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

spent the night with Johnny Dornan before he burned to a crisp.”

“I won’t hold that against her. She’s a pretty one.”

“And you could surely have her. For the right price. And I’m not talking hot-fudge sundaes.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Well, your crack about ‘the pretty young lady’ didn’t include me. . . . If you think you can get me into bed, by all means go ahead and fatten me up with ice cream. But Joyce Stevens is going to cost you. I’m sure you could secure her services with a portion of your winnings from the other day.”

Fadge gaped at me with his bulging eyes. “What are you saying ?”

“She’s available at popular prices through Jimmy Burgh.”

“Who’s Jimmy Burgh?”

“Someone I met in Schenectady the other day. An impresario of sorts. A manager. I could put you in touch with him.”

“Are you saying he’s a pimp? And that girl you were talking to in the booth tonight is a prostitute?”

I touched my nose with my right forefinger and pointed to Fadge with my left.

He shoved half a slice of pizza into his mouth and chewed on my words for a moment. “That pretty girl tonight was a . . .”

“Precisely.”

He shook his head in dismay, as if he’d been swindled. I gave him no shrift, however, scolding him for his shameless flirting with a pretty face.

“Since when do you hand out samples to random squatters? I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s called marketing, El. If you knew the first thing about business, you’d understand that you have to spend to attract customers.”

“Spare me,” I said. “She lives forty miles from New Holland. She’s never coming back here. You were trying to impress her to see where it might get you.”

He seemed to be over her already. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

We enjoyed our pizza, and the conversation turned back to Johnny Dornan. Fadge wondered why there was no talk of the jockey in the papers.

“Everyone’s being careful,” I said. “But have a look at the Republic tomorrow.”

“You’re naming Dornan?”

I nodded as I chewed. After a swallow and a gulp of beer, I explained that I’d had a long chat with Lou Fleischman.

“He gave me permission to quote him on the sheriff’s questions. It seems Pryor was very curious about Johnny Dornan’s whereabouts in reference to the Tempesta fire.”

“That should make for quite the feather in your cap, El,” said Fadge. “Congratulations.” He raised his glass to me. “So what’s next?”

“Where to begin? I’ve got to find out where this Johnny Dornan came from. Joyce told me tonight that he was Canadian. And the motel clerk at the Friar Tuck said Vivian McLaglen claimed to be from Manitoba.”

Fadge continued to chew his pizza.

“What about you?” I asked. “You’re an expert horseman. What do you know about Johnny Dornan?”

“Not much beyond how he ruined my parlay last Friday.”

“Do you remember seeing him at the track last year?”

“Yeah, he was a newcomer. I knew the name. He won a few races. I seem to recall one of my clockers saying he was kind of shifty. Some story from years ago, but he couldn’t tell me more.”

We contemplated that dead end for a few beats, and then Fadge asked what else I had.

“I still need to talk to Judge Shaw. The whole thing happened on his property, after all. And then there’s the car.”

“What car?”

“Vivian Coleman’s. Or Vivian McLaglen’s, whatever her name is.”

“Why do you need to find her car?”

“According to Mrs. Russell, Johnny didn’t have a car of his own. So someone must have picked him up Friday night after he retired to his room with Micheline. I think it might have been Vivian McLaglen. And I think they went to meet someone named Robinson.”

Fadge nodded. “Makes sense.”

“So if Vivian and Johnny were tooling around in her Chrysler Friday evening, what happened to it? Did they drive it to Tempesta to meet their murderer? Or did their murderer take them there in another car? Either way, I want to know where it is now and who left it there.”

“Can Frank Olney help you on that? Any abandoned cars towed away?”

“Maybe. But what if the killer wanted to dispose of the car instead of leaving it on the side of the road? Or what if he’s still driving around in it?”

“All good possibilities,” he said. “It’s not going to be easy. Kind of like finding a needle in a haystack.”

I finished my slice of pizza. Fadge had polished off the rest. He sat back and picked his teeth, a practice I believed should be carried out in private. But propriety had never been the big guy’s long suit.

“Ready to go home?” he asked.

“Not quite yet. I want to make a stop first.”

“Where? It’s after midnight.”

“Let’s take a little drive out to Tempesta Farm.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The radio announced the temperature was fifty degrees, downright cold for August. Fadge and I peered through the windshield at the twelve monuments guarding the entrance of Tempesta Farm.

“Good morning, it’s one a.m.,” a man’s voice crackled over the airwaves. “Crowds cheered in Moscow as the so-called twin cosmonauts Andrian Nikolayev and Pavel Popovich made separate landings on the steppes of Kazakhstan Wednesday, capping a dramatic . . .”

Fadge switched off the radio.

“How can those cosmonauts be twins?” he asked. “They don’t even have the same last name.”

I rolled my eyes at his joke. He was a confirmed newshawk who could tell you at all times what in the world was happening and where. I attributed his near-savant knowledge to the countless hours spent reading newspapers as he waited for business to walk through his ice-cream shop’s front door. Especially during the winter months.

“Do you really want to go tramping through the wet grass in the middle of the night?” he asked.

“If those twins can circle the planet for four days, we can brave the elements for twenty minutes. I want to have a look around. The caretaker’s house and the dormitories are over there.”

“Over where?