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

for a smithy hammering on some iron at the far end of the stables. I fancied he was fitting the shoes for a horse that would run for glory across the street someday soon. Purgatorio regarded me for a moment, his big black eyes clear and sober, and then he sauntered over and pushed his head through the Dutch door.

I held out my palm, offering him a handful of Cheerios I’d brought along especially for him. He dipped his head and picked my hand clean with his long lips in a gentle, almost dainty fashion. Once he’d finished, he looked up at me, then back at my hand, as if searching for more. I obliged him with two more fistfuls of the cereal, but then I was tapped out.

“I’m afraid that’s all there is,” I said and rubbed his muzzle.

He seemed to like that. I stood there for several minutes chatting with him. He mostly listened, blinking, head still, level with my cheek and mere inches away. He breathed slow and deep. At length, I thumped him firmly on the neck as I’d seen Mike do a few days before, and told him I had to leave. He watched me go, his head and long neck protruding from the Dutch door.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I spotted Freddie Whitcomb sipping a tall drink and chatting with four other swells—three well-heeled young men and a pretty young blonde woman—in a clubhouse box above the winner’s circle. He was glib, suave to the point of caricature, what with his bright smile, strong white teeth, and tanned face. The life of the party to anyone watching. As was I. The blonde was decked out in a flowery print sundress, with a rather silly white hat draped over the wooden rail separating her from the next box of blue bloods. The hat remained in place, despite the energetic batting of its owner’s eyelashes. I fancied Freddie’s hair was waving under the influence of the breeze, which was aimed in his direction.

When the race began, all five turned to watch, cheering gaily as the horses streaked down the backstretch. They clutched rolled-up programs in their mitts and exchanged smiles of delight as the leaders rounded the turn for home. Then all five rose as one, jumping and exhorting their charges for the final push. The field thundered past them, hooves pounding the dirt, colors flashing by in a blur, until one reached the wire ahead of the rest. The crowd of sixteen thousand, including the five in the box I was fixated on, exhaled as one with the conclusion of the contest. I didn’t notice which horse had won. I only saw the blonde woman throw her arms around Freddie’s neck in celebration of what must have been a victory for her.

I stood there green-eyed, pathetic, wondering if Freddie had visited Blondie in her room—the way he had twice climbed my stairs in the dead of night—for celebrations of another kind. I felt deflated. Small and outclassed, as the Racing Form might describe a Thoroughbred that also ran and never challenged. And despite my best efforts to explain away the intimacy and familiarity I’d just witnessed, I failed. Yes, Freddie was taking me to a gala the following evening. But what would he be up to that Friday night?

Why did I care? I barely knew Freddie. What did I expect was going to happen between us? Was he going to sweep me off my feet? Carry me back to Old Virginny? I was only interested in a little diversion, not a major commitment. So why should I begrudge him his friends? For all I knew, the blonde woman was his cousin. And I wasn’t forgetting that I was attending the races with a friend as well. True, whenever anywhere near a racetrack, Fadge paid as much attention to me as he might to a fly perched on a streetlamp across the street. But that was beside the point.

I wandered over to the Jim Dandy Bar, where the bartender, having recognized me from previous visits, thought himself clever and served up a gin and tonic before I could order it. I smiled weakly and apologized.

“No thank you,” I said. “I’d really rather have a Scotch.”

“Troubles with the ponies?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

“Good day at the races?” I asked Fadge when I finally tracked him down at the concession stand after the eighth race. He was stuffing a hot dog with the works into his mouth.

“That depends on how you define good,” he said.

“I see. That means you lost, but you were ever so close to winning.”

“I’m up six fifty,” he said with all the smugness he could muster. “That’s six hundred and fifty dollars, El.”

I felt conflicted. On the one hand, I wanted him to develop some sense of responsibility toward his business. And for that, he’d probably have to learn the hard way. By losing. But at the same time, I was secretly thrilled that he’d won so much. Despite my better instincts, I was questioning whether Fadge had the right idea after all. He’d already banked three thousand in one day, and now more than six hundred another. Sure, he’d lost several hundred here and there, but he was sitting on an impressive pile of winnings for the August meet.

“That’s it,” I said. “You’re buying me dinner tonight. And not a hot dog with piccalilli or relish. And you need to give Zeke a couple of bucks as a thank-you.”

“I see you don’t mind my gambling when I win.”

“That’s right. But I’ll be there to pick you up when it all goes south. Remember that.”

He turned white. “Jesus, don’t say that. You’ll jinx me. Take it back and spit on the ground.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

But after a five-minute harangue on superstition and Lady Luck, my three-hundred-something-pound bodyguard and best chum had me recanting my statement and expectorating on the dirt, mere steps from the refreshment stand and