His instincts pulsed “Get off the street, Earl”. He hesitated, trying to decide rather to keep walking to the coffee house or retreat to the apartment building. Before he could choose, The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre erupted. “Muffled fire-crackers. That’s what I heard. But lots of them…” Earl didn’t want to be a witness - he’d already seen too much - heard too much.
“There are no coincidences in life. There was a reason I was there that day…” And there was…
Dad’s business friends had given him carte blanche with training their horses. Nobody breathed down his neck. Their deal was clean - and legal. “Nobody owned me. But that all changed on Valentine‘s Day, 1929”. He didn’t know it then, but God had his back…
A few years after the St. Valentine’s Day fiasco, Earl was summoned to Chicago for a specific “assignment”, and was waiting for the “contact ”. A few days after he arrived, he was picking up some pants he’d had pressed. A face he’d seen in the bookie joints and speakeasy’s around town sidled next to him as he approached the steamy laundry. “You’ll need a ride when you’re done here. I’ll wait outside.”
Hoisting his pants above the ground, Earl was ushered into a Cadillac Sedan. A man Dad identified as a “mouthpiece for the owners”, gave him his instructions, then dropped him off about two blocks from where Earl was staying.
“In a nutshell, they wanted me to give a colt an injection. Somebody was betting heavy, and ‘he betta win’ was how it was put to me”. Earl didn’t like it. He didn’t dope horses. He was shrewd and “not squeaky clean” in making his “bosses” money - but he never compromised his love of the animal - and the sport. And nobody had ever asked him to - before.
“Little girl, I prayed hard. I kept remembering what happened on Valentine’s Day - and I knew I was in trouble…I asked the Man up There to get me out of this…and I came up with the craziest thing…”
A few days later, the “face” showed up with a syringe - and Earl said, “We got a problem. I pass out when I see a needle. Can’t do it…” It was the truth. Earl passed out every time he saw a needle - or blood.
The face met him one more time before the race…”If ever you’re late for a race, be late for this one…”
The colt ran - and won. But suspicions triggered an investigation. The horse had been doped and Earl lost his training license. Nobody “noticed” he wasn’t there before the race - and there were witnesses who said they saw him in the paddock alone with the colt. The stain on his reputation was indelible - he was pushed to the peripherals of horse training - unofficially managing, advising, and consulting .
By the end of the 1930’s, Earl was making a living by booking and gambling…and still following the horses around the States. He had “friends” still - but his career was over…
These businessmen “spanked him hard” for not giving that colt the injection - but he thought they took it easy on him because “one of them probably loved horses more than money”. Interestingly, not one of the Valentine’s Day gunmen touched the German Shepherd who was there in the garage…That really touched my Dad…He loved horses. He loved boxing. And he loved dogs…
Awwww. I'm glad he did the right thing, though. Must've been hard.
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