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

“Nothing,” he said.

“Then who do you think did? Dan Ledoux?”

“Maybe. Another unreliable little man. Him and his red hair. And an anti-Semite, to boot.”

“Were any of the victims Jewish?” I asked.

“No, but he’s a Jew-hating bastard all the same.”

Despite the situation, ignoring that I might at that very moment have been sitting trapped in a ten-year-old Buick Eight with a killer, I thought of Georgina Whitcomb. She, too, was an anti-Semite. But hers was a civilized hatred. No brawler she. No cussing, no ugly slurs to describe the Hebrew race and our greed, hooked noses, and depravity. She smiled and opened her arms wide, seemingly to welcome, but, in fact, the gesture was a trap, not an embrace. I felt disgust for her, much as, I was sure, Lou Fleischman did for Dan Ledoux.

“I have another question,” I said. “How did you end up hiring Johnny again a year ago?”

Lou shrugged. “Why not? He was a damn good rider. What happened in Maryland was a distant memory, and we hardly knew each other. We spoke only once back then, and that was to review the strategy for the race. I told him, all things being equal, Robinson’s Friday liked to save ground and hug the rail. So we agreed Johnny would get himself boxed in if possible. That would make everything believable. If not, he was to run wide and make sure he lost.”

“And he did his duty.”

“Performed exactly as instructed. I knew then he was a good rider.”

“So you sidled up to him at Aqueduct and said how’d you like to ride for me again?”

Lou pulled out his package of cigarettes and popped one into his mouth. He lit it from a book of matches.

“Not exactly. Johnny found me and asked for a job. I wasn’t for it at first, but he was persistent. And he hinted that he had nothing to lose. Maybe he’d let slip to the wrong people what happened at Hagerstown.”

“He blackmailed you?”

“It wasn’t so obvious as that. He said he paid a worse price than anyone else. He was the one who got banned, and I was doing good now. So I said okay and gave him a chance. It worked out for both of us.”

“Then what did you think when you heard he was dead?”

“I felt bad for him, even if he was an unlikeable sort personally. He was talented. The kid was putting his life back together, and then this happened. He made a mistake of youth.”

I wondered how Lou would explain away his own error. He certainly couldn’t blame it on youth.

“Are you going to print my name in the paper?” he asked, puffing billows of smoke into the close air of the car. “About the fixing?”

I thought about it. How could I possibly leave him out? The murders all traced back to the thrown race in ’53. To ignore it would amount to a breach of ethics. Or would it? I wondered if I could expose the plot to fix the outcome without mentioning Lou by name. Perhaps just give the horse’s name? I was confused and wasn’t sure what I would do.

“I’m sure the statute of limitations has expired,” I said, though, in fact, I had no idea.

“It’s not jail that I’m afraid of, Ellie. It’s banishment. I’ll be kicked out of racing in all fifty states and Canada, too.”

“Lou, your job is to race horses, isn’t it? And my job is to report the news, as truthfully and accurately as I can.”

“Maybe this once you could blur the line? Look the other way? It was so long ago, after all.”

“If I blurred the line, I’d be guilty of the same sin as you.”

He nodded and drew a sigh. His hand, holding the burning cigarette between his fingers, rested on his knee. The ash, which had grown long as we spoke, succumbed to gravity and dropped onto his trousers then to the floor.

As I climbed down from the rusting old Buick, I told Lou that I’d try to protect his name and reputation, but I could make no promises. I stood in the high grass and watched as he started the engine and backed away. Then he drove off, his tires kicking up dust from the unpaved lot as he went.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I waited in the dim light of a booth at Gloria’s Dancing and Cocktail Lounge on Jay Street in downtown Schenectady. The taxi dancers had disappeared years before, of course, surely retired and relaxing in an old folks’ home somewhere. But there was an orchestra of sorts—Sid Barker and the Chromatics—consisting of an upright piano, a bass fiddle, an electric guitar, a trombone, and a snare drum. They played a mite too loud and out of rhythm, as if they were used to performing at burlesque shows where patrons didn’t come in for the music. And when my watery Scotch arrived on the tray of a shuffling old waitress, the Chromatics, in fact, broke into a limping rendition of “Night Train.”

I glanced at my watch—10:05 p.m.—wondering what was holding up my appointment. Then I saw him wading through the congested bar, scanning the crowd, presumably searching for me. I waved until he spotted me.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Jimmy Burgh, taking the seat opposite me on the Naugahyde bench. “I had to see a fella about something that’ll interest you.”

“What’s that?”

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved an envelope. Inside was a photograph.

“I know a guy at the Gazette. Takes pictures for the sports pages. He dug up this gem for me.”

To see it better, I held it close to the red-glass chimney of the candle lamp on the table. In the low light, it looked like a photo of the winner’s circle. I could read the caption on the picture: “No. 6 Clean Hands, Wednesday, August 8, 1962. Saratoga Race Course. Race 9.” There was a horse in