Read The Significant Seven Online
Authors: John McEvoy
June 30, 2009
Doyle looked up from the computer on Tenuta’s desk when he heard a familiar voice at the doorway saying, “Hellooooo, Jack.” The morning sun was behind the small man standing there, making him difficult for Doyle to see. But he didn’t have to see him to know him. He knew that voice.“Morty Dubinski,” Jack said. He smiled as he went around the desk to the door. They shook hands. Jack stood back and looked the little man over. “Long time no see, Morty. You’re looking good.”
Dubinski laughed. “Don’t kid me, Jack. I’ve never looked good. I’m still trying to upgrade myself to ‘more presentable.’ Can I sit down?”
Motioning Dubinski to a chair, Doyle said, “Last time I saw you, Morty, was at Bob Zaslow’s funeral. When you were still bruised and battered from those Canaryville goons. You look a hell of a lot better today.”
Morty said, “Bettor today is what I’m here to talk to you about.”
“Better/bettor with an ‘e’ or an ‘o’?”
“Both. That’s what I came to talk to you about. Better betting.”
“Ah, Morty,” Doyle groaned. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
As they walked to the track kitchen, Doyle glanced at the short, sixtyish man beside him. Morty hadn’t changed. His long white hair was still combed straight back on one of the longest heads Doyle had ever seen, an elongated skull that caused Morty to be known in racetrack circles as “Melon Head.” Morty’s old brown-framed glasses still perched on his glistening reddish nose. Morty wore one of his two light blue sport coats, his one dark blue bow tie. The only difference Doyle could discern from a year or so ago was that Dubinski had finally discarded one of his threadbare, formerly white dress shirts. This morning he was wearing a glistening new number, the cardboard crease marks still evident across his chest.
The track kitchen, a large restaurant and cafeteria, was filled with trainers, grooms, exercise riders, hot walkers, a few horse owners. The air was permeated with the odors of hot grease and cigarette smoke. Doyle and Morty snagged a small table in the back of the large, noisy room. Doyle said, “Morty, what can I get you?”
“Coffee, cream. Prune Danish. Make it two.”
“You got it.”
After Morty rapidly downed the two sizeable pastries, he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “So, when are you going to say it?” he said.
“Say what?”
“Say that you’re wondering why I showed up here this morning, out of the blue.”
“Morty,” Doyle said, “what could I possibly be doing except wondering?”
The little man said, “I was always wondering about something, too, Jack. Not about why you left Monee Park and helped me to take over your publicity job. What I’ve been wondering, and I’m not the only one, is why you never came back to visit Monee.
“You were a big hero there after saving lives and killing that creep that tried to kill us. But we never saw you again, never heard anything from you. People still ask me about that, and about you.”
Doyle said, “I’m getting another coffee. You want one?” Morty said no.
Waiting in the coffee line, Doyle briefly considered asking Morty about Celia McCann, his employer at Monee Park. One of the most attractive women he’d ever known. One of the most intelligent, and interesting, and…He gave himself a mental slap upside the head. “I am
not
going there again,” he muttered, his reluctance to do so based on layers of regret.
“What’s that, Jack?” The question came from Miss Ruth, order taker in perpetuity in the Heartland track kitchen.
Doyle said, “Sorry, Miss Ruth. Another large coffee, black, please.”
Morty looked up anxiously when Doyle again sat down across from him. “Talk to me Morty.”
“Jack, I need just a small, short-term loan from you. A thousand. I’m going to be in the Super Handicapper Contest in Las Vegas next week. I qualified in one of their satellite contests. But the entry fee is ten grand. I’ve got nine. I would have had the ten, easy, if I had perfected my new system a few days earlier than I did. But I didn’t. That’s why I came to see you today.” Morty, relieved that his pitch was delivered, sat back.
Doyle looked across the table at the man known at Monee Park as a “Jonah,” the embodiment of a wagon load of bad luck, a train car full of futility, a loser of such disconcerting magnitude that Biblical analogies had to be applied to him.
“You have got to be kidding,” Doyle said. “The longest winning streak I ever saw you on lasted about a race and half. Remember that horse you touted me on at Monee? Your quote, mortal lock of mortal locks, unquote? Comet Colin, the horse that led all the way around the track into the stretch and then jumped the fence and ran into the infield lake and drowned?
“C’mon, Jack,” Morty said, his head down, “how could I forget?”
Doyle said, “What would make you think you should enter a Las Vegas handicapping contest? Sharp shooters from all over the country will be there. And you, with your history of terrible luck? Morty, you’re a smart guy, and you know horses, but this plan has disaster emblazoned on it.”
“Jack, I can’t argue, my horse playing history is not good. But,” Morty said, “all that is in the past.” He leaned forward. “I’ve got a new system for betting horses. Took me years to develop it,” he said softly. “But, Jack, it
works
. Like you’d never believe possible.”
“A system. God help us,” Doyle sighed. “Damon Runyon said all horseplayers die broke. Which I don’t believe, because I know some that do make a good living at it. But somebody besides Runyon added, ‘System players die earliest.’ From what I’ve seen, I tend to believe that.”
“Not
my
system,” Morty said emphatically. “Jack, it is honest to God amazing. After all my years in the game,” he said, looking around the room before continuing in a whisper, “I have found the treasure of Sierra Madre. The Yukon gold strike. What’s that other big thing? The Rosie Stone? Like what the great trainer Charlie Whittingham called ‘Where Molly hid the peaches.’ I have found the truth.” He was as earnest as a dog at dinner time.
Doyle had always liked this little lifelong bachelor, resident of his aged mother’s Berwyn, Illinois basement apartment, industrious but paint-by-the-numbers racetrack publicist. To observe the glow of conviction emanating from his former Monee Park assistant gladdened Doyle. But giving him a grand to test the deep waters of the Vegas contest? Could this be termed enabling? “What’s the deadline for this thing?”
“Tomorrow,” Morty said. “I’ve got to wire them the entry fee by noon. Jack, if you can loan me the grand, I’ll double it for you in three days. Swear to God.”
Doyle was not sold, and Morty knew it. He took a thick envelope from his sport coat pocket and extracted five sheets of paper. They were covered with names and numbers describing horses and their odds, their finishes, the amount and kind of bets made on them, an ROI (return on investment) column. He said, “Please, just look this over. I’ll go get us some more coffee. Want a Danish?”
“Just coffee.”
Ten minutes later, when Doyle returned the papers to him, Morty said, “What do you think?”
Doyle said, “I’ve got to admit, I’m impressed. Besides astounded. You, with a terrific return on investment. But this is just three weeks of system results here. How can you be sure you can keep winning at this rate over the long run?”
Morty scooped up the papers and stuffed them back into the envelope. “Because I
know
, Jack. Because I know. This system is super legit. I swear it. Have I ever lied to you about anything?”
Doyle finished his coffee. He said, “No, my friend, you never have. Come on. We’ll go to an ATM machine in the grandstand. You’ve got the grand.”
“Aw, Jack, I knew I could count on you,” Morty beamed. He reached across the table and heartily shook Doyle’s hand. “You will not regret this, I guarantee.”
“Words that have brought down major civilizations,” Doyle almost said, but held back. He thought of Sinatra’s famous version of “My Way,” its reference to “regrets? I’ve had a few,” and laughed.
“Of all the regrets I’ve had, Morty, no matter how you do in Vegas, this loan will not be in my top ten. Great luck to you, my friend.”
During their short drive to the Heartland Downs grandstand, Morty said, “Jack, would you think about coming out to Vegas during the contest? You could stay with me. Give me, you know, moral support. I’ve never been in a big contest like this,” he admitted. “ I might need a little boost from a friend.”
“Let’s just get you your money today, Morty. Me joining you in Vegas? I’ll think about it.”
June 28, 2009
Orth emerged from the cool lake after his early morning swim and found a message on his cellphone. “Call.”
Showered and breakfasted, he drove to the Qwik Stop outside of Boulder Junction and used the land line. Sanderson picked up on the first ring. “Need a meet. Can you be in St. Louis by tomorrow night?”
“Affirmative.”
“See you at the Airport Marriott,” Sanderson said.
Orth drove to Madison the next morning and paid cash for an afternoon flight to St. Louis. He cabbed to the motel, registered as Edward Walsh, and was napping when he heard two taps on his door. They were light taps, but Orth’s trained response to anything aural within yards of him brought him off the bed and to the door in seconds. He looked through the eye hole before unlocking.
After greeting each other, Sanderson ordered from room service, identifying himself as “Mr. Walsh in 318.” Neither he nor Orth ever used their real names when they met. Sanderson intended to catch a night flight back to Dallas-Fort Worth, a flight which like all other domestic air travel was dinner-free. He stayed out of sight as Orth accepted the tray and paid the bill in cash with a good tip.
Sanderson eagerly dug into his shrimp salad, a turkey club sandwich with French fries, apple pie
ala
mode. Orth watched impassively. As long as Orth had known him, Sanderson always had an appetite that verged on gluttony. Yet, the sinewy bastard never seemed to put on a pound. “A man who has three growing kids and a wife that loves to spend money,” Sanderson had once explained, “your metabolism kicks into overdrive.”
Sanderson finally put down the only remaining remnants of his meal, one of the cellophane decorated toothpicks from the sandwich. He reached into his shirt pocket, looked at a small piece of paper, and smiled.
“We’ve got three targets left,” Sanderson said. “The reason I wanted to see you was that I understand the remaining targets are getting kind of nervous. Apprehensive. Cautious.”
“Hard to blame them.”
“Yeah,” Sanderson said, “and we’re going to have to be very, very careful dealing with the next three. They’re all bound to be on the lookout, maybe even have hired security. I’ll find out about that part in a day or two.”
“Is the money still solid?”
Sanderson smiled. “Oh, yeah. Five hundred grand total for us, plus expenses.”
“I can count on you to pad the shit out of those, right?”
“You got it, bro.”
The next hour was devoted to planning. Sanderson kept looking at his watch until he saw Orth tightening his jaw, heard him say, “Forget the fucking time, you’ll make your flight. I want this figured out right. It’s my ass on the line out there.”
“Sorry, bro. You’re right,” Sanderson said.
Orth said, “If you’ll get me just a few important pieces of information, I’ll take care of these last three.” He described what he wanted. “I’ll take care of it,” Sanderson said.
When it was time for Sanderson to leave for the airport, Orth got up, stretched, walked over to the wide window overlooking the parking lot. His back turned to Sanderson, he said, “One thing before you go. I never asked you before during the other deals we’ve done. Never wanted to know. But I’d like to know now about this, our biggest project. Who are we working for? Who is paying?”
Sanderson said, “Damn it, man, we’ve been super careful to create as many cut outs as we could. Right from the start. That’s how you said you wanted it, and that’s what I’ve done. I think we should keep it that way.”
“I know you do,” Orth said. “But I don’t, not this time. I want you tell me, right here and now, who’s paying us all this money for this project.”
Sanderson briefly thought of continuing the argument. But then he saw the look on Orth’s face. Sanderson spoke softly for less than a minute. When he was finished, the normally imperturbable Orth shook his head at what he had just heard. “I’ll be god damned.”
July 3, 2009
The races were over. The Tenuta stable had enjoyed a very productive afternoon: three starters, one maiden winner, one second, one fourth. The grooms sat around the barn, relaxing on bales of hay and drinking beers that Tenuta had brought in a cooler, anticipating this morale-boosting and successful pre-holiday afternoon.
Doyle nudged Tenuta’s arm, almost spilling the trainer’s iced can of Old Style. They were standing outside of Tenuta’s office, enjoying the early evening air. Doyle said, “Ralph, who’s that?” He pointed across the stable yard to a short, young, Latino man who was leaning back in a camp chair, leisurely smoking a cigarette. “I thought nobody was supposed to smoke back here. Too dangerous, right? Some of these old wooden barns. All this hay and straw.”
“That’s the rule, Jack, but that punk over there doesn’t pay much attention to rules. Name is Junior Garza. There must have been a senior, but I never met him. One of these Garzas is enough. Junior works now for trainer Marty Alpert, who is stabled right over there. I sure as hell don’t know why,” Tenuta said disgustedly.
“What do you mean?”
“Junior is trouble,” Tenuta said. “He came around a few years back, said he wanted to be a jockey. Didn’t work out. He got hurt pretty bad in his first and only year of riding. Broke a collarbone, wrist, ankle. Never rode in a race again. After he healed, he came back and started working as an exercise rider. He’s good at it. But I’d never use him on one of my horses.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t trust the little bastard, that’s why. Seems like wherever he works, things go missing. You know? Saddes, bridles, blankets. He’s never been caught, but most people think he’s the one doing the thieving. Alpert, well, Marty’s got a big heart. He says he wants to ‘give the kid another chance.’ We’ll see how that works out. How come you’re asking about him, Jack?”
“I saw him here in your shed row last week, late in the afternoon. It was the day before Editorialist’s last race. I was waiting for your night watchman to come back from the wash room when I saw this kid near Editorialist’s stall. I hollered at him, ‘What’re you doing,’ something like that. He just looked at me, real insolent, and walked off without answering. I’m sure it was him, Junior over there.”
“Glad you chased him off,” Tenuta said. “I don’t want him anywhere around my stable. Kid’s a thief, maybe worse. Everybody knows it, but nobody has nailed him yet. I don’t know why people keep hiring him.”