A Stone's Throw

by James W. Ziskin

  I rewound my film and loaded a new roll.

  “That’s the owner,” came a voice over my shoulder. Fadge. “His name’s Louis Fleischman. And the jockey is Nick Blakely. Not a rider I’d pick for any horse of mine.”

  “What if your regular jockey were AWOL?” I asked.

  Fadge nodded. “Johnny Dornan.”

  “Scratched from every race today. Who’s the other guy?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “The trainer?”

  “I doubt it. He’s not paying attention to the horse.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Fleischman,” I called out to the one Fadge had identified as the owner. “May I ask you a question?”

  He seemed annoyed by the interruption but was decent enough to ask what I wanted.

  “I’m with the press,” I said, approaching and showing my card. Fadge followed a discreet distance behind. “Eleonora Stone from the New Holland Republic.”

  He peered at my credential from several feet away, then threw a silent glance to his companions. “What can I do for you?”

  “You’re Louis Fleischman, aren’t you? The owner of Harlequin Stables?”

  He peered at Fadge standing behind me, surely wondering why I needed a three-hundred-pound bodyguard.

  “Yeah, I’m Lou Fleischman. What’s your interest in Harlequin?”

  “Actually, it’s about Johnny Dornan.”

  Again the men exchanged looks.

  “Can you tell me where he is? Why he was scratched from every race on today’s card?”

  His expression darkened. He said the jockey was sick.

  “So he’ll be back tomorrow?” I asked.

  Fadge leaned in and whispered in my ear that there were no races on Sunday.

  “I mean Monday,” I corrected.

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Can you tell me where he’s staying here in Saratoga?”

  “Why the interest in Johnny Dornan?” he asked, all the while eyeing Fadge.

  “A piece of your stable’s racing silks was found this morning on Tempesta Farm.”

  “Tempesta? I thought they shut down years ago.”

  “They did. It’s abandoned. And now they’re down one barn, too. It burned to the ground before dawn. Took two bodies with it, and one of them was wearing Harlequin livery. Do you have any comment?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his expression difficult to read. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “Look, miss. I’ve got a horse in the next race and don’t have time for some girl reporter.”

  Fadge pushed past me. “Hey, pal, talk nice to the lady, or I’ll give you a lesson in manners.”

  Fleischman backed away. The third man stepped forward. I knew Fadge to be a sweetheart but also a hothead with a short fuse. He was double extra-large, quite strong, and ferociously protective of me. A quick assessment of the comparative ages and health of the men convinced me that my hero would have little trouble pounding Louis Fleischman, the jockey, and even the third man into a flattened blob of Play-Doh.

  I grazed Fadge’s arm with my fingers, stopping him in his tracks. Over time, we’d come to share an unspoken communication, he and I. An intuitive understanding of what the other wanted with nothing more than the subtlest of nods, blinks, or pursed lips to go by. He turned to me and, without a word, knew I was signaling that I was up to the challenge. There were times when I welcomed his brutish strength, but, in general, I preferred to fight my own battles. At least until fists flew.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, young man,” said Fleischman. “Apologies to the lady.”

  Fadge stared him down for a couple of beats before nodding his approval. He stepped aside, and I reemerged from his imposing penumbra into the light of the sun. I exaggerate, of course; the day was quite gray after all. But if Fleischman thought I’d let go of the bone, he was mistaken. I repeated my request for a comment about the Harlequin racing silks found around the neck of a dead man.

  Fleischman ran a hand through his thin, gray hair. Then he forced a weak smile at me. “Sorry, miss. I’ve got some business to attend to. But why don’t you have a chat with Carl, here?” He indicated the man in the cap. The one who hadn’t said a word. “Carl, how’s about you take the young lady to the bar in the clubhouse? Put everything on my tab.”

  Carl remained rooted to his spot.

  I glanced at Fadge, my eyes soliciting a thumbs-up or thumbs-down from him.

  “He seems harmless. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  A drink sounded pretty good to me. “Hello, Carl,” I said. “My name is Ellie.”

  Carl Boehringer flashed a pass at the clubhouse gate and escorted me inside. Without speaking a word to me, he found a table in the Jim Dandy Bar, a short distance from the box seating and betting windows of the first level. It was 3:25 p.m. The fourth race was set to start in five minutes, so we had the place mostly to ourselves. As we took our seats, the public address system crackled to life and announced an update.

  “In the fourth race, number four Purgatorio is a late scratch. Number four Purgatorio has been scratched from the fourth race.”

  “What’s that about?” I asked Carl.

  He shrugged with all the vigor of a slug.

  “Purgatorio looked in rare form to me,” I said, offering my expert opinion.

  “He’s jumpy. A nervous type.”

  I studied him. A man of average height with a long face. His eyes drooped a little in the corners, giving him an air of sadness. Or perhaps fatigue. He wasn’t a chatterbox; that much was evident from our short acquaintance. I decided to try to draw him out—keep my mouth shut a few beats longer than socially acceptable in polite conversation—to see if he’d volunteer anything.

  “As horses go, he’s a sweet guy,” said Carl at length.

  “Beautiful animal, too. Maybe I’ll bet on him next time he runs.”

  He mugged an indifferent pout. “So long as you don’t mind losing your money.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Purgatorio’s handsome, all right. But he runs like he could take it or leave it.”

  I stared at him some more, inviting him to explain.

  “Doesn’t respond well to competition,” he said, as if quoting someone. “Lou must’ve changed his mind about running him today.”

  “But he seemed all set to go. Why scratch him at the last second? Let him get some exercise, if nothing else.”

  Carl probably thought I was an idiot, at least as far as horseflesh was concerned. “For one thing, you don’t want a horse to hurt himself. Do you know how many horses break down every year and have to be destroyed?”

  “No. How many?”

  Carl didn’t have the exact number and, in fact, seemed irritated by my question.

  “Lou said I should get you something to drink. What’ll you have, miss?”

  I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. Yes, I wanted a drink.

  “Ellie,” I prompted. “Gin and tonic, please.”

  He made his way over to the bar, uninhabited save for one bartender examining his manicure with little interest in anything or anyone else in the place. I watched Carl from my seat and scolded myself for pretending I knew the first thing about horses. In my experience, I had better success interviewing subjects when they didn’t take me for a lightweight. Or a scatterbrained woman. I reminded myself that the idea was to keep Carl, not me, on his heels.

  “So tell me about Johnny Dornan,” I said once he’d returned and shoved a glass in front of me. He’d brought nothing for himself.

  “Johnny’s a good jockey.” Carl rubbed his ear and didn’t exactly look me in the eye. I sensed he was one of those men who disliked having to converse with women. Or maybe he was shy. He seemed eager to push off. “Lou even lets him ride for other owners now, provided there’s no conflict with Harlequin. Since Johnny’s under contract, Lou takes a small portion of his fees, of course.”

  “How long has Johnny been with Harlequin?”
r />   “Since a year ago last spring. Had a good meet last year. Even better this year.”

  “Only two years riding? Where was he before that?”

  “Must’ve been riding the leaky-roof circuit. We don’t talk much.”

  “But how did he come to ride for Mr. Fleischman?”

  “Lou discovered him down at Aqueduct a year ago last March. Gave him a golden opportunity he probably didn’t deserve.”

  “Was Johnny not grateful?”

  “I suppose he was. But he always brags that his wins are his thanks to Lou.” He paused to reflect on something. “I’ll tell you one thing. Lou was cheesed off this morning when Johnny didn’t show. Like he didn’t appreciate Johnny disappearing after all he done for him.”

  “I thought Lou said he was sick.”

  “Might be. No idea, miss.”

  “Ellie,” I repeated.

  I bought fifteen or so seconds extracting a cigarette and lighting it. Then I took a slow sip of my drink.

  “How was Johnny last night after his big win?” I asked.

  “Having a good time. Lou took us to dinner, and Johnny had a girl. Maybe he’s with her now. Or maybe he’s sick.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Micheline.”

  “Micheline?”

  “From Montreal. Speaks French.”

  “Pretty girl?”

  “A real looker. And tall. A couple of hands taller than Johnny.” He chuckled to himself. “Little prick.” Carl mumbled an apology. “But he always manages to find pretty girls, no matter how tall.”

  “Do you know where he’s been staying here in Saratoga?”

  “Same place as me. Mrs. Russell’s Boarding House in Ballston Spa. Lou gives us an allowance of ten bucks a night for room and board. We can stay wherever we want. And we can pocket whatever’s left over. Russell’s ain’t bad for the price.”

  “But you didn’t see Johnny this morning?”

  Carl shook his head deliberately.

  “So you two are friendly?” I asked, well aware that he seemed to dislike the jockey. “Staying in the same place and all?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Lou says I got to drive Johnny around. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he shows up on time.”

  Carl had failed in his mission that day.

  “And did Johnny go back to the boarding house with you last night after dinner?”

  “He did. Snuck Micheline inside. The girl wasn’t too happy about creeping in like she wasn’t good enough to walk through the front door. But she went along for the ride anyway.”

  “The ride?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, exhaled a pained sigh through his nose, then offered another limp “Sorry, miss” for his off-color language.

  “Ellie.”

  “Mrs. Russell doesn’t like that kind of stuff at her place,” he continued. “She’s strict about fraternizing, as she calls it. She’d throw Johnny out if she knew he was entertaining girls in his room.”

  “So Johnny went to his room with this Micheline, and that’s the last you saw of him?”

  “That’s right. I heard him plenty, though. Both of them.” Again he apologized, but his grin told me he wasn’t all that sorry.

  “Doesn’t sound as though he was sick. What time was that?”

  “About ten. I took a pill and went to sleep. We had to be up early today. Like any day in August except Sunday.”

  “What’s Johnny Dornan like?”

  “He’s arrogant. He’s unpleasant. And a little mean. Likes to make other people feel small. Maybe because he’s such a midget.”

  “He’s not popular with the other riders?”

  “Least of all with the other jockeys. Johnny’s got a reputation for jostling and crowding other horses. Grabbing other riders’ crops, saddlecloths, and reins. Pushing off, that kind of thing. Whatever might give him an advantage. He’s sly, though. Rarely gets caught by the stewards. But the other riders know what he’s up to, and they don’t like him.”

  “Anyone else who might hate him? Maybe want to do him some harm?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Carl. “Are you suggesting this fire was no accident?”

  “Not sure yet. But I like to consider all angles.”

  Carl seemed to be debating his answer. At length, he said that he’d never seen anything to support the rumors, but he’d heard them all the same.

  “What rumors?”

  “That he used to be in bed with gamblers. And not your amateurs like you see here at Saratoga. Guys who take betting serious. So serious they like to improve the odds before they risk their money on an animal that don’t speak English.”

  “Mobsters?”

  “Don’t quote me on it. I’m only telling you what I heard around the stables.”

  “And you’re saying that the rumors are that he used to do this? In other words not anymore?”

  “I haven’t heard about anything recent.”

  “Does Mr. Fleischman know this?”

  “I can’t speak for Lou. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  I made a mental note to do exactly that at the earliest opportunity. “Does Mr. Fleischman stay at Mrs. Russell’s too?”

  “No. Just me and Johnny. In the seven years I’ve been working for Lou, he’s always stayed over at Grossman’s Victoria on Broadway with his wife, Rose. They keep kosher. Me? I like my ham and lobster. Especially when someone else is paying.” Carl paused to reconsider. “Actually, Lou likes his ham and lobster, too. He only keeps kosher when Rose is around.”

  “And what do you do for Lou, anyway?”

  “I don’t think talking about me was part of the deal. Lou said to buy you a drink and answer your questions about Johnny.”

  I wandered around under a light rain, trying to find Fadge, eventually spotting him at a ten-dollar betting window a few minutes before the sixth race began. He was perspiring, his face flush, and he was displaying all the pique of a rhinoceros that’s just been darted in the rump by a tranquilizer gun. Not the moment to approach the beast. I opted instead for another drink by myself in the Jim Dandy Bar. That was when Lou Fleischman sidled up to my table.

  “Join you?” he asked.

  “It’s a free country.”

  He took the seat opposite me, exhaled a long breath, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. After a few restorative gasps, he craned his neck to find a waiter. “Where’s your big friend gotten to?”

  I shrugged, quite bored at that point with my first day at the races. If it hadn’t been for my special moment with Purgatorio and the intriguing disappearance of Johnny Dornan, I might have nodded off in a corner somewhere.

  “Sorry about earlier, young lady,” he began. “You caught me at a bad moment.”

  “Nothing a drink won’t put right.”

  He smiled. A mushy, unsavory smile. The kind that scares children. “Sure thing.” He turned to find a waiter.

  “Carl had to go order at the bar.”

  With a show of great exertion, Fleischman pushed himself out of his chair and headed to the bar, limping slightly as he went. A couple of minutes later, he waddled back into view and slipped a drink in front of me. He retook his seat and considered me for a moment before raising his glass of beer to his lips for a long gulp. Emitting a throaty effluence that bordered on a belch, but didn’t quite qualify, he proceeded to nod in admiration of the beverage in his glass.

  “That’s good,” he declared. “Schaefer’s.”

  I ignored his observation. His breath had already told the tale.

  “Cheers, by the way.” I raised my glass and took a sip, barely wetting my upper lip.

  “Tell me about the fire,” he said, either unaware of or indifferent to my sarcasm. “They really found two bodies inside?”

  “Burned beyond recognition.”

  “But not so the racing silks?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “Just enough orange-and-black checks to wrap around one of the necks. The male.”


  Fleischman groaned and took another swig of beer.

  “The coroner identified one of the bodies as that of a woman. No age or name yet.”

  “And the other was Johnny?”

  “Could be. At first they thought it was a boy. Or maybe a short man. No taller than five-four or -five.”

  “Jesus. I was with him yesterday. Had dinner with him last night after he won the ninth race.”

  “Wham’s Dram?” I asked, trying to show off a bit. “Johnny Dornan ran him wide and caught Fagin the Wolf at the wire.”

  “That’s right. A fine bit of riding.”

  “Wham’s Dram is bothered by other horses in his sights and wears blinders. Isn’t that why he likes the rail?” I was rather enjoying this.

  “You’re pretty well informed,” he said, tipping his glass in my direction before draining what was left in it. “What’s your name again?”

  “Ellie. Ellie Stone.”

  “Jewish girl?”

  I nodded.

  “Stone. Did your family come from Germany?”

  “Yes. About eighty years ago. My grandparents were from Bonn.”

  “I was born in Hamburg. Came over as a boy. Call me Lou.”

  He lifted his empty glass to me and, finding no Schaefer’s at the bottom, frowned and asked me if Carl had taken care of all my questions.

  “Most of them. I was hoping you’d answer the ones he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.”

  “If I’m able.”

  “What exactly does Carl do for you?”

  Lou was taken aback. “I thought you were interested in Johnny Dornan, not Carl. Or me.”

  “It’s just that Carl wouldn’t say. I didn’t think it would be such a big secret.”

  “He does a little of this and a little of that. He’s like my right hand.”

  He couldn’t have known, but dodging my questions only made me more curious. My compulsion for tying up loose ends and squaring corners made it difficult for me to abandon unfinished crossword puzzles or let go of unanswered questions. I was itching to get to the bottom of what Carl Boehringer did for Lou Fleischman, but this wasn’t the moment to indulge my obsession.

  I asked about Johnny Dornan instead. If he knew about the gambling rumors Carl had mentioned. Lou dismissed the talk as gossip and jealousy.