High Stakes by John McEvoy Page A

haven’t talked for a while. I want to hear about your foray to Ireland. The FBI case. So on. How about it?”
    Doyle said, “Fine with me. Where?”
    â€œAl Fresca’s would be good.”
    â€œI think it’s supposed to rain today. I don’t know about eating outside. Anyway, where do you want to go?”
    Moe said, “Jack, sometimes you exasperate the hell out of me. I’m not talking about having lunch outside . I mean the new restaurant just opened on North Clark by Al Fresca. He’s the nephew of Sal Fresca, an old friend of mine from the west side.”
    Doyle groaned. “Al Fresca. Not al fresco. Sal Fresca. Is this a version of Abbot and Costello’s Who’s on First routine?”
    â€œYou want to have lunch there or not?” Kellman barked.
    Doyle couldn’t resist. “Is your old friend Al Dente going to join us?”
    Moe hung up.
    ***
    The rain predicted by Chicago television’s panel of highly paid weather prognosticators did not eventuate. Moe and Jack sat at one of the half-dozen sidewalk tables outside the bustling new restaurant. Doyle had enjoyed a tasty bruschetta and was content to relax as Moe worked his way through a large bowl of thick, aromatic, garlic-laced pasta and bean soup. The early afternoon sun warmed the steady stream of pedestrians on Clark Street.
    Doyle drank from his bottle of Moretti Beer, an import from Italy that he had begun to favor. “Know what my Uncle Colin Doyle used to say?” he asked, sitting back in his comfortable wicker chair, contented.
    â€œTell me.”
    Doyle said “Colin’s mantra, if an old Mick can have a mantra, was ‘Pray Irish. Eat Italian.’”
    Bowl empty and removed, Kellman drained his Negroni and signaled for another. “So, Jack. You had a good trip to Ireland?”
    â€œYes. Saw Mickey. Went to a dinner where she won a big award. Spent some time with Nora. Both girls said to say hello to you. And I visited Niall Hanratty down in Kinsale.”
    Kellman frowned. “Why? You’re not exactly the roaming tourist type.”
    â€œHis wife, Sheila, asked me to talk to Niall. She’s concerned about some threats he’s received. I spent a couple of hours with him. He brushes off the threats. Probably needless concern on the part of a loving wife according to Niall. Sheila is really a sweet, sweet person.”
    The entrees arrived, sausage and rigatoni for Doyle, a “chef’s specialty” pasta presentation for Moe with shrimp, pecorino, and plenty of garlic over linguini.
    Moe took a piece of the warm Italian bread, passed the basket to Jack. “What about here, what’s going on here? The horse killer thing?”
    â€œNo progress, Moe. Another strike a couple of nights ago in another Midwest university facility. No clues, no traces. Damned if I can come up with any way to solve this nonsense, no matter how much the Feebs pressure me. I’ve put out feelers, asked around, tried to put myself into the mind of the kind of person who would be doing this. Sneaking into silent buildings full of animals in the middle of night and going up to one, some unsuspecting horse, and lowering the boom. I can picture it happening. But I can’t picture who the hell is doing it.”
    He plunked down his empty bottle of Moretti. “You tell me how to find a way through this mess.”
    â€œI don’t think I can do that, Jack. But I can counsel you to be patient. Sooner or later, whoever you’re after will screw up. They usually do. Prisons are full of front-runners who didn’t look back to see what was gaining on them until it was too late.”
    Their conversation was interrupted by a cry of, “Hey, Moesy,” and the arrival at their table of a heavyset, sixtyish man wearing a broad smile, a rakishly crumpled gray fedora, a rumpled seersucker suit. “Oh, shit,” Moe muttered, before standing up to reluctantly