High Stakes

by John McEvoy

  Marco Three leaned across the table. “I’ve got your ten K here. We should do this outside.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no? That was the deal, man.”

  Wiems brushed his hand across the table as if he was extinguishing a candle flame. “I’m not arguing about the deal. But I don’t want ten now, I want you to give me nine. You’ll give me the rest later. That’s what I want now. Just nine.”

  Marco Three took a long look at the young man he’d described to his father as “That crazy but apparently efficient red-haired mother fucker.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Marco Three said slowly. “Our deal is still good, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Marco Three started to slightly perspire in the blue Kenneth Cole plaid shirt he was wearing under his gray Calvin Klein bomber jacket. Looking at the placid yet menacing figure across the table, he thought not for the first time, What the fuck am I dealing with here?

  Marco Three said, “Do you mind if I ask you why? Why you’d rather not take the full ten grand promised, but knock the payment down to nine? For now, I mean?”

  “You know, Marco,” Wiems said softly, “I’m under no obligation to explain myself to you. Or anyone else. But I’ll make an exception here. I want just the nine K tonight because nine is my lucky number. Has been most of my life.”

  “Oh.”

  Wiems leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do you know what a unique number nine is? I didn’t think so. Think about this. If you multiply nine by any natural number, and add up the digits of the result, you will wind up with the number nine.”

  Marco Three did a couple of quick calculations. First nine times eight, seventy-two, added together came to the number nine. Then he tried six times nine. Son of a bitch, he’s right. Marco Three laughed for the first time since Wiems’ arrival. “I get it. It’s your lucky number, why not?” He opened the brown envelope he’d been holding in his lap and took out a hundred hundred-dollar bills. He extracted ten of them and put one back in the envelope. “There,” Marco said, extending the envelope across the table. “Nine it is.”

  “Good.” Wiems got up quickly. As he turned to leave he looked back over his shoulder to say, “I’m going to do some research on this project. I’ll give you a progress report when I’m done with that.”

  Marco Three got to his feet. “Wait. I just changed cell phones yesterday. I’ve got a new number I’ll have to give you.”

  “No need,” Wiems said with a smirk. “I obtained that number thirty minutes after you began to use it.” He walked out.

  ***

  Two mornings later, Wiems flew on Southwest Airlines from Kansas City to Chicago. He wore his school clothes, lightweight dark blue windbreaker, long-sleeved checked shirt, pressed khakis atop dark brown Rockport walking shoes. He’d spent the early morning hours using scissors to cut off all of his thick red hair. He spread lather on his head and used a straight razor to denude it. Before each of what he thought of as his “job assignments,” Wiems always transformed his appearance this way. He was getting good at spacing contract killings with hair growth and then removal.

  Seated in the mid-section of the plane, next to the window on the right side, Wiems avoided conversation with his seat mate, a middle-aged woman who before takeoff had tried twice to engage him. He rebuffed her by plugging his earphones in and pretending to listen to the generic airline music crap. Given the choice, he’d have activated his cell phone and listened to some of the groups he’d put in that device’s memory vault. Some of his favorite punk/grunge/garage bands. Meat Rot was currently atop his list, closely followed by Puppy Guts and Dorsal Morsels. He looked forward to the day he could promote these largely ignored artists on his envisioned Internet empire.

  At Chicago’s Midway Airport, Wiems used a credit card in one of the several aliases he’d created to rent a nondescript two-door brown Kia from National and drove north on Cicero Avenue to the east-bound ramp on the Eisenhower Expressway. He’d used the Internet to find Jack Doyle’s address on Chicago’s near north side, as well as a reasonably-priced motel located only eighteen blocks west of there.

  He had pre-registered, using a different credit card. Upon arrival, he told the clerk to make his “an open registration. One day for sure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vincent.”

  ***

  Shortly after seven o’clock the next morning, Wiems waited patiently for a parking place to open up on Doyle’s block a few doors from his condo. He had to circle the block twice. The wait took nearly eleven minutes before a harried-looking junior executive type sprinted out his door and into his Ford Focus before U-turning south toward Chicago’s Loop.

  Wiems had provisioned himself with two Subway sandwiches, a pair of thirty-two ounce bottles of Mountain Dew, binoculars, dark glasses, ball cap with its brim shielding his forehead, and an empty Mountain Dew bottle for urine if needed.

  He maintained the same routine that day and the next two days, observing Doyle coming out of his condo each morning, usually just after seven, stretching, limbering up, then jogging at a brisk pace south for a block before turning east toward the lakefront. Wiems cautiously drove slowly in Doyle’s wake before pulling in to a city lot fronting the bicycle, jogging, and walking paths. Doyle returned after some forty-five minutes each time. On the third of these mornings, Wiems watched Doyle jog slowly back to the start while chatting with a pretty young black woman also in exercise clothes. They seemed to know each other. The other two mornings, Doyle had walked directly back to his condo. This routine took an average of forty-six minutes, according to Wiems’ careful calculations.

  Late in the third day, Wiems returned his rental car to National’s north Clark Street office, walked two blocks south to a Hertz outlet, and rented another undistinguished-looking import.

  Next morning Wiems followed Doyle’s Accord to the Fat City health club. Ninety minutes later, Doyle came out with a short, Jewish-looking man. Doyle walked to a nearby newsstand. Wiems, using his binoculars, saw Doyle emerge opening a copy of Racing Daily as he walked to his Accord. That afternoon, Wiems followed five or six car-lengths behind the Accord as it made its way out of the city and north on the Edens Expressway to Willow Road, where Doyle turned left toward Heartland Downs. At the track, Wiems let three cars go ahead of his before he approached the parking lot attendant and paid. He saw Doyle park, then drove to a row three rows back and to the left. He waited for three hours, taking an occasional stroll between the rows, until the races were over. When Doyle came out of the track, Wiems carefully trailed the Accord out of the track parking lot and onto its route back to Chicago.

  Seventeen minutes later, going east on Willow Road that preparatory afternoon, Wiems spotted what he thought was the perfect spot, right before an intersection with both north and south turnoffs available. He smiled as his plan coalesced. He was confident his target had no inkling he had been followed.

  Reconnaissance concluded, Wiems returned to his motel and checked out. He drove to Midway Airport in plenty of time to turn in his rental car and board a late evening flight to Kansas City. Sitting in the rear row and again in a window seat, he plugged in the earphones to avoid the chatter of the two young girls seated to his left. The one next to him in the middle seat had made a friendly attempt to engage him in conversation before takeoff. He ignored her. She gave him an angry look before turning to her friend and muttering, “What a prick!”

  Once the plane was settled in the pilot’s announced altitude of choice, Wiems pushed the seat-back button, rested his head, closed his eyes. There was a slight smile on his usually somber face as he reviewed what he’d learned. Not a piece of cake. But, not all that hard, Wiems thought, to kill Jack Doyle. Then he slept all the way until the uneventful Kansas City landing.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Ralph Tenuta looked up from his desk, wondering why the summe
r sunlight that had been streaming in his Heartland Downs office door was now blocked. He saw a hulking, thirtyish man who slowly looked around the office interior before settling his eyes on the trainer. The man wore a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, tinted glasses. In ironic contrast to the size of its owner, Tenuta heard a high-pitched voice say, “Tenuta? Are you Ralph Tenuta?”

  The trainer stood up. “Yes. Who wants to know?”

  The large man crossed the office threshold, the old floor boards creaking beneath his feet.

  “I’m Wendell Pilling. We need to talk.”

  Without being invited, the visitor walked over to the old, worn brown leather couch. He used one big hand to flip the cat Tuxedo off it and onto the floor before sitting down. She spat out sounds of protest. When the man’s wide rump landed, the sound of the creaking couch springs was nearly as loud as the insulted Tuxedo’s resentful mewing.

  Pilling removed his glasses. His small, brown eyes bored into Tenuta’s. “I’m here because of a couple of important phone calls I’ve made. I don’t seem to be getting across to your clients, the Burkhardts, that I intend to buy their horse, Mr. Rhinelander. I mean buy. I want you to help me convince them.”

  Tenuta said, “You got some balls coming in here like this. Talking like this. What I know is that Charlie Burkhardt already made clear to you that he and his wife are not selling that colt. Didn’t you get the message?”

  “I don’t pay any attention to messages like that,” Pilling said. “I get what I want. Period.”

  Tenuta said, “Well, not this time. Listen, pal. The Burkhardts have had horses for about fifteen years. They’ve never had one anywhere close to the ability of Mr. Rhinelander. These people are no spring chickens. Hell, they must be in their early seventies now. They don’t need your money. They’d much, much rather enjoy having their horse.”

  Pilling said with a sneer, “You mean to tell me a quarter of a million dollars, my last offer, doesn’t impress them? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it, pal. They don’t want your money.”

  Tenuta picked up his cell phone. “I’ve got business to do, Pillars, or Piles, whatever your name is. This meeting is over. Get out.”

  Paul Albano, longtime assistant trainer to Tenuta, walked into the office carrying his notes of the workouts from that morning. He nearly bumped into Pilling. “Hey, sorry,” he said, looking up. “Ralph, you want to enter Mr. Rhinelander for that race Saturday? He worked dynamite this morning. Whew! He can run!”

  Pilling took this in with a smirk. He turned back at the door. “Tenuta, tell your clients I’m going to make them one final offer for Mr. Rhinelander.”

  Exasperated, Tenuta said, “You just don’t get it. They will not sell. Period.”

  Pilling shrugged. “There are things that can happen to make people change their minds. You probably have no idea that somebody who really knew how to manipulate the Internet could cause all kind of shit. Credit reports altered. Internet accounts hacked. Identities stolen. Electronic bank deposits and withdrawals shifted and edited. Oh,” he smiled, “a talented Internet maestro can do an awful lot. Tell those stubborn cheeseheads that!”

  Ralph and Paul, standing just outside the office doorway, watched Pilling’s big butt disappear into the rear of a white Lincoln limousine that quickly turned past the nearby electrical horse walker and kicked dust back in its wake.

  “Ralph, who the hell was that mad man? What was that all about?”

  Tenuta said, “Paul, I guess I’m going to have to do my best to find out.” The trainer didn’t have to spin through his worn Rolodex to dial Jack Doyle.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Moe Kellman had finished his morning workout, showered, shaved, and was putting on his business clothes when Doyle hurried into their corner of the Fit City locker room.

  “Jack. Where’ve you been? You haven’t missed a Wednesday here in months.”

  Doyle said, “I took a run this morning instead. Sometimes I think better zipping along the lakefront than grunting and groaning in here with you.”

  “What are thinking about? I know you’re going to tell me. Make it quick. I’m due to have breakfast with one of the mayor’s cousins in about twenty minutes.”

  It didn’t take Doyle long to describe Ralph Tenuta’s recent travails involving his loyal Wisconsin clients and Wendell Pilling, the threatening Internet mogul who was refusing to be denied in his quest to buy Mr. Rhinelander.

  Moe finished tying his silk tie without looking in the mirror. “Last time when Tenuta was being troubled, we talked to Fifi and he kept his hands off. Told you to handle the situation. Which you did. Why would you need Feef’s help now?”

  “This is different. Me scaring that little Berwyn lunatic who was trying to blackmail Ralph, that was one thing. I don’t know if I could pull the same thing with this big shot Pilling. Remember, your pal Fifi Bonadio knew who Ralph was. Their grandfathers came over here from Sicily about the same time. He was kind of sympathetic. That’s why I’m bringing him up now. Asking if he could help. He has,” Doyle smiled,“certain resources I don’t.”

  Moe put on his tailored tan suit jacket over his beige shirt and adjusted the tan tie and stooped to flick a dust rag across his black Italian-made shoes.

  “Jack, you’ll have to go see Feef about this. I’ll call him for you. I can’t go today. One of my five-star spenders is flying in to look at the fall fur lineup. Needs a holiday present for wife number four. Tells me he’d like to keep his total down to a quartet.”

  Doyle said, “All right. Does Bonadio still live in that luxury stockade in River Forest?”

  Moe sighed. “Yes, he does. But I wouldn’t be denigrating something belonging to a guy you want a favor from.”

  Doyle silently agreed, the guy in question being Moe’s friend from childhood, Fifi Bonadio, longtime head of the Chicago Outfit.

  “He’ll know I’m coming, right?”

  “I will have paved the way,” Moe said.”Just try to be respectful. Bono fortuna.”

  ***

  Doyle pointed his Accord westward on the Eisenhower Expressway. The early afternoon traffic was not bad, nothing like it would be in a few hours when the rush began for the city’s western suburbs. He knew the way, having previously visited Bonadio after traveling with Moe in Kellman’s big Lincoln limousine, retired Chicago Police detective Pete Dunleavy at the wheel. Doyle always felt at ease in the friendly yet somehow fearsome presence of Dunleavy, Kellman’s full-time driver and security man. Kind of wished he had Dunleavy along with him today.

  He got off at the exit for River Forest and headed north. Two miles later up a quiet street lined with tall oak trees, past expensive looking houses, then nearing what he thought of as Estateville, he turned into the driveway at Bonadio’s address. Waited in front of the thick, wide iron gates for someone to emerge from the guard booth on the left side of the driveway.

  Within seconds, a young man wearing a security firm uniform and a hip holster displaying a large hand gun hurried to Doyle’s lowered window. Before Jack could say anything, the man said, “Go ahead, Mr. Doyle. Vito will meet you at the door.” He clicked a remote device on his belt. The gates swung open.

  Jack drove slowly the fifty yards or so before parking on the red-bricked driveway fronting the house. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight. As he got out of his, the huge mansion’s front door opened. “In here, Doyle,” waved an old man from the entry. He was wearing a musty-looking black suit and a scowl. Maybe his mid-day nap had been interrupted, Doyle thought. “Should I lock my car in this neighborhood?”

  “Very comical,” the old man rasped. “In here. He’s waiting.”

  Doyle was led from the front door directly to the rear of the mansion, which he’d read had eighteen rooms, seven bathrooms, a basement bowling alley, an indoor bocce court, and, as Doyle was about to see, an
Olympic-size outdoor swimming pool. After the long walk down the darkened corridor, lit only by shallow lights illuminating what Doyle thought he recognized as a number of extremely valuable works of art, the old man pushed open doors to the patio. He waved Doyle forward and, without a word, shuffled away back inside.

  Emerging from that darkness into the mid-afternoon summer sunlight, Jack paused at the edge of the vast, flower-bordered green lawn that led to another high stone wall at the end of the property. A squadron of Hispanic gardeners was busy on two sides of the yard. Two men dressed in security uniforms patrolled the rear.

  “Here, over here,” came a gravelly, commanding voice. Doyle turned to his left. Sitting up on a chaise lounge was the Outfit chieftain. Bonadio was wearing a black Speedo swimsuit and dark glasses. His lean, tanned body glistened with sun lotion, drops of which were visible atop the layer of gray hair on his muscular chest. His strong facial features reminded Doyle of the Italian actor Rossano Brazzi, one of his mother’s non-secret crushes. Fifi Bonadio was a handsome man, even now in his seventies, even deep in luxury’s lap made possible by his iron-fisted control of a profit-producing criminal enterprise.

  Bonadio got to his feet and motioned Doyle to join him at the umbrella-shaded glass table close to the pool. He led the way. Doyle slowly followed, eyes riveted on the prone form of the other person present. Her long legs extended from an orange-thonged, marvelously curved butt. She lay facedown. Her dark blond hair in a long ponytail was pulled to the side of her tanned, naked back. Doyle saw there were no loosened top straps, especially when she suddenly turned over, raising her sunglasses to take a brief look at him. Then she lowered the glasses and lay still, arms at her sides, on the lounge. Bonadio smiled watching Doyle attempting not to gawk at this striking sight.

  “Doyle, is that a classic set of tits or what?” he heard Bonadio say as his host pulled out a chair from under the round glass table that sat beneath the broad blue umbrella. For a moment Doyle thought that he wished he knew how to say in Italian “How right you are.” Bonadio smiled. “That’s my young friend Sylvia. If you’re wondering,” Bonadio said, nodding toward the supine beauty, “those gorgeous bazooms are as real as the air you’re breathing.”