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

$37,496. And thirty-two cents. Bill, you see, was the older son of the late Thomas Goossens, whose Goossens Broom Company had once been a successful manufacturer on the city’s South Side. Bill and his younger brother, Stephen, had inherited whopping sums when their father died. Stephen had long since moved away, while Bill lived with his elderly mother on Wilson Avenue, a few blocks away from the store.

“Hey, Bill,” said Fadge, throwing a wink at me. “Why don’t you tell Ellie what you had for supper before work?”

Bill nudged his glasses farther up his nose with his right forefinger then recited the menu. “Three kielbasa, stuffed cabbage, baked beans, and four ears of corn.”

“That’s it?” asked Fadge.

Bill thought it over a moment then added, “Peas. And three beers.”

“Nothing else?”

A grin spread over his lips. “Two Slim Jims.”

I poked Fadge in the ribs for making fun of poor Bill, who chose that moment to unleash a rumbling belch that confirmed, at least approximately so, the composition of his supper. Bill, for all his money and mathematical talents, suffered from some form of mental retardation. People could tell he was a little off on sight, but he managed quite well living with his mother. He rarely spent a penny of his own money for goods, always having the correct combination of coupons or Green Stamps to exchange for dented canned goods or old cigars and cigarettes with his daytime employer, Lou Martello, of Louie’s Market on the East End.

After gulping some fresh air from my window, I turned my attention to the second passenger in the backseat, Jeff “Zeke” Zeitner. He was a nice brown-haired fourteen-year-old kid, always hanging around the store asking Fadge for a job. It appeared that his performance of the past couple of days had earned him a permanent spot in the rotation. And that privilege included the occasional late-night pizza excursion.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out, Zeke?” I asked. “Don’t your parents mind?”

“No, they trust Fadge.”

“Then that’s their first mistake. How are you enjoying jerking sodas?”

He flashed a brilliant smile at me. “It’s great. I get to wait on all the pretty girls, and they have to pay attention to me.”

“So you should be willing to work for free,” said Fadge.

“How much is he paying you?” I asked Zeke.

“Plenty. Fifty cents an hour.”

Again I poked Fadge in the ribs.

“Hey, cut it out, El. That hurts.”

“How can you pay him fifty cents?” I hissed. “Minimum wage is a dollar fifteen.”

“First of all, don’t go trying to unionize my workers. Second, it’s not even legal for him to be working for me in the first place. He’s only fourteen. And, third, he can eat all the ice cream he wants, plus I take him out for pizza after work on the weekends.”

“Yeah,” said Zeke from the backseat. “You gotta admit, Ellie, it’s a pretty good deal.”

It was fun getting to know Zeke and Bill a little better, even if the topics of discussion never surpassed a ninth-grade level. At one point between the hors d’oeuvres and finger bowls, Bill jumped out of his seat and began dancing a kind of jig in rhythm to the song playing on the jukebox. We asked him what the heck he was doing, and he responded through his teeth, “Leg cramp.” Zeke spent an inordinate amount of time chatting with me, asking questions about my favorite singers, my boyfriends, and other such nonsense. He was cute, but the cow eyes set off alarms in my head. I’d had my fill of teenage boys falling in love with me. Fadge enjoyed the role of ringmaster of his own little circus, and, all told, it was a nice time. But I looked forward to Saturday evening’s gala fundraiser at the casino and a chance for some adult conversation. Fadge, of course, insisted on picking up the tab.

It was past twelve thirty as we sped up Market Hill. Fadge would drop off Zeke first, then Bill, then me. He turned onto Howard Street from Arnold Avenue.

“Hey, Fadge,” said Zeke from the backseat. “That car back there has been following us since we left Scafitti’s.”

We turned as one to look through the window. All except Fadge, who squinted into the rearview mirror. In the dark, it was impossible to distinguish any identifying characteristics of the car except that there were two headlamps shining at us.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been watching it for a while now.”

“Let’s try this,” said Fadge, turning sharply onto Victor Street.

We drove on for thirty seconds, nearly reaching the next corner, when the car swung into view some fifty yards behind us.

“No one lives on this little street,” said Fadge. “Whoever that is must be following us.”

“Maybe it’s a cop,” I said.

“No, I saw it,” said Zeke. “Just a regular car. A sedan of some kind. I couldn’t tell the model because it’s pretty old.”

Fadge turned again, this time right onto Grant Avenue. He eased his speed, glancing into the rearview mirror every couple of seconds, until the car appeared again, now barely thirty yards behind us. Fadge made two more right turns, daring the car to follow. Having made a complete circle, we were back on Victor Street, but this time with no shadow. The driver must have figured out that Fadge was onto him. Or her, I suppose. Anything was possible. When we reached the corner of Grant this time, Fadge turned left and floored it. For all its dents and dings, his Nash Ambassador could still fly when he took the whip to it. Five minutes later we pulled up to Zeke’s house on McClellan Avenue. Fadge cut the engine and doused the lights. Everything was still at 12:45 a.m.

“That was close,” said Zeke. “Really cool the way you lost him, Fadge.”

“Could it have been some kids having a little fun?” I asked. “Trying to scare us?”

Fadge frowned. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“They followed us to Scafitti’s, too,” announced Bill. In the commotion, I’d