A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

the rumors, but he’d heard them all the same.

“What rumors?”

“That he used to be in bed with gamblers. And not your amateurs like you see here at Saratoga. Guys who take betting serious. So serious they like to improve the odds before they risk their money on an animal that don’t speak English.”

“Mobsters?”

“Don’t quote me on it. I’m only telling you what I heard around the stables.”

“And you’re saying that the rumors are that he used to do this? In other words not anymore?”

“I haven’t heard about anything recent.”

“Does Mr. Fleischman know this?”

“I can’t speak for Lou. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

I made a mental note to do exactly that at the earliest opportunity. “Does Mr. Fleischman stay at Mrs. Russell’s too?”

“No. Just me and Johnny. In the seven years I’ve been working for Lou, he’s always stayed over at Grossman’s Victoria on Broadway with his wife, Rose. They keep kosher. Me? I like my ham and lobster. Especially when someone else is paying.” Carl paused to reconsider. “Actually, Lou likes his ham and lobster, too. He only keeps kosher when Rose is around.”

“And what do you do for Lou, anyway?”

“I don’t think talking about me was part of the deal. Lou said to buy you a drink and answer your questions about Johnny.”

I wandered around under a light rain, trying to find Fadge, eventually spotting him at a ten-dollar betting window a few minutes before the sixth race began. He was perspiring, his face flush, and he was displaying all the pique of a rhinoceros that’s just been darted in the rump by a tranquilizer gun. Not the moment to approach the beast. I opted instead for another drink by myself in the Jim Dandy Bar. That was when Lou Fleischman sidled up to my table.

“Join you?” he asked.

“It’s a free country.”

He took the seat opposite me, exhaled a long breath, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. After a few restorative gasps, he craned his neck to find a waiter. “Where’s your big friend gotten to?”

I shrugged, quite bored at that point with my first day at the races. If it hadn’t been for my special moment with Purgatorio and the intriguing disappearance of Johnny Dornan, I might have nodded off in a corner somewhere.

“Sorry about earlier, young lady,” he began. “You caught me at a bad moment.”

“Nothing a drink won’t put right.”

He smiled. A mushy, unsavory smile. The kind that scares children. “Sure thing.” He turned to find a waiter.

“Carl had to go order at the bar.”

With a show of great exertion, Fleischman pushed himself out of his chair and headed to the bar, limping slightly as he went. A couple of minutes later, he waddled back into view and slipped a drink in front of me. He retook his seat and considered me for a moment before raising his glass of beer to his lips for a long gulp. Emitting a throaty effluence that bordered on a belch, but didn’t quite qualify, he proceeded to nod in admiration of the beverage in his glass.

“That’s good,” he declared. “Schaefer’s.”

I ignored his observation. His breath had already told the tale.

“Cheers, by the way.” I raised my glass and took a sip, barely wetting my upper lip.

“Tell me about the fire,” he said, either unaware of or indifferent to my sarcasm. “They really found two bodies inside?”

“Burned beyond recognition.”

“But not so the racing silks?”

“Not quite,” I said. “Just enough orange-and-black checks to wrap around one of the necks. The male.”

Fleischman groaned and took another swig of beer.

“The coroner identified one of the bodies as that of a woman. No age or name yet.”

“And the other was Johnny?”

“Could be. At first they thought it was a boy. Or maybe a short man. No taller than five-four or -five.”

“Jesus. I was with him yesterday. Had dinner with him last night after he won the ninth race.”

“Wham’s Dram?” I asked, trying to show off a bit. “Johnny Dornan ran him wide and caught Fagin the Wolf at the wire.”

“That’s right. A fine bit of riding.”

“Wham’s Dram is bothered by other horses in his sights and wears blinders. Isn’t that why he likes the rail?” I was rather enjoying this.

“You’re pretty well informed,” he said, tipping his glass in my direction before draining what was left in it. “What’s your name again?”

“Ellie. Ellie Stone.”

“Jewish girl?”

I nodded.

“Stone. Did your family come from Germany?”

“Yes. About eighty years ago. My grandparents were from Bonn.”

“I was born in Hamburg. Came over as a boy. Call me Lou.”

He lifted his empty glass to me and, finding no Schaefer’s at the bottom, frowned and asked me if Carl had taken care of all my questions.

“Most of them. I was hoping you’d answer the ones he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.”

“If I’m able.”

“What exactly does Carl do for you?”

Lou was taken aback. “I thought you were interested in Johnny Dornan, not Carl. Or me.”

“It’s just that Carl wouldn’t say. I didn’t think it would be such a big secret.”

“He does a little of this and a little of that. He’s like my right hand.”

He couldn’t have known, but dodging my questions only made me more curious. My compulsion for tying up loose ends and squaring corners made it difficult for me to abandon unfinished crossword puzzles or let go of unanswered questions. I was itching to get to the bottom of what Carl Boehringer did for Lou Fleischman, but this wasn’t the moment to indulge my obsession.

I asked about Johnny Dornan instead. If he knew about the gambling rumors Carl had mentioned. Lou dismissed the talk as gossip and jealousy.

“Do you think I’d let him ride for me if he was crooked?”

I moved on. “How was he at dinner last night?”

“In high spirits. He won two races yesterday.”

“Was he drinking? To celebrate?”

“Not Johnny. He has to watch his weight. He allows himself one small glass of wine with his meal—and I mean small. With Johnny, there’s no need to hover over him. He’s a pro. And serious about maintaining