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

horses, Wham’s Dram. Closed like a ton of bricks and blew up my parlay. I would’ve won nineteen hundred bucks if not for that SOB.”

I nearly drove off the highway. “Nineteen hundred dollars?”

“Eighteen hundred sixty and change.”

I was struck dumb.

“What part don’t you understand?” he asked, at his most condescending.

I barely resisted the urge to lecture him on his betting habits and asked instead what kind of name was Wham’s Dram.

“Never mind the horse’s name. That’s not the point.”

“But you pronounce it funny. Waahm’s Draahm.”

“That’s how you say it. But forget about the damn horse’s name.”

“Okay, then what do you mean Wham’s Dram ruined your parlay?”

“I was on a hot streak yesterday. Won the sixth, seventh, and eighth. So I let everything ride on Fagin the Wolf in the ninth. I’ve had my eye on him since he ran second in May at Aqueduct. He was nine to one at post time yesterday.”

“Seems rather reckless,” I observed. “You should have been more provident and saved some of your winnings.”

“Fortune favors the bold. Anyway, Wham’s Dram was the heavy favorite,” he continued. “And, on a hunch, I dropped twenty bucks to place on Old Dan, another horse I figured was due for a good outing.”

“Old Dan?” I asked, taking my eyes off the road long enough to gape at Fadge’s two heads. “Wasn’t there a nag named ‘Off to the Glue Factory’ you might have bet on instead?”

“Fifteen to one, El,” said Fadge, enunciating each syllable as if to prove his point. “Look, it’s easy,” he continued, ignoring what must have been my stunned expression. “You do your homework, you’re patient, and you take calculated risks. I was a neck away from nineteen hundred bucks.”

“But for Wham’s Dram.”

“Exactly.”

“And where did Old Dan finish?”

Fadge’s cheeks flushed red. “Out of the money,” he said barely audible over the hum of the tires on the road. “Last.”

I shook my head. “You said Wham’s Dram was the favorite. Why should you bet so much against him?”

“Because I study form and jockeys and trainers. I got a couple of clockers who hang out at the Oklahoma. They give me tips on how the workouts are going.”

“What’s a clocker, and what’s the Oklahoma?”

Fadge explained that clockers were the men who hung around the Oklahoma training track adjacent to the racecourse, timing the horses and gauging form with a stopwatch and a clipboard.

“Anyway,” he said, returning to the rationale for his wager. “Wham’s Dram wears blinders because he’s bothered by other horses running alongside him. That’s why his trainer usually runs him along the rail. At least that way he’s got nobody to his left, only to his right.”

“I’m confused.”

“Pay attention, El. I figured the jockey—goddamn Johnny Dornan—would run him along the rail and maybe get boxed in by the other horses. It was a big field. Plus Wham’s Dram ran last week with a different rider, and he was carrying some extra weight. I thought he was ripe for a disappointing outing. And I’d been watching my two horses for months. I thought they could outrun the rest of that field. But that damn Johnny Dornan took Wham’s Dram wide and caught Fagin at the wire.”

Fadge certainly seemed to know his stuff. But then again, he’d lost a bundle. I asked if he knew of any other stables who might use the same racing colors.

“The colors, yes. But the ensemble,” he said with a flourish, “no. The combination of colors, design pattern, sleeves, and cap has to be unique. Orange and black may not be the most common scheme, but I’m sure there are a few stables between here and Kentucky with those colors.”

“But they wouldn’t have diamonds?”

He shook his head, and we fell quiet for about a half mile as he dived back into his Racing Form.

“So do the cops think it was an accident or something else?” he asked finally, folding the paper once again.

“Sheriff Pryor has to figure out who those two people are first. Then the fire chief will advise if it looks like arson.”

Fadge seemed distracted. His concentration broken, he forgot about his Racing Form and stared out the window at the gray clouds instead. I took advantage of his availability to ask about the history of Tempesta. He knew Lucky Chuck Lenoir. Well, in fact. He said he’d been working as watchman as recently as two winters before.

“How tall is he?” I asked.

“Little guy. Five-five or -six. A sneaky little jerk, too.” (Fadge used a different word.) “My dad threw him out of the store for stealing cigarettes about thirty years ago. Then I had pity on him and let him back in. Caught him stuffing two packs of Pall Malls down his pants and threw him out again.” He paused to reflect. “Under the circumstances, I let him keep the cigarettes.”

For five dollars, we parked on some man’s lawn on Union Avenue, close to the racecourse’s front gate. I pointed out to Fadge that if we’d been willing to walk a little farther, he’d have had more money to bet on the horses.

“My time is better spent at the track studying form than strolling through Saratoga,” he said as I set the parking brake. I rolled my eyes. “Besides, it’s starting to rain again.”

“Oh, no. Does this mean they’ll cancel the races?”

The derisive look Fadge gave me said enough. We climbed out of the car and made our way to the gate, sheltering under the same umbrella.

Fadge insisted I show my press card at the entrance, and the bored lady waved me past without charge. For twenty-five cents, I picked up a program to keep as a souvenir. I asked him which horse he was betting on as his turn came at the window.

“Watch and learn,” he mumbled out of the side of his mouth. “And no lectures or you’re walking home.”

“Hey, Ronnie,” said the cashier from behind the bars of one of the two-dollar betting windows. “Ready for a big day?”

Fadge blushed, for my benefit,