she drove to area farms to keep appointments. Mornings at ten she was at her post in the K-Mart checkout line, where she remained until six. Her combined income from these two jobs was just enough to keep her family afloat.
“Mrs. Klinder,” said the smooth voice over the phone, “my name is Byron Stoner. I’m calling from Willowdale Farm over near Lexington. I’m interested in making an appointment for your services as a horse tattooer.”
“Kind of late at night, isn’t it?” Earlene replied, her fatigue manifesting itself in irritability. “Hold on a second; I’ll get my appointments book.” She thumped the receiver of the phone down on the kitchen counter.
A minute later, Earlene said, “Mr. Stoner? I’m scheduled to be down your way next Tuesday. I can put Willowdale on my list of stops.”
Stoner said, “No, that won’t do. We need you to make a special trip here, this week.” There was a pause. Then Stoner said, “You see, we need you to tattoo only one horse.”
Earlene, disbelief in her voice, said, “A special trip? At night? Mr. Stoner, I only get paid $12 a horse. Look, why don’t we wait until I’ve got some other appointments lined up? Croft Lane Farm has got a bunch of two-year- olds they want done. That’s near you. I just haven’t figured out a time yet. But I could hook you in with them.
“Otherwise, it’s just not worth my while to drive all the way down there to tattoo just your one horse.”
There was another pause. Stoner then told her what the job would be worth. “I’ve got a messenger on his way to your home right now with a down payment of $1,000-in cash-just to get you to come down here and discuss this, shall we say, unique situation,” he said. “No strings attached. The $1,000 is yours regardless of what you decide.”
“Is tomorrow night soon enough for you?” Earlene asked.
Randy Kauffman met Earlene Klinder’s car at the front gate of Willowdale. He introduced himself and, without asking, opened the passenger door of her seven-year-old Yugo and sat on the front seat, his bulky body bringing a squishing sound out of the worn cushion as he squeezed in. Kauffman directed her through the dusk over a road well removed from Willowdale’s main barn complex. Minutes later, Earlene pulled up in back of the large equipment shed on the portion of Willowdale known as the Annex. Waiting for her were Byron Stoner, the groom Pedro, and a bay horse who moved his feet restlessly as he watched her approach with her tattoo kit containing its needles and dyes.
Kauffman held the horse’s shank as Earlene showed Pedro how to position the clamp that kept open the horse’s mouth.
Stoner said, “This is the tattoo you are to apply,” showing her a plain piece of paper with the letter B and five numerals on it.
“This is no two-year-old,” Earlene muttered as she readied her equipment. She could tell that by the horse’s teeth as well as its size and musculature. None of the men responded.
Two-year-olds, Earlene knew from experience, were the easiest ones to deal with. The older the horse, the more time they’d had to learn tricks, as she called them. Still, this horse stood calmly for the most part, and Earlene went about her work with cool efficiency. She finished the job in less than fifteen minutes.
Stoner walked with Earlene back to her car. As she opened the driver’s side door, he handed her an envelope. “This the remainder of your payment,” Stoner said. “May we never meet again.” He turned away without another word.
Earlene rapidly counted the $4,000 in cash in the envelope. She had just committed a criminal act, one that could lead to her being in prison and Earl and Earlene in foster homes if it were ever discovered, but she couldn’t help but feel excited, triumphant even! This was like winning the lottery, something she knew in her heart she’d never do.
Earlene was confident Byron Stoner would never reveal any details of her illegal doings here at Willowdale tonight, and she was damn sure she wouldn’t. Several times during the drive home, she riffled the bills between her fingers as they lay in the envelope on her lap. She couldn’t help but wonder to herself about who the bay horse really was.
Chapter 29
With his host busy talking on the telephone, Jack Doyle sat back in one of the comfortable chairs that flanked a long glass table positioned near the large window of Moe Kellman’s north Michigan Avenue business office. Directly in front of the table, also facing north toward a spectacular, eighteenth-floor view of the Chicago skyline, was an expansive, comfortable, dark leather couch.
Kellman had waved a greeting as Doyle was ushered in, but continued his phone conversation. He was elegantly dressed as usual, white linen shirt agleam under a gray silk suit, two huge diamond cufflinks sparkling as he shifted the phone from one hand to another.
Kellman perched on a chair behind his desk. But there were no chairs in front of it. Kellman preferred to do business from the couch, located several deep-carpeted yards from his desk, where he could easily reach over and give an encouraging pat to a customer’s knee or hand.
Still talking on the phone, Kellman motioned across the room to Jack. The late afternoon sun behind Kellman’s back served to back-light and further emphasize his startling head of frizzed white hair. He was urging Doyle to help himself to the lavish platter of fresh fruit that just been delivered. Responding in pantomime, Doyle waved off Kellman’s offer of something to drink.
This was Doyle’s first visit to Kellman’s place of business, and he was impressed by the prestigious Michigan Avenue address, the two glossy receptionists in the outer office, the extensive collection of modern art that graced the walls of the spacious, tastefully furnished room.
Doyle walked over to the north-facing window, admiring the view. When his gaze fell upon a church steeple in the distance, Doyle remembered the shock he’d felt early that morning. After informing Byron Stoner that he had personal business in Chicago and would be away for the day, Doyle had gotten into his car at Willowdale and turned on the radio as he pulled out of the driveway.
“And JEEZUS, driving old CAR NUMBER ONE, he leads the JERUSALEM 500, you better believe it, brothers and sisters.…”
The voice had jumped out of the speakers, startling Doyle.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Kellman cooed into the phone, eyes alight as he winked at Doyle. “That’s the price. Rosemary is going love that coat. You’ll have to take her out every night next winter, show her off.” Kellman laughed loudly at the short response to that suggestion.
“Okay, that’s how we’ll do it. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll messenger it over to you. Same to you, Feef.”
Placing the phone down, Kellman said, “Fifi Bonadio.” He shook his head. “Cheapest son of a bitch in the Outfit. Every time he buys a coat as a present for one of his punches, it’s like you’re negotiating the fuckin’ Louisiana Purchase. And with all the money he’s stolen and hidden….”
Moe crossed the room. First he shook Doyle’s hand, then reached up to pinch his cheek fondly. “This is our City Boy?” he said, glancing at Doyle’s farm manager outfit, short-sleeved white shirt with no tie, tan khakis, western boots. “You’re dressed like Ronald Reagan on vacation,” Kellman said. “All you need is a red neckerchief.” He took a seat on the couch, plucked a pear from the tray on the table, and sat back.
“So what is it, Jack?” Kellman smiled. “You miss me? That why you drove all the way up here from Kentucky to talk?”
“Not quite,” Doyle replied.
The reason for Doyle’s visit, as he had explained to agents Engel and Tirabassi prior to departing Kentucky, was to pick Kellman’s brain regarding what he thought Rexroth might be up to with Willowdale’s mystery horse-the fast, bay colt of unknown origin that Willie Arroyo was still flying in to work out. “If anybody would know, it would be Moe Kellman.” The agents did not disagree.
Doyle spent the next quarter hour recounting to Kellman the details of Aldous Bolger’s beating, an event
