The Significant Seven (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

July 17, 2009

Most of the way on their trip to downtown Chicago was taken up with talk about Joe Zabrauskis’ sad fate, reported in that morning’s newspapers. Jack drove as Cindy speculated about the “chances that four guys, four friends, of about the same age, could pass away in such a short period of time. I don’t get it.”

“Neither can I,” Doyle said. Earlier in the week, Doyle had persuaded Cindy to take a weekend off from her rigorous, punishing schedule. “We’ll go to Grant Park to the Chicago Jazz Fest, then have dinner in the Loop. What do you say?”

She said yes, after her mother agreed to give up church bingo to stay home with Tyler; after Doc Jensen told her, “Enjoy yourself. You work too hard.”

Her decision delighted Doyle. Glancing sideways at Cindy, Doyle thought,
She looks so good this afternoon, I wish I had a convertible to show her off in.
Cindy was dressed casually in a short-sleeved, light blue dress, light brown sandals. Her hair was tied in the pony tail she used when working horses in the dawn racetrack hours.

He parked in the huge underground garage off Michigan Avenue. Cindy was excited. She hadn’t been to this part of the city for several years and had not seen the Grant Park additions, including the famous “Cloud Gate,” or “the Bean” as it was called, the massive glimmering sculpture where delighted visitors waved at their distorted reflections.

“These other two pavilions are new this year,” Jack pointed out. “They’re temporary. Commissioned to commemorate the 1909 Plan of Chicago laid out by Burnham.”

“Who was Burnham?” she asked, putting her arm through his as they strolled.

“Daniel Burnham was a famous urban planner early in the twentieth century here. He designed the chain of parks that run along Lake Michigan. Big public works program. Burnham said, ‘Make no little plans.’ He sure didn’t. Chicago has benefited ever since. There’s no American city, maybe none in the world, that has as much open lakefront acreage running for miles and miles.”

“I want to go back to the Bean,” she said. “I should have brought my camera.” She waved at herself in the reflection, then clapped her hands in delight. Dozens of other visitors were doing the same.

Doyle said, “Wait here.” He trotted west across Michigan to a Walgreen’s. He was back within minutes with a throwaway Kodak camera and had no trouble persuading a Japanese gentleman to take their picture. “This is great,” Cindy said. “I’ve got to get out more. When I can afford it,” she added, so softly Doyle did not hear her.

The main stage Jazz Fest music began at five o’clock. Doyle had scored some good seats from the woman in charge, an old friend, Penny Tyler. He and Cindy were three rows from the front, center aisle. The Kelly Brand Sextet kicked things off in rousing fashion, followed by the trio of the amazing Chicago pianist Willie Pickens. Then came one of Doyle’s favorites, Eric Schneider and his quintet, Schneider being one of the latest in the long line of tremendous Chicago saxophone players.

At intermission, Cindy’s head was on Jack’s shoulder. When the crowd rose to move about, she shook herself awake. “Hey, I’m sorry,” she said. “I loved the music. But that’s what happens when you’re used to getting up at four in the morning, getting to sleep early at night. Who plays next?”

“It’s one of those Free Jazz groups that the
Trib
’s critic keeps promoting. Not for me. Sound to me like lost souls screeching. Shall we go? Maybe we can get to dinner a little earlier than the reservation.”

“I’m ready if you are.”

They worked their way through the large crowd. Minutes later, they were at their table in Trattoria 10 on Wabash Avenue. “I’ve been here,” Doyle said. “You won’t go wrong, whatever you order. They have terrific ravioli dishes here. I wish,” he smiled, “I could have brought Ralph Tenuta here with us.”

Cindy said, “Why?”

Doyle went on to detail the unusual, Kentucky-cookbook dominated menu schedule in the Tenuta home. Cindy laughed as she listened. “He misses his Italian dishes, but he won’t revolt?”

“That’s right. Our good friend, trainer Tenuta, goes along with his Rosa.”

Cindy said, “Ralph is such a nice man.”

“Here’s to him,” Doyle said, touching his wine glass to Cindy’s in a toast to Tenuta.

They exited Trattoria 10 at nearly nine. In the Accord, driving north on the Outer Drive, past Navy Pier and its giant, revolving Ferris wheel, Doyle said, “Let me ask you something. How about you staying in the city at my place tonight? You don’t have to exercise horses tomorrow morning. Why not just take it easy?”

Cindy looked out her window at the rippling white waves of Lake Michigan. She went into her purse for her cell phone. “Mom,” she said, “I’ll be staying in the city tonight. Where? At Jack’s place.”

Doyle could hear Wilma’s cackling on the other end of the phone. He looked over at Cindy. She was blushing right through her tan. “Ma, stop it. Tyler’s asleep? Good. See you in the morning.” She put the phone back in her purse. She said, “I didn’t bring an overnight bag, you know.”

“There’s a 7-11 on my corner. You can get a toothbrush there.”

Cindy grinned. “I don’t imagine they sell night gowns there, right?”

“Why would you need one?”

“Why, indeed?” Cindy said.

Chapter Thirty-Two

July 19, 2009

Arnie Rison, Mike Barnhill, and Marty Higgins were met in the foyer of the White Eagle by the widow. This traditional gathering place for members of Chicago’s large Polish-American community hosted banquets, wedding receptions, business meetings and, today, post-funeral gatherings for the family and mourners. Little Louise Zabrauskis, about half the size of her recently deceased husband, hugged each of the three men. “Thanks again for being pall bearers. And thank you, Arnie, for what you said about my Joe.” Arnie put his arm around the widow. “I meant every word,” he said.

Joe Z’s funeral at St. Stanislaus Kostka Catholic Church on Chicago’s near west side had been a sellout. Zabrauskis’ five children, seven grandchildren, six sisters, a brother, and his parents sat with Louise in the front pews of the old church, centerpiece of the first Polish parish established in Chicago, a building designed by an Irish-born architect from Brooklyn who was also responsible for the city’s famed Holy Name Cathedral.

They heard Father Joe Bigalski say the memorial Mass. Listened as two of the Zabrauskis children, Jim and Jack, remembered their father. Heard Arnie describe the lengthy friendship he had enjoyed with the former UW lineman who had been found dead in the northern Wisconsin woods.

Arnie recounted their first meeting in Madison as freshmen in the same dorm. The autumn afternoons Arnie watched his buddy mow down Big Ten running backs attempting to run off tackle. Their many days of horse playing, and the later Saratoga bonanza, and The Badger Express. “Joe took everything in stride and in good humor and, for such a big man, with great gentleness,” Rison said. “He was as good a friend, as good a man, as anyone could ever know.”

The oldest eulogist was Gene Rafferty, Joe Z’s line coach at UW. “Joey was one of the strongest, toughest, smartest, and nicest football player I ever coached,” Rafferty said. “We kept in touch over the years. This,” the old coach said, gesturing at the coffin, “leaves a hole in my heart.”

On his way out of the church, Arnie was clapped on the back by five of Joe Z’s former Wisconsin teammates. Three of them limped down the aisle as honorary pallbearers behind the coffin being carried by Arnie, Mike, and Marty on one side. Three of Joe Z’s tall, sturdy sons were on the other side. When they left the foyer of the air-conditioned church, the late summer heat slapped them.

Burial was in All Saints Polish National Catholic Cemetery on West Higgins Road in northwest Chicago. When the last goodbye had been uttered, most of the numerous mourners entered their cars and followed funeral director Stanley Pocius and his assistants down North Milwaukee Avenue to the White Eagle.

The Zabrauskis family, Father Bigalski, and the pall bearers were ushered to the head of the long buffet line. Rison said to Barnhill, “Wouldn’t our man loved to have had a shot at all this?”

Louise Zabrauskis heard him. She turned around, smiling. “You know Joe’s favorite saying when we’d come here?
Jedzcie, pijcie, i popuszczajcie pasa
. Eat, drink, and loosen your belts.” Arnie patted her on the shoulder as she turned to stand beside her daughter Sophia.

The Zabrauskis family paid just polite attention to the lavish buffet spread of hunter’s stew, three kinds of salads, potato and cheese
pierogies,
stuffed cabbage,
kielbasa
, poppy cake and cheese cake. So did the three remaining members of The Significant Seven. They put small portions on their plates and walked away from the buffet line. Rison said, “Let’s go down that hall. There’s a room we can sit in in private.”

“I need a drink,” Barnhill said. “Arnie, take my plate. What do you guys want? I’ll bring them back.” Rison and Higgins both said “The usual.” Barnhill returned to the main room and headed for one of the large, busy bars.

Higgins and Rison sat in silence, their food plates put aside. When Barnhill came back with the drinks, he handed them out. Raising his Manhattan, he said, “Here’s to our Joe. May he rest in peace.” All three touched glasses.

Rison walked to the window overlooking the crowded White Eagle parking lot. Not turning around, he said, “What do you two think?”

“About what, Arnie?” Higgins answered.

“About the fact that the three of us are sitting here after the fourth funeral of best friends of ours that we’ve gone to in the last couple of months. I lie awake at night thinking about this. Henry, Steve, Chris, and now Joey, all gone. Like that. Henry drowns. Steve collapses in a restaurant having eaten a goddam bagel he was allergic to. Chris drives off his road going home? Chris, the accountant, one of the most cautious little men you’d ever meet? And Joey, Joe the Bear, eaten by one?”

Rison thumped his empty tumbler down on the window sill. “There’s some shit going on here, my friends. I don’t know what the hell it is. But we better find out. Soon.”

Barnhill jumped up, almost dropping his drink. “Damn right we better find out. There’s no odds that say this could be happening to the partnership, guys in their fifties dying off like this. But who would want to kill us?” He spilled some of his Manhattan. “Christ, I haven’t spilled a drink since high school. This is all really getting to me,” said the old fullback.

They looked up when there was a knock on the door. Barnhill opened it. “Hey, Paulie, come on in,” he said to the oldest of Joe Zabrauskis’ large sons. Barnhill put his arm around Paul’s broad shoulders as he walked him into the room. The young man’s face was flushed. He had a can of Old Style in his big right hand.”I’ve got to talk to you guys.” Rison motioned him to sit down on the couch next to him.

Paul Zabrauskis pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Paulie, what’s up?” Rison said.

“I’ve just gotten a going-over out there from the other widows of the partnership. Not my Mom. She’s still pretty zoned out over this funeral deal. I’m talking the wives—no, the widows—of Judge Toomey, Mr. Charous, Mr. Carson. They got my brothers and me in a corner. Asking us, what the hell’s going on here?’ Four deaths of old friends in, what, three months? Your wife, Mike,” he said, looking at Barnhill, “she says what’s happened is ‘against all odds.’ How could I not agree with her?”

Paulie drained the last of his beer. He crumpled the can like it was a piece of cellophane. “What do you guys think?” he said. “What’s going on here?”

Rison reached into this pocket for a Marlboro, lit it quickly, and inhaled, setting off a series of violent coughs. “Damn, Arnie,” Higgins said, “when are you going to give up those things? You’re the only guy I know our age who still smokes.”

With his cough finally under control, Rison said to Paulie, “If The Significant Seven is being eliminated, what’s the reason? It can’t be women, or jealousy, or revenge. Not that I can think of, anyway. Even if some nut was angry enough to bump one of us off, where do the others figure in?” He reached in his pocket for another cigarette, but when he saw the looks on their faces, he stopped. “What do you guys think?”

“You hear about stuff like this,” Higgins answered. “Sometimes in the papers, sometimes on television. Whenever there is a question of ‘why’, the answer most of the time is money. Or maybe it’s some crackpot who envies or resents our success. Face it, we were about the luckiest horse players in the world. It could be some jealous nut. Who knows? The extent of human lunacy, who could tell?”

Rison said, “How could it possibly be money in our case? Sure, the recession has hit hard. Hell, I could hardly give away cars off my lots these last few months. But we’ve made hundreds of thousands with our Pick Six that led to The Badger Express. The contract is intact.”

“You mean the last survivor part?” Higgins said.

“Yes. The last surviving member of the seven turns The Badger Express’ profits into a foundation that saves and cares for retired, discarded thoroughbreds. It’s there in black and white, just as we agreed years ago. If Marty and I die before you, Mike, you’re in charge of the money. And vice versa. I guess twice vice versa.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Look,” Rison said, “with just three of us left, am I the only one thinking that maybe one of us could be causing these deaths? Yeah, yeah, it sounds nuts. The way we’ve been friends for more than thirty years. The way the contract is set up. But I can’t be the only one who’s thinking crazy thoughts like that.” He finished off his Manhattan, not looking at the other two. Paulie Zabrauskis looked at Rison in amazement.

Higgins shook his head. Barnhill said, “You aren’t the only one that’s thought about that, Arnie. But I don’t believe that possibility for a fucking minute.”

“Neither do I,” Rison said. “We’ve been great friends for more than thirty years. I can’t imagine one of us moving against the others.”

“Neither can I, Arnie,” Barnhill said. “Me, either,” added Higgins.

The partners stood up and huddled in the middle of the room in a clumsy three-man embrace. Paul Zabrauskis got to his feet and watched them.

“We’d better go and spend some time with Louise and the rest of your family, Paulie,” Rison said.