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

perspiration trickled from his temples, oozing over his flushed cheeks and down his neck before disappearing into his yellowed collar. Bound up in his tight ensemble of white shirt, loud plaid jacket, and crumpled straw boater’s hat, he was sweating like a horse. He mopped his forehead with a wrinkled handkerchief. I could see all this, even from a distance, thanks to my camera and the long lens I’d retrieved from my purse for the express purpose of spying on him. Georgie Porgie was with his wife and father-in-law—my publisher—Artie Short. I watched as George tried to wedge his way into their conversation with a shoehorn. But they were having none of it, repelling each assault as if swatting a pesky mosquito.

“I’m going for a walk,” I said to Fadge.

“The fifth race is next. Don’t be late for the sixth,” he warned. “That’s the Travers.”

I didn’t want a drink. Certainly not a G and T, so I strolled along the horse path and over to the paddock. The entrants for the fifth race were already on their way to the track, but the start was still ten minutes away. I had a half hour more before the sixth, so I figured there was time for a quick visit to my favorite horse across the street.

I hurried down the long lane to Purgatorio’s stable, digging in my purse for the bag of Cheerios as I went. He was in the back of the stall again, still facing the wall as I’d found him the day before. I clicked my tongue twice, and he actually whipped his head around to see who was there. Upon recognizing me, he scampered across the stall to join me at the Dutch door.

“Hello, handsome,” I said, patting him on the muzzle.

He dipped his great head and greeted me with a gentle nicker. I produced the Cheerios, and he made short work of the snack, practically swallowing the paper bag along with the cereal. I praised him and continued petting his nose and cheek. He seemed to like that almost as much as the Cheerios. We stood there for five minutes, discussing the pleasant weather, the odious neighboring horses, and his recent workouts. I asked if he’d like something different to eat next time I visited. He stared at me with his right eye and blinked.

A voice startled me from behind. “Don’t bring him any food.” It was Carl Boehringer, hands on his hips, cigarette between his lips. “He’s on a strict diet. A handful of Cheerios is okay, but nothing more.”

“I didn’t think anyone was listening,” I said, surely blushing at my silly conversation with a horse.

“Did he give you a good tip?”

“I’m afraid the conversation was mostly one-sided.”

Carl joined me at the Dutch door and reached out to pat Purgatorio’s neck. The horse eyed him as if he knew him. He remained calm, almost indifferent to Carl, but he didn’t shy away. After a moment, Tory turned back to me and resumed his companionable stance, head next to mine, putting me between him and Carl. Then he uttered a deep sigh.

“He likes you,” said Carl.

“I’ve been visiting him lately. And not for tips.”

“Maybe Lou will sell him to you.”

I must have looked terrified because he told me to take it easy. “I’m only kidding. He’s not for sale.” He reflected for another short moment. “Not yet, at least.”

“So Lou intends to get rid of him?”

“You know how it is in racing. These four-legged beauties eat a lot of hay. They cost a small fortune to stable.”

I stroked the horse’s long muzzle and fretted in silence over his future.

“He’s getting fitted for a hood tomorrow,” said Carl. “The trainer thinks that might help.”

“Tell Lou not to sell him without contacting me first.”

He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“A little girl wants to buy him too.”

“Little girl?”

“Ruby. Just a ten-year-old kid. Daughter of the farmer who sells hay to Harlequin Stables. Guy by the name of Pete Brouwer. He can’t afford him,” he said, referring to the horse. “And neither can you. He may not sell for what Lou paid for him, but he’s worth a couple of grand at least.”

I gazed into Purgatorio’s big right eye again. He nickered once more, almost a whisper this time. Standing there, immobile, head thrust through the Dutch door, he looked like some kind of equine statue.

“You remember last week you were wondering about Johnny?” asked Carl. I nodded. “Well, I heard something interesting about him the other day.”

“Yes?”

“I told you there was rumors about gamblers some time ago.”

“And?”

“And it looks like there was something to those rumors. Turns out he was mixed up in a fixed race at Hagerstown down in Maryland.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked.

“The guy who told me knows.”

“Was his name Bruce by any chance?”

Carl nearly swallowed his cigarette whole. “Yeah,” he stammered. “As a matter of fact, it was. Bruce Robertson.”

Robertson? That nearly rang a bell. Pretty close to Robinson, but not quite. Could Johnny Dornan have written the name down wrong in his newspaper? I realized that Carl was one of the few people I hadn’t asked about Robinson. I remedied that oversight immediately.

“No. I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said. “But how do you know Bruce?”

“Work sometimes takes me to the other side of the tracks.”

“You should be careful. You don’t want to mess with guys like him.”

I hadn’t, in fact, messed with Bruce Robertson. I’d never even clapped eyes on him. I’d only heard his name from Jimmy Burgh.

“What else did he tell you?” I asked.

“That Johnny was named as the jockey who threw a race. He was riding the favorite, but managed to finish third behind a couple of dogs.”

“Did Bruce happen to mention any other names involved in the fix?”

“A guy name Hodges. Mack Hodges. A small-time owner. Used to own trotters. Never had a flat runner that could finish in the money. Unless he cheated, according to Bruce.”

“Where’s this Mack Hodges today?”

“I don’t know. Probably still down