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

a crowd of people enjoying their snacks. I only hoped none of Freddie’s friends had witnessed my performance.

As we passed through the gate on our way to Fadge’s car, which he’d parked directly across Union Avenue on the most expensive lawn in Saratoga, he grabbed a copy of the New Holland Republic that someone had discarded on a bench. He stopped to show me the front page, which was dominated by my two stories, the one linking Johnny Dornan, né Sprague, to downstate gamblers, and the other describing the plight of the missing Micheline Charbonneau.

“You’re getting good at this,” said Fadge. “But are you sure you want to be writing about organized crime and gambling? You’ll start attracting the wrong kind of attention.”

“Thanks for the reminder. But I didn’t name any names.”

“All the same, be careful, will you? These sound like a rough crowd. That Jimmy Burgh, for one.”

“Who do you think told me Johnny’s real name?”

He folded the secondhand newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and we set off for his car. Once inside he remembered something.

“By the way, I spoke to a couple of my clockers and asked them if they knew anything about Johnny Sprague.”

“And?”

“They definitely remembered something about a scandal eight or ten years ago. Didn’t realize that Dornan was Sprague, though.” He threw the car into gear and inched toward the makeshift parking lot’s exit, following a long line of cars. “Anyway, it seems Johnny Sprague tried to throw a race with a couple of other jockeys down in Maryland. My guys thought it might have been at Laurel Park or Hagerstown.”

“That narrows it down somewhat.”

“And I asked them if they’d ever heard of anyone named Robinson. No luck.”

“That helps,” I said. “I can ask Norma to start looking into those racetracks. Of course there’s a two-year period to cover, and it was a long time ago. Still, this gives her a fighting chance. Thanks.”

“A mere bagatelle,” he said with characteristic magnanimity.

Fadge’s promise of dinner didn’t exactly pan out. In truth, he hadn’t promised anything; I’d demanded. But Friday nights at Fiorello’s were busy ones, especially in summer when the weather was hot. Not only did the locals turn out in droves for ice cream, but the high school kids descended upon Lincoln Avenue, which was the place to meet and greet. They hung out on street corners, making noise and creating mischief. From time to time, the residents would grow tired of the inconvenience and call the police to keep the teenagers moving. But however the authorities harassed them and chased them into the ball fields a few blocks away, the kids still piled into the booths and filled the counter at Fadge’s place from eight to eleven every Friday and Saturday night. He complained that they hardly bought anything. Cherry Cokes, egg creams, or the occasional song on the jukebox. But by dint of their sheer numbers, the teen population of New Holland accounted for a significant slice of Fadge’s business.

So instead of tying on the feedbag in a fancy Saratoga eatery, Fadge tied on a fudge-spattered apron at the store and, along with poor Zeke, who was pressed into a double shift of soda-jerking duty, held off the marauding hordes of teenagers that night. I waited at my place across the street for him to finish. Another in a series of late-night pizzas would have to suffice for my special dinner.

I phoned Norma Geary at home, regretting the interruption of her evening. She was a widow with a retarded son named Toby and had her hands full without much help. Her aged mother did what she could, pitching in afternoons when Toby returned from school. But mostly Norma was on her own.

“Are you busy?” I asked straightaway.

She insisted she wasn’t. Toby was fast asleep at 8:30 p.m. I filled her in on the new information Fadge had provided. Johnny Dornan/Sprague had been involved in some kind of betting scandal eight or ten years earlier at one of two tracks in Maryland. I gave her the names, and she said she’d start digging first thing in the morning.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Norma. This can wait till Monday morning.”

“It’s all right, Miss Stone. Toby can come sit with me at the paper. I don’t mind taking him along when the place is empty. There’s no one for him to disturb on a Saturday.”

I felt like a wretch, knowing that I would be enjoying myself at the racetrack the following afternoon, while Norma toiled away and made excuses for her poor child. I tried to convince myself that the story required me to visit the track, but I knew I was getting the better end of the deal.

At eleven thirty, Fadge buzzed, and I skipped down the stairs to join him. I waited till he’d stuffed himself into the driver’s seat from the passenger’s side door before I climbed in.

“Scafitti’s or Tedesco’s?” he asked.

I was about to say Tedesco’s, since we’d been to Scafitti’s two nights before. But before I could cast my vote, a voice from the backseat called out, “Scafitti’s.”

I reeled around, half expecting to find my erstwhile car snatcher, Joey Figlio, sitting there with a knife in his hand. But it wasn’t crazy Joey, at all. It was Zeke, Fadge’s newest employee. And next to him in the seat slouched Bill, the dishwasher, Fadge’s oldest.

“Tedesco’s,” said Bill.

I said hello to the two, then turned back around to face front. “What happens if it’s a tie vote?” I asked.

“I’m driving,” said Fadge. “I decide.”

And he chose Scafitti’s. This time, though, we had the pleasure of two new companions. Bill wasn’t a big talker, but when he said something, it was usually memorable. Somewhere in his forties, with a crew cut and thick glasses, he was an idiot savant. A whiz at math, he particularly enjoyed adding up the prices of groceries in his head and calculating the current balance of his passbook account, which on that particular night was