High Stakes

by John McEvoy

  Doyle gave Tirabassi a long look. “Yeah, I know you FBI people have a hard-on for activists. The Occupy protestors. Dr. King. Hell, probably Paul Revere, if you would have had the chance. All enemies of treasured complacency.”

  “Jack, we didn’t come here to argue with you or your views,” Karen said sharply.

  “It wouldn’t be any argument you’d win,” Doyle shot back. He drained his coffee cup, took a deep breath. “As to the matter at hand, is there any money involved in these killings? Like warnings to pay for protection against this shit?”

  “Nothing,” Karen said. “These killings seem to be the work of some fanatic, some animal-lover who evidently opposes the horses being used for any experimental purposes, no matter how benign and well-monitored the treatments.”

  “Lover of animals,” Doyle corrected. “The only animal-lover can be another animal. Unless, of course, you count some shepherds of sheep flocks.” Darla arrived with the check. Doyle, with a practiced motion, slid it under Tirabassi’s coffee cup. “You ever hear of an attorney named Art Engehardt?” Doyle said. “A friend of mine?”

  Karen smiled. “I think so. He represents a lot of racetrack people, right?”

  “Correct. But years ago, right after he got out of law school, he worked as a prosecutor for a county down in southern Illinois farm country. One of his first cases involved a sheep herder who had been caught having intercourse with a female member of his flock. A Humane Society member had provided a photograph of this bestial incident. It showed the ewe, or whatever they call them, turning her head around and licking the hand of the herder. Art went into court thinking he had slam-dunk conviction. That changed when the jury had seen the photo and Art overheard one of the elderly bib-overall-wearing jurors say to another, ‘You know, Seth, some of ’em will do that.’”

  Tirabassi glowered. “Can we get down to business here? Are you going to take this situation seriously or not?”

  “Why the hell should I? I don’t owe you people anything. And why, may I ask, is this on the Bureau’s front burner? Haven’t you got enough to busy yourself with dopers, illegals, terrorists, Occupiers, etcetera?”

  The agents exchanged a glance. Then Karen said, “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you this, Jack. But our Chicago supervisor is a longtime, uh, admirer of horses. He was a show ring competitor in his youth. He’s got two daughters who are currently avid equestrians. Believe me, he’s fired up and on this case.”

  Doyle drained his coffee cup. “Why me?”

  “Frankly,” Tirabassi replied, “we don’t have the time or manpower to devote to this matter. Even if we did have them, we don’t have an agent with the background to deal with horse problems. That’s where you come into it. You know racing, the people in it, you know and like horses. Your success with Plotkin proves that. And I understand you’re currently not wanting for money. Besides, you’re not busy now, are you?”

  “I’m between assignments,” Doyle said. He hadn’t worked since his client, young jockey Mickey Sheehan, had returned to her native Ireland the previous year after her very successful campaign at Heartland Downs Racetrack outside Chicago. As her agent, Doyle had done very well financially with his twenty percent of her considerable earnings gleaned aboard horses he had selected for her to ride. Now, the profits from Plotkin’s stud career were being added to an investment account the size of which Doyle had never in his dreams envisaged.

  A few years earlier, Kellman had advised Doyle to turn his investment portfolio over to a man named Marcus Dehnert. Moe, like so many clever Chicagoans, always had “a guy,” a go-to specialist in important fields of endeavor. His “guy” for financial advice was Dehnert. “He’s called ‘The Man With the Golden Grasp,’ Kellman had said. “He’s made money for me for years, Jack. Last year he bought gold for me at eight hundred dollars an ounce and sold it at twelve hundred. Yeah, it went up after that. But Marcus goes along with Bernard Baruch’s theory. Baruch, a famous financier years ago. You ever hear of him?”

  “Before my time.”

  “Baruch was huge. Advisor to presidents, so on. He said, ‘Nobody ever went broke taking a profit.’ Sound advice, believe me.”

  Doyle sat back in the booth. “Damon, you say you think I’m not ‘wanting for money?’ Has somebody at the IRS filled you in?”

  “Where we got our information doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me,” Doyle said. “Although I know there’s nothing I can do about it. As for my situation, yeah, I’ve got a nice cushion. I’m not threatening to join the One Percenters. But I’m in good shape. I am not like some poor bastards I know who probably wake up every morning with creditors next to their beds, testing their breaths with a hand mirror to make sure they’re still alive. But I don’t see how I can help you deal with these horse killings.”

  Karen said, “With all your contacts in racing, you could start asking around. Are people aware of what’s going on? If they are, I’m sure they’re concerned. Do any of them have an idea about who could be doing this? Look, Jack, we’re desperate for any information you could garner, any possible leads. This killing campaign, and it looks just like that, a campaign, has got to stop.”

  Chapter Four

  Karen winced at the sound emanating from Damon’s breast pocket. Doyle said, “What the hell is that? Sounded like a baby burping.”

  Tirabassi took his cell phone out of his sport coat jacket pocket. Frowning, he said, “There’s something wrong with this ringing thing.” He left the booth and walked outside to start his conversation. When he returned minutes later, he said to Karen, “You-know-who. The Boss. Wanted to see how we were coming along here.”

  Karen said, “That will give you an idea, Jack, how seriously our supervisor is taking this case. He calls one of us three or four times a day for a progress report.”

  Doyle couldn’t resist. “If I was him, I’d be concerned, too. Your organization’s record of dealing with horse racing isn’t exactly stellar.”

  Tirabassi banged his coffee cup down on the table. “What’s that supposed to mean? Didn’t we nail Harvey Rexroth? That s.o.b. who was killing his own stallions to collect insurance claims?”

  “Well, yeah. But remember, Damon, you managed that primarily as a result of my excellent, undercover efforts working the case on your behalf. Admit it. Without me, who knows how long Rexroth would have continued on his illegal way?”

  Karen said, “Oh, come on, Jack. It wasn’t a question of you single-handedly saving the day. As much as you’d like to think so. Pass the cream, would you please?” she said with a smile.

  Her partner glared at Jack. “Don’t forget that the Bureau helped convict that big-time race-fixer on the East Coast a few years back.”

  “Yeah, a lot of years back,” Doyle shot back. “And let’s not forget one of the Bureau’s comic racetrack capers.” He paused to retrieve the salt shaker and apply a liberal portion to what remained of his eggs. “I refer, of course, to the famous FBI Owner Case.”

  The agents glanced at each other, obviously puzzled. Damon barked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Doyle kept them waiting while he chewed his last piece of bacon. After a sip of his coffee, he said, “I guess they haven’t featured this case in Highlights of FBI History. It happened at a little upstate New York track. Two of your really enterprising agents, suspecting that races were being fixed, got the okay to buy and run a horse of their own at the track in question. They purchased an inexpensive gelding, using a go-between to handle the deal. This allowed these two go-getters easy access to the backstretch. Posing as owners, they said they were area used-car dealers who had ‘always wanted to own a racehorse.’ Naturally, they used fake names. By hanging around the track they evidently hoped to gain information enabling them to break what some informant had claimed was a race-fixing ring. They carried out this ruse for almost two months. Started ‘their’ hors
e four or five times. You want more coffee?” He paused to signal Darla that he did.

  Damon leaned forward. “Get to the damn point, Jack.”

  “Calm down, my man,” Doyle said. “I’ll give you the good news first. While that was going on, the horse they acquired, The Zackster, or some name like that, actually won a race and placed in two others. So, he paid for his purchase price and his training bills. As a result, this unique exercise of law enforcement didn’t cost the U.S. taxpayer anything.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Karen smiled. Damon maintained his frown, saying, “I know there’s a kicker to this story.”

  Doyle said, “Of course there is. While thriving in the horse ownership business, your agents failed to discover any race-fixing. Anything illegal. Didn’t unearth any suspected criminal action. Just wasted their damn time.

  “Maybe the informant had pulled their legs. Or maybe your guys were inept. The irony of this situation is the fact that, by using phony names on their state racing licenses, they violated the law that prohibits hidden ownership. Which happens to be a felony. But I guess that falls into the means-justify-the-ends theory you folks ascribe to, right?”

  “All right, Jack, you’ve had your fun with us,” Damon said. “Bottom line time here. Are you going to help us or not?”

  Doyle slid out of the booth and got to his feet. “Let me think about this. I’ll call you in a day or two. You still have the same cell phone numbers?” They nodded yes.

  Chapter Five

  A surge of unseasonably warm weather had turned this part of early spring in Chicago into a bonanza of unusual but very welcome beauty. On his route from his condo to Heartland Downs Racetrack, Doyle drove past tentatively budding trees, early green grass, and beds of small bright tulips waving bravely in the strong breeze from the west. “No global warming, eh?” he said to himself. “And I guess the Flat Earth Society must still be holding meetings.”

  Doyle parked his Accord in the lot outside the track kitchen. Walking through the Heartland Downs barn area, he was greeted vocally or with a nod by almost everyone he encountered: grooms, hot walkers, trainers, exercise riders, jockeys, jockeys’ agents, veterinarians. This was routine at racetracks, Doyle had learned, but certainly not among the frequently dour-looking citizens he passed on his city runs and walks, the majority of them earplug-equipped or talking on cell phones. As a kid, Doyle had been trained by his parents to always say hello to people he met on the street, a practice he’d carried forward, only to be ignored or rebuffed most of the time in adulthood. The few urban exceptions he knew were people walking their dogs.

  Maybe the civility he admired was a product of racetrackers being so dependent on each other for work in their various capacities. Things could change in a hurry, a stable suddenly taken out of business by a disgruntled owner, its employees becoming flotsam on the backstretch job market. Jobs were lost, and sought. Options had to be kept open. Maybe that was the grease that morphed into politeness. Or, maybe these folks were just happier about where they were, what they were doing in life.

  Doyle was looking for his friend Ingrid McGuire, the bright, young, and very pretty veterinarian he’d met when he was working as a jockey’s agent. Ingrid had developed a large racetrack practice, one of the features of which was her striking ability to communicate with horses via what was, for Doyle, a mysterious sort of telepathy. Yet he knew it worked, had observed the results, her equine patients silently imparting to Ingrid what proved to be their wants, dislikes, and, sometimes, fears. The numerous naysayers, including Jack, who had initially scoffed at Ingrid’s claims, had for the most part become converts. Having watched her in action, Doyle was impressed by her very obvious respect and affection for her four-footed clients. “They’re all individuals, Jack,” she had emphasized to him. “They are remarkable creatures to be treasured.”

  Rounding the north corner of trainer Ralph Tenuta’s barn, he saw Ingrid in Stall 1, running what looked to him like some sort of power tool over the long back and hind quarters of a black gelding whose nameplate read Pick the Packers. Above the noise of the machine Ingrid said, “Hey there, Jack Doyle. Good morning.” She briefly shut off the machine, took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from her tanned face. Her long blond ponytail extended through the back of the ball cap she was wearing with its “Save Old Friends” logo, the motto of a national organization dedicated to preventing retired racehorses from being sent to slaughterhouses and therefore winding up on foreign dinner tables. Then she resumed sliding the noisy tool back and forth as the gelding’s whole body gently vibrated.

  “Morning, Jack,” said Tenuta from the doorway of his nearby office. “You waiting to talk to Ingrid?”

  “Yes. Good to see you Ralph. What the hell is she doing to that horse with that machine?”

  Tenuta laughed. “Another step forward in Ingrid’s horse helping. Look at old Pick the Packers. Loves it. Last week, Ingrid went through this routine with him and he went to sleep right afterwards. Was snoring like a human. Next day, he won here, running the best race of his life.”

  They watched as Ingrid turned off the machine and packed it in a large leather carrying case. She gave Pick the Packers a final pat on his neck and came out of the stall. “I’ve got one more of Ralph’s horses to work on, Jack. Want to come with me?”

  “Sure.” He and Tenuta followed her down the shed row to where a red chestnut filly looked at them expectantly. As Ingrid opened the stall door, the filly whinnied a welcome. Tenuta said, “She’ll be doing some of her chiropractic work on this one. Name is Mady Martin. Ingrid has helped her a lot.”

  Ingrid proceeded to pick up, bend, then rock back and forth each of Mady Martin’s legs before fully extending the left fore and swinging it side to side. “So, Jack,” she said as she worked, “what’s up?”

  “Something maybe you can help me with,” Doyle said. “Ingrid, you’ve heard about those horses being secretly killed at university vet schools?”

  She turned her attention to Mady Martin’s left fore, yanking it backwards and stretching it, then did the same thing to the right fore. “Yes, I heard about that. Weird, huh?” Ingrid began to crank the appreciative filly’s neck from side to side, grunting softly with that exertion. “What’s your interest in these killings, Jack?”

  “I’ve been asked to try and find whoever is responsible by some people I know. Couple of FBI agents. These are criminal acts they’re dealing with. Have you heard any scuttlebutt about who might be doing this? I know you stay in contact with a lot of your fellow vets.”

  Ingrid nodded as she prepared to finish Mady Martin’s treatment. “Naturally, there’s been some talk about it. But nobody I know seems to know what’s going on. They figure it’s some nutcase from some loony animal rights outfit. Who knows?”

  Tenuta poked Jack in the arm. “Watch this windup she’ll do. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Ingrid plucked a carrot out of her carrying bag and waved it in front of Mady Martin’s eager nose. Leaning against the filly’s side, she held the carrot to the back of her head. Mady Martin craned her neck back to nearly touch the carrot. Ingrid did the same thing on the horse’s other side as the filly nickered impatiently. Then Ingrid held the carrot under the horse’s belly. This stretching exercise concluded with Ingrid feeding Mady Martin that carrot plus two others.

  As Ingrid hooked the stall webbing shut behind her, Tenuta said, “Couple of guys were talking in the track kitchen this morning about the horse killings you mentioned. Buck Norman brought up the name of that kook that used to date Pat Caldwell. Esther Ness. I worked for her for about ten minutes. Among other things, she was a shouter for what she called ‘horses rights.’ Didn’t you know her, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “Just to say ‘hi’ to. I used to see her around.”

  Doyle said, “Who is Pat Caldwell?”

  “He’s the fella that’s the cha
rt caller here for Racing Daily. Pretty colorful guy,” Tenuta answered. “But he does a great job, right Ingrid?”

  Ingrid said, “As far as I know he does. You watch the races and read his descriptions of them more than I do.” She looked at her watch. “Gotta hustle on, guys. Buck Norman’s got a new two-year-old filly in his barn that won’t settle down. Wants me to find out what the troubled youngster is thinking. If I hear anything about the horse killings, I’ll give you a call, Jack.”

  The men watched appreciatively as the tall, assured, attractive woman walked toward her truck. “She going out with anybody now?” Doyle said.

  “I hear she’s been dating Bobby Bork, that assistant racing secretary here. What,” Tenuta smiled, “you interested?”

  “Naw. Just curious. We’re just friends. I know Ingrid had a tough stretch of life with that alcoholic vet partner of hers before he died driving into a moving train last year. I just felt sorry for her, the trouble he’d been giving her.”

  Tenuta said, “Same with me. She deserved better than that bastard.”

  They walked up the shed row. Tenuta paused to pat an inquisitive two-year-old colt named Mr. Rhinelander who had poked his head out above his stall webbing. “This one’s going to make his first start pretty soon, Jack. I think he’s going to be damn good.”

  Doyle didn’t answer immediately. He was thinking about what Tenuta had just said about Ingrid McGuire’s new romantic interest. “This Bobby Bork,” he said disgustedly, “I had a lot of dealing with him when I was entering your horses for you a couple of years ago. You know what they call him over at the racing secretary’s office? ‘BM Bork.’ Which stands for Big Mouth. He’s evidently a smart enough guy, but he’s not too high up on anyone’s list of favorite people. Especially my list.

  “Weird, isn’t it,” Doyle continued, “that Ingrid would link up with another asshole following in the sorry wake of the late vet? I mean, this is an intelligent, likeable woman. Hard to figure that she should be so stupid on the social side of her life.”