Moe turned back to Doyle. “My grandfather on my mother’s side, Morrie Greenburg may he rest in peace, although he’s a longshot for that, Morrie would have bowed low in admiration to these guys that run the Cubs. Bowed low, I’m saying.
“For over fifty years, Morrie sold cheap jewelry at inflated prices to the schvartzes over on Maxwell Street. But even Morrie gave more value than these guys,” Moe said, as the Cubs shortstop sailed his throw to first base into the third row behind the visitors’ dugout. Two runs scored, putting the home team down 5–0 to the St. Louis Cardinals in the top half of the first inning. When the ninth Cardinal batter of the inning finally flied out against the ivy in dead center, the crowd cheered and clapped enthusiastically.
Doyle ordered beers from a vendor who was several exits past seventy on his roadway of life. As he handed one of the cups to Kellman, Doyle said, “Look, I know we’re not here to discuss contemporary corporate economics. What’s our business today?”
“Jack…Jack,” Moe said, a pained expression on his face, “it’s not business here today. I just wanted to make sure that you know my people had nothing to do with that ripoff of your twenty-five grand.
“According to the story I get-no, no, don’t ask me how I know this, just believe me that I do-there was a white woman and a colored guy seen running out of your garage that night, probably right about the time you hit the deck.
“We’ve made inquiries, you might say, but we don’t have a clue as to who these two were. Maybe they were looking to mug somebody and just stumbled on you. Who knows?
“What I do know is that when you do business for us, and do it right, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Moe emphasized.
Nothing to show for it either, Doyle thought as he sat there, feeling like an idiot. Somehow Maureen and E. D. had smelled out the plot involving City Sarah and had combined forces to take dead aim at one of the plotters-him. Doyle couldn’t escape feeling another silent wave of deep embarrassment.
Moe said, “The point, Jack, is that we don’t owe you a goddam thing. But we owe you. You know what I mean?”
He shook his head as he saw Doyle’s puzzled expression. “It doesn’t make any difference if you understand or not. The thing is, here’s five grand-it’s to tide you over till you find something else.” Moe slipped an envelope into the side pocket of Doyle’s sport coat. “No, it’s not a loan,” Moe said before Doyle could speak, “don’t worry about that. Let’s just say it’s a belated bonus.”
Moe looked thoughtfully toward the Cubs bullpen, a beehive of activity all afternoon. “Another thing, Jack. I heard you had some visitors early the other morning. Representatives of one of the nation’s law enforcement agencies.” He smiled slightly, noting the look of astonishment on Doyle’s face.
“That’s okay, Jack,” Kellman continued. “Everybody gets unwanted visitors every once in a while. But you don’t want to get too cozy with people like that.”
“Moe, I have to-or I might have to,” Doyle hurriedly amended. Looking at his little companion, Doyle suspected that here, too, Kellman was probably running head to head with him in the knowledge department.
“We understand that, Jack. You’re in kind of a bind here, or”-Kellman smiled-“what at the racetrack they call a blind switch. Great old term. A blind switch is when a jockey gets himself caught in a pocket during a race, trapped maybe down on the inside, looking for a way out. Jocks just have to keep looking to work their way out when they’re in those spots. Otherwise they lose for sure. Looks like the feds have you boxed in.”
Kellman took off his sunglasses and turned in his seat to face Doyle. “Let me get back to ‘too cozy’ with the feds, as I just mentioned. Too cozy as it might pertain to me and my people. Sometimes you tend toward the blunt side. That wouldn’t be good in your dealings with those people you’re being forced to deal with now. There’s a lot to be said for the vague approach, if you know what I mean.”
After putting his sunglasses back on and draining his beer cup, Moe again patted dry his mustache. “Don’t thank me, Jack,” he said as he stood to leave. Then he leaned down and added: “But don’t look for anything more either.
“One of Grandpa Morrie’s favorite quotes-I can almost hear him saying it-was from Benjamin Franklin. Franklin said ‘There are three faithful friends-an old wife, an old dog, and ready money.’
“All you’ve got is one out of three, Jack, so try to hang on to it, okay?” Moe turned away.
“See you at the gym.”
After Moe had gone, Doyle sat half-watching the game. He bought a cold hot dog and a warm beer, but didn’t finish either. He thought of the money in his pocket, then of E. D. and Maureen. He had really liked both of them, and had believed the feeling was at least close to mutual. How had he so badly misread that situation?
As the Cardinal batters continued to feast on a procession of Cubs pitchers, Doyle concentrated on the game only occasionally. He had a final beer, this one cold, and, still thinking of his assailants, realized that he was quite capable of forgiving them if their actions were ever explained to him. Doyle shook his head. “I must be going soft,” he said to himself. “Anybody else robbed me like that, I’d be looking forward to flaying them.”
Doyle left Wrigley Field just prior to the start of the bottom of the seventh inning. The home team trailed 11-1. Yet the crowd was on its feet, waving at the panning WGN-TV cameras, singing along with an apparently half-demented one-time rock star as he led them, clueless as to the lyrics, in a genuinely horrendous rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Their team trailing by ten, Cubs fans were still having a grand old time.
Moe’s Grandpa Morrie would have envied this scene.
Chapter 8
Doyle waved at a nearby polar bear as he walked the concrete path, deftly dodging a couple of baby strollers, then a child waving a cotton candy stick. The bear, splayed out on a rock in white-furred splendor, moved his head as if to respond. Doyle knew that was not the case, but smiled to himself at the thought.
He was, that sunny afternoon, making his way through Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo because of a phone call he’d retrieved on his answering machine the previous evening.
The voice on the phone had been quick, the message abrupt, delivered in an accent that Doyle realized was that of New Zealand. The voice belonged to Aldous Bolger, and informed Doyle, “We’ll meet Tuesday afternoon, half-past two, Lincoln Park Zoo, in the part they call the Farm. I’ll spot you, not to worry. If this doesn’t suit you, leave a message at 708-864-0854.”
The FBI agents had told Doyle to expect this call from Bolger. It was necessary, they said, for Doyle and Bolger to meet before Doyle applied for work at Willowdale Farm.
“You two need to talk, to go over the details of the job in advance, in case Rexroth has any questions for you,” Karen Engel had said. “Rexroth will definitely interview you. He talks to everybody but the landscape helpers before he hires them. It’s a peculiarity of his. By no means his only one, by the way.
“The fact that you know racehorses, from being around them at the track, will of course come in handy. But farm work, the procedures there, are something you’re not familiar with. That’s what Bolger can brief you on. He seems to be a pleasant enough fellow. I think you’ll get along with him. He can also go over the details of the Willowdale horses.”
Doyle stopped at one of the zoo’s concession stands. He bought a bag of popcorn that he nibbled at as he continued to stroll the tree-lined walkways. It was a little after two o’clock, so he had plenty of time to reach the meeting spot. Doyle’s apartment was located a couple of miles to the north. He’d always liked this place, and in fact often visited it after he’d jogged along a path in the adjacent park. In contrast to the Chicago area’s other zoo, a comparative megalopolis located in a western suburb, the Lincoln Park Zoo was accessible and compact enough to easily be traversed, and most of its inhabitants viewed, in the course of a leisurely afternoon.