The Significant Seven (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

June 15, 2009

It had been a long, demanding day for Chris Carson. A breakfast meeting address to a group of newly minted CPAs. Lunch with one of his major clients, an electronics magnate who paid Carson an annual retainer larger than Carson’s father earned in ten years as a printing plant foreman. Finally, a well advertised and received speech, delivered
pro bono
, to a group of Milwaukee County high school seniors who had expressed interest in becoming certified public accountants. Carson thought that “exhausting but rewarding” would be the way he would describe his day to his wife Portia when he finally got home.

Home for the Carsons was a restored farm house on a small country road north and west of Chris’ Milwaukee office. The commute usually took at least forty-five minutes, fairly long for Wisconsin but, in Carson’s view, well worth it. He and Portia loved the privacy and serenity of the place, formerly home of a wealthy dairy farmer.

Carson turned his dark blue BMW coupe off the highway onto County Road W. It was a dark but well-paved stretch of minor highway, running parallel to a line of bluffs on the left side. A deep ravine bordered it for a half-mile on the right. Carson knew the road well and was familiar with its users, neighbors for the most part, who rarely drove this stretch after dark. So he was surprised to see pair of bright headlights advancing rapidly toward him. Not relaxed now, Carson tightened his hand on the steering wheel. He punched the radio button into silence. “Who the hell is flying along here at this hour?”

The approaching vehicle, a black SUV, sped closer. When it was a hundred yards away from Carson’s car, its bright lights went off, then back on. Carson quickly flashed his own brights on and off, trying to signal for relief. The SUV’s brights came back on. The oncoming vehicle picked up more speed. When it was some fifty yards away, it suddenly veered out of its lane and headed directly at Carson.

“God almighty,” Carson shouted. “What is this guy doing?” Instinctively attempting to avert a head-on collision, Carson pulled hard on his steering wheel. To the right. Onto the narrow gravel shoulder. There, now out of his control, his car slammed through the old wooden guard rail and sailed through the air into the dark maw of the ravine.

The blue BMW bounced high off a jutting boulder before it plummeted onto larger rocks and turned over three times, coming to an explosive halt at the ravine’s bottom.

The SUV’s driver braked sharply a couple of hundred yards down the otherwise deserted road. He quickly U-turned and drove back to the gaping hole in the guard rail. He didn’t have to leave his seat in order to see the flames shooting up from Carson’s car. With his window down, all he heard was grackles’ excited calls from the ravine’s trees. He was too far away to hear the crackle of flames.

Orth put black his black Jeep Cherokee back into drive. “That, dude,” he said, “is what we call a game of Ultimate Chicken.

“You lost.”

***

Two mornings later, Doyle bought a copy of
Racing Daily
in the Heartland Downs track kitchen. Carrying it and a cup of coffee on his way back to Ralph Tenuta’s barn, he abruptly stopped when he glanced at the front page and saw a story written by Ira Kaplan.

MILWAUKEE, WI—Milwaukee County officials yesterday reported the death of Chris Carson, prominent in horse racing circles as one of “The Significant Seven,” owners of the outstanding runner and sire The Badger Express. Carson’s auto was spotted by an early morning motorist at the bottom of a ravine off of County Road W outside of Milwaukee. The motorist called the county sheriff’s office immediately.

Carson’s car was hundreds of feet off the road, and the motorist made no attempt to climb down the steep ravine to the vehicle that had evidently been burning for some time.

Carson’s wife had earlier reported him missing.

County Coronor Paul Lendeman, in a preliminary report issued late yesterday,said he would not speculate as to whether Carson died of injuries from the crash or from the resultant blaze.

County Sheriff Ed Kaminski said it appeared Carson had veered off the road and through the wooden barrier. “I can’t figure out why,” Kaminski said. “There are no skid marks on the pavement.

“I knew Mr. Carson very well, from our Elks Lodge,” Kaminski continued. “He had a very successful business. He never drank alcohol to my knowledge. I’m sure he was not a drug user, although the autopsy will determine that, of course. My heart goes out to his family.”

Carson, 53, owned a prominent accounting firm in Milwaukee. A long-time racing fan, he and six of his friends from their student days at the University of Wisconsin-Madison came to national attention when they won a record Pick Six bet at Saratoga Race Course in New York seven years ago. The Significant Seven, as they were known, proceeded to build upon that success by purchasing and racing the major stakes winner The Badger Express.

Carson is the third member of The Significant Seven to die this year. Judge Henry Toomey drowned in Wisconsin’s Lake Geneva after suffering an apparent heart attack while swimming. Steve Charous, an insurance executive in Illinois, died suddenly as the apparent result of a violent allergic reaction in a Des Plaines, IL, restaurant.

Carson is survived by his wife Portia; sons Chris Jr. and Tim; and a grandson.

Funeral services are pending.

Chapter Twenty-Three

June 18, 2009

“I know you aren’t wondering why I asked for this meet,” Doyle said. He was seated in the back of Damon Tirabassi’s drab government issued green Ford Taurus. He had entered it moments before when Tirabassi and agent Karen Engel pulled up to the curb in front of Doyle’s condo.

Tirabassi drove carefully north on Halsted, then east toward the Outer Drive.

Karen said, “What’s going on, Jack?”

Doyle said, “Hold it until we park at the golf course.”

“If that’s how you want it,” she said.

Doyle, seething, tapped his fingers impatiently on the worn plastic seat. The sun continued its slide up the east side of Lake Michigan, spreading a deep orange blush across the horizon. It was a Thursday, just after daybreak, in the second month of Doyle’s employment by Ralph Tenuta and the U. S. government, Tenuta being the lone paying entity for Doyle in this arrangement thus far.

Tirabassi pulled into the parking lot of the Judge George Lincoln Marovitz public golf course. Even at this hour, it already held several cars. Doyle could see golf nuts of all ages hauling bags and carts out of their cars, ready to duff their way through the morning dew. Thousands of Chicagoans played here every week, many of them first thing in the morning or, after work, in the shroud of dusk.

Tirabassi said, “Let’s use that picnic table over there away from the clubhouse.”

Doyle followed the agents to the table, which was moist. The agents were dressed for work in their downtown Chicago office in dark suits, shades. Karen carried a McDonald’s bag. She took out a handful of napkins and wiped the bench seat on their side of the table. Doyle waved off her offer of the sodden wad when she’d finished. “I’ll stand.”

Karen said, “Jack, an Egg McMuffin? Or several? I bought a bunch of them. I remember your appetite and cholesterol-defying eating habits.”

“Any coffee in that bag?” Doyle growled. “I’ll start with that.”

“So, Jack,” Tirabassi said, “tell us what’s happening. You sounded a little, maybe overwrought, when you left us your message last night. Or, maybe, half-smashed.” He bit a chunk out of his sausage biscuit.

Doyle ripped the top off of his coffee container before answering. “Why wouldn’t I be, Damon? Why wouldn’t I be?” He rummaged in the carry out bag until he located a small container of half and half. The agents waited patiently.

“Coming up on ten weeks now,” Doyle began, “me going faithfully to work at Heartland Downs, seven days a week. Nosing around. Eyes wide open. Ears to the ground. Senses attuned. Have I found the sponger, or the sponging team? No. Do I feel as if I’m making progress? No. Do I think it’s time for me to turn in my junior G-Man badge this morning and resume my regular life? You bet I do.”

Karen said, “Jack, there hasn’t been one sponging incident since Princess Croft. Maybe these crooks know what you’re there for and are backing off. Who knows? Maybe your presence has served as a deterrent. Maybe the spongings are over. That’s a kind of progress, isn’t it?”

“A mighty slight sort,” Doyle said. “Even if there is actually a non-coincidental connection between my presence there and the reduction in spongings. Which I am by no means convinced of.”

Tirabassi put down his half-eaten sausage biscuit. He looked tired, frustrated, defeated. Doyle felt a pang or two of pity for this boring little civil servant with whom he had so frequently crossed swords.

Tirabassi sighed. “Jack, you’re all we’ve got working for us on this case. The few informants we pay so far have been worthless. The fact that there have been no recent spongings is great. But we still need to arrest the person or persons who carried out the previous spongings. That’s what we are charged with.We’ve advertised a reward, gone on radio and television pleading for any useful information. You have any idea how frustrating this is for us?

“But Jack,” Tirabassi continued, “we, or you I mean, can’t give up now. Just say you’ll stay on the job for another nine or ten weeks. By then, the Heartland Downs racing meeting will be over. If we haven’t found the sponger by then, you’re done. We wouldn’t ask anything more of you. If this were not such a major case for Karen and me, believe me, I wouldn’t have asked you to get involved at all.”

Doyle finished his coffee and paused with the empty cup in his hand. He crushed it. Walking to a nearby metal waste basket, he slammed it in. He turned his back to where the agents sat and looked out over Lake Michigan. The sun was now climbing in full force above the dark waters.

“Ten more weeks,” Doyle said. “Until the track closes. I’ll go along. Then I’ve got to get on with my life. Such as it is,” he muttered.

Tirabassi said, “Thanks, Jack. I mean it.” He extended his hand across the table.

Karen said, “Goes for me, too, Jack.” She stood up and tossed the McDonald’s bag into the metal basket with the practiced ease of the athlete she’d always been. She was frowning, though, when she came back around to Doyle’s side of the table.

“Jack,” she said, “have you ever considered taking a course in, well, controlling your angry impulses? I’m serious. We’ve known each other for a few years now. You always seem to have a lava load of anger buried just beneath your surface. Have you always been that way? Don’t you feel it’s hard to live like that?”

“Karen, darling,” Doyle was grinning at her now, “it’s in my genes, my heritage, my DNA, my psyche. Built in. I’ve tried to change routes several times in my life. I always get back to riding down life’s third rail, if you know what I mean. It’s just me, babe. But thanks for asking.”

She wasn’t finished. “Have you ever read one of the instructive books about controlling anger? I’ve had friends who found them very helpful.” She paused before adding, “My ex-husband might have benefited from one of them.”

“Actually,” Doyle said, “my second and last wife gave me a couple of books by one of those so-called anger management experts years ago. Paid a lot of money for them. Had me watch one of his videos, too.”

“Did you read them?” Karen said.

“Read the first one, skimmed the second,” Doyle said. “They really pissed me off. The video, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

June 21, 2009

Doyle slept fitfully for a couple of hours, got up, started his CD player just after two. He lay on his couch and listened to the new Karynn Allison, an old Anita O’Day, an even older Al Hibbler with the Ellington band. Music he loved.

But he couldn’t lose himself in these ordinarily intriguing sounds. The Question kept reoccurring. Why were these horse owners dying, long before their time? Were the deaths really accidental? Did they have anything to do with the sponging? Three out of seven, gone in less than two months, what the hell is that? Should he raise this with Tirabassi and Engel?

At dawn, he got into his jogging clothes and started for the lakefront. By eight, showered and with his first cup of coffee in hand, he was ready to call Moe Kellman in the furrier’s Hancock Building suite of offices.

Kellman picked up on the first ring. “Jack, I’m late today, but I’m about to head for the club. You want to work out?”

“No, I had a run already. You’ll have to go to Fit City by yourself. But I need to talk. Help is needed.”

Kellman said, “My least favorite words. Second only to ‘We Ship’ when Leah and I are in Europe.”

“Moe, I’m serious. How about lunch, or dinner?”

“Cannot do, Jack. I’m tied up for lunch. And I’m not going out for dinner tonight. I’ve got another engagement. Hold on, Jack,” Kellman said, placing Doyle on hold.

A minute later, Kellman came back on the phone. “Listen, I’ve got to be at this thing tonight. How about you come along with me? I’m going to a bridal shower. We can talk then.”

Silence until Doyle said, “Are you into the Negronis over there at this early hour? Did you say a bridal shower?”

“It’s for Fifi Bonadio’s only granddaughter. Angela. Love of his life.” Moe paused to drain his second cup of herbal tea.

“I’ve got to be there, Jack, and I’ve got a full-up day. Why don’t you come along? You might get a kick out of it.”

Doyle thought,
My life seems to get nuttier by the month. But, what the hell
. Of all the things that Moe and his life associations added up to none, as far as Doyle knew, was ever boring. He said, “Okay. I’m game.”

“I’ll have Pete pick you up at six. And wear a suit.”

Doyle could not resist. “To a shower?”

Moe hung up.

***

Dunleavy that evening drove them north and west from the center of the city to a wedding hall in Elmwood Park. It was a large, one-story brick building with an impressive faux Roman portico and a huge parking lot that was nearly filled with expensive automobiles. Dunleavy pulled up next to the front entrance. An attendant quickly opened the rear passenger door. Kellman said, “This’ll take a couple of hours, Pete. You want to go somewhere, I’ll call you on your cell phone.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kellman. There’s a real good Italian restaurant not far from here.”

“At least a half-dozen of them in this town,” Kellman said. “Try Panino’s. You can’t go wrong there. Get the osso bucco.”

Kellman and Doyle were greeted inside the door by the proud grandfather of the bride-to-be. Fifi Bonadio kissed Kellman on both cheeks before giving Doyle a brief nod. Bonadio’s thick head of hair was as white as Kellman’s, but that was the extent of their physical similarities. The top of Kellman’s head came up to Bonadio’s chin. Bonadio was about Doyle’s height, dressed in a beautifully tailored dark blue suit, blue tie on a shirt so white it reflected ceiling light. Bonadio’s long face, with its thin lips and strong chin, was deeply tanned. Had it not been for his prominent Roman nose, he would have qualified as superbly handsome. The package presented, Doyle thought, was formidable.

Bonadio and Kellman had been friends since their boyhood days on Chicago’s near West Side, Kellman being one of the few Jewish kids in the small, insulated, Italian-dominated neighborhood. Their friendship extended more than sixty years.

Their host led them down a flower-bedecked corridor into a vast room that was overhung with garish, gold-colored chandeliers. Looking neither left nor right, Bonadio walked them past dozens of tables and several hundred people already seated to the front of an eight-chair table centered in front of the stage. The atmosphere in the room was a combination of enticing cooking odors from the kitchen, strong and expensive perfume on well-dressed women, powerful after shave on some of their male companions, and the palpable sense of expectations for the program ahead.

There was one table in the front row slightly set apart. It held a small, operating, electric fan. Its occupants, five extremely aged Italian men, in black suits and tie-less white shirts,were drinking Chianti from straw-encased bottles, smoking the acrid little dry-cured cigars popular long ago in their Sicilian youth. “There’s no smoking allowed in here,” Bonadio said. “My granddaughter Angela is death on smoking. In the middle of the table, that’s my papa and his
goombahs.
Angela gave Papa and his old friends special permission.”

A waiter approached just as the three men sat down at their table. Bonadio said, “Bruno, two Negronis. Doyle?”

“Bushmills on the rocks.”

Bonadio waved Moe to a seat, then positioned himself in the center facing the stage. He motioned to Doyle to sit next to Moe. Almost immediately two very large men arrived. They nodded respectfully to Bonadio and settled into chairs on the other side of the table, their broad backs to the stage, eyes on the room.

Doyle looked at the large man on his left. “I know you,” he said. “You were with the Bears, right?”

Bonadio said, “Meet Rick Fasulo. Yeah, he used to play for the Bears. He works for me now. That’s Frank Andreoli next to him.” Both men nodded at Doyle. Andreoli was not as large as the former NFL linebacker, but physically imposing in his own right, wearing a sport coat Doyle estimated to be about a size fifty long. “They’re in charge of crowd control,” Bonadio said.

Their drinks were delivered. So was an antipasto tray big enough to accommodate a Bears practice squad. “
Buon appetito
, Mr. Bonadio,” the waiter said, bowing. Bonadio placed a century bill in the waiter’s hand. “
Grazie
, Bruno,” he said.

Moe and Bonadio clinked their glasses, Moe then touching his to Doyle’s. They drank deeply. Bonadio said, “Gentlemen, excuse me for a few minutes. I have to greet the parents of my future son-in-law.” He moved briskly toward the room’s entrance, extending his hand toward that of a well-dressed, solidly built, blond-haired man whose diminutive wife clung to his left arm as if to a life preserver in an ocean gale. After the handshake, Bonadio reached for the little woman’s hand and kissed it. She blushed.

“Is your pal Bonadio always so courtly?” Doyle said to Moe.

Moe said, “Ah, no. We’ve known each other since first grade. He’s always been a pretty serious person.” He took a sip of his drink before adding, “But Feef has a lighter side.”

Doyle said, “A lighter side? Like Pol Pot had a lighter side?”

Moe said, “Just cool it, Jack. Enjoy the scene.”

“It’s big enough.”

Kellman surveyed the room, a look of pride and satisfaction on his face. “If this were winter, Jack, 90 percent of the women here tonight would have checked their Kellman the Furrier coats on the way in. Or kept the best ones on the backs of their chairs to impress the neighboring tables.”

After signaling Bruno for a refill, Moe said, “You call this ‘big,’ Jack?
Feh.
The wedding reception will have three times as many people. These youngsters will be married in Holy Name Cathedral downtown. The reception will be at the Dayton Hotel on the river. All class, and very, very pricey.” He sat back in his chair. “When I was a kid on the West Side,” Kellman said, “one of our favorite things was night wedding receptions in the summer. My pals, the Italians, their families knew how to do it right.”

Doyle said, “What was so special?”

“When we were thirteen, fourteen, special was putting on your only sport coat if you owned one. Otherwise you borrowed from a brother. You waited near the basement door of the school gym. The wedding reception would be upstairs. They’d serve dinner, then people would get up from their tables and take to the dance floor. That’s when we would slide through the basement door. Me, Feef, Mario, Augie, Tommy, a bunch of us punks. Acting like we belonged once we got upstairs, pretending to be wedding guests. We’d go up to the bartender and he’d draw a seven-ounce glass of tap beer for everyone of us. Whoof! That was exciting.”

“But the best part came about ten-thirty those nights. The wedding dinner’s long over. The guests have all had wedding cake, their anisettes, grappas, coffee, whatever. The band takes a break. And up from the basement kitchen come women carrying laundry baskets full of Italian beef sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, best sandwiches I ever ate. People just reached in and picked up their sandwich. A lady named Marie DiCastri was the chief cook for the whole deal. She was a legend on Taylor Street.”

Moe drained his Negroni glass. He signaled the waiter for another as Bonadio rejoined them. “Things all right?” He included Doyle in his look of inquiry.

“Beautiful, Feef,” Keelman said. “Relax. Enjoy.”

As the dinner continued, Doyle noticed a stocky, black-haired, middle-aged man making his rounds of the tables. He wore an expensive-looking suit, and his designer haircut swept his long, lightly graying hair back across his handsome head. He shook hands with the men, bestowed kisses on the cheeks of the delighted women. The old men at the lone smoking table all got to their feet and bowed when he reached them.

Doyle nudged Moe’s elbow. “Who the hell’s that? The Papal Emissary?”

“Jack, show some class. Remember where you are.”

“I am. My question remains.”

Moe, seeing Bonadio in conversation with one of the several priests in attendance, leaned closer to Doyle. “The guy you’re asking about is Dominic Romano. You never heard of him?”

Doyle said, “Does he have a Chicago newspaper name? Like Dominic (Greasy Thumb) Romano? Dominic (Little Tuna) Romano? Golf Bag Dominic Romano? I thought this neighborhood was the home of colorful Outfit nicknames.”

Moe turned away. Doyle said, “Aw, c’mon, Moe, I’m just jiving.”

“Then keep your Irish Bushmills voice down, okay?”

“Okay. What about this Romano?”

Moe leaned closer. “That man is Elmwood Park’s contribution to the Illinois State Senate. Dominic has, well, an interesting background for a now prominent legislator. As a youngster, he worked as a burglar, but he was terrible at it. Later, his Uncle Feef put him in the restaurant business. Another disaster.” Moe smiled. “Success finally came to Dominic at O’Hare Airport, while he continued with his Outfit apprenticeship.”

Doyle said, “At O’Hare? Doing what?”

“This was during the summers, when Dominic was off from college. He and a couple of his buddies worked the long-term parking lot at O’Hare. Feef got them the jobs, I am sure. Dominic worked there for two summers and made a hell of a lot of money for all concerned.”

“How?”

“Say a guy parked his car long-term and told the attendant what day he’d be back. If he’d be gone two weeks, say, Dominic and his buddies rented out the guy’s car for a few days. To people they knew, or who heard about them from people they knew. People who didn’t want to fuck with Hertz or National. They charged half price of what the rental companies did.

“Word got around. They developed a nice list of clients, many through referrals. Men and women flying into Chicago, needing a car short-term for business, bringing it back and paying cash for what was them a bargain fee. But a nice fee for Dominic and Company. All cash, all off the books.”

Doyle said, “Wait. Wouldn’t the car owner suspect his car had been used?”

“Jack, Jack,” Moe smiled. “You don’t think Dominic’s crew had keys to fit these cars and knew how to adjust odometers?”

“What if the renter, getting this bargain deal, gets the car dinged up? How does that look to the owners when he comes back to retrieve his car?”

“Dominic would tell the guy that some bad driver, unbeknownst to him, must have clipped the guy’s car while it was parked in the lot. They’d tell the owner, ‘Call your insurance company.’”

“One time,” Moe said, “one of their renters got sideswiped on the Kennedy. The car, a BMW I think it was, got bashed in pretty good. The renter called Dominic in a panic. Dominic had a tow-truck there in a half-hour. They haul the BMW back to O’Hare. Two days later, the BMW’s owner gets off his plane and take the bus to long-term. When he sees his car, he goes nuts. Dom tells him there was some reckless guy leaving the parking lot in a hurry who hit his BMW. Couldn’t get the guy’s license plate, he says. Tells him how sorry he is. The guy, still pissed, says, ‘Aren’t you responsible for what goes on here?’

“Dominic’s assistants join the conversation, big, mean-looking Dagoes. Dominic tells the BMW owner, ‘Go ahead, file a complaint if you want to. You’re Mr. So-and-So and you live at such and such.’ They’ve already identified this guy, figuring there might be trouble. ‘And you’ve got three young kids’, and, so on and so on. The guy gets the message. That was the end of that problem.”

Doyle, thinking about perhaps parking his Accord some time in long term at O’Hare, asked, “Moe, is this scam still going on?”

“No, no, Jack. Dominic and his buddies were the last of that. Dominic got his degree, did some lawyering for a few years, got on the state ballot, got a nice big push from the boys downtown, and has stayed in the legislature and kept his nose clean.”

“I’ll bet,” Doyle muttered.

“Well, mostly,” Moe said.

***

The stage curtains opened, revealing an eight-piece band and its singer-leader wearing a Tony Bennett-type tuxedo and hair style. He launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “
That’s
Amore
,” a song Doyle well remembered his parents playing years ago on a record, the Dean Martin version.

Two more numbers followed. Then the singer-leader introduced himself “to this wonderful group of friends of Mr. Bonadio and his wonderful family” as Tony Molinaro. He went on to inform them that “the bride-to-be, Miss Angela Bonadio, and her lucky, lucky, I mean lucky, husband-to-be, Carson Briggs, will now join us.”