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

“What do you mean they followed us to Scafitti’s?” demanded Fadge.

Bill laughed in his characteristically manic way, though I saw nothing funny about the situation. “Followed us from the store all the way to East Main Street,” he said, still chuckling.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

But Bill didn’t answer. He never answered when Fadge yelled at him. Whether he’d broken a sundae dish in the dishwater or done a poor job of washing a rack of Coke glasses, Bill rarely argued back. He pouted, eyes fixed straight ahead for several seconds. Then he’d open some new topic of conversation to deflect attention. That night he didn’t change the subject. Instead he said, “DUT 5639.”

“What?”

“DUT 5639. The license number of the car that followed us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

After Fadge dropped off Zeke and Bill, he drove me back to my place. Casing the block from the front seat, we decided all was clear. It was one, and I confessed to Fadge that I was feeling more than a little frightened. I dreaded the idea of another break-in.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Bill and Zeke,” I began, “but I don’t think that car was full of joyriding teenagers trying to scare us.”

“Me neither,” said Fadge. “I think it’s someone you cheesed off. Maybe one of those gamblers you wrote about.”

“I told you I didn’t mention any names at all.”

“But you did shine a light on them. Maybe gave the police ideas about who might be responsible for Dornan’s murder. You gotta be careful, El.”

“Horse. Gone. Barn door. Too late.”

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you up to your place and make sure no one’s lurking in the shadows.”

We sat in my parlor for an hour, listening to some jazz, and considered the situation over a couple of drinks.

“Let’s say you’re right and it was gamblers,” I said. “Maybe they were trying to send me a message. Trying to scare me a little. Maybe they won’t come back.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“We’ve got the license number. We can ask Benny Arnold at Motor Vehicles to trace it.”

“Yeah, but not before Monday. What do we do in the meantime?”

“Maybe Frank Olney can check with the state police for me.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes more, sipping our drinks and listening to the Oscar Peterson Trio. It was one of Fadge’s records, a live LP from the Newport Jazz Festival, which he’d lent me a month or so before. I’d hoped it might soothe my anxiety, but in truth it did not.

“You don’t suppose it was an admirer of yours,” said Fadge.

“An admirer?”

“Yeah. Maybe someone whose heart you broke.”

“I don’t break hearts,” I said. “And I can’t think of anyone who might be obsessed by my charms to the point of tailing me around town after midnight.”

Fadge chuckled.

“This isn’t funny, chum.”

“I know, I know. But I was thinking of Zeke. He’s got a big crush on you, you know.”

“Oh, God.”

“I told him I’d see what I could do. You know, feel you out. See if you were interested.”

“Again. Not funny. Remember that kid from the reform school, Frankie Ralston? He wanted to marry me. I don’t need another teenager in love.”

Fadge apologized for real, and we sank back into silent contemplation of Oscar Peterson. But I had a thought. One that I couldn’t share with Fadge. It may have been wishful thinking, but I wondered if, by chance, Freddie hadn’t dropped by for another late-night visit just as I climbed into Fadge’s car. What if he’d been seized by jealousy and followed us down to East Main Street and Scafitti’s Pizzeria? And then perhaps waited outside until we’d finished and followed us home? I laughed at myself, though not so Fadge could see. What nonsense. For one thing, Freddie drove a little roadster, not a non-descript old jalopy. I was sure the thought was motivated by my seeing him with his friends earlier that day at the track. The twinge of jealousy stung a lot less if I pictured Freddie guilty of the same weakness.

Finally, a little before two, I told Fadge to go home and get some rest. He made a lewd suggestion that he’d rest perfectly fine in my comfy bed, but I pushed him out the door with an admonition to drive carefully and watch for cars in the rearview mirror.

“Be at the store tomorrow at noon,” he said at the kitchen door. “And don’t be late. Traffic and parking are going to be hell tomorrow. Travers Day.”

SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1962

I phoned Frank Olney at 8:00 a.m. Home on a Saturday morning for a change, he was nevertheless up, dressed, and ready to jump into the saddle if crime called. It did, in the form of me and my spooky encounter with DUT 5639.

“Can you get a trace on the owner by any chance?” I asked.

He paused before answering, and I fancied I could hear him scribbling the number into a pad of paper. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally. “Might take a day or two. But maybe someone can get me this before Monday.”

“Thanks, Frank. I owe you.”

“Say, Ellie, I saw your piece in the paper yesterday. You’re not messing around with gamblers and criminals again, are you?”

“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

Norma Geary was waiting for me when I arrived at 8:30 a.m., and a familiar pang of guilt needled me. I craned my neck to see beyond her. There, halfway across the newsroom, her son, Toby, was sitting at her desk, rocking from the waist, staring in the direction of the far wall but without any focus that I could determine. It was heartbreaking to think of the poor child and his uncomplaining mother. Norma surely noticed my distress, which only made things worse. Now, to add to her burdens, she was embarrassed.

“I’m going to say hello,” I said, flashing her the brightest