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Authors: John McEvoy
Tags: Fiction - Mystery
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running a racetrack. I’m not going to give in to that temptation, no matter how my cousin in Ireland feels about it.”
She glanced at her watch. “I have a 2:30 appointment,” she said as she stood up, adding, “It was very nice talking to you, Jack.” She swiftly walked toward the door, his eyes on her. “Beauty and acuity,” he said to himself, “all in one choice package.”
Hugo the waiter brought Doyle out of his reverie when he came to clear away the dishes. He was at the same time also watching Celia move off, a fond look on his creased old face. When the door closed behind her, Doyle said to Hugo, “So, you’ve known Ms. McCann a long time?”
“Most of her life and a good portion of mine,” Hugo said. “A lovely, lovely woman.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
Chapter 9
Minutes before Saturday night’s seventh race, Morty said, “Take a look at the No. 6 horse in here. Rambling Rosie.”
Doyle looked down at the track from his press box window where number six, a copper colored chestnut filly, was prancing toward the starting gate, swishing her tail, bobbing her head, obviously feeling good. Doyle opened his Racing Daily for a look at the filly’s credentials. Examining her pedigree, he remarked, “She’s by Nothing out of Nothing.” Her sire had won just two races in his life, her dam none, though both were themselves products of high class parents.
“Yeah,” Morty said, “but she’s won five straight races while climbing straight up the class ladder. She’s special fast. Believe me.”
Doyle closely examined Rambling Rosie’s past performances. She had lost her only two starts as a two-year-old the previous season. This year, as Doyle commented with a smile, she’d been “a horse of a different choler.” After winning for the first time in a $10,000 maiden claiming event, Rosie had scored for $20,000, then $30,000. Moved up into allowance company, from which she could not be claimed, or bought, she had reeled off another pair of easy wins. All of her victories had come at sprint distances: five furlongs, five and a half, then six furlongs.
“Who’s this Tom Eckrosh? The guy who owns and trains her,” Doyle said.
“You never heard of old Tom? He’s been around the racetrack almost all of his life, and he’s nearly eighty now. He served in the Army during World War II, was a jockey for awhile after he got out of the service, then took up training. He’s raced mainly here at Monee during the summers, then New Orleans in the winters. Never had a real top horse, but he’s always had some useful runners. But he’ll tell you Rambling Rosie is the best he’s ever had his hands on. He claimed her for $8,000 at Devon Downs in southern Illinois late last year. She’d lost her only two races.What he saw in her, with that obscure pedigree, I do not know. But he saw something. Can she run!” Morty enthused. “I understand old Tom has turned down some big bucks for her. I mean major, major money.”
Doyle said, “But he won’t sell?”
“He will not. One day, I asked him why. He said, ‘Morty, at my age, what would I do with all that money? I waited a long, long time for a horse like Rosie. I’m going to keep her all for myself.’ And, you know, I can see his point,” Morty said.
Doyle glanced at the in-house television, which had zeroed in on Rambling Rosie as she moved toward the starting gate. “Uh oh,” he said. “She’s got four white feet.”
“So what?” Morty said.
“Don’t you know the old racetrack saying about a horse with white feet? I heard it more than once when I was working at a breeding farm down in Kentucky.”
Doyle immediately regretted mentioning that segment of his career when Morty responded, “You did? When was that?”
“A year or so ago. It’s a long story. But this is my point. The saying goes
Two white feet, try him.
Three white feet, deny him.
Four white feet and
A white nose,
Feed him to the
She glanced at her watch. “I have a 2:30 appointment,” she said as she stood up, adding, “It was very nice talking to you, Jack.” She swiftly walked toward the door, his eyes on her. “Beauty and acuity,” he said to himself, “all in one choice package.”
Hugo the waiter brought Doyle out of his reverie when he came to clear away the dishes. He was at the same time also watching Celia move off, a fond look on his creased old face. When the door closed behind her, Doyle said to Hugo, “So, you’ve known Ms. McCann a long time?”
“Most of her life and a good portion of mine,” Hugo said. “A lovely, lovely woman.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
Chapter 9
Minutes before Saturday night’s seventh race, Morty said, “Take a look at the No. 6 horse in here. Rambling Rosie.”
Doyle looked down at the track from his press box window where number six, a copper colored chestnut filly, was prancing toward the starting gate, swishing her tail, bobbing her head, obviously feeling good. Doyle opened his Racing Daily for a look at the filly’s credentials. Examining her pedigree, he remarked, “She’s by Nothing out of Nothing.” Her sire had won just two races in his life, her dam none, though both were themselves products of high class parents.
“Yeah,” Morty said, “but she’s won five straight races while climbing straight up the class ladder. She’s special fast. Believe me.”
Doyle closely examined Rambling Rosie’s past performances. She had lost her only two starts as a two-year-old the previous season. This year, as Doyle commented with a smile, she’d been “a horse of a different choler.” After winning for the first time in a $10,000 maiden claiming event, Rosie had scored for $20,000, then $30,000. Moved up into allowance company, from which she could not be claimed, or bought, she had reeled off another pair of easy wins. All of her victories had come at sprint distances: five furlongs, five and a half, then six furlongs.
“Who’s this Tom Eckrosh? The guy who owns and trains her,” Doyle said.
“You never heard of old Tom? He’s been around the racetrack almost all of his life, and he’s nearly eighty now. He served in the Army during World War II, was a jockey for awhile after he got out of the service, then took up training. He’s raced mainly here at Monee during the summers, then New Orleans in the winters. Never had a real top horse, but he’s always had some useful runners. But he’ll tell you Rambling Rosie is the best he’s ever had his hands on. He claimed her for $8,000 at Devon Downs in southern Illinois late last year. She’d lost her only two races.What he saw in her, with that obscure pedigree, I do not know. But he saw something. Can she run!” Morty enthused. “I understand old Tom has turned down some big bucks for her. I mean major, major money.”
Doyle said, “But he won’t sell?”
“He will not. One day, I asked him why. He said, ‘Morty, at my age, what would I do with all that money? I waited a long, long time for a horse like Rosie. I’m going to keep her all for myself.’ And, you know, I can see his point,” Morty said.
Doyle glanced at the in-house television, which had zeroed in on Rambling Rosie as she moved toward the starting gate. “Uh oh,” he said. “She’s got four white feet.”
“So what?” Morty said.
“Don’t you know the old racetrack saying about a horse with white feet? I heard it more than once when I was working at a breeding farm down in Kentucky.”
Doyle immediately regretted mentioning that segment of his career when Morty responded, “You did? When was that?”
“A year or so ago. It’s a long story. But this is my point. The saying goes
Two white feet, try him.
Three white feet, deny him.
Four white feet and
A white nose,
Feed him to the
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