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

is,” I said, turning to face him properly. “Purgatorio. Harlequin Stables.”

“Not a great runner,” observed my companion. Now he was jotting a note into his Racing Form, showing little interest in me.

“He doesn’t like other horses running alongside him. And is spooked by the starting gate.” Why did I insist on pretending to be an expert on racing?

He lifted his head and looked me in the eye. “That would explain why he doesn’t win.”

“Blinders might help.”

“Not that boy. He’s a beauty, for sure. But better suited as a photo model. I saw how he mugged for your camera.”

“You were watching me?” I asked.

He smiled. “Not exactly.”

“Are you one of those clockers?”

“You know about clockers?”

“A little.”

“Well, I’m not a clocker. I was watching the ponies the way I do every morning in August. Then you walked into the picture and brightened the view.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “You’re awfully fresh.”

“So I’ve been told. Usually with a slap in the face. Since you haven’t gone to that extreme, I’m hoping I’m on solid footing.”

“The jury’s still out. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Then I’ll say good day, miss.”

I nodded and strode off toward the exit, enjoining myself not to turn back for a look. But at the gate I couldn’t resist a peek. He was there where I’d left him, now leaning against the rail, watching me still. I surely blushed and scolded myself with a not-so-silent oath.

Robinson’s High Life Tavern was a Colored bar on Congress Street in Saratoga. The place was empty and dark on a Tuesday morning, but outside on the stoop, a stocky man of about forty was hosing off the steps. I called to him from over his shoulder. He turned and removed his right thumb from the hose’s nozzle, and the jet of water slackened into a weak dribble.

“I’m trying to locate a man named Johnny Dornan,” I said.

“Johnny Dornan? The jockey?”

“You know him?”

“Not personally. But do you think a man gets to my age without having some bad habits?” He squeezed the end of the hose again and returned to the task at hand. “I’ve been playing the horses since I was ten years old, young lady. Book bets, too.” He glanced back at me. “That’s not for public consumption, you understand.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Didn’t think you were. But what do you want with Johnny Dornan anyway?”

“He’s disappeared. I’m a reporter trying to locate him.”

“Well, he doesn’t hang out in my tavern, I can tell you that. Skinny little white boys are pretty scarce around here. What made you think he had business in this part of town?”

“He had a meeting at midnight last Friday with someone named Robinson. Or maybe a place called Robinson’s.”

“My name’s Robinson, all right. Horace Robinson, proprietor.” He threw his left thumb over his shoulder to indicate the bar behind him. “But I never met your jockey. Don’t believe I ever bet on him either.”

So much for the High Life Tavern. And Horace Robinson, proprietor, too.

“But I know some folks who’ve met him.” He tucked in his chin and bowed his head to fix me with a knowing stare.

“Bookies like yourself, perhaps?” I asked.

He chuckled. “You’re a funny one, you know that? You come here all young and innocent, like a lost schoolgirl. Then you start asking about bookies.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Robinson.”

“I’m not going down that road, miss. I’m only saying that your boy Johnny Dornan had some shady connections. And word is he can be bought.”

“And you couldn’t steer your way clear to give me a name?”

“The name I’m thinking of wouldn’t like it. No, miss, not at all.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Robinson.”

He regarded me with just the hint of a curious grin on his lips. He cocked his head, wished me luck, and returned to his hosing.

“We open at noon,” he said, his back to me. “Good drinks and hot food. But not too many white folks.”

I pulled into a crumbling vacant lot on Race Avenue between First and Second Streets and parked in front of a two-story building. A sign announced Lou’s Bar. At the top of a rickety flight of external stairs, there appeared to be a small apartment on the second floor. Across the empty lot, a tire shop, cordoned off by a chain-link fence, presented lopsided towers of worn-out tires, rusting rims, and grimy tools in every imaginable shape and size. Not too far off was the Patrician Paper factory, which surely employed half the town.

The mailbox at the base of the stairs bore no name, just the street number. I was about to climb up to the second story to knock when a man stepped out of the dark bar. About fifty, dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, he looked me over for a few seconds before asking what I wanted.

“I’m trying to reach the people who live upstairs,” I said.

“There’s no one up there.”

“No Mr. and Mrs. Coleman?” “Who?”

“Coleman,” I repeated.

“No. There was a couple about a year ago.” He stroked his chin and searched his memory. “Now what was their name?”

“Was it McLaglen, by any chance?”

“That was it. They only stayed a couple of weeks; then they lit out.”

“They didn’t sign a lease?”

He shook his head. “Who would sign a lease for this dump? They were weekly. Paid twice; then they were gone.”

I glanced up at the second floor. He had a point. The windows were greasy, mullions chipped, their paint gone. And the door had that friendless, abandoned-by-time air, like a rotted tree trunk. There were no signs of life above Lou’s Bar. The Colemans/McLaglens must have used the place only long enough to register the car.

I stopped for coffee and a sandwich near Wilton on Route 9, then called Norma from a phone booth to ask her to look into the rest of the Robinsons in the area.

“Sorry to dump such a dreary job on you,” I said.

“Not at all, Miss Stone.