Riders Down (18 page)

He said, “Moe, it’s only for you I’m doing this.” Then he said to Matt, “Kid, you’ve got some major stones on you, I’ll give you that, coming here to ask me if I’m fixing horse races. You might as well ask me about that armored car heist in Stone Park last month, or the re-zoning deal the Bonadio firm managed to get from the greedy little bureaucrats in Clausen County last week. As if I would
tell
you, for chrissakes!

“But, out of respect for my goombah Moe here, I
will
tell you this: I have absolutely no fucking interest in horse racing. That was for my old man, some of my uncles. They did some stuff in racing, no question about it. They bought little racetracks and used them to take layoff money from their city bookies. They doped some horses, controlled some crooked trainers, they had some jocks tied up. That was back when racing wasn’t regulated the way it is today, back when it was the only major legal gambling enterprise, long before Vegas and the state lotteries and the Indian casinos.

“That was then,” Bonadio continued, tapping his pencil again for emphasis. “We got out of that years ago.” He sat back in the chair, eyes half-closed, as if he were mentally riffling through a portfolio whose scope he found to be eminently pleasing. Then he smiled. “I got no idea how I can help here,” he said.

Moe, looking agitated, got up from his chair. He walked over to the north wall of the room and pretended to be examining the photos. Bonadio watched him out of the corner of his eye. Then he said, “Moe, goddamit, come back and sit down.” He raised his palms above the desk and shrugged expansively. His eyebrows rose as well, an expression of frustrated benevolence appearing on his tanned face. All this body language was meant to convey the message, “I’d help you if I could. But…”

When Moe returned to his chair, Matt could tell that the little furrier was angry. “Feef,” he said, “I didn’t bring Matt out here to be entertained by your condescending b.s. Maybe Matt didn’t put it quite the right way, his question. All we wanted to find out was if you
knew
anything, if maybe you’d
heard
something. Simple as that,” Moe said softly, his jaw set as he looked at his boyhood buddy.

Bonadio’s eyebrows elevated. Then he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Feisty as always, Mosey, you never change. Yeah,” he sighed, “I’m hearing you, Moe. Settle down.”

To Matt, Bonadio said, “You’ve got nothing to go on here, kid. Just suspicions. If you had a name, or a description of somebody you think is in this thing, then maybe I’d be able to set some wheels in motion.
Capice
?”

Matt said, “The only thing I’ve got is the guy I mentioned earlier, the one who was picking Bernie Glockner’s brain about gambling in America. But Bernie never told Moe the guy’s name. So that’s a dead end.”

Moe said, “Tell him what you found out yesterday from Tyree Powell.” After explaining to Bonadio that Powell was the Jockeys’ Union local representative, Matt said, “Tyree met with me to talk about one of the riders in his organization, Randy Morrison. Tyree said Morrison called him, all disturbed. After he swore Tyree to silence, Morrison confessed that he was being forced to lose races by a guy who claims he’s done the killings of these jockeys that I told you about earlier. Said the guy knew all the details of each death and that he’d killed Morrison’s half-brother in order to coerce Morrison into doing what he wanted.

“Morrison told Tyree this guy was beyond creepy. May have used a device to disguise his voice. Laughed about what he’d done, what he would do if Randy didn’t come through. Their contact was via phone calls from the guy to the jockeys’ room at the racetrack. One time, when Randy was late getting there, the guy told Randy’s valet to pass on the message that ‘the Professor called. He’ll know what it’s about. It’s about some lessons I’m teaching.’ Then he laughed and hung up. When he called back in an hour, he talked directly to Randy, giving him the name of the horse he wanted him to intentionally lose on the following Saturday.”

Moe said, “After Matt told me this, it occurred to me that Bernie a couple of times referred to this guy from the University of Wisconsin as ‘the Professor.’ But, hell, there’s thousands of professors on that campus. What the hell did I care about this guy back then when Bernie was mentioning him?”

Bonadio slowly sat straight up in his chair, frowning. He started to speak, stopped to think for a few moments, then said softly, “I knew a guy there once.” He got up and walked around the desk, going over to a part of the south wall of the office that contained dozens of photos of his football-playing son, Rocco, wearing Number 74 on his red and white Badger lineman’s uniform. Some were action shots, showing Rocco slamming a ball carrier into the Astroturf; others were close-ups of him down in his three-point stance, looking big as a boxcar, glowering through his face mask. Bonadio gazed proudly at the display for a moment before tapping one framed photo with his index finger. “Come over here and take a look at this one,” he said.

Matt and Moe joined their host. The photo he indicated was of his massive son, dressed in black cap and gown and proudly displaying a University of Wisconsin diploma. Rocco was flanked by his father, wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit and a broad smile, and a shorter, powerfully built, completely bald man in a sport coat, slacks, and an open-collared shirt. Moe said, “Who’s he? Rocco’s personal trainer? Guy looks like a weight lifter.”

Bonadio shook his head. “He’s does training, all right, but not what you think.” He looked at Moe speculatively before responding. “If I tell you about this guy, his name is Bledsoe, would you come down a little on that mink for Tiffany?”

Moe’s face reddened. “For chrissakes, Feef,” he said, “I’m looking for the guy that may have killed my uncle and you’re talking price with me?”

Bonadio was momentarily embarrassed. “You’re right,” he said, apologetically. He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk. “C’mon, sit down. I’ll tell you what I know.”

What Bonadio knew was that he had retained a man named Claude Bledsoe to tutor his son, whose football career was being jeopardized by a frighteningly diminishing grade point average. “I asked around up there about how to handle the situation. I found out bribery wouldn’t work. One of my guys went to an assistant dean and said to him, ‘How much bread will you eat?’ The dean didn’t get it. He tried to walk my guy down the street to some fancy organic bakery.

“Finally, after we nosed around some more, we found this guy Bledsoe. A strange character with a strange background. He’d been going to college up there for years. But extra smart and a good tutor. I paid this guy top dollar, but he was worth it. He got Rocco through his classes like a champ. Kid wound up with the first college diploma ever in the Bonadio family,” he added proudly.

“Far as I know, Bledsoe is still up there in Madison, still going to school. He’s got a zillion degrees. Everybody up there knows him. The kids all call him ‘the Professor.’ I guess he could be one if he wanted to. When you said Madison and a professor, he’s what came to my mind.”

Bonadio turned away from the photo. He walked slowly back to his desk and sat down, a serious expression on his face. Several seconds went by before he lifted his head and looked at his visitors. “
Merde
,” he mumbled, then, “This is bad. Very bad.”

Moe said, “What do you mean?”

Bonadio wiped his hand across his mouth before replying. “This guy Bledsoe called me last year, asking for a favor. I owed him one. And I did him one.” He paused again, as if reluctant to continue.

Moe leaned forward, anxious to hear the rest. “So?”

“So Bledsoe asked me if I could refer him to somebody who knew a lot about gambling in America. Especially sports gambling. More especially, horse race gambling. I never hesitated for a minute. Who could tell Bledsoe more than anybody else? So, I gave him Bernie Glockner’s name and number.”

Moe sat back in his chair with a thud, as if he’d been thumped in the chest.

Bonadio raised his hands, palms up, in a sign of apology. Then he shrugged, saying, “Maybe I did the wrong thing. I’m sorry, Moe. But that doesn’t mean for sure that Bledsoe did Bernie. Or that he’s the Professor connected to these racing things.”

Matt disagreed. Despite his years of acquiring an armor of skepticism while learning the newspaper business, Matt could feel it: there was a connection. He glanced at Moe, then looked at Bonadio. “I think this guy is tied in, this Professor. He may be running the racetrack scheme. We’ve got to get to him before he kills someone else and steals another bale of money. Moe, we better talk to Detective Popp about the Professor.”

The mention of the detective’s name brought a deep frown to the forehead of their host. Matt spoke to reassure him. “There’s no need for us to bring you into it, Mr. Bonadio,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Matt rode the Hancock Building elevator to Moe’s floor, smiled a greeting to the model masquerading as a receptionist, and entered Kellman’s office suite. Moe, phone to his ear, waved Matt forward. To Matt’s surprise, Detective William Popp was present, rump leaning against the back edge of the long couch as he admired the view of sailboats bobbing on the choppy blue surface of Lake Michigan. Popp turned and placed his straw hat on a side table, saying, “Hello, Matt.”

The fourth man in the room was a stranger to Matt. He was very busy foraging amid the massive fruit plate, a staple in Moe’s office, his long, sharp nose seeming to twitch above his thin, graying mustache as he eagerly made his selections. He reminded Matt of some strain of small rodent, ferociously feeding. He had a narrow face and wore a navy blue suit almost as shiny as his nose. As he leaned forward, Matt noticed the man had a male pattern baldness area on the crown of his head, one that at first glance could be mistaken for a white yarmulke. Popp said, “Matt, this is Larry Van Gundy from the State’s Attorney’s office.” Matt said hello to the man, who briefly interrupted the refilling of his plate in order to nod back.

Matt could hear Moe winding up his phone conversation. “Feef, the last price mentioned to you is
the last price
. By definition. Get it? Call me tomorrow if you want that coat.” Exasperated, he put down the phone. “Fifi Bonadio,” he said disgustedly. “Got himself a new punch he’s trying to impress. But he’s niggling over what are nickels and dimes for a guy with his money. Man’ll never change,” Moe said, shaking his head.

When the four of them were finally seated, Moe said, “Matt, I put together this meeting. Let me tell you why. My good friend Bill Popp phoned me yesterday. He said Mr. Van Gundy had told him that Oily Ronnie Schrapps was trying to make a deal. Bill keeps me posted on anything that has to do with horse racing, or the track, because as you know I intend to find out who the hell it was that killed Uncle Bernie.”

Popp turned to the assistant state’s attorney and said, “Larry, why don’t you fill them in.”

Van Gundy reluctantly put down his nearly empty plate. He wiped some mango juice from his chin. His beady eyes darted from Matt to Moe to Popp before he began speaking in a reedy voice.
A particularly unattractive rodent
, Matt thought,
that’s what Van Gundy reminds me of.

Van Gundy took a tape player from his briefcase and placed it on the table. Preparing to turn it on he said, “I shouldn’t be playing this for you, especially a newspaper guy, but Bill Popp vouches for everyone in this room. Says we wouldn’t have gotten a case without your efforts. What you hear stays in this room. It’s part of our interview with Ronnie Schrapps. Bill said you deserved to hear it because you helped us nab Ronnie, and I’m inclined to agree with him. That’s me doing the questioning that you’ll hear.”

As Van Gundy readied the tape, Matt looked over at Moe.
This little
man’s got some major clout
, he thought, as Moe intently regarded the two public servants who obviously had no compunction about doing his bidding. Van Gundy said, “I’ve already listened to all of Ronnie’s bullshit about the fraud charges—how the old ladies begged him to take their money, how he was doing them a favor by bringing excitement into their empty lives, how he was entrapped…yada yada yada. He weaseled around like that for several boring minutes, both of us well aware that he was full of shit. Then we come to this part.”

RONNIE
: You know, I’ve got some information you could use, if you’ll just hear me out. Has to do with what could be a major, major case. I can help you—if you decide to help me out on these fraud charges. Will you listen to me?

VAN GUNDY:
Information about what?

RONNIE:
You know anything about horse racing?

VAN GUNDY:
Enough to stay away from it. What’s your point?

RONNIE:
Well, there’s some kind of big scam going on, that much I know, and it involves big, big money. The racetrack police, heads up their asses like always, may not even suspect what’s happening.

VAN GUNDY:
What kind of scam?

RONNIE:
I don’t know all the details.

At this point Van Gundy is heard impatiently slamming his pen down on the table.

RONNIE:
Wait…take it easy…hear me out.

You must have read about those jockeys getting killed around the country, right? And nobody ever caught for the crimes? Okay. But you may not have heard about some of their surviving relatives.

VAN GUNDY:
What the hell are you talking about?

RONNIE:
I’m talking about the fact that in three major races, each one of them a leg of a big National Pick Four, the losing favorites were ridden
by relatives of two of those dead jocks. Am I coming across here now?

VAN GUNDY:
I think you’re trying to jerk my chain,
Schrapps. Two jocks lost on favorites in big races. So what? I know enough about racing to know that favorites only win about a third of the time. These favorites lose, what’s the big deal?

RONNIE:
Yeah, favorites only win thirty-three percent of the time. But when the
same
people hit three of these big Pick Fours, and they’re the
only
winners at Heartland Downs on those days, doesn’t that maybe fall into the big deal category? Three of those big hits in a matter of weeks! Doesn’t that strike you as so fucking unlikely that maybe somebody in your law enforcement family should wake the fuck up here—instead of peering down their goddam barrels at me all the time?

VAN GUNDY:
Stop, you’re breaking my heart.

Van Gundy hit the pause button on the recorder, then adeptly snatched a slice of pineapple from the tray before he began to speak.

“Ronnie tells us in this next section that he found out the people cashing the Pick Four tickets used phony IDs and bogus social security numbers when they signed for their winnings. I don’t know how he learned this, but we checked with the Heartland Downs pari-mutuel department and the IRS, and they confirmed that that was indeed the case. That’s what makes what comes next on the tape pretty interesting.” Van Gundy swallowed another chunk of pineapple before hitting play.

VAN GUNDY:
So where is this taking us? How does this put any shine on you?

RONNIE:
I can ID the people that cashed those big tickets.

VAN GUNDY
(his voice reflecting his excitement): You know them? You know these people?

RONNIE:
No, I don’t know them. But I can tell you about them. There’s three people. There’s a big, redheaded guy, over six feet, over two hundred pounds. He looked like a hick who had stumbled into the racetrack clubhouse by taking a wrong turn. Wore a Hawaiian shirt, wash pants, work shoes. The broad with him every time is about his age, maybe middle thirties, kind of hard used. Dark blond hair, chain smoker, dressed Wal-Mart top to bottom. The guy signed for their big ticket the second time. First time, the blond broad went up to sign. The third ticket was cashed by an old woman who was with these two for the first time. All three times, these people took the money in cash. In cash! That’s what I’m told by a guy I know real good in mutuels.

Van Gundy again stopped the tape. “To this point, Ronnie, who is about as obvious a prevaricating and untrustworthy bullshitter as you would ever hope not to meet, has really come up with very little. Interesting, yes, but not worth much. The physical descriptions of the three people, for example, he could have made those up with his infinitely fertile, devious mind.

“Jack Schreier, my boss, that’s exactly what he said when he’d heard this recording up to this point. He thought Ronnie was probably blowing smoke up our asses. But then things change. Here goes.”

RONNIE:
No, I don’t know the names of those people. If I did, I’d have given them up to you before now. Buy I do know something you can use.

VAN GUNDY:
What?

RONNIE:
I got the license plate of the car they drove off in.

VAN GUNDY
(voice once more evidencing some excitement): How?

RONNIE:
How do you think? I followed them down to the parking lot after their second big score and watched them get into this old car and drive away. There was a guy there waiting for them at the car. Stocky, strong-looking, bald guy wearing shades, a little better dressed than the other man and the woman. He said something to them, and they jumped in the car pretty quick, the young broad driving. The bald guy looked at me through his binoculars as they were pulling out. Then they peeled out of there
.
But
not before I got their license plate
.

Van Gundy shut down the tape for the last time. “At this point,” he said, “I called Jack Schreier back in. I told him what Ronnie now said he had to offer. I updated him on the possible tie-in to the allegedly fixed races, and to the murdered jocks. Schreier thought it over for about two seconds and then told me to go ahead and deal with this scum bag, provided Ronnie hadn’t made up the license number. Jack said the number had to be good, or there’s no deal with Ronnie.

“Turns out,” Van Gundy continued, “it was a Wisconsin plate, a real one all right. Ronnie was right about the number. Car belongs to a guy named Bledsoe. He lives in Madison, near the university. We checked with his car insurer, who told us Bledsoe lists his occupation as ‘full time student,’ even though he’s almost fifty years old.”

Matt and Moe looked at each other. Then Moe slammed his hand down on the table. “The fucking Professor,” he said, looking at Matt, “Bernie’s fucking professor.” Matt was not as certain. “Could be,” he said. “It’s possible.”

Van Gundy was puzzled. “What professor? What are you talking about?”

Moe said, “Tell him what we know, Matt.”

Over the course of the next half-hour—during which Van Gundy, while listening closely, still managed to demolish the remaining contents of the large fruit platter—Matt told the assistant state’s attorney of Bernie Glockner’s sudden death, Moe’s suspicions about the circumstances surrounding that death, and the series of jockey murders followed by apparently fixed races leading to giant payoffs.

Finally, his long narrative completed, Matt got to his feet and walked over to the north window, through which he could see the busy Oak Street beach a few blocks away, full of sun bathers, swimmers, volleyball players, cyclists, joggers, walkers, and the usual cadre of attentive voyeurs. He thought over all that had been said here. Then he turned and spoke directly to Van Gundy and Popp.

“I’ve been writing about horse racing for more than ten years,” Matt said. “I’ve heard of some scams, and some screwed-up attempts at scams. Hell, any racetrack in the world could compete pound for pound with Washington, DC as a source of rumors and gossip.

“But,” Matt went on, “I’ve never come across anything like this. I’m convinced there’s some kind of conspiracy going on designed to steal money from honest bettors. This guy the Professor, Bledsoe, may be the linchpin. He might be the guy that Bernie Glockner dealt with. He might be the guy who pressured Randy Morrison. He might be the guy Oily Ronnie spotted in the Heartland parking lot with the people who cashed the big Pick Four ticket. You’ve got to check him out.”

Van Gundy sighed. “Mr. O’Connor, give us some credit. Of course we checked him out. Bledsoe has no criminal record whatsoever. He’s a well-known eccentric up there in Madison, where, I understand, there’s no shortage of them. But he’s famous for having gone to the university for more than thirty straight years, financed by some family trust fund. There’ve been several newspaper articles about him over the years, even one long magazine story. Bledsoe has never worked a day in his life that anyone knows about, except for some private tutoring once in awhile. But there’s no hint of any criminality here. According to a Madison detective I know, Bledsoe’s never even gotten a parking ticket.”

“I don’t know,” Moe said, shaking his head. “That kind of background doesn’t indicate a multiple murderer as far as I’m concerned.”

Popp said, “Hey, you can’t rule out anybody off just that kind of information. We got a guy on a murder rap last year, he was a church deacon, boy scout leader, and head of a charitable foundation, who got up one morning and used a chain saw on his wife of nearly thirty years.

“That, of course, was a crime of demented passion. These jockey killings are different. There’s nothing to indicate there’s any passion involved here, nothing personal. These killings are being done by some very intelligent, methodical prick who is convinced he can get away with anything he wants.”

Matt sat back down on the couch, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “We don’t know enough about Bledsoe to put him in that category. But what was he doing at the racetrack with the people who cashed the big tickets? If Bledsoe is some trust fund beneficiary, I doubt that he’s moonlighting as a chauffeur for gamblers. But I’m not about to eliminate him from the picture without taking a good look at him myself. I know some people on the Madison newspapers. I’m going to take a run up there and talk to one of them.

“But before that, Larry,” Matt added, “let me ask you something. Does anyone else have this story on Oily Ronnie?”

“Nobody,” Van Gundy replied. “We just made our deal with Schrapps this morning. He’s being held without bond, and that’s the way he’s going to stay while we expand the investigation. He’s comfortable with that for the time being and so is his attorney. If things work out right, if what Schrapps gave us turns out to be solid regarding Bledsoe and his group, Ronnie will do short federal time.”

Van Gundy put the tape recorder in its case.