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

“The place went into decline,” he said, returning to his Racing Form. “It’s been derelict now for at least fifteen years. So the fires usually have one of two explanations: bored kids with matches or Jewish lightning.”

“No, Fadge. This is different. Two people were killed.”

“Two people? Who?”

“Wait a minute. Did you just say ‘Jewish lightning’?”

He blanched and rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. It’s an expression. Besides, you’re always making fat jokes at my expense.”

I knew he hadn’t meant anything by it. And, yes, I was guilty of making the occasional remark about his weight, but that didn’t mean I liked what he’d said. I poked him in the ribs. Hard. He rubbed his side but didn’t dare protest.

“Sorry, El,” he repeated. “Tell you what. Go draw yourself a Coke on the house while I finish up here.”

“A Coke? For the ‘Jewish lightning’ crack? No thanks. And you can finish your handicapping in the car. I’ll drive.”

The bells above the door jingled, interrupting our quarrel, and a short, rotund woman in her late fifties waddled in carrying a small dog in her arms.

“Mrs. Pindaro,” said Fadge. “Thank you for helping me out.”

She smiled and placed the dog—a pug named Leon—down on one of the stools at the counter. “Happy to do it, Ronnie. You know I used to help out your father years ago. I think I remember the ropes. Though the prices have certainly gone up.” Her left nostril flared as she aimed a reproachful eye at him.

I fancied Fadge was reconsidering his choice of pinch hitter. He hated customers who groused about prices.

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought little Leon along,” she said. “I can’t leave him alone too long. He has to do his business, big and small, whether I’m home or not.”

“No problem, Mrs. Pindaro,” said Fadge. I was sure he didn’t like the idea, but with the races beckoning and no one else to mind the store in his absence, what choice did he have? “I’m sure things will be quiet today,” he continued, lying to the poor lady. A Saturday afternoon in August promised to be anything but slow.

Little Leon sat beside me on the next stool, huffing his dog breath on my arm. I tried to give him a pat on the head, but he must have thought I had food in my hand and wouldn’t have any of the petting. I settled in and ignored him, and he returned the favor.

Fadge noticed the time, jumped off the stool he’d been holding down, and untied his fudge-splattered apron. “Damn, we’re gonna be late for the first race. Let’s go, El.”

He opened the cash register, scooped a wad of bills from the till, and grabbed his Racing Form. Then he was out the door like an eager three-year-old colt bolting from the starting gate. I trotted along behind.

It may have looked like the runner-up in a demolition derby, but, aside from backfiring regularly, Fadge’s Nash Ambassador ran well enough. The driver’s side door had been dented shut three years earlier, and, as a result, whosoever was piloting the jalopy had to climb in from the passenger side. That Saturday afternoon, the honor fell to me. I took the wheel, shifted into first, and roared off down Lincoln Avenue, giving Fadge thirty precious minutes to finish his brilliant plan to beat the odds and walk away from the track with a fortune in his pockets. He sat beside me among the discarded wrappers, newspapers, and empty soda bottles, scribbling notes into the margins of his Racing Form. He wouldn’t even let me put on the radio. Claimed it distracted him.

Windows open a crack for some fresh, cool air, the Ambassador cruised along Route 67 as if she’d just rolled off the showroom floor. We were approaching Tempesta Farm. I nudged Fadge, interrupting his handicapping, and indicated the scene of the fire with a tilt of my head. He folded his paper and gazed out the window. About 150 yards from the highway’s shoulder, beyond the warped and weather-beaten rail at the top of the training track’s homestretch, the ground was blackened and scarred and bare. The smell of charcoaled wood still hung in the air. Fadge watched the pile of cinders slide by.

Sheriff Pryor’s squad car, five state police cruisers, and seven other county vehicles had blocked off the drive, directly in front of twelve stone monuments guarding the entrance. A Saratoga Springs Fire Department station wagon sat parked at the side of the highway. I took my eyes off the road to glance at the scene. At least thirty men were fanning out over the grounds, ten or fifteen feet apart, heads bowed as if searching for something. I turned my attention back to my driving.

“You weren’t kidding about the barn,” said Fadge.

“What are those stone pillars for?” I asked.

“Sanford Shaw put them up. A tribute to his favorite horses.”

“They look like tombstones.”

Fadge shrugged. “A lot of people assume they’re markers for the twelve Thoroughbreds that died in the fire. But those monuments were there long before then.”

The farm disappeared in the rearview mirror.

“So tell me what happened,” said Fadge. “Two people were killed?”

“A woman and a boy. No idea who they were, but the sheriff’s looking into missing persons.”

“A woman and a boy,” said Fadge as if repeating a riddle.

“Actually, I think the boy might have been a man. A jockey.”

“How come?”

“The body had some racing silk wrapped around its neck. Maybe part of a jockey’s flak jacket. Black-and-orange diamonds, like a jack-o’-lantern. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Not Tempesta’s colors,” he said. “Theirs were purple and gold. Back when they were racing. And black and orange isn’t the most common combination.”

“So you don’t know of any farm that uses that design?”

“Actually, I do. Goddamn Harlequin Stables,” he said with a raw annoyance that betrayed a recent wound. “I lost out on a huge payoff yesterday thanks to one of their