Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

you Ted?” He didn’t answer. “I lost my mother, too. She called me Ellie when my father named me Eleonora.”

“What was all that business about his name?” Brossard asked me once the boy had left. He seemed miffed. “I think Teddy J. is a fine name. It’ll make him famous.”

“He told me he hated that name,” I said as a matter of fact. “At the game last week.”

Brossard huffed and shook his head. “But I came up with that name,” he said.

“It’s all right, Mr. Brossard,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “There’ll be other boys to name.”

Back at the office, I had a couple of hours to work on my profile of Ted Jurczyk and grab a bite at the lunch counter next door. I selected three shots of the freshman for the article: a graceful layup, a defensive pose, and his team portrait. He stood there in his satin uniform, holding a basketball on his hip, as he smiled at the camera. I entered the caption: Ted Jurczyk, freshman guard. I was working on a paragraph describing his stellar academic record when George Walsh rushed into the room.

“Whaddya know, Georgie Porgie?” I said, not even looking up from my typewriter and certainly not expecting an answer.

He stuffed his arms into his coat, grabbed his umbrella and hat, then headed for the door. He paused over my desk and said with a sarcastic grin, “Read the papers, Eleonora.”

By halftime, the New Holland Bucks were leading the Flying Horses of Troy by fifteen. (Flying Horses? Who named these teams?) Ted Jurczyk had scored sixteen points on seven-for-twelve shooting and two-for-two from the foul line. I turned in my seat behind the scorer to see his father beaming in the middle row at center court. Beside him was a little blonde girl of about nine. She laughed and chatted with her father’s friends, who treated her like a little princess. When the teams took the court to warm up for the second half, I turned again to snap a picture of the little girl watching her big brother. I focused my zoom on her bright face. That’s when I saw the little crutches leaning against the bench next to her. She hadn’t stood the whole time I’d been watching her. Then, through my lens, I saw the flash of metal on the poor little thing’s legs. I lowered my Leica without squeezing the shutter release.

Ted Jurczyk cooled off a bit in the second half, scoring only eight points. But he managed the last six for New Holland, who eked out a win 52–50 and reclaimed a share of first place in the Class A League.

I was packing away my camera and pulling on my coat when Frank Olney sidled up to me.

“Good game,” he said.

I mumbled something like yes.

“I haven’t seen you since our little talk at the jail.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Work keeps me on the run.”

He nodded. “And late-night intruders?”

I jerked my head to look up at him. “What do you know about that?”

“I know a lot of what goes on in this town,” he said. “Ellie, why didn’t you just call me? I would have put a man on your house.”

“I’m all right,” I said.

A long pause ensued. It was getting to the point where someone had to say something, so I obliged.

“I wanted to thank you for sending Don to get me out of jail,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Frank dismissed my thank you with an uncomfortable pshaw.

“Really, Frank,” I said. “And after our . . . little chat, you still came through for me.”

He shuffled his feet a bit and looked around at the emptying crowd. He coughed once or twice then said it was nothing. “I wasn’t about to let you rot in Pat Finn’s jail.”

“Even after I said I was going to publish that story?”

“What do you take me for?” he said.

“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to print it.”

Frank sighed. He looked as if I’d pierced his heart. “Ellie, whether you print your story or not, I’m not going let the New Holland cops bully you.”

I was a little overcome. I wiped my eyes, tried to compose myself, then looked up at the big guy. A warm tear rolled down my cheek. “Did you know Ted Jurczyk’s little sister had polio?”

After the game, I dropped in at the office and wrote out my story on the game. That took about forty-five minutes. I dropped it off in Composition then found my way to Fiorello’s, where the kids had descended to celebrate the victory. I felt safe in the crowd, but was dreading returning home where intruders had no qualms about entering uninvited.

Fadge was too busy to pay any attention to me, but Bill, the dishwasher, was only too happy to chat. He listed the catalogue of products he’d bought that day entirely with coupons at Louie’s Market on the East End. His haul included wilted, unwanted produce, dented canned goods, remainders, and bargains of every description. Bill packed groceries for tips at Louie’s by day and washed dishes at Fiorello’s by night. He was known far and wide for his frugality and refusal ever to throw anything out. Fadge called him the third, retarded Collyer brother. Bill also liked to share embarrassing information.

“Do you know why they wouldn’t take me in the army?” he asked me, apropos of nothing, the first day we met.

“Flat feet?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Breasts like a woman,” he announced proudly.

There were no seats free in any of the booths, and the counter was full. I leafed through a Look magazine and waited for someone to leave. A girl had the same idea, stationing herself next to me and grabbing a copy of 16 Magazine. I wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but Fadge looked up from the egg cream he was stirring to bark at us.

“Hey, you two. This