I shot a few more photos of the sun warming the grandstand and was about to screw on a longer lens when a voice from behind me on the track warned me to watch out.
I turned, ducked, and pushed back from the rail, coming face-to-face with a great black horse frisking to a stop a few feet away from me. Knees folded high against his midsection, a jockey leaned forward in the saddle atop the animal. I recognized the colors first—black-and-orange diamonds—then the beautiful beast, his smooth coat ashimmer, steaming perspiration. Purgatorio. He studied me with one eye, much as he had a couple of days before, but this time he might have been wondering why I wasn’t snapping pictures of him, handsome boy that he was. He bobbed his head twice, jerking at his reins and clacking the bit in his mouth. Then he settled down and stepped sideways, inching closer to the rail.
“Whoa, boy,” said the jockey. “Don’t be afraid, miss. Tory won’t hurt you.”
The horse lowered his head and issued a soft blow from his nostrils. Then he nickered and leaned over the rail. I reached up and asked the jockey if it was safe to pet him. The horse, not the jockey. He smiled and said sure. Purgatorio twitched when I touched his nose, pulling back.
“Doesn’t he like me?” I asked.
“Give him a chance,” said the jockey. “He’s skittish by nature. Doesn’t warm to just anyone. But he likes you, or he would’ve taken a bite out of your hand.”
I stood back to give him some space as I admired him. “You call him Tory?”
“Purgatorio’s a mouthful.”
In his place, I probably would have ended up calling him Purgie. Tory seemed more dignified.
“He’s such a beautiful fellow,” I said. “Did he have a good workout this morning?”
“Not bad. He runs with a lot of joy out here on the practice track. Loves to stretch his legs, provided there are no other horses too close.”
I sensed Purgatorio knew we were talking about him. He watched me with interest, and his ears swiveled like a cat’s each time the jockey mentioned his name.
“Will he be racing anytime soon?”
The jockey thumped the horse affectionately on the neck a couple of times, producing a series of resounding whacks, as if beating a kettledrum with a mallet. That seemed to soothe the animal.
“We’ll see, won’t we, boy?” he said to Purgatorio, but actually addressing me.
“Is it true that he’s spooked by other horses?”
“Not so much afraid. He just doesn’t like them. But he does get spooked by the starting gate. Sometimes he’ll kick and buck and won’t go in. Depends on the day.”
“If he doesn’t like horses, who does he like?”
“The grooms. Some of his riders, too. And you.”
The horse took a confident step in my direction, and I held out an open hand to show my good intentions. He snuffed my palm, then nudged it with his muzzle.
“You’d better give him a treat when you hold your hand out like that, or else . . .”
“He’ll take a bite out of it?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve got some Life Savers in my purse.”
“No. That’s not on his diet. Bring him some Cheerios next time you come. He’ll love you for it.”
I introduced myself, and the jockey did the same. Mike.
“May I take a picture of him?” I asked, lifting my camera for inspection.
“Sure.”
I aimed my Leica at Tory, and he snapped to attention, tossing his head back as if to flip the forelock out of his eyes. “Do you work for Mr. Fleischman?”
“Yeah,” said Mike as I focused and clicked off a few shots. “I work for his trainer, Hal Brown.”
“Are you going to race today?”
He blushed. “No. I’m only an apprentice. A morning rider. Maybe in a couple of years I’ll get my chance. Maybe not; I’m a little tall.”
“How little?”
“Five-six and a half. Mr. Brown says maybe I could ride jumpers.”
“Jumpers?”
“Steeplechase horses. They carry more weight than the flat racers. That means jockeys can be a little taller. And heavier.”
Unsure of how I might lighten his load, I commiserated to the extent I could. Then I offered to take a couple of photos of him and the horse.
Mike beamed and struck what looked like a practiced pose atop the horse. One that perhaps he hoped to use in a couple of years under a blanket of flowers in the winner’s circle. I got five good frames of the two of them, and I wondered which liked the camera more, the horse or the rider.
“I’ll bring you prints in a day or two. Will I find you here?”
“I’m here most every day. Except Sundays.”
I turned my attention back to Purgatorio and patted him tentatively on the muzzle. This time he submitted.
“He’s very sweet. You said he likes his riders. What about Johnny Dornan? Did he ever ride him?”
“Once,” said Mike. “But Tory, here, didn’t like Johnny, did you, boy?” He thumped him again on the neck. “I don’t like the SOB either, if that counts for anything.”
“Funny, he seems perfectly nice in his photograph.”
“I guess you can fool the camera after all.”
“Do you know if Mr. Robinson liked Johnny?” I asked, trying a new tack for this particular question. Spring it on him casually.
“Who’s Mr. Robinson?”
“Beautiful horse,” came a voice to my left as I watched Tory trot off toward the barn with Mike aboard.
I glanced back to find a man in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a well-tailored, checked sport coat and tan slacks. He had the Racing Form tucked under his right arm and wore a pair of field glasses around his neck. I thought he cut a tall and slim figure as he gazed off into the distance, ostensibly admiring Purgatorio recede from view.
“He is,” I said, turning to face him properly. “Purgatorio. Harlequin Stables.”
“Not a great runner,” observed my companion. Now he was jotting a note into his Racing Form, showing little interest in me.
“He doesn’t like other horses running alongside him. And is spooked by the starting gate.” Why did I insist on pretending to be an expert on racing?
He lifted his head and looked me in the eye. “That would explain why he doesn’t win.”
“Blinders might help.”
“Not that boy. He’s a beauty, for sure. But better suited as a photo model. I saw how he mugged for your camera.”
“You were watching me?” I asked.
He smiled. “Not exactly.”
“Are you one of those clockers?”
“You know about clockers?”
“A little.”
“Well, I’m not a clocker. I was watching the ponies the way I do every morning in August. Then you walked into the picture and brightened the view.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “You’re awfully fresh.”
“So I’ve been told. Usually with a slap in the face. Since you haven’t gone to that extreme, I’m hoping I’m on solid footing.”
“The jury’s still out. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Then I’ll say good day, miss.”
I nodded and strode off toward the exit, enjoining myself not to turn back for a look. But at the gate I couldn’t resist a peek. He was there where I’d left him, now leaning against the rail, watching me still. I surely blushed and scolded myself with a not-so-silent oath.
Robinson’s High Life Tavern was a Colored bar on Congress Street in Saratoga. The place was empty and dark on a Tuesday morning, but outside on the stoop, a stocky man of about forty was hosing off the steps. I called to him from over his shoulder. He turned and removed his right thumb from the hose’s nozzle, and the jet of water slackened into a weak dribble.
“I’m trying to locate a man named Johnny Dornan,” I said.
“Johnny Dornan? The jockey?”
“You know him?”
“Not perso
nally. But do you think a man gets to my age without having some bad habits?” He squeezed the end of the hose again and returned to the task at hand. “I’ve been playing the horses since I was ten years old, young lady. Book bets, too.” He glanced back at me. “That’s not for public consumption, you understand.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Didn’t think you were. But what do you want with Johnny Dornan anyway?”
“He’s disappeared. I’m a reporter trying to locate him.”
“Well, he doesn’t hang out in my tavern, I can tell you that. Skinny little white boys are pretty scarce around here. What made you think he had business in this part of town?”
“He had a meeting at midnight last Friday with someone named Robinson. Or maybe a place called Robinson’s.”
“My name’s Robinson, all right. Horace Robinson, proprietor.” He threw his left thumb over his shoulder to indicate the bar behind him. “But I never met your jockey. Don’t believe I ever bet on him either.”
So much for the High Life Tavern. And Horace Robinson, proprietor, too.
“But I know some folks who’ve met him.” He tucked in his chin and bowed his head to fix me with a knowing stare.
“Bookies like yourself, perhaps?” I asked.
He chuckled. “You’re a funny one, you know that? You come here all young and innocent, like a lost schoolgirl. Then you start asking about bookies.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Robinson.”
“I’m not going down that road, miss. I’m only saying that your boy Johnny Dornan had some shady connections. And word is he can be bought.”
“And you couldn’t steer your way clear to give me a name?”
“The name I’m thinking of wouldn’t like it. No, miss, not at all.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Robinson.”
He regarded me with just the hint of a curious grin on his lips. He cocked his head, wished me luck, and returned to his hosing.
“We open at noon,” he said, his back to me. “Good drinks and hot food. But not too many white folks.”
I pulled into a crumbling vacant lot on Race Avenue between First and Second Streets and parked in front of a two-story building. A sign announced Lou’s Bar. At the top of a rickety flight of external stairs, there appeared to be a small apartment on the second floor. Across the empty lot, a tire shop, cordoned off by a chain-link fence, presented lopsided towers of worn-out tires, rusting rims, and grimy tools in every imaginable shape and size. Not too far off was the Patrician Paper factory, which surely employed half the town.
The mailbox at the base of the stairs bore no name, just the street number. I was about to climb up to the second story to knock when a man stepped out of the dark bar. About fifty, dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, he looked me over for a few seconds before asking what I wanted.
“I’m trying to reach the people who live upstairs,” I said.
“There’s no one up there.”
“No Mr. and Mrs. Coleman?” “Who?”
“Coleman,” I repeated.
“No. There was a couple about a year ago.” He stroked his chin and searched his memory. “Now what was their name?”
“Was it McLaglen, by any chance?”
“That was it. They only stayed a couple of weeks; then they lit out.”
“They didn’t sign a lease?”
He shook his head. “Who would sign a lease for this dump? They were weekly. Paid twice; then they were gone.”
I glanced up at the second floor. He had a point. The windows were greasy, mullions chipped, their paint gone. And the door had that friendless, abandoned-by-time air, like a rotted tree trunk. There were no signs of life above Lou’s Bar. The Colemans/McLaglens must have used the place only long enough to register the car.
I stopped for coffee and a sandwich near Wilton on Route 9, then called Norma from a phone booth to ask her to look into the rest of the Robinsons in the area.
“Sorry to dump such a dreary job on you,” I said.
“Not at all, Miss Stone. It sounds exciting. Tracking down the person who might have been the last one to see Johnny Dornan alive.”
“More likely a dead end.”
“I’ll say I’m calling from a radio contest and ask them if they follow horse racing and can name the last Triple Crown winner. If they have no idea, they can’t possibly know Johnny Dornan.”
She was a clever one, our Norma Geary. Stuck in a low-paying job because she was too old, invisible, and—let’s face it—because she was a she in the first place. And yet she could outthink an anvil like George Walsh any day of the week.
Putting that to one side, I asked her to patch me over to Charlie Reese. I needed to check in. He told me Artie Short wanted to know what I was up to.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I covered for you.”
“Oh, no. What did you sign me up for?”
“Since I know you’re up to your skirts on this Tempesta story, I told him I’d assigned you to cover a garden party in Saratoga today. Some of the fancy set are raising money for charity. It’s perfect for you.”
“What?”
“Take it easy,” he said. “You can write that piece in your sleep. And I made some calls. You’ll have to interview the head lady tomorrow or the day after. That’ll free you up to do some digging in Saratoga. And it’ll keep Artie out of our hair.”
I drew a sigh. “Where is it and when?”
I knew where to find Fadge. He was hunched over his program, calling out two-dollar wagers at betting window fifty-seven. Out of respect—and horror at the sum of his bets—I waited till he’d finished and caught his breath. He was counting his change and checking his slips when I tapped him on the shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Is that how your mother taught you to greet a friend?”
“You surprised me, is all.”
I told him I’d been in the neighborhood after wasting the morning in South Glens Falls.
“No luck with the sheriff either?”
“None. But I spent a half hour over at the training track talking to a horse.”
“Anyone I should bet on?”
“No. He’s spooked by the starting gate. And besides, he’s not running today.”
We made our way over to the clubhouse, and Fadge showed a pass. Since I was with the press, the nice man at the gate let me in as well.
“You don’t usually pay for the clubhouse,” I said. “Moving up in the world?”
“I get better access to the owners and trainers in here. I sidle up to the ones I recognize and pretend to read the Racing Form.”
“And that works? You eavesdrop?”
“That’s the idea.”
I suggested we try it. We identified a couple of swells in linen suits chatting outside the Jim Dandy Bar on the first level, and agreed they were good candidates.
“I think that’s Carl Hanford,” whispered Fadge.
“Who?”
“The famous trainer. Pay attention, El.”
We edged close to the two men. Fadge opened his paper, and I pretended to admire the flowers in the pot by the bar door.
“The thing is, folks don’t realize how bad he’s hurting,” said the man Fadge had identified as Carl Hanford. “He hides it well. But his knees are in bad shape.”
Fadge threw me a wink.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Joe,” said the other man. “Arthritis is a terrible curse. Please give my best wishes to your dad. I hope he’s back on his feet again real soon.”
I resisted the temptation to laugh. Fadge slunk off to watch the first race.
“May I get you a drink?”
A waiter. How lovely. Seated in the Jim Dandy Bar, I glanced up to place an order and did a double take.
“You?” I asked.
“Who else would I be?”
It was the fresh young man I’d spoken to that morning at the training track. He repeated hi
s offer of a drink.
“You realize I mistook you for the waiter.”
“I’m at your service.”
“Gin and tonic would be nice.”
My new friend nodded brightly and—I’m fairly certain—clicked his heels. Then he set off to the bar to fulfill his errand.
“There you go, miss,” he said a few moments later, placing my G and T on the table before me. He held a drink of his own in his other hand. A highball glass, sweating from the ice inside.
“So, you’re not actually a waiter,” I said as he took a seat opposite me.
“Afraid not.” He smiled a toothy grin. The dimples, one in each check and a third on his chin, seemed to wink at me. “Mind if I join you?”
I returned his smile without the dimples.
“Freddie,” he said, extending a hand across the table. His grip was cold from holding the drink.
“Just plain Freddie?”
He blushed, artless and charming. Only a shade or two. Not a full-blown sunburn. “Frederick Whitcomb.” He withdrew his hand. “Freddie to my friends.”
“That’s an odd name.”
“Girls named Eleonora shouldn’t throw stones.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your press card,” he said, pointing to my purse where I’d clipped it earlier.
I slid the pass back inside my bag, as if covering my nudity.
“Actually, to be perfectly honest, I still beat you,” he continued. “My full name is Frederick Carsten Whitcomb the third.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. Call me Ellie, and I’ll call you Freddie. The third.”
“Deal.”
Viewed properly from the front, Frederick Carsten Whitcomb III was no Greek statue, but he had charm to spare. Well mannered and well groomed, he called to mind a young Lord Peter Wimsey, only without the monocle. His tanned skin and fit physique gave him an athletic air, like a tennis player or a golfer. I was glad of his company, for the moment. At least until my four o’clock appointment in the penalty box: the garden party fundraiser.
“You know I’ve never waited tables,” he confessed.
“Too bad. I like a man in uniform. If you’re not a waiter, what is it you do?”
A Stone's Throw Page 10
