The Significant Seven (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

June 5, 2009

Doyle picked up Cindy at seven-thirty that Friday night. She came directly out the trailer door as he was parking. Her mother, Wilma, waved at him from the doorway, standing beside Tyler. He waved, too. Doyle had to hustle in order to get out of the car and around to the passenger door so that he could open it for Cindy.

Doyle had called her the previous Wednesday. “Have you ever seen a live boxing card?” When she said no, Doyle said, “Would you like to?” Her answer was in the affirmative. “I’ve got great seats for the big fight card at the Rosemont Horizon,” he said.

“This will be a first for me,” Cindy said as she settled into her seat. She wore a gold jersey and black slacks, large silver-colored earrings. For Doyle, who had seen her at work at the track that morning, dressed in dusty jeans and a sweat-stained tee-shirt, she was impressively transformed.

“Boxing,” Doyle said, “is one of those things that you like a lot or don’t like at all. You can’t really tell until you’ve been there and seen it. But, look, if you find it, well, distasteful, just say so. We can leave and go someplace else.”

“I appreciate that,” Cindy said. “I heard you were a boxer. Is that right?”

“Yeah, but not at the level you’re going to see tonight. These are world-ranked, professional fighters. I was, how can I put this,” he said, smiling, “an enthusiastic amateur.”

“How long did you box?”

“Junior Boxing Club when I was eight or nine. Golden Gloves five or six years later, AAU bouts when I was in college. By the time I got to the University of Illinois, collegiate boxing had been long banned. That was after a University of Wisconsin kid died as a result of a ring injury.”

Cindy said, “You don’t look marked up like I thought fighters were.”

“I kept my chin down and my hands up,” Doyle said. “I still do.”

***

The large Rosemont Horizon parking lot was jammed. Doyle waved a twenty at a valet parker near the main entrance. The man opened their doors and said, “Enjoy.”

Doyle picked up their tickets at will-call. He told Cindy, “These are courtesy of a friend of mine, Moe Kellman. He’s a big boxing fan. He and I go to a lot of fights together. Moe will be sitting with us tonight. I think you’ll like him. He’s an interesting guy.”

An usher led them to the third row from the ring, which stood on an elevated platform. Two young Latino lightweights were finishing a three-round exercise in glowering and posing. Just before the final bell, the shorter one landed a perfectly placed right uppercut on the chin of his foe, whose pompadour elevated.

Doyle seated Cindy next to him. On her other side, Moe stood up, smiling, the lights glinting off what he referred to as his “Isro” haircut, and also off the three impressive-looking rings he wore. He had on a tan leather jacket, brown trousers, a blue button-down collar shirt. His face crinkled as he reached for Cindy’s hand. “Jack wasn’t exaggerating when he told me about you,” Moe said. He looked over Cindy’s head at Doyle. “You brought a knockout to a place where knockouts occur,” he said. They all laughed. Once seated, Moe signaled to a short-skirted, cleavage-displaying waitress responsible for serving this part of the VP section. Cindy ordered a Coke, Doyle a beer.

“Nothing for me right now, darling,” Moe said.

They chatted between rounds of the next two preliminary bouts, Cindy surveying this new scene. The 10,500 seat auditorium was almost filled. All the prime seats closest to the ring were occupied, the first row by reporters, announcers, and attendants of the fighters. The balcony, she noticed, was populated primarily by Hispanics, almost all men, every one very much riveted to the action below.

Several people came by to say hello to Moe. “Good to see you, Commissioner,” Moe said to the head of the Chicago Police Department., introducing the man to Cindy and Doyle. Receiving similarly genial treatment were the manager of one of Chicago’s major hotels, the co-owner of a famed Rush Street steak house, and an alderwoman from Chicago’s Lawndale neighborhood.

The only visitor not introduced to Cindy and Doyle was an old, stocky man wearing dark sun glasses, a black leather jacket, black tee shirt, dark trousers over black shoes. He was about the same height and age as Kellman. He attempted to embrace the furrier, saying, “You know me, Mosie?” Kellman took the man by his elbow and turned him back into the aisle. They stood there conversing quietly for a several minutes as the ring announcer called up people from Chicago’s bottom tier of celebrities: a radio sports talk show host, a cable channel weatherman, an aged newspaper gossip columnist. Kellman and the man shook hands and separated.

Kellman returned to his seat. He said apologetically, “I didn’t introduce the last guy to you. You don’t need to know him.”

Doyle said, “I appreciate that. I know who he is. Mario ‘The Clown’ Aiello. Just got out of federal prison after spending sixteen years for racketeering. I saw his picture in the paper a couple of days ago.”

Moe frowned. “Mario and I grew up together. Like I said, you don’t need to know him. You ready for another Coke, Cindy? Jack, a beer?”

Doyle was quiet during the intermission between bouts as Kellman engaged Cindy in conversation. Pretending to peruse the souvenir program, Doyle listened, amused, as the little furrier turned on the charm. When Ms. Cleavage delivered their drinks, Cindy said, “I don’t need a glass, thanks.” But the waitress ignored her, opening the bottles and pouring Doyle’s beer and her soft drink into paper cups.

“Years ago,” Kellman informed, “the Horizon management decreed that the beer would be sold only in cups. Before that, they’d had to extend this goofy looking net over the boxing ring.”

Cindy said, “A net? What for?”

“So that any angry fans in the balcony, unhappy about a fight decision, couldn’t start pelting the ring with beer bottles. The management finally decided to get rid of the net. Actually, it looked like something out of the Coliseum in Rome a thousand years ago back. That’s when they changed to beer cups.”

The main event was next on the card. It was a heavyweight bout between Rocco Albertani, of Chicago’s suburban Elmwood Park, and Luther Rawlings of Miami, FL. Reading from his program Doyle said to Cindy, “Albertani’s from near here. Had a good amateur career. When he turned pro, a man named Fifi Bonadio became his manager.”

Cindy said, “Where have I heard that name?” Doyle looked to Kellman, who pretended to be studying his own program. Doyle said, “Bonadio runs a big road construction firm, owns some banks, auto dealerships. Lot of things. He’s a big sports fan. He had a son who was a very good football player at the University of Wisconsin. The lad is now on the Cook County Board of Supervisors.”

Doyle took a swig of his beer. “Some people say Bonadio is the head man of the Chicago Outfit. I wouldn’t know about that. All I know is that he’s an old friend and current customer, of the man to your immediate left.”

Kellman pretended not have heard Doyle’s last remark, and Doyle laughed, before saying to Cindy, “Here they come. The guys for the main event.”

Rawlings shuffled slowly down the aisle first, wearing a long, tattered white robe, his dark face almost obscured by a hood. His appearance was greeted by a smattering of applause. Three minutes later, the public address system began blasting out the theme from the movie “Rocky.” Bouncing down the aisle to a crescendo of cheers and applause was Rocco “The Assassin” Albertani, a ruggedly handsome young man waving his gloved hands above his head to his numerous supporters. “Albertani has won all eleven of his pro fights so far,” Moe told Cindy. “His people, some of them I know, think he has a future.” Doyle heard that and looked sharply at Kellman, who ignored him.

Cindy said, “Who are you rooting for, Jack?” Doyle watched Rawlings gracefully step between the ring ropes. Rawlings was at least ten years older than the pride of Elmwood Park, who was bouncing around the ring, sweating heavily. Albertani’s weight was announced at two-hundred twelve pounds, Rawlings five pounds lighter. Albertani was on edge. Rawlings shrugged off his old robe and strolled around the ring seemingly as unconcerned as if he was in his living room. The small, carefully trimmed soul patch on his dark black face had more than a touch of gray in it. Rawlings did a few deep knee bends, watching Albertani out of the corner of his eye, before going to the center of the ring for the referee’s instructions.

Doyle said to Cindy, “I think that, if this is on the up-and-up, Albertani is going to be knocked on his ass. But I would not look for that, to tell you the truth.” Kellman, peering at the fighters and smiling, ignored Doyle’s comments.

Round one went to Albertani. He moved around energetically, peppering out jabs that Rawlings caught on his gloves. He twice bulled the older man into the ropes, attempting to pound him with kidney shots that Rawlings blocked with his elbows. The popular local lad being obviously the eager aggressor, ringside experts gave him the round.

Rounds two and three were much the same. Albertani did most of the work. Rawlings kept dodging or deflecting punches that became increasingly wild as the Pride of Elmwood Park exhibited his increasing frustration. All of Albertani’s previous bouts had ended in first- or second-round knockouts, him doing the knocking out. He was venturing into new territory against Rawlings, a crafty veteran if Doyle had ever seen one.

With a half-minute to go in the fifth round, Rawlings evidently couldn’t stand it any more. He easily eluded another of Albertani’s wild swings, stepped inside, and chopped a short right to the younger fighter’s exposed jaw. Albertani hit the floor like a carton of frozen lasagna.

The referee, whose day job was in the Cook County State’s Attorney’s office, began counting, slowly, with a lengthy arm gesture, over the dazed Italian-American hope. Albertani managed to sit up with his right leg caught under him. As he tried to clear his head, drops of sweat flew through the air. Then Albertani began to slowly sink back down to the canvas. As the seconds passed, the crowd was in full voice, imploring their hero to arise. The referee hit five on his exceedingly slow way to ten.

Doyle leaned across Cindy to tap Moe on the arm. He said, “This makes the Dempsey-Tunney long count look like it was on speed dial.”

“Shh, Jack,” Moe said.

Albertani finally struggled to his feet. The bell ending the round immediately rang although Doyle was positive there were at least fifteen seconds left in it. He watched as Rawlings ambled back to his corner. Doyle read the lips of Rawlings’ manager, who angrily said to his fighter, “What the fuck did you do in there? Christ!”

The sixth and final round of the fight took thirty-seven seconds. Albertani, breathing heavily and still half-dazed, nevertheless charged off his stool at Rawlings and unleashed a looping right hand. Doyle was positive the blow barely missed Rawlings’ chin, but the veteran stumbled backwards and fell on his back to the canvass, arms outstretched, eyes closed. The ref counted him out so rapidly Doyle could hardly get his jacket back on before the fight was declared over. When the ref’s count ended, Rawlings bounced right up. Albertani looked as surprised as anyone at this outcome as he wobbled around the ring, arms raised in jubilation.

“Jack, I don’t get it. Over so quickly, and Rawlings doesn’t even look like he’s hurt,” Cindy said as the black fighter rapidly departed the ring.

Albertani’s Elmwood Park posse charged through the ropes and lifted him to their shoulders. A reprise of the “Rocky” theme song blared.

“Well, I enjoyed that Mr. Kellman; I mean, Moe,” Cindy smiled as they walked to the Horizon exit. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Kellman reached forward for a hug, eagerly provided, then said, “Jack, what did you think?”

“Don’t buy any shares in Albertani’s contract.”

Kellman said, “You’re right. I don’t know, some of these old dagoes, they get excited when they discover a young stud. Fifi said to me last week, ‘The kid reminds me of Rocky Marciano. Tough, strong, determined.’”

Doyle said, “Hah! This kid’s more like Maraschino, the cherry.”

They all waved goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-One

June 11, 2009

Doyle was watching replays of the previous day’s races on Tenuta’s television in the office when the trainer came bustling through the door. “Jack, listen to this,” he said, waving a copy of
Racing Daily
before him. “There’s another kind of hustle going on. It’s un-damn-believable,” he fumed. Tenuta’s face was the color of a hydroponic tomato. Doyle took Tenuta by the arm. “For Chrissakes, Ralph, calm down.What’s going on?”

Tenuta opened the newspaper to page three. “It’s this story here. There are trainers now using shock wave therapy on their horses.
Shock wave therapy
. This happened in Australia, where they suspended a couple of those guys.”

Doyle reached for the paper. It was turned to a piece by
Racing Daily’s
senior columnist, Jeff Hovey, who described a veterinary procedure administered to a major race winner Down Under named Rick’s the Man. He read, “The horse received a session of extracorporeal shock wave therapy (ESWT) five days before the race. This is a procedure most commonly used on humans to pulverize kidney stones without invasive surgery. Used on horses, it is believed to have a perhaps healing and pain-killing effect. The treatment works to hyperstimulate nerves so that they no longer transfer pain.”

“Ralph,” Doyle said, “you ever hear of this before?”

Tenuta walked over the office coffee maker, poured himself a cup. Composed now, he sat down in his chair. He shook his head. “When I came up in racing, the rule was feed your horses only oats, hay, and water. That was all. Sure, there were some guys hopping horses back then, taking an edge, but most of them were caught. There were others who’d do something along the same lines as this wave therapy. They’d have their vet cut the nerves above an injured horse’s bad ankle or foot. Then the poor animal couldn’t feel the pain. It was called ‘nerving.’ That, thank God, got banned a long time ago.

“But damn, Jack, things are moving so fast in this business. There are what they call ‘designer drugs,’ which are undetectable for awhile. Once they’re detected, some chemist will come up with a new version designed to make horses run faster. We went through all the ‘milk shaking’ years,” he said. Tenuta was referring to the practice of loading bicarbonates into a horse’s stomach through a rubber tube. The purpose was to lower lactic acid in their muscles and the bloodstream, thus supposedly preventing them from tiring. This illegal scam was eventually discovered by racing authorities and banned. Violaters were severely punished. “Now, shock waves!” Tenuta said. “Enough to make you weep.”

Doyle looked across the desk at this distraught, honest little man. An upright, rule-following advocate of “what’s best for the horse” from the get-go. “Ralph, I’m sure the local authorities are on to this. I know they’ve developed tests for blood-doping, the kind used by those Tour de France cycling marvels.”

Doyle, knowing what the answer would be, but wanting to ask the question anyway, said, “Honest to God, Ralph, are you ever tempted to try some of these new methods on your horses?”

“Get serious,” Tenuta replied. “When I lead one of my horses over to the paddock to run, I know that horse is drug-free.” He paused. “The only thing I do that doesn’t come from the old days is sometimes I hire a massage therapist to work on my stock. You get a horse that’s real tightened up, his muscles bunched, I call this woman. Name of Ingrid Rosengren. She comes and gives the horse a forty-five minute treatment. Man, it really works. Massage and acupuncture. Not on
every
horse, but definitely on some of them. The horses love what she does. She charges sixty bucks an hour. But to see the way my horses respond, Jack, it’s worth every penny.

“A lot of the vets around here won’t give her the time of day. She’s probably cutting into their business.But I’ll tell you, she’s on to something. Ingrid says when one thing is out of balance on a horse, things start to snowball. She’s a big believer in preventative treatment. Doc Jensen, my regular vet, has started to use her a lot. He’s become a believer in what Ingrid can do.”

Doyle said, “Are you talking about that tall, statuesque Swedish-looking lady that I’ve seen in the track kitchen. Very pretty blond woman?”

Tenuta looked down. He said, “Well, yes. That’s probably her.”

Doyle said, “Ralph, am I perhaps seeing you blush at the very mention of her name?”

“Don’t give me any of your
perhapses
,” Tenuta barked. Doyle was getting a kick out of this, never having seen the trainer flustered. Answering Doyle’s question, Tenuta said, “Yeah, that’s probably Ingrid. I mean Ms. Rosengren. Very nice woman, everybody likes her.”

Doyle said, “I can certainly understand why.”

Tenuta glared at him. “I’ve been married to my first and only wife Rosa for almost thirty years. I don’t fool around, Jack, or have eyes for other ladies. That’s not what I do.
Capice
?”

Doyle, grinning, got to his feet. “I happen to know another Italian-American paragon of marital virtue named Tirabassi. FBI guy. Far as I know, Tirabassi is as faithful as Old Faithful. You two guys,” Doyle said, moving to the door and shaking his head,“are kind of tarnishing my image of the Italian, what do you call them, Lotharios? Casanovas? Sinatras? They marry young, quickly father children, then move on to explore other, um, romantic interests. I thought it was in the blood.”

Seeing how he’d gotten his friend riled up, Doyle could not resist. “Doesn’t what’s her name, Ingrid the massage lady, kind of remind you of that Swedish beauty in one of the old James Bond movies? Ursula Andress? The one who came out of the sea wearing not much more than an appealing look?”

Tenuta swiveled his squeaky chair around, turning his back to his stable agent.

“Get the hell out of here, Jack.”