Close Call (3 page)
Doyle parked his Accord in a slot marked Guest just outside the Monee Park clubhouse entrance. It was a warm late March morning and he was tempted to loosen his necktie as he got out of the car. But he thought better of that. “Got to look good from the get go,” he reminded himself. He was wearing his best dark blue business suit and his black shoes gleamed.
Inside the building, a maintenance worker directed Doyle to the elevators. He pressed floor five, the highest number showing, where he’d been told the executive offices were located. When the elevator door slid open, Doyle stepped into a carpeted reception area and heard a low, feminine voice say, “So you’re the famous Jack Doyle. Right on time, and here to help the damsel in distress.”
The statement carried with it a hint of mockery, and the look on the young woman’s face affirmed it. “I’m Doyle,” he smiled. “Famous, I don’t know. And,” he added, “my history with damsels has been that I don’t so much rescue them from distress, as cause it.”
His listener frowned from her chair behind the large desk. She was a thirty-something African American with a no nonsense air about her who proceeded to size him up before saying, “I remember you on TV, and that balloon that crashed at Heartland Downs. That’s famous enough for me.
“Welcome to Monee Park,” she continued. “I’m Shontanette Hunter, Celia’s secretary. I wasn’t here the day you came in for your job interview.” Shontanette wore a white, open collared blouse and a dark blue skirt. Her hair was close cropped, her smooth complexion the color of cappuccino custard. “Celia’s in a meeting. She’ll be ready to see you in about ten minutes. Have a seat.
“As for the damsel in distress part, Mr. Doyle,” Shontanette said seriously, “you’d better be aware that I’ve got that girl’s back. Celia and I have been friends for a lot of years. I love her like a sister. I’m expecting you to do right by her.”
Doyle said, “Look, I’m just here to do a job. And I’ll do it right.”
He walked over to the long, dark red leather couch. The walnut paneled wall behind it, like the other walls of this reception area, was covered with photos of famous horses and racing people—jockeys, trainers, owners—who had competed in past years at Monee Park, usually on their way up to bigger tracks, sometimes on their way down from them as well.
As he would later learn, Shontanette Hunter first met Celia McCann when they were children. Their friendship formed during summer vacations from high school when Shontantette worked the popcorn stand on the east end of Monee Park’s first floor. They were both sixteen that year. Celia was in training with her Uncle Jim, being prepped in track management. The two girls became close and remained so, working at the track the next two summers before Celia went off to college at Saint Mary-of-the-Woods in South Bend, Indiana, from which she would graduate with honors in education. Shontanette, meanwhile, attended a Chicago secretarial school, emerging with a record replete with A grades. When Celia succeeded her uncle as head of Monee Park, she hired her old friend to serve as her executive secretary.
Doyle cleared his throat, and Shontanette looked up from her computer. “Can I ask you something? How old is Ms. McCann?”
Shontanette gave him a searching look. “I’m just curious,” Doyle assured her. “I like to know at least something about someone I’m going to work for.”
“Celia just turned thirty-four,” Shontanette said. “Some people think she looks a bit older than that. Because of those worry lines that show. That’s what pain and sorrow can etch into a caring person’s face,” she said more softly. Instead of elaborating, she continued to regard Doyle warily.
Doyle sighed. “Why is it,” he said, “that I seem to arouse suspicion, or at least skepticism, in so many women?”
Shontanette peered at him over the rims of her white-framed glasses. “I would suspect,” she said, “that you should be asking yourself that question, not asking me.”
“
Touché
,” Doyle said, grinning. Shontanette allowed herself a half smile before turning back to her computer.
***
As he waited on the couch, Doyle thought back to his initial visit to Monee Park the previous Tuesday, when he had been interviewed by Celia McCann. She had been waiting for him in this reception area that morning, sitting behind the large desk. He’d glanced at the nameplate on the desk and said, “Ms. Hunter?”
“No,” Celia had replied, smiling. “I’m Celia McCann. You must be Jack Doyle. Good morning.” She rose and came out from behind the desk, hand extended. She was a striking looking woman who wore her long red hair pulled back and tied in a bun. Her face was long, with pronounced cheek bones, a wide mouth, nose that curved up slightly, and a delicately molded chin. Her large green eyes were framed by long, reddish lashes. Doyle was disappointed to see that she wore a gold wedding band. As she led him through the office doorway, Doyle noticed that she was tall, within an inch or two of his five-eleven. She was wearing a long-sleeved white wool sweater, gray skirt, black flats. Celia said, “We’ll go this way” and led him down a narrow, carpeted hallway filled with unopened boxes. “Office supplies we haven’t had a chance to unpack,” she said. The walls were lined with more photos, many of them of prominent people from the worlds of politics, show business, and sports, shown during their visits to Monee Park.
Celia looked back over her shoulder and said, “Uncle Jim’s great friend Moe Kellman said you were looking for a job and had experience in racing. I am glad you could come in for an interview.”
Doyle knew that Moe had told her more than that about him, but all he said was, “I’m glad, too, Ms. McCann.”
He couldn’t help but gawp as he continued walking in the wake of this long-striding woman. Moe hadn’t mentioned to Doyle that his potential new employer was drop dead, then spring eagerly back to life, beautiful.
“Moe, you little rascal,” Doyle muttered. Hearing this Ceclia kept walking but looked back over her shoulder inquiringly, right eyebrow raised. Doyle said nothing. He continued to follow her down the long, crowded corridor, checking her out. The flat shoes she wore, Doyle surmised, were probably intended to make her look a bit less tall. He admired her long-legged, graceful advance.
They came to the end of the corridor. Celia reached for the heavy brass handle on the wooden door. Before turning it she said, “My husband would like to meet you, Mr. Doyle.”
“Fine. But please make it ‘Jack.’”
Pausing at the door, Celia said, “Jack, I don’t want you to be shocked when you see him, so I will tell you here that my husband has ALS.”
He wasn’t so much shocked as surprised by the fact that Moe Kellman, the man who knew so much about so many, was apparently ignorant of this depressing fact.
“ALS,” Doyle said. “That’s Lou Gehrig’s Disease, right?”
“That’s what it’s commonly known by. The correct term is Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. My husband has had it for more than two years. It’s incurable.”
“I’m very sorry to hear this,” Doyle said as he followed her through the doorway.
They entered the living room of the apartment located on the building’s top floor. The drapes were drawn. Doyle noticed book cases, trophy cases, and several paintings of racing scenes. To the left of a long tan couch sat a man in a wheel chair. Doyle saw him last, for he was just outside the spray of light from the lone floor lamp that was turned on. His pale face was lined. The tendons in his neck stood out as he raised his eyes to Doyle, giving him a look that a pawn broker might aim at a new customer. The man’s black hair was neat, as if it had been trimmed that morning. Behind this long-legged, large-framed man in the wheelchair stood a slight, brown-skinned Filipino woman wearing a white nurse’s uniform.
Doyle was stunned when Celia introduced the man as “My husband, Bob Zaslow.” Stunned because he recognized the name at once. Some twenty years before, on a bitter, winter night at the old Chicago Stadium, Doyle had watched as Northwestern University basketball star Zaslow poured in thirty-eight points against a good Marquette team. Zaslow, a six foot, five inch forward, was all Big Ten in both his junior and senior years at the Evanston school. Doyle recalled that Zaslow had been drafted by the Boston Celtics of the NBA but didn’t stick, then disappeared into the business world. Doyle hadn’t thought of the man in years.
“And this is Fidelia Rizal,” Doyle heard Celia say. “She’s our friend and…well…great helpmate.” Fidelia came around from behind the wheelchair to shake Doyle’s hand. Zaslow didn’t move, and it soon became apparent to Doyle that he could not. But his bright blue eyes inspected Doyle from head to toe. Finally, he said in a low, strained, raspy voice, “Hello, Jack Doyle.”
Doyle said, “My pleasure, Bob. I remember you well from your playing days at NU. You were terrific.” He immediately regretted this reference to Zaslow’s healthy past. But the former basketball player looked pleased. He motioned with his head for Doyle to take a seat. It was obvious that Zaslow was almost completely immobilized.
Celia took a chair next to her husband. “Bob’s ALS forced him to give up his insurance business over two years ago. He’s fought against it as hard as anyone can,” she added. “But, Mr. Doyle…Jack…we’re here to discuss you and the possibility of your coming to work at Monee Park. Shall we begin?”
In the course of the next half-hour Doyle described his occupational career, Celia described the job. “You would supervise the press box, be in charge of advertising, write press releases for the media,” she said. “ Some days, you’d be required to interview winning owners for our in-house television show that’s simulcast all over the country on weekends.
“We operate almost seven months of the year, mid-April to early October. We race at nights, except some Saturdays, and your work day would begin long before that. I’m talking twelve hour days, six days a week. Not everyone is interested in a schedule so demanding.”
“Which is why I’ve been invited here,” Doyle said. “Naw, scratch that. I’m interested. How about salary?”
Celia said, “$800 a week, a gas allowance, and free meals in any of the track’s restaurants. No health insurance, no pension plan. At this stage, that’s the best we can do. And I mean it.” She looked embarrassed.
Jesus
, Doyle thought, I
used to piss away that much night-lifing on a Rush
Street
weekend
. He said, “I’ll take the job if you offer it to me. Do you want to get back to me?”
Celia glanced at her husband. Zaslow gave her some sort of signal Doyle could not discern. She said, “The job is yours if you want it.”
“Thanks,” Doyle said, getting to his feet. “When do I start?”
***
Doyle stopped at O’Keefe’s Olde Ale House, the Irish saloon near his north side Chicago condo that he had patronized for years, and had a sandwich and a Guinness. But he couldn’t get the image of Bob Zaslow out of his mind. He left money on the bar and walked the three blocks to his building, entered, booted up his computer, and Googled ALS.
The web site he accessed described ALS as being characterized by the degeneration and loss of motor neurons, which gradually die, producing progressive weakness and functional loss of muscles. Those neurons affected “…can include muscles of the limbs and trunk, as well as those for speaking and swallowing…The pattern of muscle deterioration varies among people with ALS. Over a period of months or years, they will experience difficulty in walking, using their hands and arms, in talking and swallowing…The mental facilities, however, usually remain intact.”
The more Doyle read, the more disheartened he became. Thinking of how physically decimated the one-time star athlete looked, Doyle shook his head. “That poor bastard,” he said. He turned off the computer. “And that poor woman. Damn.”
Doyle felt a powerful inclination to return to O’Keefe’s and get, as he occasionally would describe it, “yellow cab drunk.” He resisted, however, knowing that he had to be sharp the next day, his first one on the new job.
He walked into the condo’s small living room to the wall shelf with its few liquor bottles and poured himself a Bushmills on the rocks. He turned on the television news. The five o’clock version had just begun. There had been a warehouse fire and the anchor man excitedly announced that “Now we’ll go to Hal Hermanson, who is live at the scene.” Doyle muttered, “I guess it would be pretty big news if Hal was dead at the scene.”
The second “lead” story, Doyle saw to his astonishment, was about two terribly overweight women who’d been denied access to the use of horses at a suburban Chicago riding stable. They were complaining bitterly to the slim, eager, blond interviewer about the “mistreatment” and “discrimination” they had suffered. The stable had a posted rule that no one weighing more than two hundred pounds would be permitted to rent and ride a horse there. This was to “protect the horses from leg and ankle injuries,” the rule read. It was a policy deemed highly offensive by the women, each of whom measured barely over five foot, Doyle estimated, and definitely exceeded the two hundred pound weight limit. They were incensed. So was Doyle, who found himself saying to the screen, “Why don’t you two rent a couple of Percherons?”
He leaned toward the screen as a representative of the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance began to read a statement. “Is this fucking ‘Saturday Night Live’ on a Wednesday?” he said to the set.
Doyle took a long pull on the Bushmills, then sat back in his armchair and breathed deeply, clicking the remote onto off, turning his thoughts to his new job and his first day tomorrow in this, his latest attempt to reinvent himself. The older he got, the more he found himself sitting in solitary silence, trying to fight off pesky questions, like what the hell am I doing here? Have I been doing here? Should I be doing here? He was amazed that he was being plagued by such self scrutiny, he, a man who’s always been driven by the belief that he was headed directly to the top. His problem, he knew, was figuring out the top of what.
“I should have had Shontanette draw me a map,” Doyle said to himself. He was walking through the third floor grandstand of Monee Park, toward the west end, looking for a stairway he’d been told led to the press box. The place looked as if it hadn’t been swept since the previous year’s race meeting. Old newspapers, used drink cups, empty food wrappers lay all over the concrete floor. Flaking paint and dirt-streaked windows added to the evidence of decay, of a budget that was woefully short on maintenance funds. This racetrack was in trouble, Doyle knew, an impression emphasized when he saw two rats scamper from behind an overflowing wastebasket. “Jesus,” Doyle said, “they’re going to have to clean this joint up in a hurry to be ready for the opener.” He thought about suggesting to Celia that she hire the Chicago exterminating company whose name had always impressed him: Smitthereens. Writing on their trucks made clear that the Smithereens’ employees utilized an anti-vermin weapon described as “Mr. Rat’s Last Lunch.”
Following Shontanette’s directions, Doyle finally came to a heavy, wire screen door. Behind it, a metal stairway rose above the wooden grandstand seats still glistening with morning dew. Most of these seats had not been occupied in recent years during the track’s business downturn. Monee Park had a seating capacity of slightly more than 8,000, a remnant of its glory days. Crowds in recent years bordered on 2,000 a night, maybe 5,000 on a good weekend.
He started walking up the first of three flights of metal steps. The first two were straight ahead. The third flight was an elbow bend to the left. Its steps led to a heavy metal door, and they were steep. “Sherpas could train here,” he snorted.
Looking down at what he knew would be largely empty seats in the weeks to come, Doyle remembered a story about heavyweight legend Joe Louis’ manager. A major New York boxing promoter was trying to arrange a non-title match for Louis at Yankee Stadium. “We can get 100,000 seats in there, using the baseball field,” the promoter enthused. Joe Louis’ manager replied, “Yeah. But how many fannies you goin’ get in those seats?” The proposed bout never came off.
When Doyle reached the top of the stairs, he saw an in-house phone on the left wall, just about eye height. Shontanette had told him about it. She’d said, “Just pick up the receiver. The phone will beep the press box and the door will be opened by an electronic signal sent by whoever answers the phone up there. It’s a security thing,” Shontanette had explained. “Years ago,” she said, “some broken down horse player went charging up to the press box with a loaded gun intending to shoot Sam Surico, the selector for the
Chicago News
. Claimed he’d gone broke betting Surico’s picks. A security guard managed to wrestle the gun away from him before he did any damage. Mr. Joyce decided to secure the area after that incident.”
“Surico’s retired, right?”
“Right. Just last year,” Shontanette answered. “He was a real character. If he had a bad day with his picks, his so-called fans would wait for him at the bottom of the press box stairs, swearing, yelling all kinds of awful things at him. ‘Surico, you dumb so-and-so, we should kick your fat butt.’ Surico this, Surico that. Sam would just stand there for a minute or two, taking all the abuse, his arms outstretched, smiling. ‘These are my people,’ he’d say.”
Doyle lifted the receiver off the hook. Nothing. He put the phone down for a few seconds, then picked it up and tried again. This time he heard the receiver being lifted, but the connection was broken almost immediately.
Receiver in hand, now pounding with his other hand on the press box door, Doyle was about to begin shouting when he heard a low voice say slowly, “Hellooo.”
Fuming, Doyle took a deep breath. He said, “This is Jack Doyle. Will you open the door?”
The low, slow voice answered, “Jack whoooo?”
Doyle turned in a half-circle, receiver in his hand, ready to rip it off its cord. Then he regrouped. “Who am I talking to?” Doyle said, as politely as he could manage.
Silence. Then Doyle heard the low voice say, very, very slowly, “This is Morty Dubinski.”
It suddenly occurred to Doyle what this voice reminded him of. His father had been a huge fan of the radio comedy team Bob and Ray, frequently playing their tapes, especially one about the Slow Talkers Club. Doyle senior had broken up with every listening.
Doyle said, “Open the fucking door, Morty. This is your new boss.”
***
In the press box several desks stood spaced out over an old, worn, brown carpet, along with two darkened television sets, a couch and a couple of arm chairs, a small bar and refrigerator and sink. From a cubicle at the end of the room peered a round-faced man in his late sixties, white hair combed straight back on one of the longest heads Doyle had ever seen. Brown framed glasses, possibly the same ones he wore for his high school yearbook photo, perched on his shiny red nose. He wore an old, light blue sport coat and a dark blue bow tie on a white dress shirt dulled gray. His dark trousers were wrinkled but, incongruously, his black brogans gleamed. He pushed his glasses up on his nose as he said, “Hello, there. I’m Morton J. Dubinski. They call me Morty.” He gave Doyle a quick once over before adding, “Glad to meet you, Doyle.” Then he turned back to his desk.
Without being invited, Doyle entered Morty’s cubicle. “Cluttered” would not begin to describe it. Stacks of old
Racing Dailies
lined two walls from floor level to six feet up. Racing history books were jammed into shelving in the tall book case that stretched along another wall. Morty’s desk top was buried beneath a sea of newspapers, racing programs, and magazines and condition books. A cockapoodle could have easily been concealed beneath the mounds. To the left of the desk, on a pull out wood extension, was an Underwood typewriter that Ben Hecht might have pounded. Ignoring Doyle, Morty turned to it, inserted a piece of copy paper, and began rapidly typing. He was interrupted when the phone on his desk rang. Morty picked it up, listened, then said, “My new boss just got here. Guy named Doyle. I don’t know a goddam thing about him, except that he’s my new boss.” He slammed the phone down and resumed typing.
Shontanette had provided Doyle with some background on Morty Dubinski. “He’s worked here since he got out of high school in the fifties,” she’d said. “He’s the son of a good friend of the late Mr. Joyce. He always thinks he’s going to get the publicity job you have, but he never does. It’s made him somewhat resentful. He can take care of fundamental press box duties, but much beyond that is way over his head. He’s not a bad old guy, but you’ve got to give Celia credit for keeping him on the payroll. They’re very loyal here.”
“This is my right hand man? Wonderful,” Doyle had replied.
Doyle sat down in the chair in front of Morty’s desk. He said, “May I ask what you are doing?”
Morty’s fingers flew over the Underwood’s keys as he answered, “Writing out my resignation.”
“From what?”
“From my position here in the Monee Park publicity department,” Morty snapped. He continued to type rapidly.
Bemused, Doyle sat back in his chair and watched. After a couple of minutes, when Morty plucked the first piece of paper from the typewriter and quickly inserted another, Jack said, “How long does it take to say ‘I quit’?
“And,” Doyle added, reaching forward and ripping the second piece of paper out of the typewriter, “why bother?”
He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, hands clasped. Doyle produced his most ingratiating smile, one that had won over most of the toughest sells he’d met in his account executive career. Morty’s bushy eyebrows elevated, but he said nothing. “You can’t resign, Morty,” Jack said. “Celia McCann needs my help. And I need yours. How about the two of us start over?” He extended his hand and Morty, after a brief hesitation, shook it. Morty’s scowl was replaced by a look of grateful surprise.
Doyle stood up. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get to work. I need you to fill me in on the routine here. The deadlines for press releases to the papers and to radio and television people. Ad deadlines. Who’s our track photographer, and when I can meet him. The whole megillah. Talk to me, Morty.”
Obviously flattered, Morty responded enthusiastically. Three hours later, Doyle, his yellow legal notepad nearly filled, sat back in the chair. “How about some lunch?” he said.
Morty reached into his lower desk drawer and extracted a brown bag.
”No thanks,” he said, “I brought mine. Then I can stay here and answer the phone.”
“The phone hasn’t rung since I got here. But suit yourself.” Doyle got up from the chair, prepared to leave.
Morty cleared his throat, he thrust his glasses back up the bumpy slope of his nose, looking at Doyle appraisingly. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Doyle?”
Doyle nodded. “Call me Jack.”
“What is your background in racing?”
Doyle paused before replying, “I’ve been involved in a number of aspects of it.”
Morty looked dubious. “Oh, yeah? Tell me, Jack, who was the last horse to win the Triple Crown?”
Doyle shot him a look. “Don’t start trying to yank my chain here, Morty. It was Affirmed. I can also name the number of years between Affirmed and the first Triple Crown winner, Sir Barton, faster than you can zip your fly. Which is something I suggest you do.”
He turned to leave. Morty, mortified, quickly adjusted his zipper, blushing almost the color of the press box’s burgundy wallpaper. But he recovered. As Doyle neared the door, Morty said loudly, “Okay, Mr. Doyle…Mr. Boss. What about other horses if you think you know so much? You ever hear of Gene Autry?”
“The old cowboy singer and actor? I think he owned one of the California major league baseball teams years ago. What about him?”
“What was his horse’s name? In the movies?”
Doyle said, “You sneaky little bastard. It started with a C, right? Was it Cyclone?”
Morty’s eyes gleamed. “Champion, Mr. Doyle, Champion,” he said triumphantly. “Shoot, just about everybody knows that. I got you that time.” He hurried back to his cubicle. Doyle left, laughing.