by John McEvoy
Five minutes later, Moffett returned, carrying three pints of Guinness in one huge hand, a trio of short glasses of Jameson’s in the other. He distributed them, quickly downed one of the whiskeys, and said to Rourke, “You’re on. I need to know the target’s daily schedule, his addresses. A recent photo, too. All that information to be mailed to me here at Moynihan’s. Don’t use my name. Address it to Billy here. You won’t have to mark it ‘confidential.’ Moynihan knows not to open that kind of mail.”
Moffett raised a glass of the stout. “Confusion to our enemies,” he toasted, then drained his pint. Staring again at the visitor, he said, “I’ll need all me money up front.” That sum was agreed to. Rourke said, “I don’t have all that with me now. But I can get it, yes.”
Moffett reached into his jacket pocket for a small notebook. Tore a sheet off and put a stubby pencil to it. “Here’s me invoice. If you want this work done before the month’s out, send the money here soon.”
Moffett stood. He nodded at Sheridan, then extended his right hand to Rourke, who felt his hand dwarfed in the shaking. Moffett said, “I’ve got one more bit of business to clean up. Then, I’ll get right to work on your behalf. But not, of course, before you pay in advance.”
Without another word, he turned away and walked down the long bar to the front door. At the end, he slapped the bar with a sound that resounded so that it even aroused the drowsing seniors from their morning contemplations of their half-empty stout glasses. The bartender nodded a good-bye as Moffett opened the door.
Billy Sheridan sat back, relieved. He downed his whiskey and sent some Guinness to follow. “That went all right, now, I’d say.”
Rourke took a small sip of his whiskey. Unused to strong spirits, he grimaced before reaching for the glass of stout and taking a tiny nip of that. “What’s the address here? And what do I owe you, Billy?”
“Ah, don’t trouble yourself with that,” Sheridan said. “The Crusher will supply me with a finder’s fee. He’d be insulted if I went around him to eke any cash from you. And he’s not a man to be insulted.”
“Do you have any idea, exactly, how Crusher would carry this out?”
“Oh, he’s quite accomplished. Learned all kinds of vicious ways of attack during his Army days. He’s a brilliant marksman, I’ve been told. But no, I wouldn’t be about asking him how to conduct his business. Crusher’s a pretty private sort of fella. And not a bit keen about being questioned.”
Sheridan drained his Guinness glass. Wiping the froth off his upper lip, he said, “Shall I call a taxi for you now?”
The train back to Cork City was crowded, but Rourke took no notice of any of his many fellow passengers. He gazed out at the passing landscape, going over and over in his mind what he had just set in motion. In one sense, he could hardly believe that he had resorted to such a plan. “What would the Sisters think of me now knowing that?” he muttered, drawing a disapproving look from the elderly woman sitting to his left. He ignored her. Said quietly to himself, “But this has to be done.”
Chapter Thirty
Trouble came to the unsuspecting Burkhardts of northern Wisconsin in the wake of their sleek brown colt, Mr. Rhinelander, winning for the first time in a most impressive fashion in his second career start. This was on a steaming late July afternoon at Heartland Downs. Thinking about it later, Doyle remembered a famous quote about boxing from the long-deceased writer Heywood Hale Broun, who said that, “Tradition packs a nasty wallop.” So, Doyle agreed, did irony.
Performing in a strong field of maidens, including two very high-priced sales purchases, Mr. Rhinelander won by six and a half lengths in eye-opening time for the six furlongs. That victory topped off what Charlie Burkhardt excitedly told Ralph Tenuta was “about the best day a Badger could have.” Kicking off the euphoria had been the notification received in that day’s mail that the Burkhardts had, after more than four decades on the one hundred-thousand-person waiting list, achieved the prized status of Green Bay Packers season ticket holders. “We applied in 1967 right after we got married,” Charlie said. “A long wait, but worth it.”
Ralph Tenuta had called Doyle the night before. “Jack, the Burkhardts’ good colt goes tomorrow in the sixth. You coming out?”
Doyle had just finished a four-mile run along the lakefront, passing beaches crowded with sweaty Chicagoans seeking relief from the ninety-five-degree heat. He dried his face and head before saying, “I think not, my friend. It’s supposed to be another one-hundred-degree scorcher tomorrow. We Irish are a northern race, you know. Can’t take heat like that. But, Ralph, thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be on the case tomorrow from here.”
Next morning Doyle walked to the big Chicago News Stand store in his neighborhood and bought a Racing Daily. He perused the past performances as he strolled back to his condo. Mr. Rhinelander’s promising second-place finish in his career debut was dutifully noted in the handicappers’ comments. But so were mentions made of the two expensive, well-bred first-time starters he would be facing today. His odds were listed at six-to-one. Doyle smiled at that juicy proposition.
After he’d grilled a ham, cheese, and tomato sandwich on his Foreman, Doyle booted up his laptop and went to the Twinspires website. It was an Advanced Deposit Wagering company that enabled him and thousands more across the nation to wager comfortably from their homes or offices. He checked his account. It measured just over six hundred dollars. As he had when he was at Heartland Downs for Mr. Rhinelander’s initial outing, he bet fifty dollars to win, place, and show.
The ADW setup had intrigued him from when he first heard of it. Such convenience was both delightful and dangerous. He knew guys who bet with more regularity than they should. One, Stafford Hollis, a successful clothier and racing fanatic, frequently quoted the comment of the old Calumet Farm groom called Slow and Easy who always “put a little money down every damn day, because a man never knows when he’ll be walking around lucky.” Hollis had admitted to Doyle that his “lucky days” were few and far between. “But, so what?” Hollis said. “It’s fun for me to have some action every day. I can afford it.” Hollis wound up “affording it” for less than three years during which he developed into a compulsive, inept, and eventually bankrupt gambler.
Doyle treated his finances with much more respect than did the unfortunate Hollis. He’d never considered any form of losing to be “fun.” As a result, he was very conservative in his use of Twinspires.
At three, Doyle turned on his television to the HRTV racing channel. It was post time for Heartland Downs’ sixth race. His grin widened as he watched Mr. Rhinelander lead all the way and dominate his field, returning $14 to win, $7.20 to place, and $3.60 to show. Deducting his one hundred-fifty-dollar investment, he had profited four hundred-seventy dollars in the exciting course of one minute and nine seconds. “Thank you, Ralph,” he murmured. “Thank you Mr. Rhinelander. God bless you Burkhardts!”
***
Thursday morning Doyle made his bi-weekly trip to the dry cleaners, had his Accord washed and waxed, and visited his man Victor at Jay’s Barbershop for a needed trimming. He was driving back to his condo, when his cell phone rang.
“Jack, you ever hear of a guy named Wendell Pilling?”
“And good morning to you, Ralph.”
Tenuta sighed. “I don’t know if it’s good or not. What about my question? This Pilling guy, you know anything about him?”
“Name is familiar. I think I read something about him recently. But I can probably dig up some details. Why are you interested in him?”
“Pilling called the Burkhardts last night and said he wanted to buy Mr. Rhinelander. Offered them a bunch of money.”
Doyle said, “Well, what the hell is wrong with that?”
“Two things. These people have no intention of selling. As they put it to me, ‘We’ve never had a horse nearly this good. We want to enjoy him.’ They tried to get this acro
ss to this Pilling. But he didn’t want to hear it. He kept increasing his offering price. Then, he evidently got angry, and rude. After that, maybe a little bit threatening. The guy must be a real jerk. Charlie Burkhardt hung up on him and, kind of disturbed, called me.”
Tenuta paused to issue instructions to an exercise rider. Doyle heard him say, “An open gallop of a mile, then breeze him three furlongs. Sorry, Jack,” he continued. “I’ve got a busy morning here. Anyway, would you see what you can find out about Pilling? I don’t know how to do something like that. I’d appreciate it. The Burkhardts are concerned.”
Doyle said he would.
***
Wendell Pilling, as Doyle easily discovered with a quick Internet search, was the fellow he’d read about in the newspaper when he was on his plane to Ireland. This famous New Internet Age genius had a kept a very low profile for years. His graduation from Cal-Tech (at age nineteen) plus graduate degrees from Stanford, then MIT, were listed. They were followed by the impressive history of the Silicon Valley dot-com company Pilling had created, launched, and guided into the financial IPO stratosphere, making him a multi-millionaire at age twenty-nine.
There was a photo of this genius, a study in obvious self-satisfaction, taken a year earlier. Pilling was wearing, whether in tribute or not, attire associated with the late, legendary Steve Jobs. Looking at it, Doyle said to himself, “This is one big, homely dude. He must be six feet three or so, maybe three-hundred pounds. He’s dressed like Jobs, black shirt, jeans, so on, but it ain’t working in this fat man’s favor.”
According to Pilling’s very colorful and well-designed web page, he had been born and raised in Winnetka, a Chicago suburb, and received scholarships at his three university stops after an early high school graduation before “wending his way West to fame and fortune.”
“Fame and fortune,” Doyle muttered. “A cliché with an eternal shelf life.”
There was no e-mail address for Pilling. No place of residence. None of which was surprising to Doyle, who was well aware of the super wealthy’s need for privacy. He picked up his cell phone and called Moe Kellman.
“Jack. What’s up? I’m about to leave the office.”
“You ever hear of a guy named Wendell Pilling?”
Moe said, “Who hasn’t? Big shot genius with big bread. He bought a penthouse condo here from a realtor friend of mine last month. Overlooking Lake Shore Drive. Paid big bundles without blinking. My friend is working on steering King Pilling my way so I can outfit him, or his loved ones, in suitable apparel,” he chuckled.
“I’ve never seen the man in person, but I understand numerous pelts would be required to suitably clothe him for our Chicago winters. What I understand, though, is that currently he doesn’t have serious companions, of either sex, that he might gift with the outstanding fur items I could make available to him.”
“Jesus,” Doyle said, “please reserve your sales rhetoric for the suckers swimming upstream toward you. From the photo on Wendell’s web page, you’d have to harvest generations of furry creatures on his behalf.”
“Jack, I’ve got to go. I’m already late for my grandson Sean’s pre-Bar Mitzvah dinner.”
Doyle said, “I suppose you refer to the wonderfully named Sean Berkowitz?”
“You realize, you prick, that these Irish-Jewish names now so unbelievably fashionable pain me deeply. Even when used on such sweet grandchildren as I have.”
“Of course I do,” Doyle said.
***
Doyle made three more phone calls of inquiry that were unenlightening except for the last, to a realtor he knew, Sandy Aguirre. Her “farm,” as real estate agents’ territories were labeled, was Chicago’s northern suburbs. But Sandy had access to real estate data banks for the entire Chicagoland area. “Here’s what you’re looking for, Jack,” she e-mailed. “You owe me.”
Pilling’s penthouse purchase, Doyle read, had actually been reported on the business page of the Chicago Tribune. Pilling had shelled out $8.4 million for this ten thousand-square-foot aerie on the ninety-fourth floor of the new Crump Towers with, as the story put it, “its breathtaking, panoramic view of the city and skyline.” There were forty-six condominiums in this recently constructed building, prices for them rising commensurately with floor levels.
Pilling, this “wealthy young bachelor,” the story continued, “five years earlier had entered the world of top-class dog breeding with a flourish, winding up just two seasons later with a Best-in-Breed champion English mastiff at the famed Westminster Kennel Club Show in New York City. Officially named YeOldeBlimeyBeauty on his pedigree papers, known to his proud owner simply as Big Boy, the dog is housed in a specially made kennel located on the balcony of Pilling’s penthouse.”
“Great to know Big Boy has a sweeping view of the city skyline,” Doyle muttered. He clicked to the next page.
There was a photo of Pilling and the two hundred-pound, three-foot-tall at the bulging shoulder Big Boy, both looming large on the penthouse balcony. Doyle had never given much credence to the claim that owners and their dogs bear notable resemblances. But looking at this photo, he could not miss the similarly sagging jowls of this large white man and his brindle companion.
As the story continued, Pilling explained Big Boy’s need for an outdoor residence. “Like some members of his remarkable breed, Big Boy drools a bit. And he has a habit of twisting his head and flipping loose saliva upward. When we first moved in here, he was hitting even my high ceilings with his spit. That’s why I moved him outdoors.”
“Not content to simply sit back and manage his vast fortune,” went on this journalistic love letter, “Pilling has been selling Big Boy’s much sought-after breeding services to carefully selected mates. ‘The fee is private, but substantial,’ Pilling confided.
“I’ve always been interested in animals,” Pilling said. “As a child, I had a white rabbit, several parakeets, and a mongoose. My father was allergic to dogs, so I was prevented from owning one. Now, of course, I can own anything I want.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Wiems made Marco Three wait nearly ten minutes. Sitting quietly on his cycle in a dark corner of Shorty and Lammy’s large parking lot just before eight that Tuesday night, he’d watched Scaravilli’s dark gray MG being received by the valet parker, and its lone occupant hurriedly walk to the entrance. He checked his watch at 8:09, locked the bike and his helmet in the bike’s tank bag. Walked casually inside and found Marco at the far end of the long bar, first drink already half-finished, eyes up on the television screen with its first Major League baseball game of the night.
Wiems said, “Marco.”
Scaravilli, startled, said, “Hey, man. Didn’t see you coming. Listen…” He was interrupted as Wiems tapped Marco’s elbow and motioned with his head, saying, “Over there.” He led Scaravilli to a small, two-chair table next to the wall. Stefanie, the waitress for the area, walked toward them with an empty drink tray and an order pad, eyebrows up expectantly. Wiems waved her off.
Marco Three protested, “I wanted another drink, man.” Wiems silenced him with a look. Said, “You have the money?”
“Yes. Jesus, you don’t have to be so impatient.”
Wiems sighed. Little did this Outfit scion realize that he was hiring a young man in a hurry. Wiems had carefully observed what he believed to be tremendous yet currently unexploited opportunities in the furiously expanding world of Internet developments. He had ideas that would knock those geeks sideways, ideas for a truly revolutionary computer program that would take advantage of society’s raging hunger for self-aggrandizing connections. Working to gain capital for his eventual start-up and envisioned IPO, Wiems had been fortunate enough to connect with two major Kansas City bookmakers he’d heard about at Cartridge Central Range. He’d carefully made himself known to them, one by one. Over the course of a couple of months, he was delighted to discover that each
wanted the other dead—by a “new shooter, somebody nobody around here would think about afterwards, you know?”
Wiems assured them that he did. He shot the first bookmaker dead on a dreary early November evening in the driveway of the man’s suburban ranch house. Next day, he collected the five thousand dollars he’d been hired with. Eight days after that, acting on behalf of his victim’s vengeful sister, he’d murdered the other bookie, the man who’d initially hired him, in similar fashion, on another dark Kansas autumn night, for a slightly larger fee. These two apparently connected events confounded local law authorities. Wiems happily welcomed such synchronicity, it reminding him of his end game dealings with his hated mother and step-father.
He occasionally chided himself for being so slow to discover this killing trade, his avocation really, that he was so remarkably efficient at. But he was quite confident that he could lucratively make up for lost time.
The Kansas City Royals fans in Shorty and Lammy’s whooped as their star shortstop homered to left with a man on. Marco Three celebrated along with them, saying to Wiems, “Go Royals! I’ve got them for a dime tonight.”
Marco Three tried to fist-bump his companion, who kept his hands on the table. Wiems said, “The money.” Marco Three reached down to grab his briefcase. As he did, he rapidly reviewed what he had come to learn about this imminent transaction.
Some rich desperado in federal prison was paying fifty grand for a hit. Word was that the man doing the hiring of the killer had no problem with the announced price, having declared that the fee “would be cheap at the price to kill that devious son of a bitch who put me here.”
Once the prime number had been established, the chopping up of it began. Wiems was promised twenty thousand dollars with half in advance. Marco Jr. and Marco Three were down together for another twenty thousand dollars, with the remaining ten grand reserved for Aldo Caveretta’s finder’s fee.
