go, Bunny’s Al begins to edge clear as Jean’s Tom gives way. But here comes Friar of Foxdale with a tremendous late charge! He’s eating up ground with every stride. Jesse Black is asking Bunny’s Al for everything he has. They’re neck and neck approaching the finish line.
“Here’s the wire. Bunny’s Al hangs on by a head over Friar of Foxdale in a tremendous running of the Heartland Derby. Capper Rick closes well to take third money, another three lengths back, with Pennoyer Park in fourth….Bringing up the rear of the field is favored Lancaster Lad, who just didn’t have it today.”
Ignoring the exciting race that had gone on behind them, Doyle and Karen kept their eyes on Rexroth. Before Bunny’s Al was called the winner and Lancaster Lad the trailer, Rexroth had already begun to leave his box and head for the racetrack apron.
“Let’s go,” Karen said. “We’ll follow him down there.”
She and Jack began to move. But Damon Tirabassi still stood, transfixed, watching the video replay of the Heartlands Derby finish on the jumbotron television in the track’s infield. He was completely caught up in it.
Doyle said, “Maybe Agent Straight Arrow bet this winner. Look at him!”
Karen grabbed Damon’s arm and yanked. “For God’s sakes, Damon,” she said, “let’s go!”
“That was something!” Tirabassi said, excited by the thrilling contest he’d just witnessed. Then Damon resumed what Karen termed his Hoover mask and they all moved swiftly down the aisle to the winner’s circle.
***
Frantic now as the balloon continued its zig-zagging course, Red Marchik looked down at General Belliard. Then he knelt awkwardly in the cramped gondola and put an ear to the stricken man’s chest. The general’s face was fish belly white, his eyes rolled up in his head. Red said excitedly, “He is still alive. He is still alive!”
Red struggled to his feet, his big red face now the color of a hydroponic tomato. “We’re going to…We’re going to…Junior, goddammit, do you know to drive this thing? Of course you don’t. What the hell kind of a deal is this?” Red shouted.
He again looked down at their motionless leader. “You suppose he got hit by that squirrel virus?” Red asked.
Junior, ashen, remained silent. Wanda said, “Looks more like a heart attack to me.”
The balloon basket lurched sideways, then downward. Junior fumbled with the fuel controls, looking wildly about him. The general’s head lolled on the floor of the gondola.
“Jesus, Wanda,” cried her panicked husband, “give him some of that CRP.”
“That course I took was CPR, Red,” Wanda said as she gazed warily down at General Belliard. “Cardio-Pulmonary Resurrection. But I don’t know that I’m about to CPR a man with part of a squirrel hanging out of his mouth.”
Suddenly the gondola dropped several more feet. Red’s face lost its deep crimson shade, converting rapidly to a hue reminiscent of lime Gatorade. Seeing this, Wanda reluctantly bent to her task. She felt the general’s heart leap back into proper gear, but he remained unconscious.
Red and Junior, meanwhile, began battling for control of the blast valve, Junior attempting to open it up, Red struggling to close it. In the midst of this standoff, as the combatants almost trampled Wanda and the general, the balloon began descending rapidly in the direction of the Heartland Downs racing strip.
***
Harvey Rexroth rolled down the aisle steps toward the racetrack like a boulder down a mountain. The people who didn’t see him coming he bumped out of his way. Stoner and Kauffman struggled to keep up.
Rexroth was recognized as he descended the stairs. “Guaranteed winner? Guaranteed my ass, you big phony,” one man shouted. Others began to boo and curse. Suddenly, in the midst of this beautiful afternoon, it began to sound like a drunk and disappointed football crowd at Soldier Field in the late minutes of another Chicago Bears drubbing.
When Rexroth and his men arrived at trackside, Bunny’s Al was being led into the winner’s circle. Rexroth brushed past the winning owners, Maureen Hoban and E. D. Morley, and rumbled through the opening leading to the racing strip. He waved vigorously at jockey Willie Arroyo. “You, rider, bring that horse over here,” he ordered.
One of trainer Kenny Gutfreund’s grooms put a shank on Lancaster Lad’s halter and held the horse as Arroyo dismounted. There was no jubilant, high-flying leap this time; the jockey slithered off the sweaty, tired horse. He started to say something to Rexroth, but when he spotted Doyle and the agents approaching, Arroyo neatly stepped around them toward the scales and weighed in. He then scurried up the tunnel and out of sight.
The flustered Rexroth, turning and seeing Doyle, did a double take. “What’s going on here, Doyle? Who are these people with you?”
Without waiting for answers, Rexroth turned on trainer Gutfreund. “What have you got to say about what happened here?” he shouted. Gesturing toward Lancaster Lad, he said, “That can’t be my horse. Not the way he ran. There’s been some kind of foul-up here, Gutfreund. I’m holding you responsible.”
Damon Tirabassi said, “No, it’s you, Rexroth, who is going to be held responsible.”
“For what? Held responsible for what? And who the hell are you?”
As Karen stepped forward to join Damon in showing their FBI badges, Doyle said to Rexroth, “You’re going to be held responsible for a list of things as long as your upcoming prison serial number. Including running the right horse this afternoon—not the wrong one that you planned to run.”
Rexroth’s jaw dropped. He watched as Damon Tirabassi waved down the track at a groom who was waiting with a bay horse. Tirabassi motioned the young woman forward. Rexroth took a step backward as they approached.
The bay horse pranced and danced as he moved toward them, his coat glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. Muscles rippled as he stepped lightly along. Playfully, he threw his head from side to side, eyes alight. Bred
for the racetrack, the son of Donna Diane was finally on one for the very first time.
Karen Engel called out, “Will the horse identifier help us here now?”
Chuck Tilton stepped forward. The longtime identifier for the state of Illinois looked almost as puzzled now as when, a half-hour earlier, Karen had phoned him in his track office and requested that he come to the winner’s circle following the Heartland Derby. “Bring Lancaster Lad’s papers with you, please,” Karen had asked. This was a first for Tilton—checking out a horse after a race.
Curious fans began to crowd up to the winner’s circle fence. Bunny’s Al had been photographed, unsaddled, and led away to the test barn, but the confrontation involving Rexroth had served to delay the presentation of the Heartland Derby trophy. Maureen, E. D., and jockey Jesse Black waited impatiently for that ceremony. They were still fizzing with the excitement of this biggest win of their lives, Doyle could see, but at the same time were as puzzled as the fans who lined the fence. When E. D. came over to Doyle, he asked quietly, “Jack, what’s going down here, man?” Doyle glanced at Morley. “Keep out of this, E. D.,” he answered in a low voice.
As he had only fifteen minutes earlier in the paddock prior to the race, the identifier opened up Lancaster Lad’s mouth. He compared the numerals on the horse’s upper lip to those on the registration papers in Karen’s hand. Then Tilton moved over to the other bay horse. Rexroth attempted to sidle rearward at this point, but Damon strengthened his grip on the publisher’s arm.
“I’ll be damned,” Tilton said after he’d examined the second horse. “This sumbitch’s got the same ID as that horse right there,” he said, motioning toward Lancaster Lad. “Except,” he added, “this one’s a helluva lot newer.”
Agent Ebner elbowed his way through the crowd with Earlene Klinder in tow. The horse tattooer from Kentucky, one elbow in Ebner’s large hand, held her other arm across her chest as if she was going to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Fearfully, she glanced about her before her eyes settled on Byron Stoner.
