Read Online Close Call by John McEvoy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John McEvoy
Tags: Fiction - Mystery
Ads: Link
crows.”
Morty said, “Well, Rambling Rosie doesn’t have any white on her nose. And when you see here four white feet flying over this track, you’ll forget about that old saying. Wait and see.”
“Did you bet her?”
“Naw,” Morty said. “I never bet favorites.”
They walked out onto the press box porch to watch the seventh race. A field of eight was led into the starting gate. Rambling Rosie was the even-money favorite. As soon as the bell rang and the gate opened, she shot to the lead. After a quarter mile, she was three lengths in front of her nearest pursuer. Turning into the homestretch, she had opened up by five lengths and was apparently going easily. Her jockey, Ramon Garcia, wrapped up on her during the final sixteenth of a mile. Throttling down her speed, Garcia hand rode her under the wire to a three-length victory. Her time of 1:09 3-5 was only a fifth of a second off the Monee Park record. Rambling Rosie came bouncing back to the winner’s circle amid waves of applause from happy bettors.
Doyle said, “Wow! I’m impressed. She put on quite a show.” He watched as Garcia, grinning, talked excitedly to a short, stockily built, brown-skinned woman who clipped a shank onto Rambling Rosie’s halter and was leading her into the winner’s circle. The woman wore a gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, and a broad, white smile. She turned Rambling Rosie toward the waiting track photographer just as an elderly man approached. “That’s Tom Eckrosh,” Morty said. Eckrosh was dressed in khaki pants, a blue and white checked shirt, and a threadbare navy blue sport coat. He wore a battered gray fedora which, Doyle was to learn, was his ever present head piece. Eckrosh exhibited none of the jubilation evidenced by jockey Garcia and the female groom.
“Why is Eckrosh so glum?” Doyle said. “You’d think he’d be pretty damn happy, the way his filly ran tonight.”
Morty said, “He probably is happy, but he’d never let on. That’s just his way. He’s a pretty nice fellow, once you get to know him.”
“How long does that take?”
“Oh, not more than five or ten years,” Morty said as he opened the press box door.
Doyle said, “I think I’ll start with him tomorrow morning. His filly makes a heck of a good story for Monee Park.”
***
It was just after seven on a beautiful, late spring morning when the clatter of feed buckets, chatter of workers, and the music blaring from one of Chicago’s Spanish-speaking AM stations greeted Doyle as he walked the dusty path between Barns C and D on the Monee Park backstretch. He was on his way to meet Tom Eckrosh. Monee Park’s racing secretary Gary Gabriel had informed him that “Old Tom is stabled in Barn D,” but Gabriel hadn’t told him the Eckrosh stable stall numbers in the long wooden building that housed more than a hundred horses for various trainers. Doyle did not speak Spanish, so he passed by several Mexican grooms and hotwalkers without attempting an inquiry. He walked on until he recognized Alex Graff, a young trainer he’d met, to ask exactly where Eckrosh was located. “At the end of the barn, on the opposite side,” Graff said. “That’s where you’ll find Grouchy,” he added with a smile.
Walking past the section of Barn C where Kristina Jenkins’ horses were stabled, Jack waved to the trainer. He had met Kristina earlier in the meeting at a breakfast the track hosted for all the trainers with horses on Monee grounds. Jenkins was currently third in the trainer standings. Kristina was Monee Park’s version of Maggie Collins, the similarly young horsewoman who annually ranked high at Heartland Downs the other side of Chicago. Doyle was suddenly brought up short by something he heard. He stopped and looked back. Kristina nodded to him but continued talking on her cell phone, undoubtedly to one of the two dozen or so owners she trained for. It hadn’t been Kristina’s voice that made Jack halt in his tracks. It was what he
Morty said, “Well, Rambling Rosie doesn’t have any white on her nose. And when you see here four white feet flying over this track, you’ll forget about that old saying. Wait and see.”
“Did you bet her?”
“Naw,” Morty said. “I never bet favorites.”
They walked out onto the press box porch to watch the seventh race. A field of eight was led into the starting gate. Rambling Rosie was the even-money favorite. As soon as the bell rang and the gate opened, she shot to the lead. After a quarter mile, she was three lengths in front of her nearest pursuer. Turning into the homestretch, she had opened up by five lengths and was apparently going easily. Her jockey, Ramon Garcia, wrapped up on her during the final sixteenth of a mile. Throttling down her speed, Garcia hand rode her under the wire to a three-length victory. Her time of 1:09 3-5 was only a fifth of a second off the Monee Park record. Rambling Rosie came bouncing back to the winner’s circle amid waves of applause from happy bettors.
Doyle said, “Wow! I’m impressed. She put on quite a show.” He watched as Garcia, grinning, talked excitedly to a short, stockily built, brown-skinned woman who clipped a shank onto Rambling Rosie’s halter and was leading her into the winner’s circle. The woman wore a gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, and a broad, white smile. She turned Rambling Rosie toward the waiting track photographer just as an elderly man approached. “That’s Tom Eckrosh,” Morty said. Eckrosh was dressed in khaki pants, a blue and white checked shirt, and a threadbare navy blue sport coat. He wore a battered gray fedora which, Doyle was to learn, was his ever present head piece. Eckrosh exhibited none of the jubilation evidenced by jockey Garcia and the female groom.
“Why is Eckrosh so glum?” Doyle said. “You’d think he’d be pretty damn happy, the way his filly ran tonight.”
Morty said, “He probably is happy, but he’d never let on. That’s just his way. He’s a pretty nice fellow, once you get to know him.”
“How long does that take?”
“Oh, not more than five or ten years,” Morty said as he opened the press box door.
Doyle said, “I think I’ll start with him tomorrow morning. His filly makes a heck of a good story for Monee Park.”
***
It was just after seven on a beautiful, late spring morning when the clatter of feed buckets, chatter of workers, and the music blaring from one of Chicago’s Spanish-speaking AM stations greeted Doyle as he walked the dusty path between Barns C and D on the Monee Park backstretch. He was on his way to meet Tom Eckrosh. Monee Park’s racing secretary Gary Gabriel had informed him that “Old Tom is stabled in Barn D,” but Gabriel hadn’t told him the Eckrosh stable stall numbers in the long wooden building that housed more than a hundred horses for various trainers. Doyle did not speak Spanish, so he passed by several Mexican grooms and hotwalkers without attempting an inquiry. He walked on until he recognized Alex Graff, a young trainer he’d met, to ask exactly where Eckrosh was located. “At the end of the barn, on the opposite side,” Graff said. “That’s where you’ll find Grouchy,” he added with a smile.
Walking past the section of Barn C where Kristina Jenkins’ horses were stabled, Jack waved to the trainer. He had met Kristina earlier in the meeting at a breakfast the track hosted for all the trainers with horses on Monee grounds. Jenkins was currently third in the trainer standings. Kristina was Monee Park’s version of Maggie Collins, the similarly young horsewoman who annually ranked high at Heartland Downs the other side of Chicago. Doyle was suddenly brought up short by something he heard. He stopped and looked back. Kristina nodded to him but continued talking on her cell phone, undoubtedly to one of the two dozen or so owners she trained for. It hadn’t been Kristina’s voice that made Jack halt in his tracks. It was what he
Similar Books
