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

he glared at me with a suspicion bordering on menace.

“Mr. Burgh?” I asked, questioning the wisdom of visiting the place without my muscle. He didn’t answer, but I concluded I’d reached my party. “I’m trying to find Micheline.”

“Who are you?” His voice was reedy and coarse.

“My name is Ellie.” I didn’t want to say anything more, at least not until I had to.

“She ain’t here,” he said after considering me for a moment in the dim light of the landing. “In fact, she don’t live here. Who gave you this address anyway?”

I gulped. “Bell Telephone.”

“How’s that?”

“Lou Fleischman gave me your number. I got the address from Information.”

He chuckled. “I thought you were selling something.”

“Avon calling.”

He ignored my crack. “Lou gave you my number? What business does a girl like you got with Micheline?”

“I understand that Mr. Fleischman engaged her services Friday night for one of his jockeys. A man named Johnny Dornan.”

“Maybe. What of it?”

“Johnny Dornan is missing. So I thought I’d try to track down Micheline to see if she knows where he might be.”

“Friday night? That’s barely thirty-six hours ago,” he said. “Don’t you think he might just be on a bender somewhere? Or maybe him and Micheline hit it off better than expected and are holed up somewheres.”

“That’s possible, of course. But my urgency is prompted by a fire that killed two people in the early hours of yesterday morning. A man and a woman.”

“No kidding? Where?”

“At Tempesta Farm in Saratoga County.”

Burgh chewed on that for a moment. “Are you a friend of Dornan’s?”

“Never met him.”

“No chance it was an accident?”

“Sheriff says murder. Bullet between the eyes.”

He drew a fatalistic sigh. “Probably deserved what he got.”

The man in the doorway—I still had no verbal confirmation of his identity—stared me down, seemingly trying to figure out what my game was. I was sure he didn’t think I was a cop or some kind of investigator.

“I haven’t talked to Micheline since Friday when we set things up. She’s not one of my regulars. She only works when she needs extra money and likes the guy. Kind of picky in that way.”

“Does she have a . . . a day job?”

“How would I know? All I see is a pretty young brunette with a shapely caboose, if you’ll excuse the palindrome.”

What the actual word he’d been aiming for might have been, I couldn’t say. But I had little interest in dissecting his malapropism. “If you don’t mind, may I ask what you do, Mr. . . . Burgh, is it?”

“Jimmy Burgh,” he said. “And I’m kind of private about my business. You can always ask around, of course. People know me.”

“I see. Could you at least tell me Micheline’s last name? Maybe her address?”

Burgh smiled at me, revealing a gold incisor on the upper-right side. It wasn’t a friendly expression. He came across as nicer when he scowled. “How about you give me your full name and tell me what you do before we go any further? Tit for tat.” He glanced at my chest, and I surely blushed.

I would have preferred to remain just Ellie, but I didn’t exactly have a choice. I told him.

He nodded. “Which paper do you work for?”

“The New Holland Republic,” I croaked.

He seemed relieved. I felt embarrassed and insulted for my paper.

“Her name is Charbonneau,” he said, and then he spelled it. “Lives in Rensselaer.”

“A phone number?” I may have been pushing it.

“You never heard of a phone book?” he asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Burgh. I’ll look it up myself, shall I?”

He nodded his approval. I turned to slip back down the stairs.

“Miss Stone,” he called, and I stopped. “You’re not going to mention my name in your newspaper. You got that?”

“Who’s Jimmy Burgh?” I asked Frank Olney. I was seated in a phone booth outside a furniture shop on Central Avenue.

“Who?”

“Jimmy Burgh. I met him in Schenectady a little while ago. Some kind of small-time hoodlum. He provided the girl for Johnny Dornan on Friday night. A pretty young thing named Micheline Charbonneau.”

“I can check with Schenectady police,” said Frank. “Did he tell you anything useful?”

“Besides a threat not to mention him in my article? No.”

“Ellie, are you taking care not to go sniffing around where you shouldn’t?” He sounded alarmed. “You don’t know who these people are.”

“I’m a big girl, Sheriff.”

Frank wasn’t satisfied. “Where are you?”

“In a phone booth halfway between Schenectady and Albany.”

He wanted the number so he could call me back after he’d spoken to the Schenectady police. I appreciated the worry but insisted I could take care of myself. As I waited, I found “Charbonneau, M.” in the Albany phone book at an address on Second Avenue in Rensselaer. I wanted to try the number right away but had to cool my heels until Frank called back. A few minutes later, the phone finally rang.

“How do you get yourself mixed up in these things?” he asked without preamble. “This Jimmy Burgh is a real bad character. Gambling, prostitution, fencing goods, running numbers. A real prince. Steer clear of him, Ellie.”

I told him I would try, leaving out that Jimmy Burgh already knew my name and where I worked.

“What trouble are you off to find next?”

“Cherchez la femme. Micheline Charbonneau. I’ve got her address. Got to run.”

“Be careful.”

There was no answer when I dialed Micheline’s place, so I decided to chance a visit. Across the river from downtown Albany, the squat, two-story red-brick building sat on the corner of Second Avenue and Walker Street. Rensselaer. Four apartments, two on each floor. I climbed the stoop and tried the front door. It was open. Inside the poorly lit lobby, I located the names Stevens, Charbonneau, and Schuyler on one of the mailboxes. Apartment 1A.

I rapped on the door and waited for someone to answer. It was nearly two o’clock. I needed to speed things up if I wanted to finish my story in time to catch Harry, the typesetter, before he put Monday’s paper to bed. I knocked