“But that depressing thought,” Moe said, “is completely lost on this generation of Cubs fans. It makes no difference to them what the Cubs do next year, or whenever. They will pack the park-and this place,” he said, gesturing to the porch. “They come like lemmings to the sea, all bringing money.
“‘Wait until next year,’” Moe said, “the Cubs fan’s mantra. What a beautiful thought.”
Doyle walked over to the refrigerator behind the bar and took out a Heineken. “Bring me a bottled water, will you, Jack?” Moe said. Doyle returned with the drinks and sat down at the table. He was still running the building’s financial figures through his head. He said, “So, if I fixed another horse race for you-at my old rate-I could rent this joint for maybe a two-game series, right?”
Moe looked hurt. “Jack…Jack,” he said, “I’m surprised at your bitterness. I thought we’d gotten past all that.”
Doyle didn’t respond. He clutched the beer can, eyes aimed down at the table. Finally, he said, “I’ve got a right to be bitter. Especially after my meeting this morning with that gorgon from the U. S. Attorney’s office.
“The government,” he told Moe, “has struck a deal with that little bastard Mortvedt. They’re letting him plead down in order to get his testimony against Rexroth for insurance fraud.”
Doyle slammed the beer can down on the table. “Damn it, Moe, this is hard to swallow, after what Mortvedt did to Aldous, what he did to all those horses. It’s just grinding on me. The idea of Mortvedt getting any kind of break at all-I can’t come to grips with it.”
Moe said softly, “But there’s nothing you can do about it. Rexroth is the government’s target, the big catch for them. Media bigshot takes precedence over a crooked jockey, any day of the week. That’s the way it is, Jack.”
“So it seems,” Doyle said. He drained the Heineken and crushed the can in his hand. “So it seems.”
They sat silently for a minute or so. Moe poured the last of the Evian water into his glass. “You’re how old now, Jack?”
Doyle frowned. “I’ll be playing the 4–1 daily double for my age next year,” he replied. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Moe said, “Maybe it’s time you learned how to accept the fact that some things just have to be accepted. Period. Because otherwise they turn into little worms in your psyche, burrowing into you, paralyzing you mentally. I’ve seen it happen. Not a pretty sight.”
“Psyche!” Doyle snorted. “Don’t be worrying about my goddam psyche. This issue is burning in my goddam gut.”
Moe looked pityingly across the table at Doyle. He said, “When I was younger I was a lot like you, getting myself fucked up concentrating on things I had no chance of ever controlling. Chewing on questions I could never answer. Big ones, small ones. How did human life begin? Who taught Oswald how to shoot like that-if he did that shooting? Why is the underside of the pillow always cool?”
He paused, then added in a low voice, “Why did I survive the retreat from Chosen Reservoir and three- quarters of my Marines platoon didn’t?…Why did my mother die of breast cancer when she was forty-one years old?”
Moe got to his feet and buttoned his black silk sport coat, then put on his sunglasses. “It was making me nuts, so many questions. Once you start asking them, they multiply. They start to take over. So I finally wised up. I stood back. I decided to concentrate on controlling only things I had at least a chance to control. It probably saved my life, that decision. Do yourself a favor and think about that, Jack.”
Doyle followed as Kellman walked to the doorway leading to the porch. The two men silently looked down and across Sheffield Avenue at Wrigley Field, its green seats, green grass, and ivy-covered brick walls gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“To you, it looks like an old ballpark,” Moe said fondly. “I see a genuine, certified, bona fide gold mine.
“C’mon, Jack,” Moe added. “I’ll have Pete drive you to the airport.”
Chapter 35
The morning after he returned from Chicago, Doyle walked into his office at Willowdale and activated his answering machine. First thing he heard was a message from Rexroth.
“They’ll be bringing our horse Lancaster Lad down from Heartland Downs late today,” Rexroth said. “He’s not been running well. Probably needs a change of scenery. When he arrives, put him over on the Annex with Boomer until further notice. Good place for him to relax. The van from Heartland should arrive about four.”
“Relax, my ass,” Doyle said to himself. “Change of scenery! Change of identity is more like it.”
After he’d cleared the remaining messages, he sat down in his desk chair. He decided to slip away for a nap that afternoon, for he knew he was going to be on the alert each night and morning at least the rest of that week, his last at Willowdale.
Arriving two days later from Chicago via Rexroth’s private jet was jockey Willie Arroyo, who climbed aboard Boomer at 6:15 a.m. and worked him over the training track together with Lancaster Lad, who was ridden by exercise rider Gwen Goran. At least the two started out in company. However, not a quarter-mile of the six-furlong trial had elapsed before Boomer began to pull rapidly away from Lancaster Lad. Arroyo sat still as a statue on Boomer, never urging him, but the margin increased anyway. Goran frantically hustled Lancaster Lad in an attempt to keep up, to no avail. Boomer crossed the finish line more than sixteen lengths in front, going easily.
Only two grooms and Pedro Ramos, recently promoted by Rexroth to assistant foreman, watched this from the viewing stand next to the training track rail. Jack Doyle took in the action from a stand of trees located on a slight incline across from the eighth pole of the track. The emerging sun was behind him, so he didn’t worry about his binoculars glinting and giving away his presence. When he checked his stopwatch after Boomer passed the wire, he whistled softly. Then he sneaked away through the trees, smiling to himself.
As he made his way back to his office, Doyle thought hard about the principals involved in this caper. He doubted that Kenny Gutfreund, trainer of the Willowdale horses at Heartland Downs, knew what was transpiring here on the farm; Gutfreund had a strong reputation as a straight shooter.
On the other hand, Doyle had every reason to believe that jockey Willie Arroyo knew quite well what was going on, for he’d ridden both horses, Lancaster Lad in his mediocre races at Heartland, Boomer in his sensational early morning trials at Willowdale. Still, if things played out the way Doyle thought they would, it would be hard to pin anything on the jockey, who was known to feign ignorance with the best of them.
But that realization didn’t bother Doyle for long. As he circled the base of the berm that obscured the training track from the nearby road, Doyle recalled the words of his Uncle Pete O’Connor, his mother’s older brother. An avid fisherman, Pete loved to intone, “One big fish is worth a whole bunch of little ones.”
Doyle had always considered Uncle Pete one of the most boring humans he’d ever known. But today, particularly, he saw the value of this little piece of philosophy.
Rexroth phoned Doyle in his office that afternoon, some nine hours after the so-called secret workout on the Willowdale training track.
“Change in plans, Doyle,” Rexroth said curtly. “Lancaster Lad has definitely come to life after his R amp;R here at Willowdale. Good thing, too,” Rexroth added with a phony chuckle, “or I’d have a lot of egg on my face come next Saturday night after the predictions I’ve made about him winning the Derby.
“But now,” Rexroth continued, “it’s all systems go for Saturday. The horse is doing fantastically well. They can’t run the Heartland Derby any too soon, far as I’m concerned.”
Rexroth then instructed Doyle to have Lancaster Lad ready for loading on the van by five Wednesday morning.
“I’ll have him ready,” Doyle promised. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Rexroth responded, “That’s what I like in people working for me, Doyle-the hands-on, personal responsibility approach.” As he listened, Doyle looked out the office window. In the parking lot, he saw Pedro’s Jeep Cherokee with its bumper sticker proclaiming
“Variety,” Doyle began to quote. But he realized he was about to go too far. He thought of Moe Kellman
