thought, fleetingly but bitterly, of Maureen and E. D.
“We were alerted to all this by the agent in our Chicago office who maintains contact with Roxborough,” Karen said. “He checked with his local sources, who confirmed that there was something out of line about that race. The same agent spotted you while reviewing routine surveillance tapes of a man named Moe Kellman. We knew who he was. The restaurant owner, Dino, told us who you were.”
“What’s ‘routine’ about a surveillance tape?” Doyle snapped.
Karen ignored the question. “Moe Kellman, as I’m sure you are aware, is one of the Chicago Outfit’s major money movers. We know that, even though we’ve never been able to build a case against him. Kellman oversees the operation of many of the Outfit’s legitimate businesses, ones that have been started with money he helped to launder years ago.…”
Doyle pondered this information, which was brand-new to him. He’d suspected that Kellman’s background was not exactly pristine-after all, the talk of “my people” between a couple of such men of the world as themselves suggested otherwise.
But, Doyle knew, Chicago was full of phonies claiming to be “connected” to the Outfit, or “clouted up” at City Hall, or in the police department; Doyle had met, and seen through, a number of them. He realized now that Kellman’s subtle hints over the course of their conversations were, unfortunately for Doyle, the real thing; that the little man actually stood tall in the local criminal hierarchy. This knowledge made Doyle’s headache worsen.
“I know Kellman,” Doyle admitted. “We work out at the same gym. But so what? There’s undoubtedly all kinds of other twisted citizens there morning and night. Keep in mind, the membership roster is heavy with lawyers and securities traders.”
Doyle began attempting to retrieve pieces of the conversations he’d had with Kellman over Dino’s dining tables. When some of these pieces came back to him, especially discussions of City Sarah’s racing schedule, Doyle felt a wave of unease. To his immense relief, he heard Tirabassi say, “We don’t have any audio tapes of you and Kellman, or Kellman and any other of his interesting dining companions, for that matter. That’s an Outfit hangout, and Dino’s is checked for bugs daily by one of their best security men.”
Doyle struggled not to grin at this revelation. “So, why are you hassling me?” he said to Tirabassi. He was beginning to feel better on all fronts.
Karen immediately deflated him.
“We’ve tied you to Kellman,” she said, “and we’ve established that you worked for Zocchi. Not only that, but that you worked on the horse in question, this City Sarah. And we know you left Mr. Zocchi’s employment shortly after that race.
“We’ve been to the track and checked with Zocchi about you. He described you, I’m quoting, as an ‘uncooperative’ individual whom he was ‘not at all sorry to see go.’”
“Did you ask Zocchi about this so-called fix?” Doyle said.
“We interviewed all of the stable personnel,” Tirabassi replied. “All but you, that is, since you’d so abruptly quit. Probably with the money you’d made from setting this thing up.”
Doyle winced at that statement. To Tirabassi he said, “All you’ve unloaded on me here seems to add up to a bunch of nothing. You may not know it, but I used to make my living in advertising and sales. I’ve got a built-in bullshit detector, developed during those days, and it’s pulsating…it’s
“If you had anything solid on me, we wouldn’t be having this cozy little coffee klatsch. You’d have served me a warrant at the door and hauled my ass downtown.” He got to his feet and stretched his arms expansively, trying to look nonchalant.
The agents exchanged glances. Then Tirabassi said to Doyle, “We’ve got a Mexican illegal, a busboy from Dino’s, who is facing deportation charges. Bye bye Chico, you know what I mean? He’s very willing to testify that he overheard parts of a conversation in which you and Kellman talked about a fixed horse race.”
Doyle snorted. “For Chrissakes, come back to the real world, man. Dino doesn’t keep a busboy down there who knows more than ten words of English. If he did, they might hit up Dino for a huge raise to get them in range of the minimum wage. No, I can’t imagine your deportee as some kind of star witness in court.
“I think you two are blue-skying here, as we used to say over at…well, my former place of business.”
“Mr. Doyle,” Karen responded, “please sit down a minute and consider a few things. One, we can cite you as a ‘known associate’ of Moe Kellman, and we’ve got a file on him that’s thicker than the Chicago phone book, even though he’s never been convicted of anything. Plus, we can tie you to the scene of the reported fixed race. You worked with that horse, you can’t deny it.
“Now, these things might not add up to a conviction in your case,” she conceded. “But they certainly add up to a package of damning information we could dump on the desk of any legitimate employer you might seek to find work with in the future.
“This is not the kind of background information that’ll lead you to a corner office anywhere. Think about it.”
“Well, well,” said Doyle, “and here I was under the impression that all those old J. Edgar Hoover techniques of threat and implication were things of the past. I thought I’d been hearing all about the ‘New FBI.’ You’re shaking my faith in federal law enforcement.
“I don’t get it,” Doyle continued, genuinely puzzled. “You tell me all this stuff about a fixed race, involving me, you say, but you admit you don’t have a case against me. Still, you make threats about messing me up with future employers. What’s the deal here, folks? Out of the immense citizenry of this great nation, why has your little corner of the Federal Bureau of Investigation selected Jack Doyle’s life to play with?”
Karen looked over at her partner, who nodded for her to continue.
“Actually, Jack, there’s something you could do for us. Something that would serve to wipe your slate clean with us.”
Doyle said angrily, “Whatever you’re talking about, it’s got blackmail written all over it. I know very well how personnel managers react to visits from people like you.”
“Let’s start thinking of this more as an invitation to cooperate,” Karen smiled, “an opportunity to ‘give something back,’ as the professional athletes say. You put one over in one area of the horse business. Maybe we can’t prove it, but you did it. You know it, and we know it. It was unworthy of you, Jack. This is a chance for you to make up for it.
“Just listen to what we have to say. It won’t take long. It’s not distasteful, or dangerous, but it might actually prove satisfying to a risk-taker like you. And it’s in your best interests,” Karen added.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Doyle said in amazement. “What the hell could I do for the FBI?”
Tirabassi broke his silence. “You ever hear of a man named Harvey Rexroth?”
Chapter 6
Twenty minutes later, Doyle and the two FBI agents sat in a well-worn, high-backed red booth at the rear of Petros’ Restaurant, two blocks from Doyle’s apartment.
When it appeared that his conversation with Engel and Tirabassi was going to go on for some time, Doyle told them, “Look, this is all very interesting. But I’m not exactly at the top of my game this morning. I need some breakfast.”
“I assume you mean ‘Not here,’” Karen said, grimacing in the direction of Doyle’s refrigerator.
“The only time I eat in is when I have carry out,” Doyle said. “Let’s go down the street.”
Petros’ was one of the thousands of Greek-owned restaurants in Chicago, the vast majority of them featuring reasonable prices, decent food, and moderate pretensions. Petros, Doyle informed the agents as they walked south on Clark Street, was a bald-headed import from Mikos who was convinced he looked exactly like the old television detective Kojak, portrayed by Telly Savalas, and loved to be referred to by the actor’s first name.
As they entered and walked toward the back booth, Doyle gave his usual greeting to Petros, who was seated at a table with clear sight lines to the cash register and its buxom female operator. “Hello, Smelly-no, Telly,” Doyle
