High Stakes (17 page)

Chapter Forty

“I was taking one of my usual early evening strolls on the strand down below my house. Talking on my cell phone. Getting the day's net business figures from Tony Rourke. Leaving a message on Dermott McGrath's answering machine, he's my Kinsale office manager, about next day's schedule. Then, right after I turn off the cell phone, I hear a
crack
sound and feel something zip very close to the right side of my head. I know it's not a feckin' gust of wind. Right off, there's another cracking rifle sound just like the first one. That bullet kicks up sand just in front of my right foot. By now I'm moving. I heard one more shot. No idea where that one landed except it wasn't, thank Jesus, in me.

“I moved damn fast then to the stairs leading up to my house. No shots follow me. I run in and shout to Sheila to get herself and the boys into the basement. I call the Kinsale Garda headquarters and, God bless 'em, they were out there pretty quick.”

Doyle said, “The shooter must have been in a boat looking in on you, right?”

“Yes. I'd noticed a small white motor boat maybe a hundred yards off shore that evening. We don't have that many little crafts cruising in my neighborhood, but they're not entirely uncommon. That's why I didn't give this one a second look.”

“I'd say you were a mighty lucky man, Niall.”

“No argument from me about that. Thankfully, this villain must not have been too strong in the nautical department. The bobbing up and down of the boat must have thrown his aim off enough to save my hide.”

Doyle said, “I imagine you gave a description of the boat to the police?”

“Not much of a one. I just saw it was a little white craft. Hell, I was paying it no attention at all until the blasting away at me got underway. I don't even know if there was anyone in it along with the shooter. The Garda had no luck locating anybody else who saw the boat. They used metal detectors to locate two of the three bullets buried in the sand. If they don't locate the shooter and his rifle, those findings won't do them much good.”

Doyle bent down for another skinny stone and sent it on its skipping way. He brushed the sand off his hands. “Well, Niall, at least there's one bright element about your recent experience.”

“What the hell would that be?”

“At least we know now, without any doubt anymore, that somebody's trying to kill you.”

Hanratty's dark look was succeeded by a booming laugh. “Brilliant. That's a great comfort, indeed.”

***

The low, gray Saturday morning clouds suddenly spat out rain pellets that bit into Doyle's uncovered head. By the time he'd pulled up his sweatshirt hood, it was over. Hanratty stood back, amused. “You've just gotten a brief primer in Connemara weather, Jack.”

Doyle pointed toward a log that stretched into the grass from the strand. “I want to sit a bit, Niall. I want to ask you again, why does someone want you dead?” Hanratty plunked down, frown back upon his face.

“If I knew that, we wouldn't be here having this early morning discussion. I've no feckin' idea. Other than those letters and cards from harmless looneys, I've not had a threat. You think crazy letter writer ‘Tim From Tipperary' could get himself up to wobble about in a little boat firing at me? Hardly.”

Hanratty leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face toward the lake. “There's only one man I know of who hates me enough to want to kill me. He just got out of Mountjoy Prison a few months back.”

“Mountjoy Prison,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “A classic Irish oxymoron. What man are you talking about, Niall?”

“His name is Ciarin Boyle. Ah, yes, he'd be bitter enough to try. But if he decided to do so, I don't doubt that he would succeed and we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

A gust of wind off the lake kicked up enough sand to force both men to momentarily shield their faces. “What does this Boyle have against you?”

“He's got a grudge that he believes is righteous. Looking at it from his standpoint, I can see why. Ciarin and his band of merry men attempted one of the great betting coups. It involved a good horse named Gay Futurity that Ciaran owned.

“It all started in August some four years ago. There were a dozen different small race meetings going on around our country. As you know, a race meeting here is not the same length as yours in the U.S. Your meetings run weeks or months. Most of ours go from a day or two to a week or two.

“Ciaran entered Gay Futurity in a hurdle race at little Galway Park, in the very county we're sitting in. It was on Monday of that particular August week, one of our many bank holidays. But neither he nor his cohorts bet Gay Futurity at Galway where he was to run. Instead, they drove to betting shops all over the country, including four of mine. They hoped this carefully timed strike force would go unnoticed by bookmakers. Ciarin himself, of course, didn't put in any of these numerous wagers. He was using what you in the States would call ‘beards.' Other men secretly representing him.”

“Why are they called ‘beards'?”

“Because they are disguising what they're doing. Actually, I believe the term came from the U.S. I read once that Frank James, brother of Jesse, worked as a ‘beard' for your famous early twentieth-century gambler Pittsburgh Phil after Frank's brother passed and the bank robbing business dried up. Anyway, Ciarin's plan was clever. He had his beards hook up Gay Futurity in trebles with two other horses in earlier races on that Galway program, two horses that Ciaran secretly owned. They were a pair of no-hopers, for sure. But he never intended to run these long-odds items that day. These multiple bets, as you know, are difficult to win and they pay healthy odds. Ciaran withdrew these other two horses early that afternoon, claiming they had suddenly developed fevers. Which they had. The veterinarian on hand determined that. Of course, there was no way to determine the cause of these convenient infections at the time.

“So, under our rules,
any
of these bets on Gay Futurity in the multiple wagers would become a
single bet
on Gay Futurity after the other two horses were taken out of their races. By going through this enter-and-withdraw charade, Ciaran attempted to hide—for at least until his race was run—the amount bet on Gay Futurity. Oh, this was a well-planned exercise in thievery.” Niall shook his head. “You have to give that bold chancer credit.”

The two men's heads turned back to the nearby walking path, their attention attracted by a distressingly familiar voice. “Good God, it's that dreadful doctor,” Niall said. It was indeed Doctor Whitesell and his wife coming along with the Hoys. Barry and the doctor were in the lead. Whitesell attempted to leave the walking path to approach Hanratty and Doyle. But Hoy clamped one of his large hands on the doctor's arm and maneuvered him back into forward motion. Hoy looked over his shoulder as Whitesell resumed his monologue, mouthing to Hanratty, “You owe me for this, Boss.” The foursome were soon out of sight and earshot.

“Good man, your Hoy,” Doyle said. “But what about bad man Boyle?”

Niall said, “Well, his good horse Gay Futurity won that race all right. Like a thief in the night. At odds of 10-1 that Mister Boyle had in effect created. Entered in that race on his own, Gay Futurity would have been even money. Boyle was up for a payoff of some three hundred thousand Euros.”

“Wow!”

“Wow is right, Jack,” Hanratty smiled. “Except it didn't happen. About two hours before that race went off, my man Tony Rourke got a call from his cousin Eddie Kilfoyle, who runs my betting shop in Bray. Eddie said strangers, patrons never before in his shop, had come in and bet heavily on a treble winding up with a horse named Gay Futurity. Two different huge bets in twenty minutes or so. Very, very unusual. Eddie asked if Tony knew anything about these horses.

“No such bets had been made at our Kinsale headquarters. Ciaran was too smart to do that. But Tony started calling around the country to our other shops, then shops of some of our competitors. Sure enough, same result. Out of the blue had come a ton of money on this supposedly longshot treble at this fairly obscure track on a normally very quiet Monday afternoon. But then, of course, when Boyle's first two longshot runners were scratched, it became one huge bet on Gay Futurity.

“And, once we had this attempt at thievery figured out,” Hanratty grinned, “we all agreed, all the betting shops across the country, not to pay off Boyle and his men for the Gay Futurity caper. Boyle howled to the heavens before the national Racing and Wagering Board. When they heard the whole story, what they did was ban Boyle from all Irish racetracks for ten years, both as a horse owner and as a patron.

“Ciaran Boyle maintained that his clever taking advantage of odds was a stroke of genius, not a criminal act. The Board disagreed, unanimously, stating that the act warranted his exclusion. On top of that, Boyle was shortly thereafter charged in civil court with several counts of attempted fraud, found guilty, and given a two-year prison sentence. Quite a comedown for that bold fella.”

Doyle said, “I don't imagine Mr. Boyle took this well.”

“He surely didn't. When he learned that his plan had been discovered by my Tony Rourke, he was furious. With Tony, with me. He came up with several muttered threats of revenge that were duly reported in the press.”

Hanratty shrugged. “That's just in the man's nature.”

The breeze off Lough Ina picked up, bringing with it a promise of more rain. “We'd better head back,” Hanratty said. He got to his feet.

Doyle remained seated on the log, reviewing all that he'd just heard. Finally, he looked up at Hanratty. “So, you're convinced Ciaran Boyle
hasn't
been behind these attempts on your life? What you call the ‘automotive mishaps.' The errant rifleman on the little boat off your beach at home?”

“Absolutely, Jack.” Hanratty zipped up his jacket and pulled the collar up. “Believe me,” he said, “if Ciaran Boyle had been in charge of these events, I wouldn't be talking to you on this soon-to-be-moist morning. I'm telling you all this primarily because of my dear Sheila's urging. She's having dreams about me being cemetery-bound just as I approach my prime.

“My friends in the Garda haven't advanced this matter to their front burner. The leading private security firm I use has done no better in attempting to figure out who has it so mortally in for me. Or why. Sheila considers you to be a very impressive sort off your sleuthing successes in the States.” He shrugged again. “I'm inclined to agree with her. If you can help me here, I'd appreciate it.”

Looking somewhat embarrassed by even having to make this appeal, the famously tough and independent Hanratty said, “Let's go on back to the Lodge.”

Doyle bent down to re-tie his running shoelaces. “I'll see what I can do, Niall. I'm going to take my morning run now. Always a great thinking time for me. See you in an hour or so.”

His run was interrupted by a wind-spurred rain that forced him back to the Lodge thirty minutes earlier than he'd planned. That weather continued relentlessly, prompting some of the Hanratty party to leave a day early for home. The dining room that Saturday night for the most part was subdued. Jack and Nora sat with the Hanrattys. Niall said, “The weather channel says this deluge will be over by morning. I hope he's right.”

He looked around the half-empty room. “Tony Rourke took off for home before lunch. Barry said he and his wife Maeve were headed tonight for a nearby pub to watch soccer and play darts,” Niall said. “At least the Michigan boor has departed.”

“Not so,” Nora said. “Fiona told me Whitesell had taken to his bed for the night with an illness.”

Doyle said, “We can only hope it's laryngitis.”

Chapter Forty-one

Nora was already up, dressed for the day, packing her laptop, when Doyle awoke that bright, sunny Sunday morning. She declared herself “wildly hungry for breakfast. And yourself?”

“I am indeed,” he yawned. “Give me a couple of minutes. I'm just going to jump in the shower.”

“I've never quite understood that expression,” Nora said. “Do you mean you're going to take a little run and then a kind of nimble leap in order to get beneath the showerhead? Or be jumping about once you're in there?”

“Hah hah. You're evidently in mid-day form at seven.”

Twenty-five minutes later they entered the dining room, which was busy with a lively Sunday morning crowd that included a tour van group. “Ah, shoot,” Doyle said to Sheila as they stood at the doorway.

“What's wrong?”

“Only table left open is over in the corner next to the Michigan Mouth. Him and poor Missus Mouse. Oh, well. What the hell! I'm starving. Are you game for placement over there within range of that bloviator?”

They walked through the room waving or saying hello to people they either knew or had recently met. Many cheery faces. Fiona, in her role as a morning server, greeted them with a smile and a choice of tea or coffee. Doyle, hearing the adjacent Dr. Whitesell, said, “Earplugs, Fiona, would be lovely.” Fiona smiled sympathetically.

After Fiona had returned with green tea for Nora, orange juice for Jack, she took their orders, granola and fruit, the full Irish fry-up, respectively. Nora said, “So. The inquiring reporter wants to know. What were you and Niall on about out there on your early morning walk yesterday? I didn't want to ask you about it after you came back, sweating and disturbed. So, I went out with the ladies on a shopping group. With the Hanrattys there at dinner last night, I didn't want to bring up the subject. And, after dinner and drinks and that dancing, I never got around to doing so.”

“But that, of course, was because you were otherwise occupied,” Jack leered. She punched him on the arm. “Don't give me that Groucho Marx jiggling eyebrow act.” He reached into the basket of scones, split one, offered her half, and glanced around the room.

“Don't want to talk here now, Nora. Besides,” he said, “you'd probably have a hard time hearing me over the sounds of Doctor Buffoon.”

After a wink to Nora, Doyle suddenly lurched forward in his chair. He grabbed his white napkin and pretended to cover his mouth. The sound that emerged was a disturbingly loud combination of a cough and a sneeze. Another even longer such utterance shortly followed. Nora looked at him with alarm and started to get to her feet. Even Dr. Whitesell momentarily stopped talking. Doyle took a deep breath, wiped his face with the napkin, and sat back in his chair.

Less than two minutes later, before Jack had apprised Nora of what he was doing, Dr. Whitesell had resumed loudly declaiming his negative views of “Obama Damn Care.” Doyle let loose with an even more energetic sneeze/cough combo. This one was loud enough to startle all the nearby tables. He peered up over his napkin at the concerned Nora, laughter in his eyes.

Nora got it. Frowned, sat back, watching Jack take a deep breath and place his napkin back down on the table, giving her another wink. She said quietly, “I presume you're not a victim of choking or allergies, Jack Doyle. What, pray tell, or if you don't mind me saying so, what the hell
is
the meaning of that little performance? Those sounds you produced? I didn't know if you were blowing your nose or choking to death.”

“I am glad you asked.” He paused to drain his glass of juice. Wiped his mouth again and looked around the room, many of whose occupants regarded him with concern. He nodded toward them reassuringly. Niall and Barry had gotten up from their chairs, but Jack quickly waved a not-to-worry hand in their direction and they sat back down. The Michigan physician had thrown his napkin down on the nearby table and left the dining room, Missus Mouse trailing.

“What you heard, Nora, was the sound of WGAF, pronounced woo-guff. I'll explain in a minute.”

He offered Nora another scone, which was declined. He buttered his. “It goes back a ways. To be brief, that sound is a verbal acronym. I developed it several years ago for application in the presence of such world-class, boring assholes as Dr. Whitesell. When you hear a person like Whitesell producing a full throated cascade of egomaniacal verbal irritation, you have the opportunity, no, I should say the
obligation,
to respond with a resounding WGAF. Which at least might stop him for a moment or two. Maybe even halt him for more than that. If nothing else, your tipped-off companions will know what that sound stands for.”

“Well, Jack, I'm not sure I get it. What
does
that sound mean?”

Doyle leaned across the table to confide, “WGAF, my dear, is the acronym for Who Gives a Fuck? Consider yourself tipped-off.”

She was still muffling her laughter as Fiona placed Nora's cereal bowl before her, then served Jack's breakfast. He happily dug into his platter of sausages, rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, black pudding, baked beans, with brown soda bread on the side.

Nora shook her head as she watched him. “A breakfast like that would put me under for the day.”

“Aw, it's great. Puts a skip in me step.”

An hour later, Jack carried their luggage to Nora's Peugeot. After closing the trunk, he stepped back and admired its still very decent paint job. “All the rain here, they must never have to wash their cars,” he said to himself.

The Hanrattys were at the Lodge entrance, accepting thanks from their departing guests, wishing them all “safe home, now.” It continued to be a sun-blessed Sunday morning. Dr. Whitesell “and his meek wee woman,” Niall told Jack, “left some time ago. Him evidently eager to infect some other corner of our nation.”

Nora offered to drive half the way back to Bray. “Fine with me,” Doyle said. “I'll leave these rural routes to you. You're probably more capable of weaving your way through the occasional roadway livestock. I enjoy the challenge of your city motoring.” There was a dismissive glance and no reply to that. Rummaging through her glove box CD collection, he found another Van Morrison. “I don't know this one,” Doyle said. “Mind if I play it?”

“Not at all. But before the music begins, I have this to ask. It's about you here on a return visit to your ancestral home in a matter of mere months if not weeks. Inquiring journalist that I am, I'd like to know why.” She deftly turned onto the main highway before turning to smile at him. “I don't believe it's me unknowingly sending out siren songs that lure you back, Jack.”

“Don't underestimate yourself. But, to be honest, the nearly overpowering lure of you is not the sole reason.”

She said, “I appreciate your candor. So, tell me what's going on here?”

He reached to pat her hand on the steering wheel. “I don't mean to make light of your allure factor, Nora, believe me. Not at all.” He stopped talking and gazed out his window at a large pasture dotted with robust, white sheep, an observant black border collie monitoring their pasture parameters.

“Do you think you could put up with me for a few more days, Nora?”

“The room rate will remain the same,” she said softly. “But why? I know you're not desperate for my company.” She put her right blinker on and angled off the side of the highway to a rest area and pulled the Peugeot to a stop.

“I think I've already had enough driving for this morning. You can drive us home from here. And you can also tell me what you're up to.” They got out and exchanged seats.

Doyle sped through five more miles before answering. “Me being here,” he said, “all has to do with Niall, his safety. The attempts on his life. Sheila's growing fear for him. Because somebody, identity unknown, seems determined to kill our Niall.

“Right after breakfast at the lodge this morning, Barry Hoy pulled me aside. He said he had some thoughts about who was targeting his boss. Said he couldn't talk there, but asked me to meet him for a drink late this afternoon in Dublin. I said I would. He seems to be as worried about Niall as Sheila is.”

“Seems to be? Do I detect a note of doubt?”

“Nah, not really. Hoy strikes me as a reliable sort. He's been Niall's right-hand muscle for a lot of years. Been aboard since the time the company first took flight and seems to be a very loyal employee and friend. He's an ex-boxer,” Doyle added.

“Hah! As if that means anything as far as his ethical credentials. The fact that he's laced out punishment and taken the same? Just like you, in your youth?”

“Ah, you journalists. Cynical streaks wider than the highway we're driving.” Doyle reached to lower the volume on the Van Morrison CD. “At least you didn't refer to it as my ‘distant' youth. But, no, of course I'm not qualifying Barry Hoy for the Morality All-Star Team just because he boxed like I did. But I've spent some time with that fellow, and he seems genuine to me. Niall Hanratty is pretty much a hero and a big brother and benefactor to him. I'm convinced of that. That's why I want to hear what Barry has to say to me.”

***

Nora was listening to the ten o'clock RTE Radio One news that night when Jack lightly rapped on her front door. “Woo,” she said, ushering him into her living room, “did you happen to tumble into a vat of Guinness at the Dublin brewery?”

“Don't be so dismissive, missy. Yeah, I had a few 'arf and 'arfs with Mr. Hoy. That pub I met him in, the breath mint dispenser was empty.”

“Did you not eat dinner?”

Doyle said, “This was a business meeting. No time for fooling with menus. Do you happen to have any late night sandwich makings in your larder?”

“Follow me.”

After she sliced the bread and cheese and turned on the broiler, and started brewing the tea, Nora said, “Well, how did it go? Was it an enlightening experience with Barry Hoy?”

“Pretty much so. Thanks for making the grilled cheese, by the way. Do you happen to have a tomato to place atop it? Yes, Hoy gave me some information that could prove valuable regarding Niall's mysterious enemy.”

Nora handed him a cup of tea, poured her own, and sat down across from him. “What kind of information?”

“Well, you might term what Barry told me is the tip of the iceberg. Now, I need someone to probe under the water into the heart of the iceberg. So to speak.”

“Good God, Jack, enough of the foggy talk. I sense there's something here you want from me. Am I right?”

“There is, Nora. In your role as the inquiring journalist, would you be able to find out details about an Irish company's incorporation? Its officers? Major stockholders? Things like that?”

She sipped her tea and sat back, eyebrows raised. “I hope you recognize this as an appraising look.”

“How could I miss it?” Doyle said.

“I'm not sure what you're up to. Yet. But to answer your question, yes, it
is
possible for me to undertake that sort of research. If the company is registered here in Ireland, I could access the Companies Registration Office. This can be done online. There'd be a small fee to download the company's filings, which would include the information you mentioned. I could use a credit card to pay for the documents to be sent back to me.”

“I'll give you my card number.”

“No rush. The Registration Office won't be open for business on a Sunday. And, I leave early tomorrow morning for a conference in Spain, the town of Santiago de Compostella. I've never been there. Supposed to be very interesting. The conference subject is Internet privacy, and I'm covering it for some newspapers in the European Market countries. Once I'm there and set up, and when I get a bit of time, I'll try to get this information for you. Might take a few days. All right?”

“That'd be great. My flight home is tomorrow afternoon. Maybe you could call or e-mail me with what you've come up whenever you come up with it.”

“That'll be the plan, then,” Nora said, adding, “Are you sure you trust big Barry Hoy?”

Doyle finished the final bite of his sandwich before answering. “As you can see, I am chewing thoughtfully.”

“On with it, Jack Doyle. What's your answer?”

“Yes, I trust the faithful Hoy. So far.”

***

Nora was up and off early the next morning for her flight to Spain, giving Doyle a hearty hug at the doorway before hurrying down the steps and walkway to the waiting cab. He waved good-bye, but she didn't see it. She was already on her cell phone as the taxi pulled away.

He showered, packed, and took a brief walk in her quiet Bray neighborhood. Four blocks brought him to a spot with a grand view of the Irish Sea. Its strand was dotted with joggers and dog walkers on this pleasant morning. He wished he had time to join them. But his airport cab was due, as was he due back in Chicago, where two surprises would be forthcoming, one immediate, neither pleasant.