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

“What makes you ask that?”

“The sheriff says this is a case of murder. The man who died in that barn was shot between the eyes before it burned down. And you told me yourself that Johnny wasn’t the most likeable fellow in the stable.”

He toed a small twig on the cinder path with his worn shoe, then kicked it—after a fashion—into the grass. “You’re pretty well informed about what happened on that farm.”

“I was there, remember? Saw the bodies. I was the one who discovered them.”

Lou shuffled off down the path, and I followed.

“That’s the Canfield Casino,” he said, stopping in front of a handsome Renaissance Revival brick building in the middle of the park.

“I know. I’m attending a charity gala there Saturday night.”

He chuckled. “Like I said, you’re well informed about everything. From Wham’s Dram and the fire at Tempesta to this.”

“Does Johnny Dornan have any enemies that you know of?” I repeated. “Maybe Robinson.”

“Robinson who?”

“A name I came across. Never mind. So were there people who hated him?”

“Who doesn’t have enemies? Johnny wasn’t any different. He had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. But someone who’d want to kill him? I’m not so sure.”

“What kind of people did he rub the wrong way?”

“Other jockeys.”

“Anyone else?”

“You’re not tricking me into answering that.”

“Gamblers?”

He stared me down for a moment then continued on his path past the casino. I followed a few paces behind. We arrived in a garden at the far side of the park and stopped in front of a rectangular pool where two opposing Triton statues were spouting water at each other through conch shells.

We watched and listened to the splashing without a word. It was a beautiful evening, cool with a few clouds high in the sky. I allowed myself a moment to admire the weather and the park. Lou Fleischman could wait. The less I said, the more he wanted to speak. Then he turned to me, pointing to the Tritons. His eyes seemed to challenge me to answer a question.

“Spit and Spat,” I said, and he shook his head in mock defeat. I came clean and indicated a plaque a few feet away. “The names are written over there.”

A pair of ducks waddled into the vicinity, hopped onto the low fountain wall, and splashed into the pool.

“I like Peking duck,” said Lou apropos of the birds. “My rabbi says I can eat duck, you know.”

“I’m still not judging you.”

“Do you like duck?”

“I like ducks. Plural. I wouldn’t want to eat these cute little fellows.”

He stared at the birds that were quite tame and bold around humans. “I can’t talk about gamblers, you know. Don’t ask me to. I can’t.”

“Then tell me about Purgatorio.”

“Purgatorio? My horse? What about him?”

“I met him. Twice. He’s a beautiful animal.”

“And hopeless as a racehorse. He couldn’t outrun me with a head start. His trainer thinks it’s all in his head.”

“Is that Hal Brown?”

Lou was finished admiring the ducks and the spitting Tritons. He started back in the direction we’d come along the cinder pathway. He glanced my way as we walked. “How do you know these things? Like the name of my trainer?”

I smiled to myself. Yes, I was showing off a bit and enjoying it.

“Hal thinks he can teach the horse to win,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “Me, I’m not so sure.”

“What happens to a racehorse when his career is over?”

“It’s not all beer and skittles, I can tell you that. Retired horses are expensive to feed and care for. They can live into their twenties. That might mean ten, fifteen, twenty years of board and veterinary services.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I said.

“It’s not nice to think about, but if a Thoroughbred isn’t worth breeding, you sell him off for whatever you can get. Problem is the only people who want to buy useless racehorses are little girls with rich fathers who spoil them.”

“And what happens if you can’t find a buyer?”

Lou stopped again and drew a couple of breaths. I compelled him to look me in the eye. He scratched his cheek and made a face, as if I was putting him out.

“Some might be abandoned somewhere. On public lands. Or put down or slaughtered for meat to sell abroad. Most breeders love their horses, but it’s a business. If an animal doesn’t have what it takes, you’ve got to make tough decisions.”

I must have looked aghast because Lou tried to soften the message with a joke. He said Purgatorio was still a long way from the glue factory.

“Not funny.”

“Sorry about that. But don’t worry your pretty little head, Ellie. I’ve got too much invested in him to write him off so fast.”

“Where did you get Purgatorio? Was he foaled at Harlequin, or did you buy him?”

“Bought him in a two-year-old claiming race. Cost me eight grand. Not one of my better purchases. At least not yet. He’s got great bloodlines. Just can’t race.”

We resumed our stroll, cinders crackling beneath our feet as we walked in contemplation of the fate awaiting slow-footed Thoroughbreds. I wondered to myself what kind of people besides rich little girls bought “used” racehorses. The kind who had them slaughtered for meat when the poor beasts were done entertaining us for sport?

Shaking thoughts of Purgatorio from my mind, I willed myself to return to the topic at hand. I was there to get information and permission from Lou Fleischman to go to press with a bombshell that might make a name for me and sell some newspapers at the same time.

“You’ve told me about my friend Tory,” I said. “But what about Johnny Dornan? Where did he come from?”

“What do you mean, where did he come from? Like his hometown?”

“Not exactly. He was unknown two years ago. Then suddenly last summer he’s a twenty-seven-year-old rookie jockey riding winners in Saratoga. Where did he come from? Hannibal, MO?”

“No. I found him at Aqueduct,” said Lou. Apparently he hadn’t seen Damn Yankees.