by John McEvoy
That concluded Richard Lloyd-Brown’s first report. Examining it more closely, Rexroth said, “Senzell, where’s the rest of this? Part of this last page has been torn off. Goddamit, man, I want to know what kind of fix went on? How did Cabray pull this off?”
Senzell ventured a small, nervous smile. He was beginning to sense that he had the boss hooked on doing this series.
“The bottom part of Brown’s first story is missing, Mr. Rexroth,” Senzell said, “but keep on reading. Not all of Brown’s coverage was retained for the file. Or else parts of it were lost, or stolen, over the years. But the sequence is solid enough to paint the picture. It all becomes clear-how Cabray did it.”
Senzell sat back in his chair, keeping one eye on the circling Deirdre, the other on his engrossed employer.
DES MOINES, Iowa-As the date draws near for trial of people accused in one of the most gigantic and sensational frauds in the nation’s recent history, more details have emerged regarding the case.
The million-dollar swindle of numerous prominent citizens, allegedly masterminded by John B. Cabray, was spread over at least eighteen states.
Cabray and his associates are alleged to have used as bases of operation such towns as Council Bluffs, Burlington and Davenport, Iowa; St. Louis, Little Rock, Seattle, Denver and New Orleans, to which sites many victims were either taken by Cabray’s numerous “steerers” to deliver their betting money, or to which places they were instructed to mail their funds.
All were assured that their promised “profits” could either be picked up in those towns, or would be mailed to them if they so chose. No profits, of course, were ever delivered to the duped investors in this so-called “fixed” race that took place at a track in the eastern part of the country.
Included in the court documents are copies of many sensational letters alleged to have been exchanged between Cabray and his associates, missives that refer to alleged “deals” and specify various sums of money as having changed hands as the result of the operations of those mentioned in the indictment.
One of these letters is dated from a New York City hotel and invites “Friend John,” who, it is alleged, is Cabray himself, to go to New York, declaring “I have a town right across the river in New Jersey, a swell track, and absolute protection. The sheriff and prosecutor and police will be absolutely right on the job for us during our working hours.”
In a letter written four days later, the same man informs “Friend John” that the race “fixing” can be done “for $750, which will cover everything-that is, the sheriff, his brother-in-law the police chief, and the prosecuting attorney.”
Rexroth leapt from his chair. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars!” Rexroth shouted. “This man Cabray was a genius!” With a thump of his fist on the desk, Rexroth said, “Senzell, now here was a man who understood how to keep down overhead-something I’ve been trying to get across to you Horse Racing Journal buffoons for years!”
As the dog Winston began to snore, Rexroth plunked himself back down in his chair and resumed reading.
DES MOINES, Iowa-The eagerness of criminal mastermind John C. Cabray’s victims became evident in federal court here Monday when some of their letters were read into the record. This was over the objections of Cabray’s attorney, Charles McStone of Chicago, objections denied by presiding Judge George H. Stevens.
A letter from Moline, Ill., signed by Oscar Farley, said “am inclosing $3,000 to apply to our deal, pending. I am looking forward to a fine, and prompt, result and return.”
Another letter, this one from Eugene S. Hunter of Antigo, Wisc., said: “I have made my check on the bank here for $7,500. My father-in-law is the president of the bank, to which proceeds may be forwarded. We are looking forward to their arrival.”
Rexroth flipped through a few more reports from Richard Lloyd-Brown before he found the one he was seeking. Brow furrowed, jaw clenched, he read it through twice. Then he threw his head back and erupted in laughter, a cascade of sound that startled Deirdre, Senzell and the dozing Winston.
Reaching for the intercom on his desk, Rexroth ordered champagne. Next, he buzzed for his executive secretary. When Stoner had emerged from his office, nodded at Senzell, and taken a chair, Rexroth slid most of the clippings across the desk to him. Stoner began reading. Rexroth poured champagne for himself as Stoner perused the material. After several minutes, Stoner looked up, a puzzled look on his face.
“I grasp the situation,” Stoner said, “but only up to a point. A sharp con man puts together a dishonest scheme to clip some of the nation’s greediest burghers. You could call it the Rape of the Rotarians, except I’m not sure the Rotary Club existed back then.”
“Or, Clipping the Kiwanians,” Rexroth said with another booming laugh. “Mauling the Masons in their pocketbooks. Eviscerating the Elks. Oh, yes, W. C. Fields had it right, you can’t cheat an honest man. But as Cabray knew, that left plenty of material to work with. He knew there were suckers mooning in pools all over the country, primed and ready to make what they thought was a dishonest fortune.
“Here, let me read to you about one of these pillars of the community,” Rexroth said. He searched the folder of clippings until he found the one he wanted. “I’m quoting from Lloyd-Brown’s story,” he said.
Millionaire banker W. T. Baillew, of Jefferson City, Mo., the star witness in the case against John C. Cabray, was on the stand all day Thursday detailing the manner in which he lost the money.
Baillew acknowledged that, although he believed the race had been “fixed” and that he and his friends thought they were sure to win their bets, he considered it “legitimate” that he had bet on the outcome of the race.
Baillew said he had been approached by a man named Martin, who brought a letter of introduction from Cabray. After much discussion, it was agreed that Baillew should travel to St. Louis and make a bet for Martin on the supposedly fixed race. Baillew was to bring $30,000 of his own money to show that he was a “man of affairs.”
After Baillew had bet many thousands of dollars of Martin’s money, he grew excited, he said, and put up his own cash as well.
After he’d finished reading from the clipping, Rexroth took another gulp of champagne. As was his custom, he was drinking out of a beer stein in order to save time on replenishing. Stoner had seen the man quaff quarts of the stuff in an afternoon before beginning his cocktail hour. He must have a liver the size of a bowling ball, Stoner thought. Rexroth interrupted this reverie when he said, “But Stoner, that’s not the point of interest here. It’s not so much who Cabray conned, as it is how he conned them. Therein lies the beauty of this.”
Rexroth reached across the desk and took the file of clippings from Stoner. “You don’t have to read the rest of them,” he said, “I’ll sum this up for you. Listen, and marvel at Cabray’s chicanery.
“After getting all those boobs to send him their money,” Rexroth began, “money he and his people have convinced them will be at least tripled as the result of the race, Cabray goes to New Jersey and sets things up.
“Now, with all these prominent people on the hook, he’s got to put on some kind of race or they’ll be pursuing him all over the country. He can’t just disappear with the loot without going through his illegal motions. That would be too crude for this artiste.
“So, Cabray arranges for this match race to be held on a July afternoon at the track in New Jersey. He tells the investors that all their money is going on a horse named Bradford Baron, a horse that Cabray has shipped east from Chicago in order to take advantage of the arrogant, provincial Easterners who traditionally look down their noses at Midwest talent. This long-prevalent attitude, he tells his backers, will boost the price they get on Bradford Baron.
“Cabray tells them that he owns Bradford Baron, which is true, and assures them that the Baron will beat his rival, a horse named Rex of Racine, which could never happen.
“Rex is actually a pretty decent little stakes horse, and he figures to leave Bradford Ba
ron in his dust. Cabray knows that, all right, but his investors don’t.
“Cabray has also gone so far as to assure all the suckers that the race is fixed. He tells them Bradford Baron is a cinch, because the connections of Rex of Racine are in on the deal. This is not true, either. Actually, Rex of Racine’s owner was an honest gent named Garson Carleton, who thought they’d been invited into an easy spot to pick up a little purse between stakes engagements. According to his later deposition, Carleton privately told friends he thought Cabray was crazy to challenge Rex of Racine. He considered Cabray to be a pigeon!”
Throwing back his head, Rexroth let loose another barrage of laughter. He drained his stein of champagne. After refilling it-still failing to offer any to Stoner or Senzell-he resumed his description of the coup.
“The day of the match race arrives. Cabray’s got everybody in that town paid off, from the DA on down. Riding Bradford Baron is an old drunken jock on his last legs named Bobby Mitchell that Cabray has resurrected for this race.
“They lift the barrier-there was no starting gate in those days-and Rex of Racine scoots into a big lead. This should be no surprise, since he’s a stakes-class horse facing a little old allowance runner.
“When Rex of Racine starts pulling farther away, Bobby Mitchell takes a nice little gymnast’s tumble off Bradford Baron near the far turn and lies on the track, still as a silver dollar. The screaming crowd suddenly goes silent. Rex of Racine zips down the stretch and crosses the finish line as the easy winner.
“Now, there are other bettors on hand besides Cabray and his boys, bettors who out of honest stupidity have wagered on Bradford Baron. They begin to voice their suspicions regarding the gentle tumble taken by Bobby Mitchell. Their voices grew louder, and according to one of the stories in the file it was ‘feared that unruly elements might burn down the grandstand in their furor over the outcome.’
“But Cabray-oh, what a blue ribbon rascal-is ahead of them here. All of a sudden a so-called doctor, medicine satchel in hand, rushes from out of the crowd onto the track. The doctor pushes aside the attendants that are peering at Bobby Mitchell, who is face down in the loam and hasn’t moved a muscle.
“The doctor, of course, is another guy Cabray has hired, a down and out New York actor named Ned Robinson. Robinson does a terrific job. He examines the still prostrate Bobby Mitchell, shakes his head sadly, gets to his feet, and loudly proclaims, ‘This man is dead. A heart attack apparently caused him to fall from his horse. Please, gentlemen, step away from the body.’
“At this point the crowd, even the clucks who have lost money on Bradford Baron, fall silent. They leave the track talking about the terrible tragedy they have witnessed. Cabray’s suckers, some of whom have traveled to Jersey all the way from Cow Flop, Iowa, or whatever, were the most dumbfounded by this turn of events. They trooped out of the track in various stages of dejection.
“Bobby Mitchell’s ‘body’ is transported to the county morgue by the paid-off sheriff. When the wagon nears the steps of the building, Bobby Mitchell suddenly springs to life and enters a waiting coach. Cabray is in that one, holding Mitchell’s payoff, and they drive away, never again to be seen in that part of Jersey.
“The next day-and you can imagine what kind of night Cabray’s losers must have gone through-a couple of the brighter lights inquired as to the funeral plans for the dead jockey. ‘No dead jockey ever was brought in here,’ says the coroner, and shoos them away.
“‘What about the doctor who pronounced him dead on the racetrack?’
“‘Nobody around here like that,’ said the district attorney.
“Finally, a couple of days later, after the sheriff and police chief have told them to haul their asses out of town, these fellows returned to the Midwest and West. Some of them then found a sympathetic prosecutor in Des Moines. Later, the Attorney General’s office gets interested. And, two years after the race, the indictments are handed down for Cabray and his pals.
“Cabray was arrested in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The only reason the authorities ever located him was that he had gotten in touch with one of the original pigeons, an Oklahoma oil tycoon named Prentice O’Bannon. Cabray wrote O’Bannon a long letter, apologizing for what he described as the ‘mix-up’ in New Jersey, but promising that he would make up for it with a better, tremendously more profitable fixed race at the track in Hot Springs that fall. Cabray had either blown his ill-gotten gains, or lost his marbles, or had the biggest set of balls in the U. S. Whatever, he tried to go back to this well once too often, and the oil tycoon went to the cops. That’s how they came to nab Cabray.”
Stoner sat forward in his chair. “All right. They had the trial. Cabray and three of his cohorts were present. That’s what one of the first stories in the file said. What happened?”
Rexroth reached into the glistening ice bucket for the second bottle of champagne. He smiled broadly as he carefully filled his stein to the brim.
“What happened was that John B. Cabray and his three associates on hand were found guilty. By a jury of what obviously could not have been their peers, I might add, since I don’t think they produce world-class con men by the dozen in the Hawkeye State. Anyway, they were sentenced to fifteen years in prison and ordered to make restitution.
“Found guilty in absentia were the eighty Cabray accomplices not in custody but named in the indictments. The shitkicker judge there in Des Moines permitted Mr. Cabray and his buddies to post bond. Can you imagine? Bond was set at $5,000 per man. Out there in the corn belt, the judge must have thought that was major money.
“But it wasn’t for these lads, of course. Naturally, Cabray and his boys soon departed Des Moines, Iowa, never to be seen again. For them, $5,000 in bond money was an incidental expense. None of the money bet by the greedy Babbits of the Midwest and other regions was ever recovered.”
Rexroth swirled the champagne in his stein, looking pensive. “John B. Cabray,” he said softly. “Oh, how I would have liked to have known that man.”
After a few minutes of silence, Rexroth put his stein down on the desk. Senzell looked expectantly at his employer.
Rexroth gazed benignly back at Clyde Senzell. He said, “This is excellent stuff. Should make a terrific series. Go to it, Senzell, give it your best. We’ll publish this over the weekend of July Fourth. Tell Phillips to promo it heavily in advance.
“And,” Rexroth added, “tell Phillips to give that librarian a good pinch on the ass for finding this material.”
After Senzell had gone, Rexroth sat without speaking for several minutes. Stoner busied himself reading that day’s RexCom financial summaries which he’d retrieved from the nearby fax machine. As usual, the figures looked good.
Rexroth leaned back in his chair, his right hand, with its Ivy League Squash Champion ring gleaming in the light, resting lightly on Winston’s cranium. As Rexroth ruminated, the slumbering bulldog silently passed some powerful gas, something that only Stoner seemed to notice.
Finally, Rexroth looked at Stoner and said, “I can’t get over this Cabray story. What an achievement it was to pull off a caper like that! He was brazen, and bold, and thoroughly dishonest and, best of all, he got away with it! He took their money and got away with it!”
Rexroth realized that nothing in his already privileged life would please him more, bring him more satisfaction, than to somehow emulate Cabray in some strikingly larcenous way. He poured the last of the second bottle of what he called “Donny P” into his stein.
It was then that Rexroth’s thoughts turned to the royally bred son of Donna Diane, grazing these days in total obscurity in one of the far Willowdale pastures.
Rexroth had originally orchestrated the theft of Donna Diane only to exact revenge on his hated foreign rivals. It had been, up to then, simply a matter having the mare’s offspring for himself, and fuck those Micks and Brits. Now, with Cabray’s caper fresh in his consciousness, Rexroth’s mind fastened upon the plain bay yearling.
And then the
Grand Plan suddenly arrived full-blown in the devious mind of Harvey Rexroth, a criminal epiphany that caused him suddenly to leap to his feet and thrust his thick arms into the air.
“Ah…fucking…hah!” Rexroth shouted, loud enough to cause the surprised Stoner to drop the sheaf of financial reports, to startle the bulldog Winston, who awakened with another vicious fart, and to cause Randy Kauffman to turn away from the television screen whereon a group of dwarf transvestites of different races were embroiled in a scuffle that had carried them, along with the talk show host, into the front rows of the studio audience.
Chapter 16
“It’s going okay,” Doyle said. He was at an outdoor wall phone of the Wildcat-Jiffy-Shopper gas station and convenience store located at an intersection of country roads three and a half miles from Willowdale. It was early dusk of a warm summer evening, and Doyle was talking to Karen Engel in Chicago. He thought the FBI agent sounded a little anxious. This prompted Doyle to play it as cool as he possibly could manage. “Nada to worry about so far,” he said.
“Nothing I want to talk about,” Doyle might have added, but did not. Embarrassed as he was at what had happened, Doyle had decided to refrain from mentioning the major faux pas he had committed the day before.
He had been standing outside the Willowdale stallion barn, leaning on a paddock fence and rubbing the nose of a friendly black horse named Chisox. It was nearly lunch time. Doyle, having completed his morning duties under Aldous’ supervision, was passing the time talking with the stable assistant named Pedro. He asked the young Mexican-American about Chisox’ stud record.
There wasn’t any such record, Pedro said, shaking his head. Chisox, he said, was a teaser.
“Huh?” Doyle responded. After a few moments during which Pedro looked quizzically at Doyle, he proceeded to briefly describe the teaser’s role, to which the amazed Doyle said, “A teaser does fucking what?”
Pedro gave him another puzzled look. “No, no, he does no fuckeen,” Pedro emphasized. He informed that it was the role on every stud farm of at least one male horse to be used to excite the mares sexually, then be removed from their presence prior to ejaculation so that a valuable stallion could be slotted in to polish off the breeding job.
