A Stone's Throw

by James W. Ziskin

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  Norma Geary was waiting for me when I arrived at 8:30 a.m., and a familiar pang of guilt needled me. I craned my neck to see beyond her. There, halfway across the newsroom, her son, Toby, was sitting at her desk, rocking from the waist, staring in the direction of the far wall but without any focus that I could determine. It was heartbreaking to think of the poor child and his uncomplaining mother. Norma surely noticed my distress, which only made things worse. Now, to add to her burdens, she was embarrassed.

  “I’m going to say hello,” I said, flashing her the brightest smile I could manage.

  Toby didn’t remember me, but he smiled all the same when I produced a small brown bag of Cheerios that I had packed that morning for Purgatorio, in case I made it over to the stables later in the day. I was aware that I was guilty of dehumanizing Toby, equating him with a dumb animal, albeit with the best intentions, but his eyes lit up at the sight of the cereal. He picked one O from my hand and nibbled on it for a moment. Then he helped himself to three more, and that was all he wanted. He chewed on them, drooled on them, and ended up dropping them onto the floor. I smiled at Norma and told her what a great boy Toby was. She fidgeted and changed the subject.

  “I finished off my list of Robinsons last night,” she said. “I’m afraid none of them panned out. Unless they were lying to me.”

  “It was a long shot.”

  “But on the Johnny Dornan front, I’ve located newspapers in the Hagerstown and Laurel Park areas. I’m about to telephone now, though they’re not major dailies. I’ll try Baltimore and Lexington and Washington, as well. But they might not have run anything on Johnny Sprague if all this happened at a small-time racetrack.”

  “And it’s Saturday, so there might not be anyone at home at those small papers.”

  “I’ve already got phone numbers of several libraries in the area. Librarians read and have good memories. And they tend to stay put in their jobs for years. I think I’ll get something before the day is through.”

  I’d never thought of quizzing librarians for local race-fixing history, but it made sense. Norma Geary never failed to impress me. I retrieved a five-dollar bill from my purse and told her firmly that she was to buy herself and Toby lunch. When she bucked, I lied and said Artie Short had authorized the expense. That it wasn’t my money. In the end, she took it and thanked me with a stiff smile. It wasn’t easy to fool her. And she hated being pitied.

  I spent a couple of hours working on several pieces that had been languishing in my Not Urgent folder. Then I tackled a couple of stories that Charlie Reese had asked me to finish for a colleague whose mother had passed away three days earlier. It wasn’t hard stuff. Some city council meetings, a tax assessor story, and a profile of an exchange student from France.

  Next, I plotted out the dramatis personae of the Johnny Dornan case. There were the two victims, Johnny and his erstwhile love interest, Vivian McLaglen. They seemed an unlikely pair to me, but love, like water, seeks its own level. He’d been a wet-behind-the-ears kid from Midwestern Canada. A fine riding prospect, but headstrong and unwilling to follow the rules. According to his father, Johnny had turned his back on a fine future riding in Canada to pursue a redheaded tramp to Maryland. Other reports on Johnny Dornan’s character didn’t paint a rosy picture, either. Consorting with gamblers, he was variously described as a mean-spirited, unpleasant frequenter of professional girls.

  Vivian McLaglen was twice married. Widowed, then remarried to her late husband’s younger brother, with whom she’d carried on a not-so-secret love affair. People who’d known her described her as selfish, demanding, conniving, and plain no good. That last characterization had come from the lips of her own father. Testimonials from Jimmy Burgh and her abandoned husband, Tommy McLaglen, did little to rehabilitate her reputation.

  Next, assuming—perhaps mistakenly so—that Johnny and not Vivian was the key to the murders, I considered those closest to him: the Harlequin Stables team. There was his minder, Carl Boehringer, and his employer, Lou Fleischman, and even Nick Blakely the jockey. And what about Mike, the morning rider? I wasn’t sure how well he’d known Johnny or what reason he might have had to want to do him harm, but hadn’t he admitted that he disliked him? A long shot, perhaps, and a nice guy to boot, but who could say? I asked myself if he might not profit from Johnny Dornan’s death by inheriting some of his rides. After all, Johnny too had won his big chance and proven himself in part thanks to the injury of another jockey.

  Carl Boehringer professed no love lost for Johnny. He’d called him a little prick, arrogant, and a midget. I’d been intrigued by Carl’s role in the Harlequin organization from the first moment I’d met him. He appeared to have no part in the racing or training side of the business. He wasn’t a veterinarian or an accountant or a lawyer. Both he and Lou Fleischman had declined to explain what his job was until I’d pressed the latter and been told that Carl was “like my right hand.” Like my right hand, not “He’s my right hand.” Did that matter? Was I overanalyzing the relationship? Might that right hand carry a pistol to defend his boss? Or perhaps enforce for his boss? That most certainly depended on my opinion of Lou Fleischman.

  Lou looked like any zayde one might find sagging into a webbed lawn chair at a Catskill Mountains resort. I wondered if he was, in fact, a grandfather; we hadn’t touched on his personal life. I knew him to be a man of simple tastes. He didn’t keep Shabbos, cheated on his kosher diet, and smoked despite his doctor’s and wife’s wishes. A man who enjoyed the simple pleasure of a cold Schaefer’s beer. He struck me as a nice old man, but I’d sensed a darker side to the gentle soul who’d strolled through Congress Park with me, watching the ducks and enjoying the fountains. And there was the clever way he’d skirted my question about Vivian McLaglen. It was as if he’d been schooled by some shyster on how to avoid perjuring himself under questioning. And then there was the shadow that had crossed his face when I asked him what happened to Thoroughbred horses that didn’t earn their keep. I wasn’t forgetting either that Lou Fleischman had procured a prostitute for Johnny Dornan the very night he was murdered. No zayde I knew did that kind of thing and then dandled his grandson or granddaughter on his knee. But a man who felt the need to keep a shady type such as Carl Boehringer as a right hand might. He’d called Johnny a bad name in Yiddish, too. Had Johnny Dornan done something to provoke Lou to put him out to pasture? I liked Lou, but I hardly knew him. And what I’d seen left me suspicious.

  My list grew. The gamblers, thugs, and racketeers. Jimmy Burgh—he of malapropisms and gold tooth—may have sounded like an understudy from Guys and Dolls, but I was laboring under no illusions; this was a dangerous man. And though we’d seemed to have reached an entente cordiale, I hadn’t forgotten that he’d once threatened me—obliquely—to keep his name out of the newspaper. Furthermore he traded in sex, blackmail, and extortion. He’d told me to my face that he intended to use compromising information to force Johnny Dornan to throw a race or two as a favor. Only Johnny’s death had prevented him from following through on his plan.

  Jimmy was also the only person I’d met who came close to knowing both victims, and he was the man who’d set up Micheline’s appointment with Johnny Dornan on the night he died. Until Micheline resurfaced, who could say for sure if she hadn’t met with foul play herself? I imagined any number of scenarios to explain her continued absence, and most of them ended badly for the pretty young girl with the shapely caboose. Maybe she was an unlucky remainder in the Johnny Dornan–Vivian McLaglen equation. A witness? Sitting in the car waiting while Johnny met with Robinson—whoever he was—and then disposed of by the murderer to tie up all loose ends? Eventually she had to turn up, one way or another. Dead or alive.

  I hadn’t met Bruce, Jimmy’s source on Johnny Dornan’s past, but he sounded like a prince. Of course he knew the betting scandal would sink Johnny’s career. Again. And he’d sold the information to a man who had the means to parlay a tw
o-hundred-dollar investment into a healthy profit. My only question about Bruce was why he hadn’t used the dynamite himself? Perhaps he didn’t have the stomach or muscle to play rough. Maybe he was content to pocket a small-but-sure bundle and watch the action from the safety of the grandstand. I wanted to talk to this Bruce fellow, ask him where he’d secured the dirt on Johnny, but Jimmy Burgh wasn’t about to arrange that meeting.

  I added Micheline’s name to my list. She might well be a victim, I reasoned, but, for all I knew, she could also have been an accomplice in the double murder. Maybe Jimmy Burgh had cooked up the scheme when his attempts at blackmail failed. At the very least, I couldn’t eliminate her as a possible victim or suspect.

  Moving on, I entered Joyce and Brenda’s names below Micheline’s. I doubted Joyce was a murderess. She’d sought me out on her own, driven from Rensselaer to New Holland to tell me she was sick with worry for her friend. Then again, she was one of only a couple of people on my list who’d actually met Johnny Dornan. And I realized at the same time that she was happy to play for pay. But loose morals did not a killer make. I supposed I was proof of that.

  Brenda Schuyler, on the other hand, intrigued me. A tough dame, she was levelheaded and fearless, willing to stand her ground with me and even a goon like Jimmy Burgh. But what reason might she have to do Micheline harm? She seemed to want to protect her at all costs. And did she even know Johnny Dornan?

  I needed a new page. I added Vivian’s husband, Tommy, to the cast of characters. He claimed he hadn’t seen her in three years, but in my experience guilty people are not averse to lying to hide their crimes. She had humiliated him and broken his heart, after all. And he certainly had a checkered past with arrests and underworld connections. I couldn’t absolve him of any crimes until I knew more.

  Which brought me to the end of my catalogue. Only one name remained, and I had no idea how to find that person. Who was Robinson, and why had Johnny Dornan planned to meet him at midnight the previous Friday? Learning about Johnny Dornan had proved hard enough, but this Robinson was a ghost. No trace beyond the scribbled name in a newspaper. Could he have been the squatter at Tempesta? Or was it one of the others I’d catalogued in my list? One thing was certain: whoever had been skulking around the abandoned farm knew who I was and where to find me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I got to the store at 11:30 a.m., armed with a small overnight bag containing a change of clothes, some makeup, and toiletries for my evening transformation. Fadge and I were driving separately, but I’d promised to meet him before to synchronize watches.

  Zeke was there, all smiles in a brilliant white apron, happy to be in the lineup. Uncle Sal, too, was standing by, though rather less enthused at the prospect of a long afternoon shift. I suspected Zeke would be doing most of the work.

  “Where’s Ron?” I asked.

  “In the back room,” said Zeke. “Getting dressed.”

  And on cue, the big fella emerged from the rear of the store wearing a pair of white linen trousers, a red-and-white-striped jacket, and—if you please—a scarlet cravat.

  “What are you all duded up for?” I asked. “The Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race?”

  He gaped at me open-mouthed. When he finally found speech, he said he was dressed for Travers Day. “That’s too informal,” he said, referring to my outfit. “Go put on something flowery, summery, will you? You’re going to the clubhouse, not a pool hall.”

  Mildly insulted by his insinuation about my dress, I nevertheless resisted the urge to ask him which way to the bandstand. Instead I ran across the street and pulled off my work clothes and searched my closet for something appropriate for the social set. Several competing factors prevented a simple choice. For one, some of my dresses were at the cleaners. For another, much of my wardrobe was several years out of date, at least for the crowd we would encounter in the clubhouse at Saratoga. And some of my nicer things were better suited for fall or winter. On top of that, I was expected to live up to Fadge’s sartorial splendor and not embarrass him. What about him embarrassing me?

  I’d already packed my evening gown for the gala fundraiser, a green fitted bodice and flowing chiffon skirt that I’d only worn once—for a New Year’s Eve date—and not for very long at that. But now I needed a daytime outfit. Rifling through the clothes on the rod, sliding the hangers back and forth and losing hope by the second, I remembered a shirred white skirt with bluebells. It was three years old, but it might do for a day at the races. That satisfied Fadge’s requirement for flowery. Now for something summery. I found a sleeveless pale-blue blouse that matched the skirt nicely, but there was a large red-wine stain at the waist, the enduring memory of an eager date who’d attempted to fold me in a passionate embrace just as I raised a glass of Burgundy to my lips. The wine ended up in my lap. He, alas, did not. Paint me old fashioned, but I believed the dinner table was an inappropriate setting for amorous exertions. I dug a wide white belt out of the closet, and it covered the offending stain with barely an inch to spare. A pair of white gloves completed my ensemble, and I was ready to match Fadge thread for thread.

  Twenty minutes later, we were racing down Route 67 single file in our respective cars. Fadge led the way, driving quite fast, occasionally cutting across the double-yellow line to straighten out the gentle curves of the road and shorten his journey by a couple of feet. Even as a driver, he was lazy and careless.

  Traffic was snarled and aggressive in Saratoga, but we managed to find parking on the most expensive lawn in town. We nabbed the last two spots at ten dollars apiece. I nearly wept at the price as I parked my car. But Fadge, big shot that he was, didn’t blink. Once he’d pulled the brake, though, he realized there was no room for him to dismount from the passenger side due to the tight quarters. I rolled my eyes and climbed back into my car to switch spaces with him. Still, it was a tight squeeze for him to get out, and by the time he had, he was sweating buckets in his striped coat.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” he said without irony, and we made our way across Union Avenue to the racecourse.

  After Fadge had placed his wagers and stuffed a stack of betting slips the size of a deck of cards into his jacket pockets, we took our seats in a clubhouse box, located about halfway down the homestretch.

  “How did you swing this?” I asked.

  “I had a pretty good day Monday. And yesterday, too,” he said, peering at the starting gate through a pair of binoculars. “Three and a half grand buys a lot of box seats, even on Travers Day.”

  “Why is there no one else in this box with us? How much did you spend on this?”

  He told me not to worry about it.

  “You bought the entire box just for us,” I said to accuse.

  The subtle blink and pursing of his lips confirmed my suspicions. I despaired for his profligacy. He’d better keep winning, I thought, or he was going to end up in the poorhouse.

  He didn’t win the first race. A horse named Brass did and paid $4.30 to win. And Fadge didn’t win the second race either. In fact, he was on a losing streak that stretched to the fourth race. He didn’t seem concerned. I remembered Freddie telling me that betting on the horses required patience and discipline, two qualities not normally associated with Ron “Fadge” Fiorello.

  Fadge was absorbed in his Racing Form, making the final tweaks to his fifth-race betting strategy, so I scanned the crowd, taking in the ladies’ dresses and hats. Everyone looked happy and rich. No one in the clubhouse was risking the rent payment on the next race. These folks had plenty of money. For them, the horses were more a social function than a gaming one. Next door in the grandstand, the dress code was more relaxed, but not the atmosphere. The bets may have been lower on the other side of the railing, but the stakes were so much higher. Too many of those people needed to win. Losing was a luxury reserved for the rich.

  Back in the clubhouse, my eyes came to rest on the pretty blonde I’d seen with Freddie the day before. She was about twenty yards away, but I could see that
she’d done some sunbathing since. Her tanned cheeks and arms gave her a glow of beauty and health that I envied. Especially when I spied Freddie sidestepping into the box bearing two tall drinks—gin and tonics, if I was any judge of liquor. And I was, even at twenty paces. Freddie handed one drink to the girl then took the seat next to her. They clinked their glasses, turned to face the track below, and sipped their refreshments.

  Not far away, a familiar greasy head of hair and scalp was bowed over one of those mimeographed tip sheets that the handicappers sell at the front gate. It was George Walsh. A goo of perspiration trickled from his temples, oozing over his flushed cheeks and down his neck before disappearing into his yellowed collar. Bound up in his tight ensemble of white shirt, loud plaid jacket, and crumpled straw boater’s hat, he was sweating like a horse. He mopped his forehead with a wrinkled handkerchief. I could see all this, even from a distance, thanks to my camera and the long lens I’d retrieved from my purse for the express purpose of spying on him. Georgie Porgie was with his wife and father-in-law—my publisher—Artie Short. I watched as George tried to wedge his way into their conversation with a shoehorn. But they were having none of it, repelling each assault as if swatting a pesky mosquito.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said to Fadge.

  “The fifth race is next. Don’t be late for the sixth,” he warned. “That’s the Travers.”

  I didn’t want a drink. Certainly not a G and T, so I strolled along the horse path and over to the paddock. The entrants for the fifth race were already on their way to the track, but the start was still ten minutes away. I had a half hour more before the sixth, so I figured there was time for a quick visit to my favorite horse across the street.

  I hurried down the long lane to Purgatorio’s stable, digging in my purse for the bag of Cheerios as I went. He was in the back of the stall again, still facing the wall as I’d found him the day before. I clicked my tongue twice, and he actually whipped his head around to see who was there. Upon recognizing me, he scampered across the stall to join me at the Dutch door.