Riders Down (22 page)

“If I use that line, I’d be quoting Moe Kellman and Robert Burns?”

“Right you are, laddie,” Moe said. “The thing is, not to get discouraged. Sammy and Tamara Rosen couldn’t pull off their scam. Oily Ronnie got collared, for the second time. The prisons are packed with people convinced they could get away with it.”

Cheers and whistling broke out as the Bears walked off the field at halftime, leading 10-7. Matt couldn’t believe how pumped up these people were over an August exhibition game.

Moe said, “I think you’re right in suspecting this Professor, this Bledsoe. I have a good feeling about this, Matt. Be patient. Even masterminds fuck up.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Below a forty-eight-point headline on the
Racing Daily’
s front page the following Wednesday, the byline of Matt O’Connor appeared above this news story.

CHICAGO——Authorities have launched a full-scale investigation into an alleged national race-fixing scheme involving some jockeys and a small ring of bettors working in conjunction with them, Racing Daily has learned.

The probe is being conducted by the Protective Bureau, security arm of the racing industry, in conjunction with federal officials. Lawrence Drayton, Federal Bureau of Investigation bureau chief here, confirmed that “We are looking into some very serious allegations.”

The involvement of the FBI indicates there are suspicions of interstate racketeering, prosecutable under the RICO Act.

According to sources in the industry, the investigation is aimed at a small number of nationally prominent jockeys. One of the riders reportedly volunteered to cooperate with authorities and has been placed in protective custody.

Before the rider turned himself in, racing officials had been puzzled by the results of some National Pick Four betting events. Startling upsets had occurred in some of these races, usually involving heavy favorites, ridden by leading jockeys, who failed to perform as expected.

“This was more than chance upsets coming into play,” one official said, after requesting anonymity. “When we discovered through a tip that some of the same people were cashing winning tickets on more than one of these Pick Fours, warning flags really went up and we began to heat up the inquiry.

“We have really got the whole machinery in motion on this one,” he added. “We certainly can’t afford another black eye like with the Breeders’ Cup fiasco three years ago.”

The official was referring to the 2002 Breeders’ Cup, when the payoffs from a National Pick Six were manipulated by an industry insider. The man, a computer programmer for a totalizator company, created a winning ticket after several of the races had been run. The scam was quickly discovered and the proper payoffs made, with the programmer and his cohorts collecting fines and jail terms instead of millions. However, it was an incident that shook the industry to its core.

The official said the real names of the individuals observed cashing the winning Pick Four bets this year were not known. “They used phony social security numbers and IDs. But an observant racetrack patron was able to provide us with information regarding a license plate on a car they used.”

Racing Daily was told by another source close to the investigation that three National Pick Fours in particular have drawn attention. They involved the Dell Park Derby, the Gorham Stakes at Elmont Park, and the Prairie Schooner Handicap at Des Moines Downs. All three races produced major upsets that led to big Pick Four payoffs.

Racing Daily’s interest in this matter was spurred several weeks ago when unusual betting patterns and riding tactics were identified by an industry expert. Subsequently, this newspaper’s inquiries helped lead to the probe which, it has been learned, is zeroing in on a resident of Madison, Wisconsin.

***

Matt’s battle to get this story into print had been a protracted one, fought first over the phone, then resumed when he drove to
Racing Daily
’s downtown Chicago office and stormed into Harry Cobabe’s editor’s sanctum. Cobabe had put a hold on the story Matt had filed the previous day, explaining that “our lawyers are worried about this one. They urge caution.”

“The damn lawyers,” Matt began, leaning forward, his hands on Cobabe’s desk, “sweat over the weather box you publish, for God’s sakes. If they had their way you’d be putting out papers with blank pages.”

Cobabe looked at his excited Chicago columnist. He said, “Would you mind taking a few turns around the office and cooling out, like those horses you write about? Then sit down, and we’ll talk about this. Let me hear your argument.”

Matt took a seat. He said, “Harry, it’s a tremendous story, and we’re the only ones that have it. We know some bastard out there has been murdering jockeys and probably controlling other ones because of that. A tip from a weasel named Ronnie Schrapps enabled the police to trace the license plate of a car transporting people who cashed big Pick Four tickets. The car belongs to a Claude Bledsoe of Madison, a so-called full time student who has tutored athletes at the university there.

“One of the country’s top riders, Randy Morrison,” Matt continued, “is on record with the FBI saying that somebody calling himself the Professor said he had killed this jock’s half-brother as well as other jockeys in order to get their relatives to intentionally lose races that he chose. I’ve got this information on good authority, but I had to promise not to identify Morrison in my story.

“And Moe Kellman’s Uncle Bernie, the ‘world’s oldest bookie,’ died under suspicious circumstances after having dealings with a so-called professor from the University of Wisconsin. I think Bledsoe pulled all this crap. His grandmother’s bequest had threatened to run out, and he needed money in order to score a huge inheritance. So he decided to take a bunch of money out of horse racing, jockeys and bettors be damned.

“No, they don’t yet have Bledsoe in custody. And I didn’t name him. But they’re onto this guy, just as I said in my story, which is solid as it is written, I guarantee you. I’ve been working on this for weeks. This is beyond knockout stuff, Harry. It’s in the stratosphere,” Matt said.

Cobabe got up from his chair and walked over to the window that overlooked the Chicago River. He stared out silently for several minutes, his back to Matt. Then he returned to his seat. “Let me ask you this. What if we go with your story and they can’t find Bledsoe and he sets his sights on you? He wouldn’t be the first madman to harm a newsman who helped expose him. Have you considered that possibility?”

“Of course I have. But they should have this guy in custody within hours. Besides, with a story this good, well, Harry, I’ll take my chances. This is once in a lifetime stuff.”

***

Detective Popp called Matt at home the next evening. He was not in a good mood. “To sum up the situation,” Popp said, “they took Bledsoe in for questioning in Madison this morning. I was there. A friend of mine, Ralph Schmitz, heads the Madison detective squad. He conducted the questioning. Bledsoe just laughed at us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that,” Popp continued. “We told him he could get a lawyer if wanted. He said, ‘If I need a lawyer, I’ll be it. And for what? You say you saw me leave Heartland Downs with some friends of mine who were lucky enough to win a Pick Four. So what? They got lucky and won big money, enough to quit their jobs and start a long vacation. More power to them. But what does that have to do with me? What am I charged with?’

“Of course,” Popp said, “Bledsoe is right. We can suspect him all we want, but there’s no evidence connecting him to a crime. Except for being an arrogant, obnoxious asshole. He was just toying with us, Matt. I guess we jumped the gun on this one,” he added. “Now the bastard is on the alert. And we don’t have any idea where his friend Murray and Murray’s girlfriend are. Schmitz got a search warrant and went through their apartment. No sign of them, no indication of where they went on the vacation Bledsoe talked about. Maybe we’ll get something out of them when they come back, whenever that is.”

Matt took a deep breath as he completed jotting down notes he’d made as Popp talked. “What if they don’t come back?” he said softly. “This is bad. Where the hell do we go from here?”

***

Where Bledsoe had gone following the police station interrogation was Doherty’s Den. He had left the interview room in the station with a smirk on his face for the frustrated policemen. But inside he was seething. He took his regular seat at the bar, and when Doherty brought over his beer he also slid yesterday’s copy of the
Racing Daily
in front of Bledsoe. “You’ve been following the races lately I notice. Did you see this story?” Doherty said, his finger on the headline above Matt’s byline. “Seems they’re looking for some Madison guy in connection with fixed races. How about that?”

Bledsoe drained the beer glass and slid it toward the barkeep. “Yeah, how about that?” he answered. He read Matt’s story rapidly, feeling a surge of bile in the back of his throat. The fucking media! Had this reporter, O’Connor, helped tie him to Jimbo and Vera? O’Connor was obviously serving as a conduit for the authorities.

Doherty asked if he wanted another beer. Bledsoe, his face flushed with anger, declined. He slapped a $10 bill on the bar before striding out the door.

Eyebrows raised, Doherty reached for the bill. “Bledsoe has never tipped me in his life,” he said to Lorie, the waitress who was ready to call out a drink order for a table in the rear. “Claude must be losing it,” he laughed.

***

The night was becoming cool, but Bledsoe didn’t notice. He walked rapidly west on State Street, shoving his way rudely through the occasional clump of students talking outside bars and restaurants, then turned right toward Langdon Street. He crossed that corridor, which houses most of the university’s sororities and fraternities, and continued on until he came to a pier that jutted out into the dark, windswept waters of Lake Mendota. There was no one else in sight as he sat at the edge of the pier, clenching and unclenching his big hands, mouth grim.

The high he enjoyed earlier that day when he had laughingly slammed the legalistic door in the frustrated faces of the two police interrogators was gone, replaced by a surge of anger at this dangerous development. The fact that investigators had traced his license plate was bad. So was the fact that they had evidently connected him to Jimbo and Vera via that license plate. Of course, the “dim duo” would never testify against him. Still, the suspicions being fanned by this reporter, this O’Connor, apparently linking Jimbo and Vera to him were causing some ripples of apprehension. And who was this goddam horse racing hack to be coming along at this point, writing about “zeroing in on a Madison resident”? Now, when all of Claude’s brilliant planning was about to pay off. Now, when Claude should be celebrating the prospect of soon gaining Grandma Bledsoe’s millions.

In the past months, Bledsoe had discovered that the danger involved in crimes he’d committed acted upon him like an ultra strong mood-elevating drug. He remembered a famous comedian being asked years ago what cocaine made him feel like, and the man replying, “It makes me feel like having more cocaine.” Bledsoe found himself reacting similarly in the situations that had seen him gun down jockeys and kill Marnie Rankin, and smother Jimbo and Vera, getting away with every one of those acts. Tonight, the desire for another such high was overcoming his usual pragmatism. Sweeping that desire along was his anger at being fingered for questioning—after all the brilliant precautions he had taken to avoid it.

Gazing out across the gently pulsing lake, Bledsoe knew he should be preparing to flee Madison, to bury himself in one of the countless obscure niches in this vast nation, insuring both anonymity and continued freedom. He had money, brains and time. If he stuck to his impeccably designed plan, he could easily disappear. But tonight he could feel his self-control seeping away, and he didn’t give a damn. Could he manage one more shot that would be heard around the racing world? Why not? Besides, the temptation to again impose his will was too strong to resist at this point in his life.

“Fuck hubris,” he said, as he got to his feet. “The Professor is ready to give another lesson.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Rick turned his dark blue Chevy Cavalier off Northwest Highway and zoomed onto the grounds of Heartland Downs Racetrack. He was already nearly ten minutes late for his scheduled interview appointment with Marcus McGee, a famous country-western singer recently turned thoroughbred horse owner.

Rick and Ivy had exchanged harsh words earlier in the morning. Ivy had asked Rick to drive her into Chicago’s Loop, where she was to audition for a part in a new play slated for a late winter opening. Traffic was awful, and they jawed at each other in mutual irritation as the Cavalier crawled its way down LaSalle Street. As usual, before such a tryout, Ivy was jumpy, apprehensive and irritable. Rick was both nervous for her and angry at himself for having agreed to challenge rush hour traffic when he had such an important interview appointment with the singer at the racetrack. Their clashing vibes threatened the old Cavalier’s already weakened air-conditioning.

They missed the light at Monroe by one car. Rick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as Ivy triple-checked her makeup in the rearview mirror.

“I didn’t tell you who I ran into leaving the track last night,” Rick said, uttering the first civil words of their contentious morning. Ivy said nothing.

“Old guy I’ve seen around for years. Marty Hogan. Dressed shabby, but clean, if you know what I mean. Trained horses years ago and went bust and now just hangs around the track. He knows who I am, says ‘Mr. Rothmeyer, can you spare some change for a cup of coffee?’

“‘Marty, you can’t buy a good cup of coffee for change anymore,’ I tell him, ‘but I remember you. I used to bet your horses. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll buy you a drink over at Jeers.’

“‘Oh, no,’ Marty says, ‘I don’t drink.’

“So I reach into my pocket and pull out the five-dollar cigar I was saving for that night and offer it to him. ‘No,’ Marty says, ‘I don’t smoke.’

“‘Okay,’ I say, ‘here’s a sawbuck. Put it on the horse that’s my best bet in the paper tomorrow. You’ll win a few bucks.’

“Marty looks at me and says, ‘Oh, no, Mr. Rothmeyer, I don’t gamble.’”

The light changed and Rick continued down LaSalle before turning on Dearborn. Ivy continued to look straight ahead, saying nothing.

“So,” Rick said, “I told this broken down, sanctimonious little ingrate bum, this Marty, I said Marty, ‘Sometime soon I want you to meet my darling significant other, Ms. Ivy Borchers.’

“Marty says, ‘Well, why would you want that?’

“Because,” said Rick, wheeling onto Monroe, quoting himself, “I want to show her what can happen to a man who doesn’t drink, smoke or gamble.”

In front of the theater Ivy, who had not said a word for the past ten minutes, shoved open her car door. As she was getting out Rick fired a final shot. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he snarled. “Remember, in your profession all your prayers will be answered, if you’re willing to accept the fact that most of the time the answer is no.” She shot him a vicious look as she slammed the car door shut. Rick pounded the accelerator in order to gain entrance to a slim opening in the traffic and begin heading for the freeway and toward the racetrack. Almost immediately, he felt guilty for what he had just said to Ivy. He dialed her cell phone, intending to apologize. She didn’t pick up his call.

As a result, Rick was still seriously strained when he was waved through the entrance to the press parking lot by a Heartland security guard. Then his blood pressure took a real jump, for in his reserved parking space sat a battered old Buick sedan, its back tires flatter than Ralph Nader’s presidential hopes. Frantically, he looked up and down the row of parked vehicles. Each parking slot was clearly marked with a rectangular green sign set atop a slender, five-foot pole. White lettering on the green background spelled out the names of those track employees and press box workers assigned to the spaces. Then Rick grinned and gunned the Cavalier forward. He’d remembered that this was Matt’s day off. He drove nearly to the end of the row and wheeled into the space marked
O’Connor—Press
. Moments later, newspapers and briefcase in one hand and laptop in the other, Rick hustled up the brick walk to the Heartland Downs clubhouse.

***

Late that afternoon, long after the last race of the day had been run, Rick’s walk to his car was jaunty. In contrast to that morning, he was in a great mood. He’d had a long day, but a good one. Marcus McGee had showed up for the interview even later than Rick, thus taking the onus off the tardy newspaperman. The singer had proved to be amiable, interesting and very knowledgeable about his new hobby, horse racing.
He’d better be
, Rick thought,
since he’s
already sunk more than a million bucks into buying young horses
. McGee also turned out to be an enthusiastic and heavy-handed bettor, and after Rick gave him two horses to wager on that afternoon, and both had won at good odds, their new relationship solidified. McGee had returned to the press box to thank Rick and had gifted him with three copies of his latest CD.

Rick’s story on McGee was slated to run in his paper’s features section the following week. Rick felt confident the story would be well received. He was excited at the prospect and eager to tell Ivy about it. The memory of their morning spat, the likes of which dotted their lives with regularity but were usually soon forgotten, had completely receded.

At the bottom of the slight rise leading from the clubhouse down to the parking lot, Rick turned left for a few steps, in the direction of his parking space. Then he remembered that his car was in Matt’s slot today. He retraced his steps. Walking across the deserted lot he took no notice of the only other car remaining. It was parked to the west of him in the huge parking lot, the descending sun behind it.

Claude Bledsoe slouched in the driver’s seat of his blue Toyota. Scrunched down as he was, binoculars poised just above the steering wheel, he was very uncomfortable. He’d been in this position for nearly two hours, waiting for Matt O’Connor to go to his car in the space reserved for him. When a man finally came down the brick walkway and, after a small hesitation, headed toward O’Connor’s parking space, Bledsoe grunted with satisfaction. He trained the binoculars on the man and saw him striding toward the Cavalier. “Well, lookee here,” Bledsoe said softly. He put the binoculars down on the seat beside him and reached for the rifle which lay across the floor.

Rick opened the trunk of his car and placed his briefcase, papers and laptop inside. Then he bent down to open the briefcase, thinking he’d take out one of the McGee CDs and listen to it on the drive home. To the west of him the barrel of a Model 700 Remington was thrust through the open driver’s side window of the Toyota. When Rick straightened up and reached to pull the trunk down, the top of his head was blown apart by a single seven millimeter Magnum shell. There was a brief pink haze of blood and tissue in the evening air. Then came the thud of Rick’s body toppling onto the warm asphalt. It was followed at once by the sound of the Toyota’s engine starting. The Toyota sped through the parking lot and through the Heartland Downs backstretch toward the west exit, scattering the Mexican kids, sons and daughters of backstretch workers, who were playing soccer on the dusty, straw-speckled road that ran between the long horse barns.