by John McEvoy
He was on a roll. And it wasn’t just the money that had his spirits surfing about a yard and a half over the roof of his northbound Accord.
Doyle knew that nothing could ever make up for what had happened to Aldous. But Mortvedt’s getting wiped out that way—eliminating the prospect of short prison time because of his cooperating testimony—provided a large chunk of satisfaction. “We forgive but we don’t forget,” Doyle said aloud as he turned west off Clark Street onto Fullerton.
He smiled as he thought of the expression of gratitude he’d received as he drove away from Heartland Downs that afternoon. It had come over his cell phone from Moe Kellman, who on Doyle’s advice instructed his “people” to leave Lancaster Lad out of all Heartland Derby betting they were doing and in whatever bets they were booking.
“Moe, if you don’t mind my asking,” Doyle had said, “how did you get this number? I never gave it to you and it’s unlisted.”
“Do you really care, Jack?” Moe had replied, before urging Doyle to “go out and have the celebration you deserve.”
Before heading for his apartment, Doyle made two stops. The first was at the night deposit window of his bank, just off of Clark Street on Fullerton, where he dropped off the check that the Heartland Downs pari-mutuels had made out to him for his fistful of winning $100 tickets on Bunny’s Al.
The second stop was at McTweedy’s Travel Agency farther west on Fullerton. Doyle double-parked and dashed inside.
The office was empty except for a departing receptionist, nameplate reading Heather, who was in the process of locking the front door. Doyle persuaded her to gather up travel brochures and a schedule of Air New Zealand flights. After thanking Heather and wishing her a good night, he re-entered his car amid a crescendo of car horns and shouted threats from road ragers who had been forced to creep past the double-parked Accord. Doyle gave them a merry wave as he drove off.
As he steered down the ramp into the garage below his apartment building, he tried to calculate what time it was in New Zealand. If it was already tomorrow there, as he suspected, would that be too early to call Caroline Cummings? Or too late? He decided to phone her anyway.
Doyle had described the capture of Ronald Mortvedt in a phone conversation he’d had with Caroline two nights earlier. It was a lengthy call, for which he was grateful. He’d missed the sound of her voice. Caroline had updated Jack on Aldous’ improved condition.
Caroline went on to thank Jack for his role in Mortvedt’s capture, and then she made him promise to phone with a report on Heartland Derby Day. “I’ve got a feeling Saturday’s going to be a corker,” she said. “Be sure to call me, Jack.” He promised he would. He then heard her invite him to come down for the holiday.
“What holiday?”
“It’s our Labour Day. It’s coming up October 27.”
“I’d like that,” Doyle said.
“And plan to stay with us awhile,” she’d insisted. “It’s a long flight to get here, and expensive as well. There’d be no sense in turning about and going right back, would there?”
There was a pause in the conversation. Then Jack said, “No, there wouldn’t be any sense in that.”
Doyle eased the Accord down the damp, oil-slicked ramp toward his parking place. He got out of the car and locked it. He looked around the garage and saw no one. His footsteps echoing off the concrete floor were the only sound in the dank, dimly lit structure. It was still relatively early for a Saturday night, and most of his fellow residents’ vehicles were absent from their parking places.
Smiling broadly, he suddenly stopped, lifted his arms wide, and raised his eyes to the moisture-beaded ceiling only a few feet above his head.
“Where did I go right?” shouted Jack Doyle.
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