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

his weight. Not like some jockeys who can’t control themselves. They gorge themselves then stick a couple of fingers down their throats afterward.”

“What about you? Do you eat and drink in front of your jockeys?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin, patting his belly. “I’m not the one riding the horse.”

“Even last night?”

“Normally, I would have stayed in on a Friday. The Sabbath, you know. But last night was a special occasion. Two winners yesterday, so I enjoyed a nice bottle of wine to celebrate. I gave Johnny a bantam portion.”

“Was there anyone else with you?”

“Rose didn’t come. It was me and Carl and Johnny. And his date, Micheline.”

“Tell me about her.”

Lou gazed into his empty glass, then looked again in vain for a waiter. “He likes the ladies, Johnny does. Problem is they don’t always like him.”

“Why’s that?”

He smirked at me. “A guy can have all the charm in the world, but if he’s pint-sized . . . Well, the ladies naturally shy away.”

“Does Johnny have all the charm in the world?”

“Hardly. Johnny is what fancy people call an ‘acquired taste.’ His personality is not why I keep him around.”

“Unlikeable?”

“I wouldn’t argue with that.”

“What about Micheline? Did she enjoy Johnny’s company?”

He twitched, his face betraying discomfort. “You understand, young lady, some girls will compromise on height if there’s another incentive.”

I sipped my drink. “I see.”

He shook his head. “No. Johnny didn’t pay her nothing. I did.” He glanced around yet again for a waiter. “Jesus, what do I got to do to get a drink in here?”

“About Micheline?” I prompted.

“I thought Johnny deserved some pleasant company after his ride yesterday.”

“Where might I find her?”

Lou Fleischman mulled it over for a long moment. “You don’t think she was the girl in the barn, do you?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“How much did you win?” I asked Fadge as we filed out the front gate.

“You’re looking at it the wrong way,” he said. “It’s not about one day. I’ve got a plan for the entire meet. The whole year, really.”

“Don’t tell me you lost. How is that possible? You were up more than two hundred dollars after the first two races.”

“I told you no lectures. I’ll win in the end. I take a scientific approach to racing. Not like the rest of these slobs.”

“Scientific?”

“Yeah. I’ve got years’ worth of charts and ledgers tracking horses and jockeys and trainers. And I’ve devised situational strategies for betting.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What are a couple of the situations?”

“Everything from rain to rider. I consider how far the horse has traveled to get here, and how long since his last race. Then there’s starting-gate position and time of day. I even look at the outside temperature. And some stallions react differently when racing next to a filly. Why do you think I’ve kept every edition of the Racing Form for the past fifteen years? I never throw them out in case I need to do a little research.”

I thought it would take an IBM 1401 mainframe computer to make sense of his situational strategies.

“I’ve seen your filing system,” I said. “A dozen eight-foot-tall stacks of old newspapers on your back porch. You’re like the third Collyer brother.”

“I have to keep the papers on the porch. The pantry’s filled with my record collection. And I know where everything is.”

“Within ten feet, perhaps,” I said as we reached Fadge’s car. “But putting your grubby little hands on what you need is the challenging part.”

“My hands aren’t little.”

“Anyway, for all your scientific approach and research, you lost. At least I came away on the plus side today.”

“You won thirty cents on the first race, and the program cost you a quarter. Congratulations. You won a nickel.”

“That’s still better than you did.”

If Fadge thought his bad luck had run its course, he was mistaken. Instead of heading straight back to New Holland, I insisted we take a detour.

Thanks to Carl Boehringer, I knew that Johnny Dornan was staying at a boarding house on McLean Street in nearby Ballston Spa. A sprawling gray clapboard affair with a wooden staircase running up the side for the convenience of the roomers, Mrs. Russell’s covered much of an entire city block. Not a fancy place, it could have used a couple of coats of new paint and some landscaping. The jungle of grass in front of the house had long since claimed the uneven, crumbling sidewalk in the name of Spain. A sign on the porch advertised the August rate for singles at eight dollars per night, board included.

Fadge set the brake and huffed a theatrical sigh of impatience, intended to communicate his displeasure at having to endure this errand, especially on the heels of his disappointing day at the races. I patted him on the hand and promised I would be quick.

“Wait for me,” he said. “You might need my help.”

“Because Mrs. Russell is so dangerous?”

If not dangerous, the proprietress was, nevertheless, a tough old bird. We found her in the parlor just to the right of the front hall. She sat perched on the flattened folds of a worn armchair, transfixed by the wrestling on a television whose picture fluttered rhythmically from bottom to top. Hair in curlers, she was puffing on a cigarette and munching on saltines slathered in margarine. She washed down her meal with what was either gin or vodka. As we moved closer, the smell told the tale. Gin.

“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Russell?” I asked from behind her.

She threw up a hand, a cigarette pinched between her thumb and forefinger, to silence me. I glanced at Fadge, who seemed to be calculating in his head how long this torture was going to last.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she said, encouraging the warping image on the screen before her. “Pin him, pin him, you son of a . . . !”

Fadge rolled his eyes and took a step into the room, perhaps with the idea of imposing on Mrs. Russell to tear herself away