A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

vague nod. He turned his attention instead to the horse. With intense focus, he examined Purgatorio as a physician might a patient. Or perhaps an artist sizing up a would-be model. The horse and groom passed, and, for a long moment, I watched the three men. The jockey noticed me and alerted the man in charge by motioning in my direction. They turned, regarded me briefly, then took a few steps away from the paddock and my scrutiny.

I rewound my film and loaded a new roll.

“That’s the owner,” came a voice over my shoulder. Fadge. “His name’s Louis Fleischman. And the jockey is Nick Blakely. Not a rider I’d pick for any horse of mine.”

“What if your regular jockey were AWOL?” I asked.

Fadge nodded. “Johnny Dornan.”

“Scratched from every race today. Who’s the other guy?”

“Don’t know.”

“The trainer?”

“I doubt it. He’s not paying attention to the horse.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Fleischman,” I called out to the one Fadge had identified as the owner. “May I ask you a question?”

He seemed annoyed by the interruption but was decent enough to ask what I wanted.

“I’m with the press,” I said, approaching and showing my card. Fadge followed a discreet distance behind. “Eleonora Stone from the New Holland Republic.”

He peered at my credential from several feet away, then threw a silent glance to his companions. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re Louis Fleischman, aren’t you? The owner of Harlequin Stables?”

He peered at Fadge standing behind me, surely wondering why I needed a three-hundred-pound bodyguard.

“Yeah, I’m Lou Fleischman. What’s your interest in Harlequin?”

“Actually, it’s about Johnny Dornan.”

Again the men exchanged looks.

“Can you tell me where he is? Why he was scratched from every race on today’s card?”

His expression darkened. He said the jockey was sick.

“So he’ll be back tomorrow?” I asked.

Fadge leaned in and whispered in my ear that there were no races on Sunday.

“I mean Monday,” I corrected.

“I sure hope so.”

“Can you tell me where he’s staying here in Saratoga?”

“Why the interest in Johnny Dornan?” he asked, all the while eyeing Fadge.

“A piece of your stable’s racing silks was found this morning on Tempesta Farm.”

“Tempesta? I thought they shut down years ago.”

“They did. It’s abandoned. And now they’re down one barn, too. It burned to the ground before dawn. Took two bodies with it, and one of them was wearing Harlequin livery. Do you have any comment?”

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression difficult to read. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “Look, miss. I’ve got a horse in the next race and don’t have time for some girl reporter.”

Fadge pushed past me. “Hey, pal, talk nice to the lady, or I’ll give you a lesson in manners.”

Fleischman backed away. The third man stepped forward. I knew Fadge to be a sweetheart but also a hothead with a short fuse. He was double extra-large, quite strong, and ferociously protective of me. A quick assessment of the comparative ages and health of the men convinced me that my hero would have little trouble pounding Louis Fleischman, the jockey, and even the third man into a flattened blob of Play-Doh.

I grazed Fadge’s arm with my fingers, stopping him in his tracks. Over time, we’d come to share an unspoken communication, he and I. An intuitive understanding of what the other wanted with nothing more than the subtlest of nods, blinks, or pursed lips to go by. He turned to me and, without a word, knew I was signaling that I was up to the challenge. There were times when I welcomed his brutish strength, but, in general, I preferred to fight my own battles. At least until fists flew.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, young man,” said Fleischman. “Apologies to the lady.”

Fadge stared him down for a couple of beats before nodding his approval. He stepped aside, and I reemerged from his imposing penumbra into the light of the sun. I exaggerate, of course; the day was quite gray after all. But if Fleischman thought I’d let go of the bone, he was mistaken. I repeated my request for a comment about the Harlequin racing silks found around the neck of a dead man.

Fleischman ran a hand through his thin, gray hair. Then he forced a weak smile at me. “Sorry, miss. I’ve got some business to attend to. But why don’t you have a chat with Carl, here?” He indicated the man in the cap. The one who hadn’t said a word. “Carl, how’s about you take the young lady to the bar in the clubhouse? Put everything on my tab.”

Carl remained rooted to his spot.

I glanced at Fadge, my eyes soliciting a thumbs-up or thumbs-down from him.

“He seems harmless. I’ll catch up with you later.”

A drink sounded pretty good to me. “Hello, Carl,” I said. “My name is Ellie.”

Carl Boehringer flashed a pass at the clubhouse gate and escorted me inside. Without speaking a word to me, he found a table in the Jim Dandy Bar, a short distance from the box seating and betting windows of the first level. It was 3:25 p.m. The fourth race was set to start in five minutes, so we had the place mostly to ourselves. As we took our seats, the public address system crackled to life and announced an update.

“In the fourth race, number four Purgatorio is a late scratch. Number four Purgatorio has been scratched from the fourth race.”

“What’s that about?” I asked Carl.

He shrugged with all the vigor of a slug.

“Purgatorio looked in rare form to me,” I said, offering my expert opinion.

“He’s jumpy. A nervous type.”

I studied him. A man of average height with a long face. His eyes drooped a little in the corners, giving him an air of sadness. Or perhaps fatigue. He wasn’t a chatterbox; that much was evident from our short acquaintance. I decided to try to draw him out—keep my mouth shut a few beats longer than socially acceptable in polite conversation—to see if he’d volunteer anything.

“As horses go, he’s a sweet guy,”