Authors: John McEvoy
Waiting in the Customs line at Dublin Airport, Doyle looked ahead of the crowd in front of him and grinned as he spotted the same effusive official he had seen on his only previous visit to his ancestral homeland. He well remembered the tall, lanky, friendly, middle-aged man energetically greeting both first-time visitors and returnees. Doyle didn't need to see the man's nametag to know it said F. Flynn.
“Doyle, now. From the U.S. of A.,” Flynn said as he opened the passport. “Ah, now, a second trip here, eh? Well, Mr. Doyle, welcome home. Are you back to see relatives?”
“No, just friends.”
Flynn waved him forward. “I'm sure you'll be seeing old ones and making new ones, yeah.”
When he'd phoned Nora the previous afternoon to tell her his arrival time, she'd said, “Sorry I can't meet you, Jack. I've got an assignment to finish for my new Internet employer, World Irish. I'll be busy all day.”
“No problem,” said Doyle, disappointed though he was.
Nora said, “Just take a taxi to the dinner and I'll see you there. You can park your luggage in the cloakroom until we go to my place after the event. Cocktails at six, dinner at seven. Travel safely. Mickey and I are very much looking forward to seeing you.”
Doyle told the driver, “the Mansion House,” then settled into the backseat of the taxi. Traffic was heavy this late Saturday afternoon. Driver Tim Carey could be heard muttering in frustration as they were forced to lag for blocks behind a slow-moving bus.
A copy of that day's
Irish Times
, the nation's leading daily newspaper, lay on the seat. Doyle picked it up. His eyebrows elevated when he saw a headline at the bottom of the front page “Reptile Sanctuary Opens.”
“I'll be damned,” he said.
“What's that, sir?” Carey said.
“Story here about a reptile sanctuary. I thought your island was famously free of snakes, thanks to St. Patrick.”
Carey laughed. “For the most part we still certainly are. Are you reading now about the man who has been saving snakes?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Carey said, “those creatures are not native to our island. Back in the boom days, owning a snake became kind of a status symbol for, thank God, a small segment of our new rich folk. They were paying, oh, six hundred or seven hundred Euros for these imported creatures. Said they used them for conversation starters, if you can imagine that now. But it happened. Then, when the boom went bust, many snake owners discarded their so-called trophy pets. Feckin' amazing.”
Doyle said, “I'd agree with that.” He opened the paper to where the story continued. “Says here the fellow who opened a reptile sanctuary is housing a couple of pythons. And a California king snake, whatever that is. Even a six-foot boa constrictor. I'll be damned,” Doyle repeated as he put the paper back on the seat next to him.
Ten minutes into the ride, as Carey waited at a traffic light, Doyle saw a large, noisy group of protestors marching up and down outside six-story building that appeared to be abandoned “What's that all about?” he said.
“Ya see the weeds in the sidewalk there?” Carey answered. “Inside that dingy brick facade you'd find ripped up floors and holes punched into walls. What you're looking at is one of what we call our âghost developments.' Apartment buildings thrown up when the Celtic Tiger was roaring.” He lowered his window and spat into the street. “Now, of course, the Tiger has turned feckin' tabby. Some folks call it the âCeltic Carcass.' I don't know if I'd term it that meself. What you're seeing is a bunch of furious folks who bought apartments in a building that was never completely finished before the economy tanked and the value of the building went down the drain with it. They're stuck. They're still supposed to keep up mortgage payments on those failed properties. And they're furious mad. Can't blame 'em, yeah. There's a protest there every weekend.”
The light changed. Carey took a sharp right. “Let me show you another bunch,” he said. “Won't take but a minute, it's on our way.”
Five blocks later, Doyle could begin to hear the bullhorns. This was an even more vociferous collection of citizens, both sexes, many ages and sizes.
“See those protest signs?” Carey said. “This group is on about the one-hundred Euro tax on all households by our government. Thieves and ijits sank the feckin' economy and now regular folk are supposed to do the rescuing. Well, that's a non-starter for these folks. Or me either.” He rolled down his window for another emphatic expectoration before finally pulling up to the entrance of Mansion House on Dawson street, site of the dinner.
“Well,” Jack said, handing in the fare and a sizeable tip, “that was an educational trip.”
Doyle had done his Google research regarding this famous edifice. It had been the official residence of the Lord Mayor of Dublin since 1715. Tonight's event would be held in Mansion House's Round Room, built in 1821 in preparation for a visit by England's King George IV. The Round Room accommodated as many as five hundred diners, Nora had e-mailed him, adding, “The place reeks of history. There'll probably also be layers of whiskey and ale fumes in the mix during cocktail time.”
Before he'd reached the top of the steps, he saw Nora Sheehan waving a greeting. They embraced. “My God,” Doyle said, “this damp climate surely agrees with you. You look terrific.” He took a step back for assessment. “Great green dress that matches your eyes,” he said, “and a certain flush of excitement highlighting those classic cheekbones. Must be my presence.”
Nora laughed as she took his arm. “Same old Jack Doyle. Thank heavens for that.”
He shifted his traveling bag to his left hand and circled her small waist with the other arm as they walked through the entrance.
“The coat room folks will take your bag now,” Nora said. “I'll have room at my little house for it tonight.” She gave his arm a squeeze.
Nora led him to a table in the front row and introduced him to the six people already seated there, all friends of hers from Dublin's journalism world. A hulking man named Seamus O'Sullivan gave Doyle a hearty handshake while thanking him for “coming to us across the pond. I know Mickey is delighted you're here.”
Doyle shook hands with the other men and smiled at the ladies before sitting down and looking up at the head table that stretched across a raised stage. Little Mickey Sheehan, beaming, waved enthusiastically down at him. More used to seeing her either in jockey silks or morning work clothes for exercising horses, he looked appreciatively at her petite figure in a stylish light blue dress with white collar and cuffs. He waved back before walking to the bar for cocktails for Nora and himself.
Dinner was buffet style. Following Nora in the line, Doyle opted for the green pea and ham hock soup, char-grilled Hereford sirloin steak (“It's not Gibson's back home, but it's pretty damn good,” he told Nora), white chocolate raspberry truffle. Her salad and salmon
pave
, Nora said, “was surprisingly excellent for catered food of this sort.” Nora nudged Doyle when they looked over from their table to see Mickey go through the food line for the second time. “The girl still measures five feet and weighs just over seven stone,” Nora said. “A marvelous metabolism for that lucky person.”
Before the speeches began, Doyle said, “Nora, what about your brother Kieran? I see he's not here. Are he and Mickey still back on good terms?” The riding siblings, estranged for years, had reestablished a relationship the previous summer when Mickey rode against, and defeated, her older brother in a rich race at Heartland Downs. That was headline news in the racing world, the young female apprentice besting her older brother, the man who had for several seasons been Ireland's leading jockey.
Nora said, “Oh, Jack, you know Kieran. An iconoclast of the first order. He has little time for racing's press, or its fans. Good public relations has never been one of Kieran's strengths.”
Seamus O'Sullivan leaned forward across the table toward Jack. “Kieran pulls no punches along those lines. I covered probably the last dinner at which he spoke publicly. Kieran was very definite, the scowling little man. Said most turf writers don't know shite, that they just write what they want to write, not knowing what they'd seen. Somebody asked him if he felt any obligation to communicate with the bettors. Hah! Kieran's response was, and I remember it well, âMy first obligation is to the horse. Then the owner and trainer. You can have all the bettors. They're like coat holders. If you get in a fight, they're happy to hold your coat. If you win, they're with a winner. If you lose, they keep your coat.'” Doyle joined in the laughter at that statement. “That's our brother,” Nora said quietly.
“Have Mickey and Kieran ridden against each other here recently?” Doyle said.
Nora said, “Not recently, and not ever over here. They rode against each other a couple of times in France, once in Germany. Kieran won them both. Mickey got a third and a fourth.
“It's not like it is in the States. Here in Ireland, direct competition between blood relatives is prohibited under the rules of racing. Of course, they've ridden on the same racing program, but never against each other. That's so there can never be any possibility of collusion. Not that Kieran or Mickey would ever agree to anything like that.”
“You must be a very suspicious people,” Doyle smiled.
“Perhaps rightfully so,” Nora said.
As tea, coffee, and after-dinner drinks were being served, mistress of ceremonies Bernadette Ann Trainor tapped the microphone for attention and the program proceeded. First up was a five-minute video of Mickey Sheehan riding highlights from races both at Irish tracks and Heartland Downs. The topper, of course, was Mickey's thrilling photo-finish victory aboard Plotkin in the Heartland Downs Futurity in which she beat her famous brother Kieran. The video elicited hearty applause, as did Ms. Trainor's introduction of the honoree.
Watching his former client approach the microphone, Doyle thought,
She is a marvel
. He vividly recalled the horrible racing accident in which Mickey had been involved when he served as her agent at Heartland Downs during her lone Chicago summer. The anguished trip to the hospital that followed, the fearful hours before it was determined she had suffered no critical injuries when she'd plummeted to the turf, her protective helmet leaving a large divot, “only” a badly bruised face and tendon damage in her right wrist and hand. He remembered Nora's yelp of relief when the emergency room physician delivered that report and Nora's assurance. “My sister will fight back from this, Jack,” she'd said. Embracing the trembling Nora that evening, Doyle had his doubts. He shouldn't have.
During the weeks after the spill, Doyle watched Mickey almost immediately begin physical therapy. Her rehab regimen included swimming and jogging to maintain aerobic levels and she resumed her yoga that she said helped her with flexibility and balance. All of it led to her being back in the saddle in less than a month, this to everyone's amazement accept Mickey's.
As Mickey waited for her injuries to heal, Doyle remembered her telling him, “Thoroughbreds use rein tension to keep their balance. That leads to a constant downward pull on a jockey's hands and arms. We have to have extremely good hand, forearm, and core strength.”
Mickey laughed, “People don't realize that riders even have to have very strong
neck
muscles. Try putting on a helmet that weighs a pound and a half or so when you're not real fit, then try keeping your head up for a couple of minutes so that you can see where you're going. Doesn't sound hard, Jack. But it is. Especially when you're on top of a horse going forty miles an hour.”
Jack had come to learn plenty about racing. But not until booking mounts for Mickey had he come to fully appreciate what it took to be a professional athlete in a sport so dangerous that an ambulance followed the contestants around during every race “just in case.”
Jack felt a surge of pride as little Mickey moved purposefully to the podium. She grasped the microphone but had to lower it slightly before beginning a brief and well received acceptance speech in which she thanked the Sports Association, her parents, “my sister Nora, who is here tonight. And Jack Doyle, my American agent who is sitting with Nora and was gracious enough to fly over and attend tonight. This award is more than I could ever have dreamed of winning. I thank you all so much.” After a wave of cheers and clapping, Mickey said, “And now, I'll answer a few questions. If you have any,” she grinned.
A large, well-fed man at a front table raised his hand. “Do you get âup' for the bigger races?”
“No, not at all. I get âup' for all of them. I remember reading something that the great American jockey Bill Hartack said many years ago. He said he rode âevery race like it was the Kentucky Derby.' I can identify with that, all right. To my mind, the man who owns the cheap horse deserves the same treatment as the man with a good horse. I would consider it dishonest to try harder on one man's horse than on another's.” She paused before saying, “I believe my famous brother Kieran feels exactly the same way. You could call it The Sheehan Way.”
That answer drew enthusiastic applause. Mickey grinned before concluding, “I've always believed that, whether it's a small race or a big race, there's no honor in riding and losing. There's only honor in winning.”
Nora and Doyle looked on proudly as they joined in the audience's rousing standing ovation for the now blushing little jockey. Ms. Trainor announced that the program was over and thanked everyone for coming. Mickey remained near the podium, signing autographs for several of the admiring attendees.
“The kid did great,” Jack said.
Nora nodded. “That she did, indeed.”
Walking with Nora toward the exit, Doyle felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down at the friendly face of Niall Hanratty's wife, Sheila. “Hello,” he said. “Didn't know you were here, Sheila. Where's the Prince of Irish Bookmakers?”
Sheila frowned. “He's over in London on business. Jack, have you got a wee minute? I need to speak to you about something.”
Doyle introduced Sheila to Nora, told Nora he'd meet her at the front door “in a couple of minutes.” Sheila led him to a now vacant nearby table. They waited for a busboy to clear it before pulling out chairs.
“It's always a pleasure to see you, Sheila. Did you come up by yourself from Kinsale?”
She gestured toward a small group of women near the door, one of whom waved as the others looked expectantly at her. “No, I came up with the friends you see over there. I don't want to delay them, so I'll get right to the point, Jack. I am very worried about Niall. There have been some things happening, some recent incidents that scare the bejesus out of me. And he pays them no mind.”
Doyle frowned. “What kind of incidents? What do you mean?”
She leaned forward to say quietly, “I think someone, or some people, intend to do him harm.” She took a deep breath. “First, there was the morning in Kinsale when he was nearly run over by a hurtling van that didn't stop. He just barely dodged out of the way. He never even told me about that. His man Barry Hoy mentioned it to me a few days later.
“About two weeks after that, when Niall was driving home from work one night, somebody roared up from behind and banged into him on the coast road just miles from our house. He fought to keep his car off the side leading to the edge of the cliff. Managed to pull up short just in time. Again, it was a van, and it sped away. No, he did not get the license number. This, he at least
did
tell me about when he finally got home. I'd never seen him shaken like that. That's why I pressed him about what had happened before this second incident. I had to administer a large cognac and some heartfelt pleading before he would talk about it. But the next morning, it was as if he'd erased these incidents from his mind and expected me to do the same. I can't do that, Jack. My dear husband can be a very stubborn, self-confident person. You might call him bullheaded. And, as a matter of fact, I have.”
Doyle smiled. “I have observed certain bullheaded traits in your husband. But did Niall report these things to the police? Your Garda?”
“Only after I kept after him and after him for a whole day and night to do so! But nothing came of that. Without anyone witnessing these events, there was really nothing for the Garda to go on. And now, Niall has gone back to just playing down the whole situation. He refuses to discuss it with me. Says there's nothing to be worried about. You know how obstinate he can be! He's always been on about the virtues of self reliance. And I admire that attitude, up to a point. But this has me worried sick.”
One of the women near the door called out, “Sheila,” and pointed to her watch. Sheila nodded. Getting to her feet, she said, “Niall greatly respects you, Jack, after all your dealings with him over that Chicago racetrack. So, here comes me asking you a big favor. Could you come down and talk to Niall? Find out what he thinks might really be going on? God knows he won't tell me. He's made a career out of protecting me from any worrisome news. But I can't sleep until I'm assured he's safe. The business he's in, as you well know, is not entirely populated by role model citizens.” She picked up her purse and dinner program. “He'll be back from England and in the Kinsale office tomorrow.”
Doyle thought of the much-needed assistance he'd received from the bookmaker and his bodyguard, Hoy, two years before in that backstretch barn at Monee Park, his life on the line.
“My flight home is Tuesday morning, Sheila. Please tell your husband I'll see him in his Kinsale office tomorrow. Tell him I'll buy him lunch.”
Sheila gripped his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “God bless you, Jack, and thank you.” She stood up and walked away.
Nora took Doyle's arm as they left Mansion House. “What was that all about with Sheila Hanratty?”
“The Inquiring Reporter wants to know, eh? I'll tell you on the drive to your house.”