Photo Finish

Contents

Photo Finish

Contents

Inscriptions

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

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Inscriptions

I am convinced that horses have a sixth sense, and I know from experience that communication can take place between horse and rider in a language without words. When I am really in tune with a horse, I feel I know what he is thinking and he seems to know what I am thinking, too.

—Hall of Fame Jockey Gary Steven.

Sell the cow, buy the sheep, never be without the horse.

—Irish proverb

Chapter One

Summer 2011

Ralph, put your horse on the phone.

It was a soft but insistent voice coming over the speaker phone in the Heartland Downs Racetrack office of veteran trainer Ralph Tenuta. He quickly answered okay and leapt to his feet and started for the door. I’ll be right there. I’ll have my cell phone.

Jack Doyle leaned forward from his seat on the battered leather couch in Tenuta’s office. Did I hear what I just heard, Ralph? ‘Put your horse on the phone’? Who said that? What horse? A phone?

Jack, I’ll explain later, Tenuta said over his shoulder.

The screen door slammed behind the trainer. Doyle, one-time amateur boxer and former advertising account executive, now deep in the world of horse racing, sat back on the couch. Tuxedo, the black and white resident cat, gave him a typically baleful look. On Tenuta’s desk an ancient electric fan swiveled, so weak Doyle estimated that it wouldn’t blow out a match. The glistening new speaker phone, a recent gift from one of the trainer’s grateful clients, formed an anomaly in this otherwise outmoded enclave.

Doyle picked up his copy of Racing Daily, the newspaper often referred to as the bible of thoroughbred horse racing. Once again, he went over the three races his new, and first, and only jockey client would ride in that afternoon.

After being right-sized by his ad agency, Doyle began what he recognized as a most unlikely, but necessary, career on the racetrack. First, fixing a horse race. A caper he’d never stop regretting, especially since his profits from it had been stolen. Then being co-opted by the FBI to catch two sets of criminals while working as a groom. Then stints as a publicity director and a stable agent, leading to his current job as a jockey’s agent. Present a moving target had come to define Doyle’s vocational philosophy.

Doyle tossed the newspaper onto Tenuta’s desk. ’Put your horse on the phone,’ he repeated. I’ve got to see what the hell this is all about. He headed out the office door.

***

He found Tenuta in the fifth stall on the west side of the large barn. The trainer was holding his cell phone up next to the twitching left ear of a nervous gray filly named Madame Golden, a real nut case, according to Tenuta.

There’s something wrong with Madame Golden and I can’t figure what the hell it is. That’s why I called the vet, Ingrid McGuire. She’s over on the other side of the backstretch and can’t come here now. That’s why we’re doing this phone business, Tenuta said.

As the soft voice poured out of the phone into Madame Golden’s ear, the filly relaxed, stopped anxiously swishing her tail, got a pensive look on her long brown face.

After a couple of minutes, the voice on the phone told Tenuta to move away from the filly. Tenuta patted Madame Golden on her neck as he listened to Ingrid McGuire say, Ralph, check this horse’s left rear foot. She says there’s a twisted nail in the shoe that’s killing her. That’s why she was so out of sorts the past couple of mornings when you sent her to the track to jog.

Tenuta said, Thanks, Ingrid. He handed the phone to Doyle and examined the foot in question. I’ll be damned, the trainer said. Madame Golden whinnied as Tenuta held her foot. He said. Jack, call Travis Hawkins. You got his cell?

The powerfully built African American blacksmith was in the cab of his white Ford pickup, eating a breakfast burrito from the Heartland Downs track kitchen and going over his written schedule for the day.

Travis, it’s Jack. Can you come over to the Tenuta barn? Ralph has a little job for you. Won’t take long.

Hawkins said, What’s a ‘little job’? Doyle described Madame Golden’s problem.

Who noticed that?

The horse told them.

What?

This will all become clear once you get over here, Doyle said. I think.

***

Twenty-five minutes later, after Hawkins had carefully removed the offending nail and put a new shoe on the appreciative Madame Golden, the three men drank coffee in Tenuta’s office. The blacksmith said, Are you going to explain?

Tenuta said, I met this young woman, Ingrid McGuire, a few months ago. She’s a veterinarian. Used to work with another vet, Eric Allgauer, that I used for quite awhile.

Tenuta refilled his coffee cup and sat down again behind his desk. Here’s the deal. Ingrid is what they call a horse communicator. She used to do mainly straight veterinary work when she was with Allgauer, but now she pretty much concentrates on this other practice. Communicating. A lot of guys back here didn’t take her or her ideas seriously when she started. Me included. But I’ve seen the good results Ingrid gets. I’m a believer.

Hawkins leaned forward. A man who had been around horses most of his adult life, he was obviously intrigued. Ralph, what does she do? I don’t understand.

Now, Tenuta said, "don’t laugh, but what Ingrid does is like that ESP stuff I’ve seen on TV. Extrasensory perception I think it’s called. She closes her eyes and concentrates and lets the horse come into her mind. The horse tells her things. Horses can’t talk, but somehow Ingrid can pick up what they are thinking—if they want her to know what they’re thinking. Some don’t. Or can’t. This doesn’t work with all horses, she tells me. I know it sounds crazy. But it isn’t.

Ingrid said she got started with this method after she read a book by a veterinarian in England, a guy named Henry Blake. The book convinced her that this kind of horse communication was possible. So, she went ahead with it. And it worked. And it left her former partner and boyfriend, Eric Allgauer, behind.

Doyle and Hawkins exchanged eyebrow-raised looks. Tenuta said, Here, I want to show you this. Ingrid gave me Blake’s book. He thumbed through the book to a dog-eared page. Henry Blake talks about ‘the transfer of an emotional state from horse to horse or horse to human.’ He says the ‘telepathy involved is the transfer of specific mental pictures.’ Ingrid says that’s exactly what goes on when conditions are right. He put the book down and removed his reading glasses.

Ingrid has got several clients here now, Tenuta continued. She says her methods of dealing with horses vary. After she’s first met them, some of them send messages to her when she’s not with them. Others need her to be with them there in person. Others, I guess like Madame Golden, can be prompted by hearing her voice on the phone. ESP.

Tenuta became slightly agitated by the looks on the faces of his listeners, especially Doyle’s.

He said, "Skeptical bastard that you are, Jack, I’m sure you think this is some kind of hustle. Well, hear this. The first time I used Ingrid I had her deal with an old gelding, Frank’s Fantasy. He’d all of a sudden soured on me. He wouldn’t break from the gate, and he loped around to finish dead last in three straight races. With his head cocked so he could look over the fence at the crowd. Like he was mocking me.

"I changed his feed. His exercise schedule Tried three different jocks on him. None of them could do anything with Frank’s Fantasy except get hot and dirty at the back of the pack. The horse just wouldn’t try. I had his regular vet, Allgaur, go over him from head to tail. Nothing physically wrong with Frank’s Fantasy, so Allgauer said.

A few days later, Ingrid McGuire came by the barn one morning and asked if I would let her work with Frank’s Fantasy. I’d seen her assist Allgauer before and been impressed with her. Real nice young woman. Her mother’s Swedish, her dad’s a Mick. Hey, I thought, Why not? I’m not getting anywhere with this animal. You guys want more coffee?"

Doyle said, Go on with it, Ralph.

"Ingrid made a couple of visits to Frank’s Fantasy’s stall. Ingrid said Frank’s Fantasy told her he was sad. Depressed. Because a buddy of his, another old gelding named Mister Twaggs, who’d been in the stall next to him for about two years, was gone. Mister Twaggs got claimed away from me.

Ingrid asked Frank’s Fantasy what could be done to make him not feel resentful, get him to try in his races? He told her he needed a new friend.

Tenuta heard Doyle’s snort of disbelief. He glared at Jack. "Ingrid said Frank’s Fantasy was very ‘adamant’ or something, whatever that means.

"I figure, ‘What have I got to lose?’ So I move this new two-year-old colt I just got from the farm into Mister Twaggs’ old stall next to Frank’s Fantasy. Colt named Plotkin. Pretty ugly name. But a very promising colt.

"These two horses get along great, old Frank and the kid. Frank’s Fantasy picks up his head. He’s acting better. I call Ingrid to see how it’s coming. She tells me, ‘Great, Ralph. Frank says he’s very happy with his new pal next door.’

I enter Frank in a race the next week. He goes to the gate prancing, like his old self, not hanging his head like he’d been doing. The son of a gun came out of the gate like a quarter horse. Won by a pole. He was bouncing around the winner’s circle like he wanted to go around the track again.

Tenuta leaned back in his creaky chair, spreading his arms. Ingrid came by the barn that evening. Had a communication with Frank’s Fantasy. She said he told her, ‘I am a happy horse’. And that’s how he has been acting, and running. What can I tell you? I believe in Ingrid.

Chapter Two

Spring 2008

Ingrid McGuire put in her four miles of running every other day, regardless of the Champaign-Urbana weather, which ranged from blistering summer heat to winter mornings when sweat threatened to freeze on her forehead.

She had begun this regimen two years earlier shortly after enrolling in the University of Illinois and its famous veterinary school.

Moving smoothly south from University Avenue over the long blocks on Lincoln Street, past the Ag buildings and the herds of penned-up cows whose odor permeated the air no matter what the time of year, she almost always gained a sense of exhilaration, solid well-being. The release of energy somehow transferred into stamina when she attacked her studies later in the day.

This April morning, as she ran past a blooming lilac tree, she stopped and reversed herself in order to pluck a sprig. Lilac scent had always been one of her favorite things in spring. Then she heard a voice from behind her. Is that legal?

The speaker was a tall good-looking man astride an expensive bicycle. She could see he was kidding from the smile on his handsome face. Cut-off shorts revealed his muscular legs. He removed his riding helmet, smoothed his blond hair, and smiled at her. Do you know me? he said. Eric Allgauer. We’re in Professor Ronstead’s lecture class Tuesday mornings. You sit down front where you can raise a questioning hand.

He paused to drink from a water bottle. I lurk up high in one of the rear rows. These will be my final credits before graduation. I can afford to coast. He stopped to erase the sheen of sweat on his broad forehead. I’ve started riding this route every day. Ever since I happened to see you running last week when we were going in opposite directions. I stopped riding to watch you run. I’ve been looking for you ever since.

Why?

Oh, he smiled, you have a lovely way of moving. A tall, fair girl with great legs and buns and a long pony tail waving is a tonic for the heart. They both laughed.

Ingrid said, Fifth year, eh? Congrats. You’re almost out of here. I’ve got another year to go. She squinted at him through the morning sun. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you before. It’s a big vet school. But not that big.

Eric put his helmet back on. Go on with your run. But, if you like, maybe we could have coffee, or lunch, after next Tuesday’s class?

Ingrid backed away a few steps and turned to resume running. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, That might work.

He watched admiringly as her long strides carried her on her way.

That’s where it all began for them. Two months later, Eric informed his angry father that he had decided to take a year of graduate work.

You can pay for that yourself, Dr. Herman Allgauer shouted over the phone.

I plan to. Eric slammed down his phone.

Ingrid and Eric moved in together the next week.

***

The following year, Ingrid thought, went by in kind of a blur. She studied long and hard and made the dean’s list again. Eric sashayed through his grad school courses. After registering at the start of that fall semester, Eric told her, I’ve signed up for a creative writing course. This will drive my old man nuts. They were sitting on the small balcony outside their third floor grad school apartment. A late September breeze rustled through the leaves of the aged elm trees lining the yard in front of them.

Why do you want to do that, Eric?

Allgauer reached for the shaker of martinis on the small table between them. In recent weeks, he had begun preparing the drinks before each of their evening dinners.

My old man wanted me to follow him into veterinary medicine. Fine with me, because I like it. He also wanted me to graduate from this vet school, which he had come out of forty years ago, and join him in his practice back in Naperville. The idea was that I would eventually take it over. No way.

Why is that? Ingrid said.

Because I can’t stand the man. Neither can my brother Rudy. The famous vet Dr. Herman Allgauer is an egomaniac with a mean streak two yards wide. And he is what I’ve learned is called a ‘high-functioning alcoholic.’

Meaning what?

"It means he drinks a lot, but can still operate his practice. Fixing damaged animals. Charming their grateful owners. Then going home at night and going from Dr. Allgauer to Mister Hyde and hide the wife and children when he’s on another tear.

When my old man went to school here, the vet school was about ninety-five percent men. Today, as I’m sure you know, it’s split about fifty-fifty between women and men. For which I am very grateful. But this irritates the hell out of Dr. Herman, a misogynist of the first order. He laughed as he pulled Ingrid close to him.

Ingrid shifted on the couch. She’d never heard Eric so serious about anything, much less his family. He got up abruptly. I want to show you something I wrote about Dr. Herman. It’s a poem I wrote. I did it for freshman English. Got me an ‘A’ and some inquiring looks from the prof.

Eric reached into the bottom drawer of their desk. He took out a tattered manila folder and found what he wanted. He handed it to Ingrid. She read:

MY OLD MAN

A pre-noon nip to

Get the morning running?

Or a slosh at dusk to

Lay out evening’s path?

He faced such vital

Choices, drinker of

The wee tot now and

Then, the vat then

Again. The measure

Of a person’s not

Their measure, he

Maintained. No,

The key’s just in the timing,

Of that he was convinced. Until

He and his bottle hit full throttle.

Ingrid read the poem once, then again. She said, That’s a pretty sorry picture of a man. You must have given a lot of thought to this. Your father has caused you a lot of pain. She leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked straight ahead as he answered.

Yes, he did. That’s why I’d never consider going into practice with him. I’m going up to Chicago, get my track vet’s license, and set up a practice at Heartland Downs. That’s my plan.

He turned and smiled at her. And I hope you’ll come with me. He refilled his martini glass. Ingrid waved off his offer to freshen up her drink. She noticed, not for the first time, how Eric at about 6:30 each evening began to slightly slur his words. She wondered how many martoonies, as he called them, he had downed before she arrived. However many there were, they seemed to make him more caring and affectionate, especially in bed. She was in love and loving it.

Chapter Three

Summer 2011

Doyle hadn’t made too many trips to O’Hare Airport’s International Terminal, but he enjoyed every one. As he once said to his friend Moe Kellman, You can’t go anywhere else in Chicago and see more happy and relieved people. It’s a kick.

It took him several minutes to find a parking place in the crowded International Terminal lot. He hurried across the street to the entrance, observing reunited family members and friends embracing and talking in various languages. Hurried down the stairs to check the monitor on the first floor. The Aer Lingus flight he was meeting had landed. He shouldered his way through the crowd into the reception area facing Gate B.

Doyle’s route to this destination had been laid out a week before. He had just returned to his Chicago condo from his morning run and was finishing his daily exercise regimen on the living room floor when the phone rang. He did his one-hundredth push up before picking it up on its third ring.

Hello there, Jack. Doyle smiled.

Well, if it isn’t the prince and future king of Ireland’s bookmakers. Hello yourself, Niall Hanratty.

There was a short silence. Och, how did you know it was me? Caller ID doesn’t figure into these international calls, does it now?

Who needs caller ID with that County Cork accent of yours? Give me a minute to get settled here. Doyle placed the receiver on the coffee table in front of his couch, walked into the kitchen, pulled a carton of orange juice out of his sparsely stocked refrigerator. He smiled as he recalled Niall and his muscle man helping Doyle survive a life-threatening situation at Monee Park Racetrack a year ago. Niall had been there to try to take control of the track owned by his cousin Celia McCann. These two heirs of financier and track owner Jim Joyce finally came to an agreement that satisfied both. Doyle counted himself fortunate to have escaped with his life.

What’s going on, Niall?

Have you ever thought, Jack, of being a jockey’s agent? I know you own a great store of racetrack knowledge, having been involved in several interesting capacities. Are you looking for something to do now? You, a young man with such energy as you have? If so, I’ve got something for you.

Doyle swigged his orange juice. Toweled the sweat off his face. Actually, Niall, I’m ‘between assignments’ as we say over here when we’re not working. What jockey are you talking about?

Mickey Sheehan. Just a bit over the age of seventeen, but greatly talented, believe me. And a good kid.

Doyle said, Why would an Irish kid rider want to come here? And why would you entrust the kid to me?

Answering your second question first, because I trust you, Jack Doyle. As to the first question, well, I’ve known the Sheehan family for years. You’ve probably heard of Kieran Sheehan? One of our country’s leading jockeys for the past five or six years?

I’ve read about him, Doyle said. He rides a lot for the leading stables in Ireland, England, France. Right?

That he does indeed, the devious little bastard. Kieran wins races when he wants to, and loses them when he doesn’t. Myself, and most of the rest of Ireland’s bookmakers, have had to keep a keen eye on this lad for years. Much to our dismay, I must say.

What do you mean, Niall?

What I mean, Jack, is that Clever Kieran, as he is known here, sets up betting scores. He’s probably held, or stopped, as many horses as your man Warren Beatty held women during a month or two in his vibrant youth. But Kieran is so good at it, nothing has ever been proved against him. Even though he’s been called in for questioning by the racing authorities many times.

Doyle began doing leg stretches, phone still at his ear. So, Kieran, he’s a bad apple?

He’s a feckin’ orchard, Hanratty barked.

Then why do the top trainers keep using him, Niall? I know he’s won all kinds of Group One races all over Europe.

Hanratty said, They use Kieran because he’s so damn talented. When the man rides on the up-and-up, which is most of the time, nobody matches him.

Are there other riders over there doing the same thing as Sheehan?

Absolutely not. Most of them hate Kieran’s guts. Not just because of jealousy, envying his talent, but his sleek way of getting his own way. He looks down his long County Monaghan nose at the other riders. And at the racing establishment, for that matter. And he’s a regular irritant to bookmakers such as myself.

Doyle stood up. Drained the last of his orange juice. What does all this have to do with the young jock you want to send over to me?

I have a great deal of respect for the Sheehan parents. I grew up near the mother, Blathnaid, in Dun Laoghaire. Went to school with her husband Eoin at University College Dublin. These two good people are, well, they’re pretty horrified at Kieran’s life and lifestyle which, I am told, involves girls gone bad and cocaine flowing through. He won’t have anything to do with his parents anymore. And they want young Mickey to be as far away as possible from Kieran’s possible influence. I can’t blame them.

Doyle said, Well, tell me about this youngster you want to send me. Any good?

Brilliant prospect, Jack. Won a couple of dozen races so far out of maybe a hundred or so tries. Twenty-five percent winning rate. Should do great over there with you because Mickey has powerful potential, talent, brains, determination. Plus a great personality. And a great gift for getting horses to do what should be done. I’m talking the whole package here, Jack. And, of course, it would be you, now, steering all that ability in the right direction as I know you could.

Doyle laughed. "You are such a blarney machine,