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

I snapped a few frames of one of them, a well-dressed gentleman who was all business, as he scribbled—I can only presume—the dates, time of day, furlongs, and splits for the horses he was tracking. Fadge had taught me the word “split.”

I shot a few more photos of the sun warming the grandstand and was about to screw on a longer lens when a voice from behind me on the track warned me to watch out.

I turned, ducked, and pushed back from the rail, coming face-to-face with a great black horse frisking to a stop a few feet away from me. Knees folded high against his midsection, a jockey leaned forward in the saddle atop the animal. I recognized the colors first—black-and-orange diamonds—then the beautiful beast, his smooth coat ashimmer, steaming perspiration. Purgatorio. He studied me with one eye, much as he had a couple of days before, but this time he might have been wondering why I wasn’t snapping pictures of him, handsome boy that he was. He bobbed his head twice, jerking at his reins and clacking the bit in his mouth. Then he settled down and stepped sideways, inching closer to the rail.

“Whoa, boy,” said the jockey. “Don’t be afraid, miss. Tory won’t hurt you.”

The horse lowered his head and issued a soft blow from his nostrils. Then he nickered and leaned over the rail. I reached up and asked the jockey if it was safe to pet him. The horse, not the jockey. He smiled and said sure. Purgatorio twitched when I touched his nose, pulling back.

“Doesn’t he like me?” I asked.

“Give him a chance,” said the jockey. “He’s skittish by nature. Doesn’t warm to just anyone. But he likes you, or he would’ve taken a bite out of your hand.”

I stood back to give him some space as I admired him. “You call him Tory?”

“Purgatorio’s a mouthful.”

In his place, I probably would have ended up calling him Purgie. Tory seemed more dignified.

“He’s such a beautiful fellow,” I said. “Did he have a good workout this morning?”

“Not bad. He runs with a lot of joy out here on the practice track. Loves to stretch his legs, provided there are no other horses too close.”

I sensed Purgatorio knew we were talking about him. He watched me with interest, and his ears swiveled like a cat’s each time the jockey mentioned his name.

“Will he be racing anytime soon?”

The jockey thumped the horse affectionately on the neck a couple of times, producing a series of resounding whacks, as if beating a kettledrum with a mallet. That seemed to soothe the animal.

“We’ll see, won’t we, boy?” he said to Purgatorio, but actually addressing me.

“Is it true that he’s spooked by other horses?”

“Not so much afraid. He just doesn’t like them. But he does get spooked by the starting gate. Sometimes he’ll kick and buck and won’t go in. Depends on the day.”

“If he doesn’t like horses, who does he like?”

“The grooms. Some of his riders, too. And you.”

The horse took a confident step in my direction, and I held out an open hand to show my good intentions. He snuffed my palm, then nudged it with his muzzle.

“You’d better give him a treat when you hold your hand out like that, or else . . .”

“He’ll take a bite out of it?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve got some Life Savers in my purse.”

“No. That’s not on his diet. Bring him some Cheerios next time you come. He’ll love you for it.”

I introduced myself, and the jockey did the same. Mike.

“May I take a picture of him?” I asked, lifting my camera for inspection.

“Sure.”

I aimed my Leica at Tory, and he snapped to attention, tossing his head back as if to flip the forelock out of his eyes. “Do you work for Mr. Fleischman?”

“Yeah,” said Mike as I focused and clicked off a few shots. “I work for his trainer, Hal Brown.”

“Are you going to race today?”

He blushed. “No. I’m only an apprentice. A morning rider. Maybe in a couple of years I’ll get my chance. Maybe not; I’m a little tall.”

“How little?”

“Five-six and a half. Mr. Brown says maybe I could ride jumpers.”

“Jumpers?”

“Steeplechase horses. They carry more weight than the flat racers. That means jockeys can be a little taller. And heavier.”

Unsure of how I might lighten his load, I commiserated to the extent I could. Then I offered to take a couple of photos of him and the horse.

Mike beamed and struck what looked like a practiced pose atop the horse. One that perhaps he hoped to use in a couple of years under a blanket of flowers in the winner’s circle. I got five good frames of the two of them, and I wondered which liked the camera more, the horse or the rider.

“I’ll bring you prints in a day or two. Will I find you here?”

“I’m here most every day. Except Sundays.”

I turned my attention back to Purgatorio and patted him tentatively on the muzzle. This time he submitted.

“He’s very sweet. You said he likes his riders. What about Johnny Dornan? Did he ever ride him?”

“Once,” said Mike. “But Tory, here, didn’t like Johnny, did you, boy?” He thumped him again on the neck. “I don’t like the SOB either, if that counts for anything.”

“Funny, he seems perfectly nice in his photograph.”

“I guess you can fool the camera after all.”

“Do you know if Mr. Robinson liked Johnny?” I asked, trying a new tack for this particular question. Spring it on him casually.

“Who’s Mr. Robinson?”

“Beautiful horse,” came a voice to my left as I watched Tory trot off toward the barn with Mike aboard.

I glanced back to find a man in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a well-tailored, checked sport coat and tan slacks. He had the Racing Form tucked under his right arm and wore a pair of field glasses around his neck. I thought he cut a tall and slim figure as he gazed off into the distance, ostensibly admiring Purgatorio recede from view.

“He