Riders Down (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Matt was certain that his day could not get any worse—until he drove up to Maggie’s barn on the Heartland Downs backstretch.

He’d walked out of his apartment shortly after 6 a.m. to find his Geo Prizm sandwiched between a gray SUV and a black SUV in its parking place on Hinman Street. When he had struggled unsuccessfully to extricate his compact car from between these two vehicular mastodons, he’d accidentally bumped the one in front hard enough to set off its alarm. The sound shrieked down the quiet Evanston street like a London blitz siren. After nearly ten irritating minutes had gone by, a young, blond-haired woman in a black designer sweat suit came charging out of a house four doors down across the street. She was screaming at Matt, “What are you doing to my car?” on her way to turn off the alarm.

Matt rolled his window down and gestured at her SUV. “You parked in here after I did,” he said, “and jammed me in. I’ve got to get out. I have to go to work. Move that thing.”

His angry expression served to silence the yelping woman, who reluctantly got behind the wheel, perching like a child on the high seat, and awkwardly eased her SUV forward so Matt could extricate his car. In his rearview mirror as he headed north on Hinman to Dempster, Matt could see her giving him the finger with one hand and holding a cell phone in the other. She must have been steering with her knees. All the way to the racetrack as he surged through early morning traffic, his stomach roiled.

The third race that afternoon was, on paper, a forgettable affair—a claiming race for horses valued at $5,000. Among them was Maxwell F., a one-time stakes runner who, as a ten-year-old gelding with bad ankles, had dropped down the class ladder to Heartland Downs’ lowest level. Maxwell F. was a fan favorite, for he tried his very best every time he set foot on the track, even though his talents had been severely compromised by physical decline.

As the field approached the starting gate Matt rose, stretched, and decided to watch the race from the press box porch. Heading to the door, he could hear Rick on the phone, obviously talking to Ivy the actress.

“I heard Lemon Tree Theater has scheduled ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ for next fall. They tell me the female lead is yours for the asking.” Rick slammed the phone down without waiting for a reply and said to Matt, grinning, “She loves it when I talk to her like that.”

Matt and Rick were both watching the race with their binoculars when Maxwell F. came around the stretch turn leading by two lengths. Then, in an instant, horror unfolded. The old horse snapped his left foreleg and nearly fell. His jockey, Zoe Crozier, went over his left shoulder, landing with a thud. But she sat up immediately, apparently shaken but not seriously hurt, as Maxwell F. limped up the stretch toward the finish line, his broken limb waving like an empty sock. Matt could see the terror in the old gelding’s eyes. He shuddered. Rick said, “Damn, that is ugly.”

Zoe Crozier got to her feet and started to run after Maxwell F. She caught the horse by his dangling reins and managed to get him to stop moving. She cradled Maxwell F.’s head in her arms as track attendants came to her aid. The horse ambulance arrived soon afterwards, as did the track veterinarian. A large screen was set up behind the ambulance, shielding from the grandstand any view of the horse. Matt knew the vet was administering a lethal injection. The horse’s body would then be loaded on the ambulance, all of this taking place out of sight of the fans.

Matt walked back into the press box and sat down. “This is the worst part of this sport, of this job,” he said. Even Rick, ever the cynic, was noticeably affected. “I hate to see that, too,” Rick said softly. “That old horse ran his eyeballs out every time. Maybe it’s best that he died doing what he loved to do. Maybe.”

After the last race, Matt drove to the barn area. He had arranged to pick up Maggie and take her out for an early dinner. Usually, she was dressed and ready to go, seated in a camp chair on the lawn outside her barn, reading the
Racing Daily
or chatting with the night watchman she employed at her stable. Not this evening. Instead, Matt found Maggie in her small, cramped office. When he knocked and opened the door, she silently looked out the window. She didn’t turn to him at first. He admired the profile that he cherished before he noticed her tears. When he walked around her desk and reached for her, he saw that her eyes were red from weeping. He didn’t say anything at first, just took her in his arms. Her arms went around his neck as she began sobbing.

Minutes later, Maggie lifted her head from Matt’s chest. She looked up into his face with a wry smile. “Well, Scoop,” she said, “I imagine that you want to know what has reduced your favorite trainer to emotional rubble.” Matt smiled and kissed her gently and said, “Let’s have it, babe. Sit down and tell me about it.” He took her by the hand and led her over to the battered couch and swept a brown barn cat off it, along with a pile of racing magazines. “Start at the top.”

What had happened was that—without warning—Maggie had been fired as a trainer of the horses owned by the Romanos, the father and son team Matt had met weeks before in the paddock. Lou Senior had called Maggie at her barn early that morning to announce that he and his son had decided to “take another path” with the eight horses they had in training with her. Yes, they said, their stable had been in the black under Maggie’s guidance, and, yes, they had won more races this year than they had anticipated. “But we want to try another fellow,” Lou said, naming the leading trainer at Heartland Downs, Archie Winkleman, known as “The Vulture” for his habit of stealing owners away from other trainers.

Maggie wiped her tear-stained face with a tissue. “Mr. Romano said to me, ‘It’s nothing personal.’

“Nothing personal! What could be more personal than to get dismissed just like that—and with all of his horses doing so well here! And some nice horses, with promise, like Kenosha Kid.” She threw the dampened tissue in a nearby wastebasket.

Matt was not just sympathizing, he was also curious when he asked, “Well, what’s he thinking? What’s going on with this guy?”

Maggie shook her head, a knowing look on her face.

She sat down on the old brown couch, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. “Same old story,” she said.

“What old story?”

Maggie’s shoulders slumped as she replied, “Oh, I’m sure Mr. Romano got pressure from his wife to drop me as their trainer. I’ve met her. Middle-aged lady, heavy set, expensive clothes, suspicious eyes. She’s one of those women who feel very threatened by a female training their husband’s horses. I know it. I’ve seen it before. I’ve gone through this before. It’s just a part of this business for me—unfortunately.”

Matt sat down beside her, stroking her cheek, thinking how they had frequently discussed this sorry subject in the past: the fact that women, although comprising nearly half of the backstretch work force, were so rarely entrusted with good training jobs. Old prejudices die hard everywhere, he knew, but they were particularly hard to kill in the tradition-bound, singular world of horse racing.

“There are some wives who are very supportive of women trainers,” Maggie continued, “but I’ve got to say that from what I’ve seen, most are not. I tried to be friendly with Mrs. Romano. I invited her to the barn. I sat with her at the races. I was polite to her, just like I try to be with everybody. But I’m not about to be her best buddy—or her husband’s. I’ve got a job to do. I train race horses.”

She sighed. “Maybe Mr. Romano said to her one time that he thought I was pretty, or smart, or something else positive. That might have been enough. But if she thought I had designs on her fat old husband…” Maggie began to laugh. “That man,” she said, “with his nose hairs almost tangled in his damn mustache…and dandruff drifts on his suit coats…Well, what the hell!”

Maggie stood up and wiped away a lingering tear as she smiled. Her laughter was full-throated now, a release, an acknowledgment that this career setback could be overcome, if not forgotten. Matt got to his feet and she hugged him hard. Looking up at him, her smile widening, she said, “My Aunt Florence, I think of her at times like this. She was a typical Irish spinster schoolteacher. Whenever something bad happened to any of us in our family, Auntie Flo would just reach for her rosary beads and say, very positively, ‘Remember, every knock’s a boost.’ I never understood what that meant when I was a kid.”

“But now you do,” Matt murmured, holding Maggie tight once again.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“It’s better if I don’t meet you at the track,” Matt said into the phone. “This guy Oily Ronnie has got elephant ears. I’m told that he seems to know everything about everybody out here. Why don’t you pick another spot? Late afternoon, after the races, is good for me.”

Miles away in his office, the man Matt was addressing tugged at his right ear, a reflective action he’d often repeated since childhood, when the nuns at St. Gabriel’s would yank at his lobes attempting to kickstart his attention. Detective William Popp, a twenty-seven-year veteran of the Cook County Sheriff’s Department, said, “How about Max’s Deli, over on Palatine Road?” They agreed on a time, for the next day, and hung up.

Matt had no difficulty recognizing the detective when Popp entered the restaurant. He was wearing a rumpled gray suit, white shirt open at the collar with the gray tie loosened, and scuffed, brown shoes. He moved deliberately, his paunch slightly protruding from his unbuttoned suit coat, holstered pistol visible under his left arm. Popp wore a blue-banded, short-brimmed straw hat back on his head. Branding “Cop” on his forehead could hardly have made him any more identifiable. Popp walked directly over to the booth where Matt sat. “I’ve seen the picture that runs with your column,” the detective said, offering his hand. “I follow the races a little bit.”

Popp was in his late fifties, a big man with a big head, most of it revealed to be bald once he had removed the straw hat. What hair remained on the fringes was a dark shade of red now turning gray. Matt couldn’t help thinking,
This guy’s got ears
bigger than Lyndon Johnson’s
. Popp’s eyes seemed to inventory the entire restaurant before he lowered himself carefully onto the booth seat across from Matt. “Piles been killing me,” he explained with a sigh.

Matt, wondering if Moe Kellman knew what he was doing when he recommended William Popp to him, said, “Can I buy you a beer? That’s all they serve here for alcohol.”

“Naw,” replied Popp, “coffee’s fine. So, tell me what you’ve got. Moe Kellman says you know something I should know. He’s usually right about these things.”

Matt felt Popp’s eyes boring into him as he began his story of Oily Ronnie scamming the old ladies in the retirement home. He told it with the conciseness demanded of him by the first good editor he’d worked for, a mad genius named Ted Moffett, who always emphasized to his reporters, “The nuts, I want to know the nuts of it, you assholes.”

When Matt finished, Popp sat back in the booth. From his inside right coat pocket he extracted a black leather notebook so worn and tattered it could have been the cover of his First Communion missal from St. Gabriel’s. With a nub of a yellow pencil, he dashed down two quick notes before returning the notebook to his pocket.

“Well,” he said, a wide grin crinkling his face for the first time since he’d arrived, “maybe we’ve got something here. I remember this guy Ronnie from the first time he went down, for the stock scam. Busted out some of his best friends in that one. A real prince of a guy.

“Actually,” the detective went on, “I was about to nail the son of a bitch back then for running a prostitution ring before the feds stepped in and got him for mail fraud. Yeah, before he got the Ponzi scam going, Ronnie had a mobile ‘dating service.’ Called it ‘Dial a Maid.’ Word got around pretty quick that it was more ‘Dial and Get Laid.’ He had these good-looking Croatian girls, fresh off the plane, dressed up in house cleaning outfits. They’d come to your home and fuck for a fee. He promised he was banking part of their fees for them and just paid them a flat daily rate no matter how many so-called dates they had. He ran that business for about a year. Sent most of those poor green card girls packing without a cent of the money they had coming. The man is scum. Always will be.”

Popp finished his coffee and picked up his straw hat from the booth’s seat. “Let me check out a couple of things,” he said, “then I’ll get back to you. It’ll be some time later this week. I think I’ve got a way to lure this rat into a trap that’ll hold him. Thanks for the coffee.” Popp stopped on his way to the door and turned back to look at Matt. “Like anything tomorrow?”

“You might bet Cilio’s Hope in the feature. Looks to me like he’s sitting on a win.”

Popp said thanks and left.

***

Late Friday afternoon, Detective Popp called Matt in the Heartland Downs press box. The first thing he said was, “That was nice, $18.60 on Cilio’s Hope. Me and a bunch of the boys had him. Thanks.”

“Once in awhile they’ll run like they should,” Matt said. After some more small talk regarding racing, the two men agreed to meet after the races back at Max’s Deli.

When Matt arrived the detective was already seated in the back booth, reading the
Racing Daily
. They shook hands. Popp had a coffee cup in front of him. Matt ordered an iced coffee. Then Popp said, “I’ve figured out what we’re going to do with Oily Ronnie.”

“What?”

“We’re going to throw another fish into his pond,” Popp replied. “Only this one will be wearing a wire. I already did the paperwork for permission on this.”

It was usually difficult to find octogenarian informants, Popp continued, but he knew “a great one. She lives in the addition my wife and I put on our house. It’s my mother-in-law. Her name is Martha Ensworth.

“That name,” Popp continued, “won’t mean anything to you. You’re too young. But Martha was a pretty famous radio actress on serials back in the 1940s. She retired from show business when she got married. She looks like Grandma Goody Two Shoes today, but she’s razor sharp still. You play her gin rummy, you better ask for a line of credit.”

“Would she do something like this?”

Popp said, “Are you kidding? She’s been bored to death since her husband died five years ago. She’s worked her way through the bingo and casino stages. Martha’s looking for action. She’ll be perfect for this.”

The following Wednesday, when Tom Jaroz’ Aunt Sophie and her group from Sunshine Meadows made their monthly visit to Heartland Downs, they had a new addition, Detective Popp having planted Martha Ensworth in their midst before their bus departed late that morning. Popp had arranged for this with the Sunshine Meadows director, Miles Renfrow, who explained to the aged race goers that “Mrs. Ensworth is considering moving into our facility and wants to meet some of you residents.” Martha, barely five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds, was a bright, outgoing individual who quickly began chatting up her new acquaintances. “Your voice sounds
so
familiar,” two of the women said to the ex-actress.

Matt and Tom had gone to see Aunt Sophie the previous afternoon to tell her about “a new friend” she would be making the next day. “That’s wonderful, dear,” Aunt Sophie said to Tom. “Maybe Mrs. Ensworth will get to meet Mr. Schrapps and learn about horse ownership,” she added sweetly. Tom and Matt looked at each other. “I sure hope so, Auntie,” Tom said.

Detective Popp strolled into the press box a little after 3 p.m. From the east window he and Matt could see the Sunshine Meadows group, nine well-dressed, broad-hatted, energetic members of the geriatric set seated in two adjacent boxes near the Heartland Downs finish line. They had been sipping bloody marys and diet sodas, eating from nachos and cheese plates, and placing small bets on every race, cheering their choices with enthusiasm. Minutes earlier, this all-female gathering had been joined by Oily Ronnie, who was now sitting in their midst, conversing with three attentive seniors. Ronnie was resplendent in a white sport coat, dark blue shirt unbuttoned to sternum level, blue slacks, white loafers, and dark glasses. His mousse-saturated hair glistened in the afternoon sun.

Popp, getting a close-up look through Matt’s binoculars, said, “This guy must jingle like a Budweiser Clydesdale when he walks, all the body jewelry he’s got on.” That moment, Popp saw Martha turn away from Oily Ronnie for a second to look in the direction of the press box. She gave a thumbs-up sign before turning back toward Ronnie. Popp grinned. “Way to go, Martha,” he said.

Matt’s concentration on the scene in Martha’s box was interrupted by Rick’s voice. “Matt, damn it, pay attention, the phone’s for you,” he heard.

“Take the number,” Matt said. “I’m tied up here right now. Tell them I’ll call back in a few minutes.”

Rick said, “It’s your editor. Says he’s got to talk to you right now. Period.”

Matt sighed as he walked back to his desk, leaving Detective Popp still staring out the window.

“What is it, Harry? I’ve got something going on here now.”

“Where the hell’s your Saturday column?”

“So much for social niceties, eh Harry?” Matt replied, adding, “Look in your damn story queue. I filed it before eight o’clock this morning.”

There was a silence before Harry responded, in a subdued tone, “Well, the gremlins must have hit again. We can’t find it. Somebody must have mistakenly purged it. Can you send it again?”

Matt said, “Give me ten minutes and I will.”

“Matt, please, we’re on deadline for the first edition. It’ll just take you a minute. I’m sorry about this.”

Matt sat at his desk, pulled up the column on his computer, typed a quick message “Dear Copy Desk, please get your heads out of your asses and don’t lose this transmission,” and hit Send. When he was finished, he looked up to see that Detective Popp had left the press box. When Matt looked over at the box where Martha and Oily Ronnie had been sitting, it was empty.

***

It wasn’t until after eight that night that Matt heard from Detective Popp. “Sorry I couldn’t call sooner, Matt, but I’ve been busy at headquarters.”

“Fill me in.”

Popp said, “My little mother-in-law got some great stuff on tape,” he said. “Ronnie gave her his big pitch about buying into a horse just like Aunt Sophie and the other women had done. Martha played right along. They agreed to meet at the track again on Sunday. Ronnie said he wanted to talk to Martha alone—didn’t want the ‘rest of the girls to know’ what a great deal he was going to give her on a hot prospect that was ‘ready to race.’ Martha promised him she’d be there. I’ll make sure she is. The hook is set pretty good now,” Popp said with satisfaction.

At almost the same time Sunday night, Matt heard again from the detective. Matt and Maggie had just walked into Matt’s condo when the phone rang. She went into the kitchen as he picked it up. Matt thought that he had never before heard anyone chortle, but that these sounds emanating from Popp probably qualified.

“This,” said Popp with considerable relish, “is how it went down. Martha, wired up again, brought along a money order I’d had prepared for her in the amount of $20,000. She tells Ronnie, ‘That’s all I can spare now, but I could probably get some more later this summer. Would that be all right, Mr. Schrapps?’

“‘That’s fine,’” Ronnie tells her, ‘that will buy you part ownership in a very pretty horse that’ll probably race next week.’ Right after he tucks away the money order, Martha takes off her hat, which is the signal for two of my deputies to grab this bum.

“When I get to the box, just to be cautious, I say to her, ‘Mother, did he take the money order? And was the wire in place?’ Martha says, ‘Billy, I’ve never missed a cue in my life. I
certainly
was not about to start this afternoon.’

“You should have seen Oily Ronnie,” the detective continued. “He’s looking at Martha with his jaw dropped near his Guccis. Then he turns to me and says, ‘This is so fucking sick, that I gotta start body-searching eighty-five-year-old broads in order to protect myself.’

“The boys cuff him, but Martha is hot. She gives Ronnie a couple of bangs on his chest with her purse. She’s mad as hell. ‘I was only eighty a month ago, you thieving brute,’ she says to him. Thieving brute? You got to love it.

“The DA says he’s going to ask for no bail, considering Ronnie’s past performance lines. He’s pretty sure that’s how it will go.

“We’ve got the bastard good this time,” Popp said. “Thanks for your help, Matt.”

After Popp had hung up the phone, Matt called his editor at home. Harry Cobabe’s answering machine clicked on. “Harry,” Matt said, “save me room on page one tomorrow. I’ve got a story no one else has. It should go right up on our website, too.

“And Harry, please see to it that your copy-editing gerbils down there don’t lose it or screw it up, okay?” He was grinning when he put the phone down and walked into the kitchen to tell Maggie.