Gemmer took one more quick, concerned glance at the balloon, which continued to weave and lose altitude as it approached. It was now about three-quarters of a mile south of the track’s main parking lot. With his high-powered glasses, Gemmer could discern uneven writing on the long, broad banner that trailed behind the balloon. What he saw was ROOT AGAINST LAN. LAD-THE TYRANTS HORSE.
A sudden wind shift revealed the message on the other side of the same banner: LITHUANIA…. 4EVER.
“What the hell is that all about?” the announcer said, startling his audience, for he had uncharacteristically forgotten that his microphone was turned on. But, old pro that he was, Gemmer quickly got back in his normal groove. “They’re all in the gate.…Aaand they’re off!” began his description of the Heartlands Derby.
“It’s a good thing geldings can’t understand that term,” Doyle grinned, speaking to the grim-faced Karen who was concentrating on the horses passing before her, “otherwise they might be too embarrassed to run.
“Oh, come on, Engel, ease up,” he added, “it’s only a horse race. In about thirty seconds or so, take a look back up there at Rexroth-I guarantee you’ll start enjoying this.”
“That’s Agile Andy going right for the early lead,” Gemmer announced, “Jean’s Tom lapped on him to the outside. Next comes Bunny’s Al, who is down on the rail and saving ground. He’s followed by Nurse on Call, Jimminy Quicket, Kaplan’s Dream, Pennoyer Park, Friar of Foxdale and Capper Rick. As they curve into the backstretch favored Lancaster Lad is the trailer, ten lengths behind the leader.”
Karen now had turned from watching the race to watching Rexroth. Above his binoculars, trained on the field as it approached the far turn, she could see the look of concern on his face. He momentarily dropped the glasses and, looking perplexed, said something to Stoner, who shrugged without answering. Rexroth’s jaw tightened as he put the binoculars back up to his eyes.
“Midway of the far turn, Agile Andy is drifting out and beginning to tire. Moving through the hole on the inside is Jean’s Tom, who takes command by a length. Bunny’s Al is also on the move along the rail. The rest of the field remains strung out and Lancaster Lad continues to trail, although Willie Arroyo is already asking him for his best….”
“Check him out,” Karen said excitedly to Doyle. Jack stood up and turned around to look at the Rexroth box. As he did, he saw the red-faced publisher throw his binoculars to the floor of the box, then begin pounding his big fists on the railing in front of him. A man in the adjacent box said something to him, and Rexroth snarled a reply that caused the man to hurriedly turn away.
“Bunny’s Al and Jean’s Tom are head and head for the lead as they reach the eighth-pole. Friar of Foxdale has found his best stride and is putting in a big run and Pennoyer Park is also gaining ground.
“With a sixteenth to go, Bunny’s Al begins to edge clear as Jean’s Tom gives way. But here comes Friar of Foxdale with a tremendous late charge! He’s eating up ground with every stride. Jesse Black is asking Bunny’s Al for everything he has. They’re neck and neck approaching the finish line.
“Here’s the wire. Bunny’s Al hangs on by a head over Friar of Foxdale in a tremendous running of the Heartland Derby. Capper Rick closes well to take third money, another three lengths back, with Pennoyer Park in fourth….Bringing up the rear of the field is favored Lancaster Lad, who just didn’t have it today.”
Ignoring the exciting race that had gone on behind them, Doyle and Karen kept their eyes on Rexroth. Before Bunny’s Al was called the winner and Lancaster Lad the trailer, Rexroth had already begun to leave his box and head for the racetrack apron.
“Let’s go,” Karen said. “We’ll follow him down there.”
She and Jack began to move. But Damon Tirabassi still stood, transfixed, watching the video replay of the Heartlands Derby finish on the jumbotron television in the track’s infield. He was completely caught up in it.
Doyle said, “Maybe Agent Straight Arrow bet this winner. Look at him!”
Karen grabbed Damon’s arm and yanked. “For God’s sakes, Damon,” she said, “let’s go!”
“That was something!” Tirabassi said, excited by the thrilling contest he’d just witnessed. Then Damon resumed what Karen termed his Hoover mask and they all moved swiftly down the aisle to the winner’s circle.
Frantic now as the balloon continued its zig-zagging course, Red Marchik looked down at General Belliard. Then he knelt awkwardly in the cramped gondola and put an ear to the stricken man’s chest. The general’s face was fish belly white, his eyes rolled up in his head. Red said excitedly, “He is still alive. He is still alive!”
Red struggled to his feet, his big red face now the color of a hydroponic tomato. “We’re going to…We’re going to…Junior, goddammit, do you know to drive this thing? Of course you don’t. What the hell kind of a deal is this?” Red shouted.
He again looked down at their motionless leader. “You suppose he got hit by that squirrel virus?” Red asked.
Junior, ashen, remained silent. Wanda said, “Looks more like a heart attack to me.”
The balloon basket lurched sideways, then downward. Junior fumbled with the fuel controls, looking wildly about him. The general’s head lolled on the floor of the gondola.
“Jesus, Wanda,” cried her panicked husband, “give him some of that CRP.”
“That course I took was CPR, Red,” Wanda said as she gazed warily down at General Belliard. “Cardio-Pulmonary Resurrection. But I don’t know that I’m about to CPR a man with part of a squirrel hanging out of his mouth.”
Suddenly the gondola dropped several more feet. Red’s face lost its deep crimson shade, converting rapidly to a hue reminiscent of lime Gatorade. Seeing this, Wanda reluctantly bent to her task. She felt the general’s heart leap back into proper gear, but he remained unconscious.
Red and Junior, meanwhile, began battling for control of the blast valve, Junior attempting to open it up, Red struggling to close it. In the midst of this standoff, as the combatants almost trampled Wanda and the general, the balloon began descending rapidly in the direction of the Heartland Downs racing strip.
Harvey Rexroth rolled down the aisle steps toward the racetrack like a boulder down a mountain. The people who didn’t see him coming he bumped out of his way. Stoner and Kauffman struggled to keep up.
Rexroth was recognized as he descended the stairs. “Guaranteed winner? Guaranteed my ass, you big phony,” one man shouted. Others began to boo and curse. Suddenly, in the midst of this beautiful afternoon, it began to sound like a drunk and disappointed football crowd at Soldier Field in the late minutes of another Chicago Bears drubbing.
When Rexroth and his men arrived at trackside, Bunny’s Al was being led into the winner’s circle. Rexroth brushed past the winning owners, Maureen Hoban and E. D. Morley, and rumbled through the opening leading to the racing strip. He waved vigorously at jockey Willie Arroyo. “You, rider, bring that horse over here,” he ordered.
One of trainer Kenny Gutfreund’s grooms put a shank on Lancaster Lad’s halter and held the horse as Arroyo dismounted. There was no jubilant, high-flying leap this time; the jockey slithered off the sweaty, tired horse. He started to say something to Rexroth, but when he spotted Doyle and the agents approaching, Arroyo neatly stepped around them toward the scales and weighed in. He then scurried up the tunnel and out of sight.
The flustered Rexroth, turning and seeing Doyle, did a double take. “What’s going on here, Doyle? Who are these people with you?”