by John McEvoy
“Then imagine your lord and savior, the one and only JEEEEEZUS Christ, appears at mid-field, the fifty-yard line. Brothers and sisters, do you remember the wedding at Cana? Well, that’s what I’m talking about here….I’m talking about the Greatest Concessionaire of All Times, feeding and slackening the thirsts of the parched and hungry multitudes. But it is their souls that cry out for sustenance from the Great Concessionaire, JEEEEEZUS Christ….”
This was the windup of another twelve-hour work day for thirty-eight-year-old Earlene Klinder, the kind she’d been forced to endure since the death of her husband, Leroy, in a motorcycle accident eight years earlier.
Stoked on methamphetamine and rye whiskey, Leroy had pulled out of a roadhouse parking lot early one Sunday morning directly into the middle of a fast-moving National Guard truck convoy on the way home from once-a-month nighttime maneuvers.
“Maybe Leroy had a flashback and thought he was entering the service of his country again,” the minister had said at the funeral, putting as good a spin as he could on the situation.
Leroy had been in the U.S. Army during the Gulf War. He attributed his subsequent passion for pharmaceuticals to post-traumatic stress disorder, although in his role as an Army mechanic he’d never gotten farther from Kentucky than the motor pool at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana. Earlene had made no attempt to play the role of grieving widow. “He’d turned into such an asshole,” she volunteered to everyone who offered condolences.
Leroy’s contributions to the Klinder standard of living had been spotty at best. Even so, their disappearance forced Earlene to find a second job. At the suggestion of a childhood friend, Mary Hendrickson, who worked as a horse identifier at Kentucky racetracks, Earlene went through training and then became a licensed horse tattooer, one of the few women in the country doing that work. Earlene and Mary had been friends since the time when, ages twelve and thirteen respectively, they’d worked around a third-rate riding academy named Upson Downs in exchange for free riding lessons.
Mary Hendrickson had explained to Earlene that every thoroughbred, in order to be allowed to compete in races, must carry identification: five numbers and a letter applied to its upper lip by dye-filled needles. Most horses undergo this procedure when they are two years old.
Each horse’s lip tattoo is unique, matching the identification number that appears on it’s official registration papers. Each time a horse enters the paddock to race, Hendrickson said, the “lip tattoo is checked by the official identifier-that’s me.” If these inscriptions do not match up, Mary added, “that horse don’t run.”
Earlene visited the Kentuckiana track for three and a half hours each morning to tattoo horses. Sometimes, she drove to area farms to keep appointments. Mornings at ten she was at her post in the K-Mart checkout line, where she remained until six. Her combined income from these two jobs was just enough to keep her family afloat.
“Mrs. Klinder,” said the smooth voice over the phone, “my name is Byron Stoner. I’m calling from Willowdale Farm over near Lexington. I’m interested in making an appointment for your services as a horse tattooer.”
“Kind of late at night, isn’t it?” Earlene replied, her fatigue manifesting itself in irritability. “Hold on a second; I’ll get my appointments book.” She thumped the receiver of the phone down on the kitchen counter.
A minute later, Earlene said, “Mr. Stoner? I’m scheduled to be down your way next Tuesday. I can put Willowdale on my list of stops.”
Stoner said, “No, that won’t do. We need you to make a special trip here, this week.” There was a pause. Then Stoner said, “You see, we need you to tattoo only one horse.”
Earlene, disbelief in her voice, said, “A special trip? At night? Mr. Stoner, I only get paid $12 a horse. Look, why don’t we wait until I’ve got some other appointments lined up? Croft Lane Farm has got a bunch of two-year-olds they want done. That’s near you. I just haven’t figured out a time yet. But I could hook you in with them.
“Otherwise, it’s just not worth my while to drive all the way down there to tattoo just your one horse.”
There was another pause. Stoner then told her what the job would be worth. “I’ve got a messenger on his way to your home right now with a down payment of $1,000-in cash-just to get you to come down here and discuss this, shall we say, unique situation,” he said. “No strings attached. The $1,000 is yours regardless of what you decide.”
“Is tomorrow night soon enough for you?” Earlene asked.
Randy Kauffman met Earlene Klinder’s car at the front gate of Willowdale. He introduced himself and, without asking, opened the passenger door of her seven-year-old Yugo and sat on the front seat, his bulky body bringing a squishing sound out of the worn cushion as he squeezed in. Kauffman directed her through the dusk over a road well removed from Willowdale’s main barn complex. Minutes later, Earlene pulled up in back of the large equipment shed on the portion of Willowdale known as the Annex. Waiting for her were Byron Stoner, the groom Pedro, and a bay horse who moved his feet restlessly as he watched her approach with her tattoo kit containing its needles and dyes.
Kauffman held the horse’s shank as Earlene showed Pedro how to position the clamp that kept open the horse’s mouth.
Stoner said, “This is the tattoo you are to apply,” showing her a plain piece of paper with the letter B and five numerals on it.
“This is no two-year-old,” Earlene muttered as she readied her equipment. She could tell that by the horse’s teeth as well as its size and musculature. None of the men responded.
Two-year-olds, Earlene knew from experience, were the easiest ones to deal with. The older the horse, the more time they’d had to learn tricks, as she called them. Still, this horse stood calmly for the most part, and Earlene went about her work with cool efficiency. She finished the job in less than fifteen minutes.
Stoner walked with Earlene back to her car. As she opened the driver’s side door, he handed her an envelope. “This the remainder of your payment,” Stoner said. “May we never meet again.” He turned away without another word.
Earlene rapidly counted the $4,000 in cash in the envelope. She had just committed a criminal act, one that could lead to her being in prison and Earl and Earlene in foster homes if it were ever discovered, but she couldn’t help but feel excited, triumphant even! This was like winning the lottery, something she knew in her heart she’d never do.
Earlene was confident Byron Stoner would never reveal any details of her illegal doings here at Willowdale tonight, and she was damn sure she wouldn’t. Several times during the drive home, she riffled the bills between her fingers as they lay in the envelope on her lap. She couldn’t help but wonder to herself about who the bay horse really was.
Chapter 29
With his host busy talking on the telephone, Jack Doyle sat back in one of the comfortable chairs that flanked a long glass table positioned near the large window of Moe Kellman’s north Michigan Avenue business office. Directly in front of the table, also facing north toward a spectacular, eighteenth-floor view of the Chicago skyline, was an expansive, comfortable, dark leather couch.
Kellman had waved a greeting as Doyle was ushered in, but continued his phone conversation. He was elegantly dressed as usual, white linen shirt agleam under a gray silk suit, two huge diamond cufflinks sparkling as he shifted the phone from one hand to another.
Kellman perched on a chair behind his desk. But there were no chairs in front of it. Kellman preferred to do business from the couch, located several deep-carpeted yards from his desk, where he could easily reach over and give an encouraging pat to a customer’s knee or hand.
Still talking on the phone, Kellman motioned across the room to Jack. The late afternoon sun behind Kellman’s back served to back-light and further emphasize his startling head of frizzed white hair. He was urging Doyle to help himself to the lavish platter of fresh fruit that just been delivered. Responding in pantomime, Doyle waved off Kellman’s offer of somethin
g to drink.
This was Doyle’s first visit to Kellman’s place of business, and he was impressed by the prestigious Michigan Avenue address, the two glossy receptionists in the outer office, the extensive collection of modern art that graced the walls of the spacious, tastefully furnished room.
Doyle walked over to the north-facing window, admiring the view. When his gaze fell upon a church steeple in the distance, Doyle remembered the shock he’d felt early that morning. After informing Byron Stoner that he had personal business in Chicago and would be away for the day, Doyle had gotten into his car at Willowdale and turned on the radio as he pulled out of the driveway.
“And JEEZUS, driving old CAR NUMBER ONE, he leads the JERUSALEM 500, you better believe it, brothers and sisters.…”
The voice had jumped out of the speakers, startling Doyle. How’d I get this station on my dial? Doyle thought, quickly reaching for the knob. He found hard to believe the popularity of the man he thought of as “Elmer Gantry in a jockstrap.” Doyle silenced the radio and inserted a Gene Harris tape. Doyle smiled as the gospel-influenced jazz pianist’s music replaced the preacher’s bombast.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Kellman cooed into the phone, eyes alight as he winked at Doyle. “That’s the price. Rosemary is going love that coat. You’ll have to take her out every night next winter, show her off.” Kellman laughed loudly at the short response to that suggestion.
“Okay, that’s how we’ll do it. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll messenger it over to you. Same to you, Feef.”
Placing the phone down, Kellman said, “Fifi Bonadio.” He shook his head. “Cheapest son of a bitch in the Outfit. Every time he buys a coat as a present for one of his punches, it’s like you’re negotiating the fuckin’ Louisiana Purchase. And with all the money he’s stolen and hidden….”
Moe crossed the room. First he shook Doyle’s hand, then reached up to pinch his cheek fondly. “This is our City Boy?” he said, glancing at Doyle’s farm manager outfit, short-sleeved white shirt with no tie, tan khakis, western boots. “You’re dressed like Ronald Reagan on vacation,” Kellman said. “All you need is a red neckerchief.” He took a seat on the couch, plucked a pear from the tray on the table, and sat back.
“So what is it, Jack?” Kellman smiled. “You miss me? That why you drove all the way up here from Kentucky to talk?”
“Not quite,” Doyle replied.
The reason for Doyle’s visit, as he had explained to agents Engel and Tirabassi prior to departing Kentucky, was to pick Kellman’s brain regarding what he thought Rexroth might be up to with Willowdale’s mystery horse-the fast, bay colt of unknown origin that Willie Arroyo was still flying in to work out. “If anybody would know, it would be Moe Kellman.” The agents did not disagree.
Doyle spent the next quarter hour recounting to Kellman the details of Aldous Bolger’s beating, an event Kellman was very curious about, having seen the various media accounts, and the confession of Lucas Collier. “We’re looking to tie together Mortvedt and Rexroth,” Doyle said.
“You mean you and your FBI buddies.”
“Yeah, me and my FBI buddies,” Doyle answered glumly. “You probably know all about that, how they’ve got me by the balls because of the City Sarah thing.”
Kellman held up his hands defensively. “I know about how they reeled you in. That’s all I know, and all I want to know. All I’m assuming, Jack,” Moe added with great seriousness, “is that you’ve been very, very discreet regarding our dealings.”
Doyle said, “They know more about you than I do, I guarantee you that. No, they haven’t laid all over me regarding our…what could you call it, association? More important to me right now is Rexroth, what he might be doing.”
“That’s great, Jack,” said Kellman. He settled back on the couch and began to talk. He said that of course he had no way of knowing “exactly what Rexroth was planning,” but one possibility came to mind.
“Are you familiar with ringers in horse racing?” Kellman asked.
“No,” Doyle said. “Thanks to you, my knowledge of racetrack crime is confined to stiffing horses.”
Kellman let that pass. “Well,” he said, “it’s hard to do, but it’s not impossible. Simply put, it involves the substitution of a fast horse, the ringer, for a slow horse. And it involves two horses that look very much alike.
“The last case like this that I remember involved some guys out west. Two guys. They got their hands on a set of the equipment that’s used to tattoo horses-you know, identify them. You saw City Sarah’s lip tattoo, right?”
“Right.”
“So,” Kellman continued, “these guys went to Mexico, either Juarez or the track in Mexico City, I don’t remember, and paid cash for a pretty good runner, plenty fast enough for what they needed. They brought him back to northern California. This Mexican horse had no tattoo. So they tattoo him with the registration number of this bum they’d been racing up there. The horses looked almost exactly alike, and I think they were the same age. The slow horse hadn’t finished in the money in six months.
“They enter the slow horse under his name, but they lose him someplace and run the fast one, and he wins big. Twice. The horse checker at the track sees that the tattoo matches up with the one on the slow horse’s papers, so he doesn’t suspect anything’s out of line. He thinks the horse is legit. Believe me, this is the kind of caper that is very rarely attempted these days. It was more common seventy, eighty years ago. Hell, they had a guy years ago that painted horses so they could be used as ringers. Paddy Barry, I think his name was.
“Anyway, these guys cash two huge bets before the authorities get wise to them and determine that no registered tattooer had ever worked on the Mexican horse, that his tattoo was really the tattoo of the slow horse. Both of the guys were kicked out of racing and convicted. One of them did time. Before the other one had a chance to serve, he turned up as a floater in San Francisco Bay.”
Kellman paused to deftly tong an ice cube from the silver bucket to his tall glass of Perrier. “The floater was related to a friend of mine, a third cousin of this guy I know. But that’s another story.
“Now, besides the tattoo as identification,” Kellman continued, “horses registered in the United States can be traced by blood types. Their parents’ blood sample records are on record-both the sire’s and the mother’s, or the dam’s, as they call them.
“As I understand it, that system was put in mainly to protect against mix-ups with young horses. If a guy bought a horse that was supposed to be sired by, say, Uncle Sam, who’d knocked up Miss Liberty or whatever, and for some reason the guy has doubts that this is true, he can check it out. The foal’s blood sample has got to be consistent with the blood types of its parents. If not, then something isn’t kosher and the alarms go off.”
Doyle shifted in his chair. “This is all very interesting, Moe. But what could this have to do with Rexroth?”
Kellman said, “I’m coming to that.
“Suppose-just suppose-that Rexroth has got a horse that nobody knows about.”
“What do you mean?” asked Doyle.
Kellman said, “I’m talking about a horse that nobody, or hardly anybody, knows about. A horse that has not been registered, or officially named. A horse that for racing purposes does not exist. And suppose this horse is owned by Rexroth, and Rexroth is giving this horse secret workouts, flying in a professional jockey to work him, staging simulated races.
“And suppose this unknown horse is supposed to be the fastest item to come along since Cigar?” Kellman sat back again on the couch, looking self-satisfied bordering on smug.
Doyle said, “I’ll be damned. You’ve heard something, haven’t you?”
Kellman didn’t answer that. He just smiled at Doyle, his eyes twinkling. “Try a pear?” he asked.
Getting up from his chair, Doyle walked slowly over to the north window of Kellman’s office suite, deep in thought. He was not even slightly aware of the impressive flotilla
of pleasure boats maneuvering in the green-blue waters off Oak Street beach, or the giant white clouds, looking like deformed dumplings, that moved before the steady northwest wind, being pushed across the lake toward Michigan.
All of Doyle’s thoughts were concentrated on the bay horse housed back at Willowdale, the horse that jockey Willie Arroyo flew in to exercise each week, the horse that Aldous Bolger had been instructed by Rexroth to ignore.
He turned back toward Kellman. “Okay, let’s say Rexroth has got this unofficial horse, or mystery horse, or whatever you want to call him. What could he do with him?”
Moe reached to the silver platter and began expertly to quarter a red apple as big as a bocci ball, using a long, thin knife sharp enough to skim fuzz off the nearby peaches. He said, “If this animal has talent, there could be a special use for him. It would be tricky, but it could be done.”
“You’re talking about as a ringer.”
“I’m talking about as a ringer, yes.”
Doyle paused to think this over. “What about the horse’s registration papers? The lip tattoo? How could Rexroth work around those things?”
“The registration papers? Simple. You just use the slow horse’s papers. They’re on file at the track. All they have to show is the description of the horse in question. And if I’m right, Rexroth would have a horse in his racing stable that looks a helluva lot like the unknown horse-as close to identical as he could find.
“So the official papers aren’t a question, not considering the advances in technology along those lines.”
“Say what?” said Doyle.
“I’m saying that forged documents are all over the place. You don’t need printing presses any more. All you need is some larcenous computer genius with an inkjet printer and a scanner. Jack, from what I’ve been told, nearly half of the counterfeit money passed in this country is made that way. Papers for a horse would be no problem for the right guy to produce.”
