The Significant Seven (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

August 2, 2009

“Jack, this is Renee Rison. Do you have a minute?”

Doyle was driving back to Chicago after the day’s races. Traffic on Willow Road was moving right along for a change. “Sure, Renee.”

“I need to talk to you face to face. I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with you. I thought maybe we could meet this week. I know you’re a jazz fan.” There was a pause before she said, “Would you be interested in going to Ravinia tomorrow night to hear the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra? Unless, of course, you’re doing something with your friend Cindy.”

“Actually,” Doyle said, “I had already planned to be at Ravinia tomorrow night. It’s a great band and leader Wynton Marsalis is a big favorite of mine.” Doyle angled onto the southbound Edens Expressway before adding, “Cindy’s in Kentucky this week, working horses before the Fasig-Tipton sale.” He jerked his steering wheel to the side to avoid being rammed into by a small woman driving a red Cadillac Escalante, cell phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, precariously balanced on top of her steering wheel. He swore.

“What?” Renee said.

“Nothing, nothing. That was just a short comment on the driving habits of some of our fellow citizens.”

She laughed. “Sounded obscene to me.”

“So are the habits of many American motorists. Anyway, let’s do it. I usually don’t like to discuss business in a social setting. But for you and Wynton, I’ll make an exception. What time should I pick you up?”

Renee said, “No, I’ll meet you there. I’ll ride out with some friends, but they will not join us. I guess you’ll be coming from the track?”

“Right.”

“Okay. I’ll leave work early and pick up a picnic dinner for us. Is that okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” Doyle said. “How about I bring some wine?”

“Veuve Clicquot would be nice.”

Doyle winced, well aware of the cost of that famous French champagne. On the other hand, tomorrow could be a great summer night at one of his favorite Chicago area music venues. And in the company of someone who, if she had a job proposal in mind, might become his only current paying employer. “You’ve got it,” Doyle said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“You know that staircase to the Martin Theater right behind the main entrance? I’ll look for you about six. Thanks for doing this, Jack.”

***

Doyle paid the $10 lawn admission and walked through the gate of this Chicago area treasure, Ravinia Park, now more than a century old. The thirty-six acre venue hosted nearly one-hundred and fifty events each summer. This was where George Gershwin played “Rhapsody in Blue” in 1936. So many people attended, Doyle had read, that hundreds boosted themselves up and listened while seated on the limbs of trees that surrounded the pavilion and lawn.

On the Martin Theater stairs, little Renee sat behind a large picnic basket placed on the step in front of her. She was wearing a long-sleeved white and black shirt that had The Badger Express’ photo on the front, sandals, black jeans. A black sweater was tied around her neck. She was paying no attention to a much older man, sitting to her right, who was apparently trying to engage her in unwanted conversation. Above his north suburban standard-issue whale pants, a dark blue shirt bulged at waist level.

Renee stood up and gave Jack a chance to peck her cheek before she looked down at the pest next to her. “This is my bodyguard, the ex-boxer,” she said. “Would you like to meet him?” The heavy set, middle-aged man hefted himself to his feet. Eyes averted, he pulled his straw hat farther down on his face. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled before sidling off.

“What was that about?” Doyle said.

“Not much. A lonely lecher with booze on his bad breath bothering me when I told him I didn’t want to be bothered.”

“Oh.”

Renee handed Doyle the picnic basket. Lifting it, Doyle said, “Are you planning to feed the multitudes. What the hell’s in here?”

She smiled. “Never mind, Jack. Just follow me.”

He did, admiring the swing of her curvaceous little butt, as were men to both his right and left and a woman or two as well. Renee veered off the walkway, motioning him forward, until they reached the blanket that she had earlier spread beneath a tall oak tree. “I ran over and took this spot when I got here,” she said. “Okay with you?”

“Looks fine.” He helped her straighten the blanket and unpack the basket. She’d brought a couple of small salads, some deviled eggs, chips and salsa, a roast chicken, other small plastic containers. She lit a small insect-repelling candle before setting out the napkins, plates and plastic utensils. He unveiled the portable wine cooler he’d brought containing its bottle of Veuve Clicquot, the $39.99 price tag still affixed. He quickly scraped it off.

“Where did you get all this?” Doyle said admiringly.

“There’s a deli in my neighborhood that does this kind of thing very well.”

“What’s the neighborhood?”

“Lincoln Park. I have a condo there.” Renee pried open one of the plastic containers and opened a small package of water crackers. “Would you like some of this caviar and cream cheese spread, Jack? It’s delicious. Even if I didn’t make it myself.”

“How could I refuse?”

They nibbled. On soft summer nights such as these, Doyle couldn’t think of too many other places he’d rather be. It was the setting, not necessarily all those populating it, that so appealed to him. Ravinia had perhaps the best sound system of any outdoor music venue in the U.S. And the crowd, which for Chicago Symphony Orchestra performances was generally whiter than the Arctic rim, tonight was liberally laced with people of color along with the usual majority of whities. A party of suburbanites passed pâté portions across their nearby portable, candle-lit table, the men careful not to drop canapés on their laps as they shared stock market news, their wives chatting about children, careful not to disturb the silver wine buckets sweating at hand. Next to that group, two African-American couples were lined up side by side in folding chairs facing the pavilion, the men good-naturedly arguing Cubs vs. White Sox. The two women were reading paperback books. They appeared to be sisters. The one seated next to the man who apparently was her husband would occasionally reach over with her hand on his arm and shush him down without looking up from her book.

“Should we talk now?” Renee said. “Before we eat, and the music starts?”

“Sure. Would you like some champagne now?”

“Absolutely.”

Doyle said, “
Mea culpa
, but I forgot to bring cups. I’ll get some from the concession stand. I’ll be right back.”

He picked his way over the blanket- and chair-covered green lawn that was now dappled by the retreating evening sun. Thousands of people were spread out across the park. Many more would arrive later from nearby restaurants and take seats in the large pavilion before the eight o’clock performance start. In the interim, jazz music floated from the numerous speakers barely visible in the trees. He dodged a couple of casually but expensively dressed youngsters who skipped past carrying Dove bars. Doyle thought of the two little black boys he’d seen early that morning as he waited in his Accord for the light at Diversey and Ashland. Sleep in their eyes, hope in their hearts as they offered for sale packages of M&M’s for, “Hey, mista, just a dolla.” He bought two.

There was a long line at the outdoor bar. When Doyle finally faced the bartender, he said, “I’d like two large plastic cups. Put three ice cubes and enough Bushmills to top the halfway mark in one cup. Then add a splash of water. Nothing in the other cup.”

The maroon-vested bartender, who didn’t look to Doyle to be old enough to even be in the presence of liquor bottles, filled the order with alacrity. Doyle paid and left a $5 tip. The young man’s face lit up as he said, “Thank you, sir.”

Picking his way back through the increasingly large crowd, Doyle had to step carefully to avoid bumping into a well dressed young man who was evidently trying to put a move on one of the park’s few female security officers. She was smiling back at him. Doyle thought of his college pal Mickey Linn, who had such a thing for women in uniform it had gotten him lucky once, nearly jailed on several other embarrassing occasions. Doyle remembered Mickey announcing, “I don’t know why, these women can be as plain as vanilla yogurt, but damn, they turn me on with those outfits.”

Renee was lying on her back, eyes closed, when Doyle returned. She quickly sat up, accepted the plastic cup, and said, “Aren’t you drinking champagne, Jack?”

“Never liked it. I’ll open the bottle for you. I’m sticking with Irish whiskey and water.” He filled her cup. “
Sláinte,
” he said. “
Sláinte,
” Renee responded, “and, in honor of ‘The Widow,’
tchin, tchin,
à
votre santé
.” They touched cups.

Doyle put some of the caviar spread on two crackers, offering her one. He said, “So, what is this all about?”

Renee vamped her reply, saying, “Are you asking why I lured you here tonight,
monsieur
?” Then the half-smile left her face. “I can’t even pretend to be light-hearted about this, because I’m not close to being that. I’m worried to death about my father. I need your help.”

Doyle set his drink down. “Go on.”

Renee said, “I’m sure you heard about what happened last week to Mr. Zabrauskis. He was the fourth of Dad’s friends, and partners, to die in the last few months. Dad said to me the other day, ‘I’ve never gone to so many funerals in one year in my life. I loved those guys. This is killing me.’”

Renee paused and sipped her champagne. She shook her head. “Unfortunately, that’s not all that’s killing him.” She took a deep breath before adding, “My Dad has lung cancer. In a very advanced stage. He only has a few months to live.” She lowered her head.

Doyle could see her long eye lashes moist with tears. “Jeez, I’m sorry to hear that, Renee. Very sorry.” He reached to pat her hand before realizing the ineffectiveness of that gesture. “When did Arnie find out about the cancer?”

“He started feeling not well about five months ago. He was coughing a lot, he’d lost energy. But he’s had that damn smoker’s cough for years,” she said bitterly, “and I never thought much about it. I don’t think he did, either. My mother died of breast cancer eleven years ago, so the thought of cancer is never far from my mind. But Dad kept going. To work at the car dealerships, to work out at the gym three times a week. Then he started coming home very tired, not like him at all. I finally convinced him to see his doctor. Tests were taken, CT scans and MRIs and PET scans. We got three opinions, but they were all the same. Lung cancer in an advanced stage. I’ve taken him to the Mayo Clinic, Kettering in New York, Kellogg Cancer Center in Evanston. They all came to that same conclusion. He has an inoperable tumor that has metastasized.”

Doyle looked away from her pained expression, momentarily watching the parade of music lovers heading toward their seats in the Pavilion. Renee said, “It’s unreal, Jack. Dad and his buddies were going great after their big winning bet at Saratoga, The Badger Express, all that. These were all healthy men in their fifties.” She wiped her eyes again. “One of Dad’s sayings over the years, I can almost hear his voice now, was ‘Dying is for other people. I just don’t have time for it.’”

“If only that’s how life worked,” Doyle said softly. Renee extended her cup and Doyle filled it. Dusk was advancing and some of the lights in the Ravinia trees began to glow softly. Doyle remembered a statement once made by one of his favorite authors, William Saroyan. “Everybody has to die, but I was under the assumption I’d been granted an exemption.” Doyle decided not to share this recollection.

Renee shifted to sit cross-legged at the edge of the blanket. She looked devastated. “I wanted to take Dad to Mexico. There are supposedly a number of cancer-fighting specialists there. I went on the Internet. There are new treatments. Holistic, otherwise. They all claim to be successful. But Dad refuses to try anything like that. He tells me, ‘That’s what I get for forty years of smoking. I’ve got nobody to blame but myself. And I plan to die right here in these United States.’ He can be a very stubborn man.”

Doyle set his drink down on the blanket. “Obviously, you love your father very much, Renee. This must be brutal for you.”

She looked away for a moment, shaking her head from side to side. She wiped her eyes again and brushed a swirl of black hair from her forehead. When she turned to Doyle, it was with a rueful smile. “Know what Dad said to me after we left Kettering? He put his arm around me as we were standing there on the curb in the rain, waiting for a cab. He said, ‘Mayo Clinic put the over-and-under on me at three months. I’ve already gone four. I’m going to get a few more, Renee. I promise you.’”

Doyle smiled. “Your father is a strong man with a sense of humor and a sense of reality.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the blanket. “Do you have siblings, Renee?”

“No. I had a brother, Cal, five years older than me. There were just the two of us kids. A great guy, a great brother. We were very close. After college he became a Navy SEAL.” She paused and held out her cup. Doyle filled it with champagne. “Cal was killed in the early stages of the Iraq War. Right after ‘Mission Accomplished,’ she said bitterly. “‘Gung ho from the get-go,’ Dad used to say about Cal. We were proud when he went into the service after college. Until…” She stopped and dried her eyes again. Doyle noticed the couple on the blanket next to them watching with concern.

Doyle waited for her to compose herself. She said, “You must be wondering why I am telling you all this. Here’s why, Jack. My father is quite, no,
extremely
suspicious about the deaths of his four friends. He told me he thinks there is some kind of terrible plot being carried out, a conspiracy against The Significant Seven. He has no idea why. But Dad is convinced it’s happening.”

Renee leaned forward. “I know it sounds crazy. You might think Dad’s theory is a product of the stress he’s under with his illness, his car business suffering along with the rest of the American economy. But, whatever it is, delusion or unwarranted fears, it is very real to him. And I don’t want my father to be worried about his safety at this…” She hesitated before saying “This late stage of his life.”