“That’s the stone truth, man,” added Morley. “We didn’t like to do you that way, but we were careful not to hurt you when we took the twenty-five off you. And we’ve put that money to good use, Jack, you got to admit that.”
Bunny’s Al had turned out to be “all racehorse,” his proud owner-trainer said. “Maybe he’s no classic horse, but he’s been good enough to win us more than $125,000 so far. Fact that he’s done so good for me has gotten me some other owners. I’m training ten head down here at Florida Park.”
Maureen could hardly wait to announce her plans. “If E. D.’s stable keeps going along well, we may buy into Fado. I’ve already been given an option on twenty-five percent of it. How’s that for a fookin’ brilliant prospect?”
Doyle pondered all that he had heard. His silence brought a rebuke from Maureen.
“Jack, don’t be that way,” Maureen said. “It’s all water over the stones, now. You got a bump on the head is the worst thing, really. Now, you’ve got all your money back.”
“Plus interest,” E. D. rumbled, “let’s not forget the extra five grand we sent you.”
A question occurred to Doyle. “How’d you find me?”
“We talked to Maggie Howard. Called her at Angelo’s barn,” E. D. replied. “She told us you were working for that guy Rexroth, on his farm. At first I thought she was jivin’ me. Maggie said she could hardly believe it either.”
“You know,” said Doyle, “I could just keep that anonymous money and still go back to Chicago and file a complaint against you two.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before he recognized the fallacy of that strategy. And Maureen and E. D. were not far behind him. “Now, Jack, would your Mr. Rexroth like to know he’s got a boyo working for him that’s thought to have fiddled with a horse race up in Chicago?” Maureen mused. “One that had a lot of the lads in Vegas chewin’ on their cufflinks?”
Doyle knew she was right. But he couldn’t resist a parting shot. “When you take over that bar down there, be sure and change its name from Playdough or Fado or whatever. Maybe make it Ebony and Ivory. Or, better yet, Assault and Robbery.”
Maureen’s hearty laugh resounded over the phone. “Oh, Jack, you sound just like yourself.”
Driving back to Willowdale, he couldn’t help but smile at the conversation he’d had, with all its various elements of desire and deceit. Maureen and E. D., he thought, who’d of believed that? He’d pulled something off, but they had trumped him easily.
With so much that had been unexplained now clear, Doyle felt a lightened mood as he sped down the dark country road. He liked both E. D. and Maureen too much, and admired their gutsiness, to hold a grudge.
Once he’d turned into the Willowdale property, Doyle slowed his car. He waved his hand out the window at a row of broodmares peering out at him from one of the pastures, lined up along the white fence like chorus girls at ease.
The thirty grand now in hand, he admitted to himself, also served to influence his newly benign view of Maureen and E. D.
Chapter 19
“But Jeezus had a jump shot!!!..”
Hearing this, Red Marchik awakened with a start. He sat straight up in bed, heart pounding. For a moment he looked about him wildy, the words ringing in his ears. Jesus had a what?
Then he listened again to the booming voice, saying “And Jeeeeezus rose up at the top of the key, and shot over old Satan’s outstretched hands…and Jeeeeezus scored!!!..”
Fully awake now and aware of where he was and what he was listening to, Red Marchik reached across the still form of his peacefully sleeping wife and turned off the radio.
The clock read 7:01. Wanda always set their alarm on the station that featured Reverend Roland Ruland, the famed Sports Preacher. Reverend Ruland was a widely popular radio and television minister in the South, tying together as he did two of the great passions of the region: religion and sports. All of Reverend Ruland’s sermons-“available only on videotape or cassette, no printed versions”-involved scripture combined with athletics. The more far-fetched these connections, the more tenuous his analogies, the more popular Reverend Roland Ruland became.
As Red Marchik sank back against his pillow, he smiled to himself at Wanda’s devotion to the Sports Preacher. She’d never been particularly interested in religion during the early years of their marriage, but once she’d heard Reverend Ruland roaring through “Old Testament game summaries” and various biblical “box scores,” she had insisted that Red travel with her to hear the Sports Preacher in person.
Red vividly remembered pulling up next to an auditorium in Clarksville, Tenn., and seeing Reverend Ruland’s semi-trailer with its huge mural depicting Christ and the Apostles. The thirteen towering figures were in an oversized, fluorescent red, white, and blue painted bass boat on a body of water identified, in bold writing, as the Sea of Galilee. Christ, as the Fisherman for Souls, was shown reeling in a human figure from the roiling blue waters. The Apostle Peter stood next to Christ, net in hand and gaff at the ready.
And the Reverend’s service that night, complete with laser light effects and some Las Vegas magic show touches, had impressed them both. Reverend Ruland was not a handsome man, with his florid, flat-featured face and a tall, black pompadour big enough to hide a partridge in, but Lord, that man could flat out preach.
As Red reminisced in silence, Wanda suddenly woke up. Rubbing her eyes, she said, “We’ve overslept, Red.” She looked at the clock, then turned on its radio. The Sports Preacher’s choral group, a barbershop quartet known as Jocks for Jesus, was just beginning the reverend’s theme song. The Marchiks smiled at each other and relaxed again, listening to what had become a great favorite of theirs:
There’s a football game in heaven,
where they fight for every yard,
with Jesus playing fullback
and Moses playing guard…
Oh, rock ’em…sock ’em…
Jeeeeezus knock ’em…
Stick with God.
When the last note had faded away, Wanda poked Red in the ribs. “Heaven sakes, honey, get up,” she urged. “We’ve got to get out there and talk to your cousin about killing Mr. Rexroth.”
***
In the weeks following the Marchiks’ Night of the Jackal fiasco in the Willowdale broodmare pasture, the experience continued to rankle the redhead. “Who thought horses could be that big?” Red said to Wanda. She clucked and cooed sympathetic replies, assuring her husband that there are many different brands of bravery. Just because horses scared him did not mean he was a coward, or in any way lacking as a man. Red gratefully agreed with her assessment.
But the desire for revenge continued to burn. One cool Wednesday morning, Red and Wanda drove over to Versailles to visit Red’s cousin Junior Kozol, a gas station attendant who served as a colonel in General Oscar Belliard’s Underground Militia. Red explained he was looking for guidance in how to eliminate “a true threat to this nation and,” he added, “a man who has done personal harm to yours truly.”
“Stealth and guile, guile and stealth,” Junior told Wanda and Red as the three of them sat at the fold-down kitchen table of Junior’s small house trailer on the outskirts of town, a trailer whose jumbled interior reeked of gun oil and dirty socks. “That’s the way to do these things.
“Now,” Junior continued, “I don’t want to know who your target is, Cousin Red. In fact, I don’t need to know. Security reasons,” Junior whispered. “Just let me ask you this, is he or she the kind of individual that goes out in crowds a lot?”
“Sure is,” Red said. “Very prominent man, one of the leaders of business and society in this area.” He spoke almost proudly of his hated former boss.