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

Zeke listened, then scratched a message onto the pad of paper hanging inside the booth. I went back to admiring my picture of Georgie Porgie.

Jim DeGroff showed up on time and set about inspecting Fadge’s ancient Sylvania HaloLight. I heard some grunting and swearing under his breath before he finally came to me in the parlor to say he’d have to take it into the shop.

“I gotta order some tubes,” he said. “Why doesn’t he just spring for a new set?”

“I’m afraid he collects things, Mr. DeGroff. I’ve tried to convince him.”

“Tell him I’ve got some new Zeniths down at the shop. I’ll give him a nice deal on one.” Risking a hernia and a tumbling header down the stairs, Mr. DeGroff hauled the heavy set down to his truck on Philips Street below. I took a minute to sweep up the dust he’d disturbed moving the television, then grabbed Fadge’s keys, stepped out onto the landing, and locked the door. I paused.

I opened up again and let myself back inside. After tossing the keys onto the coffee table in the parlor, I made my way through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. Fadge lived on the second floor of a modest duplex on the west side of town, not far from Tedesco’s. I occasionally spent the odd evening swilling drinks and listening to jazz records with him in his apartment. That afternoon, I stood on his porch staring at a dozen or so listing piles of newspapers at least seven feet high each, wondering where to begin.

It was just about four thirty, long before the sun would set, but the back of his house was dark. I punched the light switch. Nothing. I knew Fadge had paid the Niagara Mohawk bill, since the television had lit up, if not dispatched its duties, a few minutes earlier for Mr. DeGroff. So the problem clearly was Fadge’s sloth. He hadn’t replaced a burned-out bulb. I rummaged under his kitchen sink, then in a cupboard in the pantry before finally finding a fresh bulb to screw into the socket. Once light had been restored, I climbed up on a chair and pulled a paper from the top of the oldest-looking pile. Time and weather had taken a toll on the newsprint. It was from 1956. Fadge seemed to have no system for organizing his archive of the Racing Form. I cursed him as I pulled copy after copy from the stacks of papers, searching for something from 1953. Finally, about three and a half feet from the bottom of one of the middle piles, I located an edition from 1954. Farther down, I hit pay dirt, so to speak, when I found a January 1953 Racing Form. Ten minutes and three pounds of perspiration later, I unearthed April 1953. Then May and March. August and December were in the stack on the end, and February, June, July, October, and November were shuffled together as if by a giant card dealer. September had slipped down the back and was hidden behind the most recent editions Fadge had hoarded.

Each month of papers measured approximately six to eight inches high. I lugged them inside, stacking them neatly on and around Fadge’s cluttered kitchen table. Then I fetched the bottle of White Label I knew he kept for my consumption, poured myself a modest one, and sat down at the table to examine the pile of newspapers.

There was no evidence of Hagerstown Race Track in the Racing Form. At least not for the first twenty minutes I was searching. I’d started with January, until I realized that Maryland was probably too cold for racing at that time of year. I soldiered on, until I finally found a section dedicated to the small track in the middle of October. I slowed my pace now, scanning each race result for any clue to point to Johnny Dornan or even Mack Hodges. And, as a matter of fact, I came across Hodges’s name a couple of times, my heart skipping a beat, but nothing came of those sightings.

I took a sip of my whiskey and, realizing it was nothing but watery slush, ditched it in the sink and fetched some more stale ice from the freezer. Then I poured with great largesse a second drink for myself and retook my seat at the table. I flipped through several more editions of the paper, sure I was tilting at windmills. There were plenty of races, some involving horses owned by Mack Hodges, but no Johnny. And then there it was. I spilled my drink on the Racing Form.

On October 1, 1953, Johnny Sprague finished third out of eight in a six-furlong stakes race at Hagerstown Race Track. I studied the chart. Thanks to Fadge, I knew how to read the summary and understand which horse had led at several points in the race. Johnny’s horse had jumped out to the lead at the start, holding onto the first position through the quarter pole. That was when he dropped to second. Then fourth, then sixth. The recap said he’d been boxed in at the rail before finally managing to rally and finish third.

I scanned the summary, as I looked for anything that might help solve the mystery of who killed Johnny Dornan. Of course that was a fool’s errand. This was a simple chart showing the horses, their jockeys, owners, and the order of finish. It wasn’t going to unmask a killer or provide any epiphanies for me. But then it did. The name of Johnny’s horse. It fairly leapt off the page. My God, how could I have been so blind to the evidence right under my nose all that time? On October 1, 1953, in the third race at Hagerstown Race Track, Johnny Sprague had been aboard a horse named Robinson’s Friday. I slapped my forehead. Bruce Robertson had been on target, albeit