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

Yeah, for the post office, I’d thought.

The bench creaked under Frank’s considerable weight as we sat down. For his part, Fadge ducked into the post office cage and stashed his winnings in the United States government safe. I could hear him spinning the dial and twisting the latch. I wondered how many federal statutes he was breaking by doing so. And with a law enforcement officer not five feet away.

“Any luck on Vivian Coleman?” I asked Frank, putting Fadge’s felonies to one side.

“Quite a bit, actually,” he said, tenting his fingers on the table between us. “She’s got an arrest record as long as your arm. Dating back to her teens. Car theft, writing rubber checks, and wire fraud.”

“Oh, my,” I said, thinking her father may have had a point about how rotten she was after all.

“And there was a morals charge in Albany back in fifty-two. Busted in a man’s hotel room.”

“Did any of it stick?”

“The morals charge did. She did five months in county jail.”

“Sounds like trouble.”

Frank nodded. “And you think she might be the lady in the barn?”

“It seems more and more likely. I’ve seen a couple of photographs of her when she was younger. Hard to tell hair color in black-and-white, but she could have been a redhead.” I drew a sigh. “Her father told me she was always dyeing her hair a different color, so who knows?”

“Are you two going to order anything?” That was Fadge, who’d appeared above us.

“I’m trying to watch my weight, Ron,” said the sheriff, who wasn’t there to patronize the store.

Fadge stared at him. “We’ve got No-Cal Soda.”

“Isn’t that for housewives on a diet?” asked Frank.

“Works for sheriffs, too.”

Looking horribly embarrassed, Frank nodded and said sure. I ordered a Coke.

“Did you tell Sheriff Pryor your suspicions about the two women?” he asked once Fadge had shuffled back to the counter. “Might help him narrow down the options on an ID.”

“He’s not playing nice, so I didn’t tell him. I thought maybe you could let him know and get him to tell you something more.”

“Okay. I’ll say I got an anonymous tip.”

“Thanks.”

“What about the man inside the barn? You still think it’s that jockey?”

“Yes, I’m sure. The woman who checked into the Friar Tuck Motel over in Saratoga was with a man who answers Johnny Dornan’s description.”

“What exactly was the description?”

“A shrimp. The clerk said she was with a very short fellow in a cap of some kind. That’s all she saw.”

Frank frowned. “Sounds about right. So what’s your next step?”

“Actually,” I said as Fadge arrived with a Coke for me and a bottle of No-Cal ginger ale for Frank, “I was waiting for Ron, here, to tell me how his conversation with Benny Arnold from the DMV went today.”

I patted the bench next to me, signaling for my big friend to join us. He glanced back at the door, and, finding no one clamoring for a sundae, he slipped in next to me. Slipped may be overstating the case. I wondered silently which of the two men weighed more, Fadge or Frank. They called to mind a wrestling tag team. The only thing missing was the tights.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Fadge, glaring in my direction. I wiped the grin off my lips and prompted him again about Benny.

“I talked to him this morning. Before I left for the track.”

“Did he have a name and address for the car?”

“He said he’d drop by here after work to let me know what he found.”

That was my signal to hightail it out of there. I didn’t want to be cornered by him again. But, as luck would have it, Benny was just climbing the stoop. Fadge squeezed out of the booth when he heard the bell above the door.

“How are you doing, Benny?” he asked.

Hoping to remain hidden in the booth, I tried to shrink into the wall. Frank caught on and maintained silence over his bottle of No-Cal, but I feared Fadge would like nothing better than to make a little sport of my discomfort.

After ten minutes of small talk at the counter, Fadge finally asked Benny if he’d followed up on his query of that morning. The DMV clerk said something I couldn’t make out from my hiding spot, but Fadge seemed to appreciate his answer.

“This is great,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Say, Ron. What do you want with this information anyway?” asked Benny.

Fadge didn’t miss a beat. He explained that the car in question had backed into his outside the track. The woman driver never even turned around. She roared off but not before Fadge had memorized the plate number.

“I can see why you’re sore about it,” said Benny. “Your Nash is a wreck.”

Fadge said nothing, but I knew he was stewing. Despite the car’s dents and backfiring, he was attached to his Ambassador as only a torturer could love his victim. You always hurt the one you love.

Benny excused himself, saying he had to get home to watch To Tell the Truth and Pete and Gladys with his mother before turning in. I mouthed, “Pete and Gladys?” to Frank across the table, but all he had to offer in return was an indifferent shrug.

“Pete and Gladys finishes at eight,” I whispered. “His mother puts him to bed at eight.”

But just when I thought I’d escaped an awkward meeting with the DMV clerk, that fat rat Fadge stabbed me in the back.

“Hey, Benny, do me a favor, will you?” he asked from his position behind the counter. “Before you go, would you mind handing me that glass I left in the booth over there?”

I was trapped. The interview that ensued was painful enough. But watching Fadge make faces at me from behind Benny was more than a girl should have to endure. I silently vowed revenge on my so-called friend as Benny asked me—again—why I wouldn’t go on a date with him.

“Am I too unattractive?”

“No, not because of that, Benny,” I said, realizing it had come