“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 Kick-Starts Creativity.
“Variety,” Doyle began to quote. But he realized he was about to go too far. He thought of Moe Kellman counseling him not to be such a wiseass. Doyle stopped the sentence with a cough. He heard Rexroth say, “If you’d like to fly up to Chicago with Stoner and me in the Willowdale plane Saturday morning, you’re welcome to do so.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Doyle replied, “but I’ll be driving up. I’ve got some personal business to take care of on Sunday. But I’ll sure see you at the races.”
Chapter 36
After a final look at the odds-board, which showed that Lancaster Lad was holding steady at three to one, a lukewarm favorite in the betting, Harvey Rexroth turned his binoculars to the head of the stretch where the gate was positioned for the start of the $500,000 Heartland Derby. Never removing his gaze from the track, Rexroth nudged Byron Stoner with his right elbow.
“Are we set?”
“Just as you directed,” Stoner answered. “We’ve got one hundred thousand to win on Lancaster Lad and fifty thousand in exacta keys with him on top. Randy is holding the tickets.” Kauffman, standing to Rexroth’s left, nodded importantly as he patted his sport coat’s inside breast pocket, which was bulging.
“Three to one,” Rexroth said, cigar in his teeth, “and the so-called experts had him pegged at fifty to one. Talk about the power of the press-especially mine! Is this one for the books, Stoner?”
Byron Stoner said, “You couldn’t be more right. It’s one for the books.”
It was one of those gorgeous autumn afternoons, temperature seventy-six, the maple trees in the track infield ablaze with color, that the Chicago weather gods annually provide as precedent to another long, brutal winter. But Rexroth was oblivious to anything but the impending race.
“Good work, men,” Rexroth said. He placed the binoculars before him on the shelf of the private box in which they sat, then snapped his fingers. Kauffman produced another one of Rexroth’s mondo cigars and carefully lit it.
“It’s all over but the counting,” said the publisher, smiling broadly between puffs on his cigar.
As Rexroth exulted in anticipation in Box Three of the Heartland Downs stands, seeds of chaos began to be sown in sky to the south of the track.
The flight of Right to Bear Arms, General Oscar Belliard’s balloon, had started in fine fashion. The general had charted a course featuring a beautifully predictable wind flow that promised to carry the balloon from its launching point five miles southwest of Heartland Downs, over the track and its crowded stands, to the spot another three and one-half miles northeast, the Ross County Fairgrounds, where it would be met by the retrieval team, comprised of two other members of the Underground Militia with their four-wheel utility drive vehicle and trailer.
A slight distraction the previous day had been quickly overcome. General Belliard’s regular assistant pilot and longtime ballooning companion, Marcia Raybelle Pratt, had called in sick on Friday afternoon.
This development forced General Belliard to hurriedly recruit Junior Kozol as a substitute flight assistant. Junior had flown with the general before, but always as an open-mouthed passenger, not one assigned aeronautical tasks. Nevertheless, in these comfortable weather conditions, all had gone smoothly, starting with the pre-dawn departure from Louisville and the five-hour drive that brought them to the launch site.
With General Belliard expertly manning the controls, Junior Kozol standing anxiously by, and Wanda and Red clinging uneasily to the sides of the swaying wicker gondola, the early part of the flight had proceeded without incident. Junior was responding to the general’s instructions very nicely, and the Marchiks, after their first gulps when the basket rose heavenward, were smiling, however uneasily. Red was emboldened enough to comment, “This is a lot easier than we thought it would be.” The general gave Red a stern look. “Balloons are not toys,” General Belliard intoned, adding, “They are deceptively powerful, make no mistake about that.”
As requested, Heartland Downs general manager Niles Milbare had reserved a box for the FBI team, one located seven rows below Rexroth’s. By the time Karen, Damon, and two agents they’d summoned for assistance, Tom Sheehan and Ray Rosengren, had found their way to their seats, Damon was looking decidedly uncool in his dark suit and tie. Karen, as usual, appeared as calm and confident as if she were again about to ace her opening serve in a UW volleyball match. “Save one of the front-row seats for Doyle,” Karen instructed Sheehan.
The attraction of a $500,000 race had helped lure the largest Heartland Downs crowd of the season-more than thirty-five thousand. Contributing greatly to the presence of this throng had been the publicity generated by Harvey Rexroth’s headlined promise that Lancaster Lad would “reverse his fortunes in amazing fashion” and score a “resounding victory” in this important event. Some sports media, not just in Chicago and Kentucky, had echoed his claims straight-faced, while others had poked fun at what they termed his braggadocio. Whatever the interpretation, the result was a flood tide of publicity that had helped produce the large crowd this afternoon.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Doyle had been waved past the paddock checkpoint by an old security guard, Art Schwartz, who remembered him from his days as City Sarah’s groom. Actually, Doyle had to tap the guard on his shoulder to get him to lift the chain across the entrance. As usual, Art was half asleep in his chair.
“How you doin’, son?” Art had finally asked once he’d looked up. “You been in a scrap?” he asked, pointing at Doyle’s nose, with its Band-Aid covering the bridge.
“Just a little one,” Doyle grinned. “I’m fine.” He moved to extract himself from the grip of the garrulous old-timer and walked over to the No. 1 stall, which housed Bunny’s Al.
Had Doyle not known who he was looking for, he might never have recognized the pair that confronted him. Under a broad white hat was the broadly smiling face of Maureen Hoban. The former O’Keefe’s Ale House waitress/counselor was fashionably gotten up in a bright flowered dress, white stockings, shoes, and gloves. Just a touch of makeup, this in sharp contrast to the days she used to show up at O’Keefe’s looking like she’d applied her cosmetics with a trowel.
Linda Tripp could have used Maureen’s makeover maven, Doyle thought. He grinned as Maureen leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.
Over her shoulder, Doyle looked at the imposing figure cut by E. D. Morley. Gone were the Rastafarian dreadlocks, the wispy goatee, the eye-concealing sunglasses. When Morley doffed his Panama hat in an exaggerated motion of greeting to Doyle, his shaved head shone like an ebony bowling ball. Morley was wearing a glistening white linen suit over a black silk shirt and white silk tie.
“You look like the overseer the old Colonel up and left the plantation to,” Doyle said. E. D. reached for his hand, saying softly, “No soul shakes here, my man, just a straightforward handclasp among upstanding citizens.” Doyle’s hand disappeared inside E. D.’s big mitt.
Doyle couldn’t help but laugh softly as he looked at his two assailants. “The last time you approached me was to steal twenty-five grand and put me to sleep in a damned garage,” Doyle said. “Now look at the two of you! Talk about re-inventing yourselves-at my expense.”