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

everyone else? I rubbed Purgatorio’s nose and stalled.

“Are you joining us?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I glanced toward the parking lot with some trepidation, still patting the horse.

“Will you tell me the truth, Carl?” I asked. He said he would if he could. “What’s really going to happen to Purgatorio?”

He shrugged. “He’s never going to win a race, I can tell you that much.”

“Then will Lou sell him off? To be slaughtered for meat?”

“Lou wouldn’t do that. He’s got a soft heart.”

I was relieved.

“But there’s no telling what the guy who buys him off Lou will do. That horse of yours costs a lot of money to buy and to feed. The next owner might not be as sentimental as Lou.”

I thanked him for his honesty. As I set off down the path toward my rendezvous with Lou, Purgatorio nipped at my shoulder and tore a tiny bit of fabric from my sleeve. He swallowed it before I could even say ouch. Then he withdrew into his stall.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The old Buick Eight sat at the far end of the lot, parked amid some high grass. It was a little after eight, and the sun had set a few minutes before. There was one other car in the area—and it was mine—at least thirty yards away. All the windows of the Buick were down, and cigarette smoke was oozing from the driver’s side.

“Lou? Is that you?” I called.

“Come, Ellie,” he answered, and I climbed into the front passenger seat.

The heavy door took some pulling to close, but when it did a loud, metallic bang was the result. The bench seat was worn, the fabric fraying where I sat, and I wondered why Lou didn’t drive a nicer car. But I wasn’t there to ask him about his set of wheels.

“Why the intrigue, Lou?”

“Intrigue? What do you mean?”

“The car? Making me come to you?”

He drew a puff from the last half inch of his cigarette, then dropped it out his window. “Are you crazy? My hips are killing me. My left foot, too. Do you know how hard it is to stand all day when you got rheumatism and gout?”

“Does smoking help?” I asked.

He waved me off. “Can’t hurt. So what did you want to see me about?”

“Hagerstown,” I said, diving right in.

He looked trapped.

“October first, nineteen fifty-three.”

He regarded me for a long moment with something akin to terror in his eyes. He was sizing me up, wondering what or how much I knew. What should he say? Deny everything? Brush it off, play it down, or act dumb? He decided to feel me out.

“Hagerstown?” he asked at length.

“Were you there that day? Or was the advance planning all that was required of you?”

“Tell me what you know, Ellie.”

“I know that you were the owner of Robinson’s Friday, the horse Johnny Sprague rode that day.”

He nodded, eyes still betraying hesitation, still unsure of where our conversation was headed and what it spelled for him.

“You can imagine what’s going through my head,” I continued.

“Actually, I can’t. I have no idea what you want from me.”

“The truth.”

“And what will you do with the truth?”

Now I studied him with unsure eyes. We were getting down to brass tacks. “You know what I’ll do. I’ll put it in my news story.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” he said with a sigh. “Ellie, you’ve got to realize that Robinson’s Friday was a long time ago. Even the poor horse is dead. Died two years ago, fat and happy after a peaceful retirement as a stud.”

“And he’s not the only one. They’re all dead. Everyone except you and Dan Ledoux.”

Lou shifted in his seat, the grimace on his face the result of his rheumatism or perhaps our conversation. “You’re not suggesting I killed Johnny, that Vivian woman, and poor Micheline, are you?”

“I’m asking you about that day in October fifty-three. Who planned the fix?”

“Ellie, it’s ancient history. Times were different back then. I was struggling to make a living. Today things are better. I’ve had some success, traded some good horses. I’ve won my share of races that pay enough to make a good life for me and my family.”

“Fair enough, Lou. But I still want to know who approached whom. Was it Mack Hodges who proposed the fix?”

He chewed on that question for a moment, possibly reasoning that since Hodges was dead, where was the harm in placing the blame at his feet? Or maybe Hodges had indeed devised the plan. Whichever way, Lou Fleischman confirmed that Hodges had suggested the idea that would make some money for all concerned.

“Robinson’s Friday was the heavy favorite. He was the best horse I had back then. Pretty good up to seven furlongs. Couldn’t last in the longer distances.”

“So Hodges asked you to throw the race in favor of one of his horses?”

Lou nodded. “The idea was that we would all bet on his horse, Bomber Jacket. And we’d put a jockey on Robinson’s Friday who could get himself boxed in along the rail. By the time he broke out it would be too late, but he’d finish in the money to make it appear legit. Place or show.”

“But not win.”

“No,” he said softly. “Anything but win was the deal.”

“And you all cleaned up with nobody the wiser.”

“Not exactly. There was a gonif who used to hang around the stables for tips. A right little meeskite named Bruce Robertson. He found out from someone—Dan Ledoux, maybe—and he must have blabbed to someone else. Next thing we knew, everyone seemed to be suspecting our scheme. Mack and I had to pay off a couple of shady types to quash the story. We avoided an investigation by the state racing commission by a whisker. After that I decided never to race again in Maryland, in case someone remembered Bomber Jacket and his unlikely win.”

I let his words fade into the August night. We sat quietly for a long moment before I asked him