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

the middle, of course—the aforementioned Clean Hands—a group of well-heeled folks beaming at the camera, and some bystanders in the background.

A cigarette lighter appeared next to the photo, and a thumb spun the flint wheel, producing a spark then a flame.

“You’ll need more light to see,” said Jimmy. “There, in the back, to the right of the lady in the big hat. See him?”

“This guy?” I asked, indicating the man in question with my left index fingernail.

“That’s the one.”

“He looks like a strangler of small children.”

“He does have a certain Medusa twinkle in his eye.”

Surely he’d meant to say Medea, though from which dark recess of his education he’d plucked that reference was beyond my ken; I wasn’t about to correct him.

“Who is it?” I asked.

Jimmy flicked the lid of his lighter closed, dousing the flame, and withdrew his hand. “That’s Dan Ledoux.”

I gave a lot of thought to Dan Ledoux as I drove west on a darkened Route 5, heading for New Holland. His eyes had been fixed somewhere near the horse or the owner; it was impossible to say for sure in the small photo, but the general impression he threw off was both unsettling and unforgettable. I recalled an old physiognomy chart I’d seen in a history book in college. It purported to show the physical facial characteristics of criminals. There were pronounced brows, narrow eyes, small crania, and the like, each supposedly a marker for villainy, depravity, and immorality in humans. I had thought at the time how wrongheaded such theories were, and I knew that some had used similarly offensive illustrations to depict Semitic features to promote their racist agendas. Grotesque exaggerations of fat lips, hooked noses, and swarthy complexions. All that was missing was the horns. But the book I’d studied at Barnard came back to me as I stared down the lonely road as “Breakin’ up Is Hard to Do” crackled on the radio. I had to admit that Dan Ledoux’s physiognomy struck me as the very model of a modern major murderer. His close-set eyes, seemingly without lids, like a snake’s; the crooked, broken nose; and the twisted smile that surely concealed a set of vulpine teeth made me grateful I was speeding along at sixty miles an hour in a locked car, far from wherever he might have been at that moment.

Jimmy Burgh had assured me that he was hot on the trail of the elusive Dan Ledoux. The two men roamed the same mean streets, after all, one in Schenectady and Albany, the other in Baltimore and points south.

“I can’t promise you he won’t be dead when I’m finished with him,” he’d told me in the booth at Gloria’s a half hour before.

“Do you really want to tell a reporter that?” I asked.

He smiled, baring his gold tooth. “We have an understanding. I know you won’t quote me.”

It might well have been the suggestion of Dan Ledoux’s evil, from Lou Fleischman and Jimmy Burgh, but I had swallowed the bait. And, while I felt no desire to confirm my worst assumptions—at least not without a gorilla like Fadge or a grizzly bear like Frank Olney at my side for protection—I knew that I would have to meet him face-to-face at some point. For now, however, I was content that the chilling eyes staring out of the photo figured nowhere in my immediate future.

Neil Sedaka chanted in my ear, seemingly urging me to calm-a down; at least that was what it sounded like to me in my agitated state. I pushed the gas pedal a touch closer to the floor, coaxing more speed out of my Dodge in hopes of reaching home sooner and pouring myself a friendly drink behind a locked door.

I found a note shoved into the mail slot of the storm door downstairs from my place. It was from Fadge.

Stop by the store when you get in. I’ve got some news for you.

I glanced across the street and saw Fadge clearly through the plate-glass window. He was seated on a stool, mouth open, leaning on a broom and staring at the television behind the counter. I was tired and wanting that drink, so I resolved to phone him instead. I trudged up the stairs and let myself inside.

“Hey, I’m home,” I said into the phone as I poured myself a drink in the kitchen. The bottle of Dewar’s Jimmy Burgh and I had cracked open the other night was still sitting on the kitchen table.

“I’m closing up in a bit,” said Fadge. “I’ll stop by.”

I dragged myself into the parlor and shuffled through my records, finally deciding on Glenn Gould playing Bach partitas and fugues. Like a ticking clock, Bach’s metronomic precision somehow always eased my mind into a mood that fostered clear thinking. I kicked off my heels, collapsed onto the couch, and closed my eyes to listen. For several minutes, I thought of nothing beyond the music. Then I sipped my drink. The sting of whiskey acted like a tonic on my weary body. I put my stockinged feet up on the coffee table and savored my late-evening reward.

The partita number 6 in E minor played. Wedged into the cushions of the sofa, I wondered what was so important that Fadge felt compelled to leave a note inside my door. Probably wanted to brag about winning another bundle at the track. I shrugged and took another gulp of Scotch, figuring I’d find out soon enough. Then I noticed the breeze. Had I left a window open that morning?

I pushed myself up off the sofa, crossed to my bedroom, and switched on the light. The curtain in the west window, the one that faced Mr. Brunner’s house next door, was fluttering gently in the night air. I took a step toward it, intending to close it, but I stopped in my tracks. There was broken glass on the floor.

Turning to hightail it back to the kitchen where I intended to barrel down