As the weeks unfolded with Doyle held hostage, as he thought of it, in the heart of Kentucky’s Blue Grass country, he began more and more to look forward to two things: finding the incriminating material needed to hang Rexroth out to dry and thereby get the FBI off his case, and, two, his twilight conversations with Caroline.
In addition to admiring her beauty, and easy and good-humored way of conversing with him, Doyle was impressed with her strength. When the subject of her late husband came up, usually in the context of something to do with the children, Caroline calmly addressed it, never attempting to shield the pain she felt over his loss, but never dramatizing it, either. Grant Cummings must have been a hell of a man as well as a hell of jockey to win this woman for his wife, Doyle thought.
As Doyle sat chatting with Caroline one evening, the telephone rang in Bolger’s house. Caroline went inside to answer it. When she returned to the front porch, she said, “That was the man at the front gate. He said there is a Federal Express package there for you, Jack. He can’t leave his post there. He wants to know if you will go down there and pick it up. What shall I tell him?”
Minutes later, Doyle made his way down the long driveway to the front gate of Willowdale. As he moved past the grazing horses in the broad fields on either side of him, he wondered who might be sending him something via Federal Express. Had Karen or Damon planned to mail him something, he was sure they would have informed him in advance. “This could be Publisher’s Clearing House, or a letter bomb,” he said to himself.
After Doyle had retrieved the package, he opened it as he began his return walk. When he saw what was inside, he abruptly stopped. There were six cashier’s checks, each worth $5,000. Doyle riffled through them twice, his initial disbelief giving way to a growing tide of exultation. “Damn, these things are for real,” he said to himself. “I can’t believe it!” He checked the address label on the front of the package. The addressee was definitely Jack Doyle. The return address was in Hallandale, Fla.
Doyle looked inside the package again. He then extracted a folded-over piece of white paper. The writing on it was from a typewriter. It said: “Dear Jack. Sorry we did what we did to you, but we had a very, very good reason. Look up a three-year-old named Bunny’s Al. If you wish, call this number.”
He read this note two or three more times as he stood in descending dusk. Then Doyle hotfooted it to Bolger’s office. The door was unlocked. Doyle entered and headed for the stack of
Underneath the name, which was in white type on a black background, was the following: “Whirlaway Stakes, Florida Park, June 22, $75,000 added, value of race $83,200, three-year-olds, seven furlongs, 1:23 4–5, track fast.”
Doyle read further. The next entry repeated Bunny’s Al name, then gave his color (chestnut), age (three), and weight carried in the race (118), plus his winner’s share ($49,920).
The names of his sire and dam were next, but they meant nothing to Doyle, nor did the name of the horse’s breeder.
He continued to examine the
Stunned, Doyle looked around the area in which he stood, as if he were going to suddenly find someone there to consult with concerning this astonishing revelation. “Didn’t Maureen tell me her last name was Hoban?” He ransacked his memory. Doyle was pretty sure he was right about that.
“I’ll be a triple-decker son of a bitch,” he said aloud. Then he began jogging up the drive to his Accord. Doyle couldn’t wait to get this pair on the phone, although he knew he’d much rather have his hands around their necks.
Chapter 18
The parking lot where Doyle stood, outside the Wildcat Jiffy-Shop station and store, was relatively quiet. Not so the background noise on the other end of the receiver when, after several rings, it was finally picked up and a woman’s voice said hurriedly, “Fado. How can I help you?”
Doyle said, “Fey-dough? What the hell does that mean?” He hadn’t intended to be impolite to this stranger, but the thought of the thieving twosome bit at him. The woman replied, in a chilly voice, “Fado, that is spelled F-a- d-o, means ‘long ago’ in Gaelic.”
Long ago and far away, with my money, Doyle thought. “What
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Somewhat impatiently, the woman said, “Fado is an Irish bar and restaurant. And a very popular one.”
Doyle said, “Isn’t that Bob Marley and the Wailers I hear on your sound system?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And this is an Irish bar and grill?”
For a moment it seemed she was going to take the time to explain Fado’s choice of music. Instead, though, she said, “It is indeed an Irish bar. Now, again, how may I help you?”
“Let me talk to your lady bartender from Cork by way of Chicago,” Doyle said. “Tell her it’s Mr. Doyle. From Immigration.”
There was another lengthy pause, then Doyle heard the phone being set down. He waited, tapping his foot to the reggae beat and looking up at the star-packed Kentucky sky. Finally, he heard a familiar voice say, “Jack Doyle, you lovely man. Isn’t it a great thing now that you’re calling?”
“Hello, Maureen,” said Doyle.
After adding a few more sentences on to her warm greeting, Maureen said, “Jack, I can’t talk to you from this phone. Give us your number up there, please, and I’ll call you back in five minutes. I’ll be paying for the call that way.”
“You should be,” Doyle growled. He waited eagerly for the phone to ring. When a pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, he snatched up the receiver, making it look like the phone was in use, then replaced it. Seconds later, the phone rang.
“Jack, we’re both on here now,” Maureen said. Then Doyle heard E. D. Morley’s deep voice, on another extension, say, “Hey, mon, what you op to?”
“Don’t start that Jamaican jive with me,” Doyle snapped. “E. D., I want to know what the hell you were doing when you robbed me of my money. And hit me with that dose of knockout juice.” Doyle could feel the heat rush to his face as he relived the ambush in his parking garage.
“Aw, sheet, Jack,” E. D. said in his rumbling bass while reverting to his natural Chicago West Side accent, “it’s a long story.” There was a pause, then Morley said, “But you got a right to hear it.”
“True that tis,” chipped in Maureen. Doyle was about to lash out at his one-time counselor from Cork when he decided it was best for him to just shut up and listen.
What Doyle heard over the course of the next half-hour or so was a combination of explanation and justification, interspersed with elements of sincere apology. All this was jointly offered by Maureen and E. D., who vowed repeatedly that they had never intended to keep the money they stole from Doyle, only use it as the basis for an investment that “couldn’t go wrong-and didn’t.”
Maureen said she had first met E. D. the previous year at a St. Patrick’s Day party hosted by one of Angelo Zocchi’s clients, Jim Dunleavy, for all the stable help. It was held at O’Keefe’s Ale House. Maureen, of course, had been working on this busiest night of O’Keefe’s year, and she helped serve the Dunleavy party.
“It was brilliant, Jack,” Maureen gushed. “We hit it off right away. E. D. came around the next night, and then we started going out, and now-well, we’ve been together since right before we left Chicago.”
Interjected Morley earnestly, “My mama’s grandma really was from Jamaica, a white woman name of Cullerton.”
“Look,” Doyle said, “don’t take this as being anti-romantic, or anything, but I’m not real interested in this reggae version of Abie’s Irish Rose, if you know what I mean. Why’d you take my money?”
