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

“I don’t like to smoke while I’m walking. Makes me lightheaded.”

“You don’t mind if I . . . ?”

“Not at all. But you seem a little short of breath, Lou. Are you sure you want that?”

“You have no idea how much. Rose tries to get me to quit. My doctor, too. But a man’s got to have some vices, after all. I don’t chase women; I don’t drink to excess. What else do I have?”

“Peking duck?”

He took a puff and smiled.

“Bacon and assorted other treif,” I added. “When your rabbi and Rose aren’t around.”

“You won’t rat on me, will you?”

I patted his arm and said his secrets were safe.

“So was Johnny riding at Aqueduct when you discovered him?”

“A couple of small-time owners were giving him some mounts. Not very good horses. He couldn’t win on those nags, but he came cheap at the time so they used him.”

“Then why did you hire him?”

“Like I said, he came cheap. And I needed a new morning rider for workouts. So I gave him a job. Then one of my regular boys broke his collarbone falling off a horse, and Johnny got his big chance.”

“How’d he do?”

Lou took a deep drag on his cigarette, then held it at arm’s length to admire it. “You know, I don’t think I could ever give up smoking. Rose says it isn’t kosher, but I don’t buy that. My pop smoked. My uncles, too. Now my doctor says it’s no good. Maybe so. But it’s too late for me. Maybe if I were a younger man.” After one last puff, he tossed the cigarette onto the ground and resumed his walk. “Johnny did great. That rotten little kelev she-beklovim was a damn good rider.”

We exited the park back onto Circular Street, and soon we were standing before his hotel. He said he had to get back to Rose for supper.

“I enjoyed our walk, Ellie.”

“Me too, Lou. So may I quote you that Johnny Dornan is missing and the sheriff has spoken to you about the racing silks? And Vivian McLaglen?”

He thought it over for a moment, drew another sigh, and nodded. “But you don’t say anything about gamblers. I didn’t mention gamblers.”

I watched him shuffle onto the porch of Grossman’s and disappear inside. As he did, I asked myself if he was the type of breeder who could make tough decisions about has-been horses. And I wondered if Purgatorio was insured. Lou Fleischman had spent eight thousand dollars on him, after all. What if that beautiful animal was worth more dead than alive?

“How did you do today?” I asked Fadge as I swiveled on a stool at the counter.

“Not bad,” he said. “Came out fifteen dollars ahead.”

“Fifteen? How are you going to survive on fifteen dollars a day? You spend five bucks just to park your car on some guy’s lawn.”

“Hey, I made three grand day before yesterday. Not every day is going to be like that. Like I told you, I’m in this for the long haul.”

“Unlike this place. Who was minding the store today?”

“Zeke.”

“Again?”

Fadge shrugged. “My uncle Sal was here with him.”

I shook my head in woe.

“El, Uncle Sal was working here with my dad before you were born. Before I was born.”

I said nothing in reply. If Fadge wanted to confide his business to a kid and his uncle who—sweet though he was—counted Methuselah as his younger brother, who was I to complain?

I sat in my usual booth in the back and, longhand, wrote out my article that would name jockey Johnny Dornan as the presumed male victim. While Sheriff Pryor steadfastly refused to share any information with me, I had a person of interest—to wit, Louis Fleischman—who was on record that the sheriff had approached him to inquire into Johnny Dornan’s whereabouts.

Norma Geary had pulled some good photographs of Johnny Dornan from the wire services, and I had pictures of everything else: Harlequin Stables’ livery, the racetrack, and, of course, the burning barn.

I was on a roll, so I went to work on finishing my fundraiser story. The recap of the Friends of the Library Society garden party was already done. All that remained was to distill the notes of my interview with Mrs. Georgina Whitcomb down to something manageable, and work the quotes into the narrative of my story. It was hardly the best piece I’d ever written, but I managed to shoehorn some of Georgina Whitcomb’s warmth and charm into it. I liked the old bird, and not because she was Freddie’s mother. In fact, I felt proud of my little society-page bit of fluff, so I treated myself to a nickel’s worth of music from the jukebox. I scanned the catalogue before finally settling on “Rockin’ Good Way,” a sexy little duet between Dinah Washington and Brook Benton. I glanced over to the counter where Fadge was packing a quart of butter pecan ice cream for Mr. McAndrews who lived next door to the store. The big fellow was struggling to chisel the rock-hard ice cream out of the tub for a man whose guts he hated. And I admired him in that moment. Admired him for his hard work and his taste in music. I was sure no other jukebox in the city had such great selections.

I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the cooler and retook my seat in the booth. Reading through some notes on Johnny Dornan, I became aware of a shadow hovering nearby. I glanced up expecting to find Fadge eclipsing the sun, but it wasn’t him at all. It was a young woman. I didn’t recognize the blonde beauty standing there until she spoke.

“I need to speak to you, Ellie,” she said as the song came to an end. “About Miche.”

It was Joyce Stevens.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Brenda doesn’t know I’m here,” she said in a low voice.

Fadge appeared above us. Clearly impressed by the attractiveness of my companion,