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

say you were?” he asked, voice heavy and full of sleep. I was sure he was in the habit of retiring—and rising—with the sun.

“Actually, I didn’t say. My name is Eleonora Stone.”

“I don’t know any Stones except Edgar Stonecipher in Selkirk. Are you one of the Selkirk Stoneciphers?”

“I’m not a Stonecipher at all. I’m just a Stone, plain and simple.”

He fussed down the line from a thousand miles away and confessed he didn’t understand what I wanted.

“I apologize, Mr. Sprague,” I said. “I’m a reporter from the New Holland Republic. We’re a newspaper in New Holland, New York.”

“You’re Dutch?” he asked.

“No, I . . . I’m calling to ask you about Johnny Sprague. Is he your son?”

“Who are you again?” he asked, impatience testing his civility. I sensed he was ready to hang up the phone.

“Mr. Sprague, I have news for you,” I said, thinking that might stay his hand. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d answer a few questions for me.”

He seemed to weigh my request. And even without saying a word, he made it clear that this was not a conversation he wanted to have.

“We don’t speak of him around here. Not anymore.”

His voice betrayed his pedigree. This was a hardscrabble, plain-talking, working man. His bitterness bled through, like a growing bruise.

“Oh,” I said, then waited a healthy ten seconds before he spoke again.

“I haven’t seen him in nine years. Nor spoken to him. Not since he left for Maryland.”

“What can you tell me about that?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stalled, squirrelly, as if searching for an escape. Or maybe he wanted to find the right words to tell a complete stranger—one who’d admitted to being a newspaper reporter and who might well take liberties with a story about his son—that his boy had disappointed him.

“About Maryland? Nothing to tell.”

“I see. What about Mr. Robinson?”

“Who? I don’t know any Mr. Robinson.”

I lay back on my sofa, receiver to my ear, and held the five-and-a-half-by-eight photo of Johnny Dornan at arm’s length, stretching it toward the painted tin ceiling. Gazing up at it, trying to extract his secrets from the smiling eyes, I said nothing, though a sigh of contentment escaped my lips as I put my stockinged feet up. My new shoes—a pair of stacked heel pumps I’d found at the Paris Shop on Main Street—were stylish but tight. I thought I’d drop them off at Giuffre’s Shoe Repair in the morning to have them stretched a bit. John Sprague called me back from my reverie. I tossed the photograph onto the end table and turned my attention to the matter at hand.

“I don’t understand why he didn’t stay here in Winnipeg,” he said. His voice oozed regret and reproach. “We’ve got Polo Park a few blocks from our house. A fine track. He was an apprentice, training there. He could’ve had a full career right here close to home.”

“I can’t argue with that.” I examined my nails from my reclined position. Definitely time for a manicure. Of course, I wasn’t happy with the job Doreen from Francine’s Beauty Parlor had done the last time, so naturally I wondered whether I should try New Wave Beauty or the old standby, Mr. Paul’s Salon. Mr. Paul was a sweet old fellow whose hands never once grazed your bosom, even when he was brushing you off after a styling. His tastes were said to run to handsome Spanish boys.

“But he wouldn’t listen to me or his mother, no,” said Mr. Sprague at length. “Even Mr. Spears—Robert James Spears, no less—wanted him to stay and ride in Canada.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who Robert James Spears is.”

Sprague nearly choked. Then he huffed that Spears was the father of Thoroughbred racing in western Canada. “He built Polo Park,” he said. “And Whittier and Chinook, too, in Alberta.”

“And he couldn’t convince your son to stay?”

“He’s no son of mine.” His tone was the sharpest since we’d been speaking. The pump was primed, and he went off like a hand grenade. “Johnny disgraced himself. Brought shame to his family and his country. And to the sport of kings. His blessed mother, rest her soul, died of a broken heart. That boy is no good, and he’s dead to me.”

I swung my feet to the floor and sat up straight on the sofa. How should I break it to him that his son was indeed dead? And not only to him, But to me. To the world. To everybody.

“Mr. Sprague, I have some news about your son. I’m afraid it’s not a happy ending.”

After an understandably lengthy pause to collect his thoughts and emotions, he cleared his throat and asked if I meant that Johnny was dead. I answered yes.

“I blame it all on that tramp. That woman who turned his head.”

“A woman? Who was that?”

“The one who lured him to Maryland with all kinds of crazy ideas in his head.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Vivian,” he said, almost spitting his disgust. “Vivian Coleman was her name.”

After my scare at Tempesta that afternoon and the curious timing of Jimmy Burgh’s visit at Fiorello’s, I was feeling jumpy. Every noise—the creaks, thumps, and footfalls—from downstairs or from the street below sent me to the kitchen to investigate. Even with the sturdy new storm door that Mrs. Giannetti had installed a year and a half earlier after my fleeing aggressor somersaulted down the stairs, straight through the glass, and onto the sidewalk, I worried that someone would try to gain entry.

At half past midnight, I truly fretted for my safety. New Holland was a small town, after all. If someone wanted to find you, someone could. I checked the kitchen door again, found it securely bolted, then poured myself a couple of ounces of courage. I set my drink down on the end table in the parlor and selected an LP to play—softly so as not to disturb Mrs. Giannetti downstairs—and eased myself back into the sofa cushions. The first strains of Schubert’s incidental