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

driving all over creation to interview coroners, sheriffs, and self-described thrice-a-night fornicating murder suspects, I dropped off my film and stories at the paper around nine thirty. Seeking succor and perhaps a dirty joke—anything to make me laugh—I dropped by Fiorello’s at ten. The place was quiet late on a Sunday night, even if it was August. Fadge was studying his Racing Form as Candid Camera blared from the television behind the counter. I asked him for a Coke, and he mumbled for me to get it myself.

“If this is any indication of the attention I can expect, I’m never going to marry you,” I said.

“Yeah, sure. Help yourself.”

“Are you going to the track tomorrow?” I asked once I’d settled in next to him on a stool at the counter.

“Of course. This coming Saturday’s the last day of racing. Only six days left in the meet, and I’m only up twenty-one hundred bucks. I’ve got to make this last week pay.”

I felt green but said nothing.

From the television, Allen Funt was prattling on with a toothy smile about some prank he was preparing to spring, and Fadge interrupted to ask if I could do him a favor the next afternoon. He was expecting Mr. DeGroff, the television repairman, to fix his Sylvania HaloLight television at his place on Philips Street.

“That thing’s a relic. When are you going to get a new set?” I asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. Why would I buy a new one?”

“If there’s nothing wrong with it, why do I have to meet the repairman at your house tomorrow?”

“I’ll take you out for pizza, and we can eat it in the car at the drive-in at Vail Mills. They’re showing that new movie Paradisio next week.”

“No thanks. I’m not going to some nudie movie with you at a drive-in.”

Just then Bill emerged from the back room, his hands and forearms dripping dishwater. Despite the wet, he was pinching the stub of a green cigar between his right thumb and forefinger. Fadge yelled at him to watch the soap. Someone might slip on it.

“I was wondering if cheapskate Ellie was treating us to pizza tonight,” said Bill with a grin.

I objected to his characterization of me as a cheapskate, but had to admit that Fadge did most of the paying when we went out.

“Yes, pizza on me,” I said, figuring our usual music appreciation night would have to wait another week. Ten minutes later we were off to Tedesco’s.

Our late supper was fun. We left all talk of dead jockeys and jezebels at the door. We ate too much and drank a little too much, too. Jimmy Tedesco wanted to close up the place, but as long as we were spending, he was willing to indulge us. Fadge played the jukebox—Buddy Holly—and Bill stuffed his face with pizza, washed down with beer. We teased him about his mother, whose fondness for Polish food turned the conversation to scatology, which was Fadge’s long suit. Bill didn’t say much. Probably didn’t understand. But apropos of nothing, he informed us of the price of sweet corn. Ten ears for twenty-nine cents.

We laughed and exchanged stories with Jimmy Tedesco until 2:00 a.m., when Bill fell asleep in his chair and started snoring. Reluctantly, Fadge said it was time to go.

“I’ve got to be sharp tomorrow,” he said, suddenly serious and responsible when it came to the horses.

I rolled my eyes and paid the bill.

MONDAY, AUGUST 20, 1962

Norma and I phoned newspapers, libraries, and even the racecourse at Hagerstown, searching for some kind of record of the fateful day Johnny Dornan threw a race nine years earlier. They tried to help us—at least the newspaper and library did—but without a date, name of a horse, or some other information to narrow the search, they said they’d do their best but could promise nothing. The operator who answered the phone at the racetrack sounded defensive and, after much pressure, told us that someone would call us back later. We weren’t holding our breath, especially with expensive long-distance rates in the mix.

Charlie Reese stopped by my desk at ten and informed me, long face and all, that he wanted to see me in Artie Short’s office. The publisher was there, glowering behind his desk like a displeased monarch, and to his right sat the court jester, George Walsh.

“Miss Stone,” said Artie without preamble or good morning. “I want you to share all information and background research you’ve got on these Tempesta murders with George here.”

I stared at him but said nothing.

“Did you hear me, Miss Stone?”

“I did, and . . .”

“She heard you, Artie,” broke in Charlie, throwing me a frightened glance meant to still my tongue. “We’ll work with George, of course, but you should know that Ellie has done a wonderful job on this story under the most difficult circumstances.”

Artie chuckled. “Difficult circumstances? Like attending a black-tie gala fundraiser dinner Saturday night? Or betting on the horses every day at the track?”

“Yes, Mr. Short,” I said. “I bet on one race and won thirty cents. How much did you and George lose Saturday at the Travers Stakes?”

His eyes grew and face flushed crimson, presumably in reaction to my effrontery. Or maybe, possibly—hopefully—he was actually suffering an apoplectic fit. Either way, I would have paid for a front-row seat to witness the spectacle had I not provoked it myself.

“How dare you speak to me that way?” he blubbered. “Remember I own this paper, Stone, and you work for me.”

“Take it easy, Artie,” said Charlie. “She was only joking. She’s a regular clown, our Miss Stone. Isn’t that right, Ellie?”

I smiled brightly. Then I crossed the Rubicon. “Yes, that’s right. Clowns work at the circus, after all.”

Charlie whisked me out of Short’s office, quite red in the face himself, and, dragging me by the arm, scolded me in the most forceful tone he’d ever used with me. But I have a temper, too. Girls are raised to behave. Grow up