“What kind of people did he rub the wrong way?”
“Other jockeys.”
“Anyone else?”
“You’re not tricking me into answering that.”
“Gamblers?”
He stared me down for a moment then continued on his path past the casino. I followed a few paces behind. We arrived in a garden at the far side of the park and stopped in front of a rectangular pool where two opposing Triton statues were spouting water at each other through conch shells.
We watched and listened to the splashing without a word. It was a beautiful evening, cool with a few clouds high in the sky. I allowed myself a moment to admire the weather and the park. Lou Fleischman could wait. The less I said, the more he wanted to speak. Then he turned to me, pointing to the Tritons. His eyes seemed to challenge me to answer a question.
“Spit and Spat,” I said, and he shook his head in mock defeat. I came clean and indicated a plaque a few feet away. “The names are written over there.”
A pair of ducks waddled into the vicinity, hopped onto the low fountain wall, and splashed into the pool.
“I like Peking duck,” said Lou apropos of the birds. “My rabbi says I can eat duck, you know.”
“I’m still not judging you.”
“Do you like duck?”
“I like ducks. Plural. I wouldn’t want to eat these cute little fellows.”
He stared at the birds that were quite tame and bold around humans. “I can’t talk about gamblers, you know. Don’t ask me to. I can’t.”
“Then tell me about Purgatorio.”
“Purgatorio? My horse? What about him?”
“I met him. Twice. He’s a beautiful animal.”
“And hopeless as a racehorse. He couldn’t outrun me with a head start. His trainer thinks it’s all in his head.”
“Is that Hal Brown?”
Lou was finished admiring the ducks and the spitting Tritons. He started back in the direction we’d come along the cinder pathway. He glanced my way as we walked. “How do you know these things? Like the name of my trainer?”
I smiled to myself. Yes, I was showing off a bit and enjoying it.
“Hal thinks he can teach the horse to win,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “Me, I’m not so sure.”
“What happens to a racehorse when his career is over?”
“It’s not all beer and skittles, I can tell you that. Retired horses are expensive to feed and care for. They can live into their twenties. That might mean ten, fifteen, twenty years of board and veterinary services.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” I said.
“It’s not nice to think about, but if a Thoroughbred isn’t worth breeding, you sell him off for whatever you can get. Problem is the only people who want to buy useless racehorses are little girls with rich fathers who spoil them.”
“And what happens if you can’t find a buyer?”
Lou stopped again and drew a couple of breaths. I compelled him to look me in the eye. He scratched his cheek and made a face, as if I was putting him out.
“Some might be abandoned somewhere. On public lands. Or put down or slaughtered for meat to sell abroad. Most breeders love their horses, but it’s a business. If an animal doesn’t have what it takes, you’ve got to make tough decisions.”
I must have looked aghast because Lou tried to soften the message with a joke. He said Purgatorio was still a long way from the glue factory.
“Not funny.”
“Sorry about that. But don’t worry your pretty little head, Ellie. I’ve got too much invested in him to write him off so fast.”
“Where did you get Purgatorio? Was he foaled at Harlequin, or did you buy him?”
“Bought him in a two-year-old claiming race. Cost me eight grand. Not one of my better purchases. At least not yet. He’s got great bloodlines. Just can’t race.”
We resumed our stroll, cinders crackling beneath our feet as we walked in contemplation of the fate awaiting slow-footed Thoroughbreds. I wondered to myself what kind of people besides rich little girls bought “used” racehorses. The kind who had them slaughtered for meat when the poor beasts were done entertaining us for sport?
Shaking thoughts of Purgatorio from my mind, I willed myself to return to the topic at hand. I was there to get information and permission from Lou Fleischman to go to press with a bombshell that might make a name for me and sell some newspapers at the same time.
“You’ve told me about my friend Tory,” I said. “But what about Johnny Dornan? Where did he come from?”
“What do you mean, where did he come from? Like his hometown?”
“Not exactly. He was unknown two years ago. Then suddenly last summer he’s a twenty-seven-year-old rookie jockey riding winners in Saratoga. Where did he come from? Hannibal, MO?”
“No. I found him at Aqueduct,” said Lou. Apparently he hadn’t seen Damn Yankees. He stopped to light a cigarette. “You want one?”
“I don’t like to smoke while I’m walking. Makes me lightheaded.”
“You don’t mind if I . . . ?”
“Not at all. But you seem a little short of breath, Lou. Are you sure you want that?”
“You have no idea how much. Rose tries to get me to quit. My doctor, too. But a man’s got to have some vices, after all. I don’t chase women; I don’t drink to excess. What else do I have?”
“Peking duck?”
He took a puff and smiled.
“Bacon and assorted other treif,” I added. “When your rabbi and Rose aren’t around.”
“You won’t rat on me, will you?”
I patted his arm and said his secrets were safe.
“So was Johnny riding at Aqueduct when you discovered him?”
“A couple of small-time owners were giving him some mounts. Not very good horses. He couldn’t win on those nags, but he came cheap at the time so they used him.”
“Then why did you hire him?”
“Like I said, he came cheap. And I needed a new morning rider for workouts. So I gave him a job. Then one of my regular boys broke his collarbone falling off a horse, and Johnny got his big chance.”
“How’d he do?”
Lou took a deep drag on his cigarette, then held it at arm’s length to admire it. “You know, I don’t think I could ever give up smoking. Rose says it isn’t kosher, but I don’t buy that. My pop smoked. My uncles, too. Now my doctor says it’s no good. Maybe so. But it’s too late for me. Maybe if I were a younger man.” After one last puff, he tossed the cigarette onto the ground and resumed his walk. “Johnny did great. That rotten little kelev she-beklovim was a damn good rider.”
We exited the park back onto Circular Street, and soon we were standing before his hotel. He said he had to get back to Rose for supper.
“I enjoyed our walk, Ellie.”
“Me too, Lou. So may I quote you that Johnny Dornan is missing and the sheriff has spoken to you about the racing silks? And Vivian McLaglen?”
He thought it over for a moment, drew another sigh, and nodded. “But you don’t say anything about gamblers. I didn’t mention gamblers.”
I watched him shuffle onto the porch of Grossman’s and disappear inside. As he did, I asked myself if he was the type of breeder who could make tough decisions about has-been horses. And I wondered if Purgatorio was insured. Lou Fleischman had spent eight thousand dollars on him, after all. What if that beautiful animal was worth more dead than alive?
“How did you do today?” I asked Fadge as I swiveled on a stool at the counter.
“Not bad,” he said. “Came out fifteen dollars ahead.”
“Fifteen? How are you going to survive on fifteen dollars a day? You spend five bucks just to park your car on some guy’s lawn.”
“Hey, I made three grand day before yesterday. Not every day is going to be like that. Like I told you, I’m in this for the long haul.”
“Unlike this place. Who was minding the store today?”
“Zeke.”
“Again?”
Fadge shrugged. “My uncle Sal was here with him.”
I shook my head in woe.
“El, Uncle Sal was working here with my dad before you were born. Before I was born.”
I said nothing in reply. If Fadge wanted to confide his business to a kid and his uncle who—sweet though he was—counted Methuselah as his younger brother, who was I to complain?
I sat in my usual booth in the back and, longhand, wrote out my article that would name jockey Johnny Dornan as the presumed male victim. While Sheriff Pryor steadfastly refused to share any information with me, I had a person of interest—to wit, Louis Fleischman—who was on record that the sheriff had approached him to inquire into Johnny Dornan’s whereabouts.
Norma Geary had pulled some good photographs of Johnny Dornan from the wire services, and I had pictures of everything else: Harlequin Stables’ livery, the racetrack, and, of course, the burning barn.
I was on a roll, so I went to work on finishing my fundraiser story. The recap of the Friends of the Library Society garden party was already done. All that remained was to distill the notes of my interview with Mrs. Georgina Whitcomb down to something manageable, and work the quotes into the narrative of my story. It was hardly the best piece I’d ever written, but I managed to shoehorn some of Georgina Whitcomb’s warmth and charm into it. I liked the old bird, and not because she was Freddie’s mother. In fact, I felt proud of my little society-page bit of fluff, so I treated myself to a nickel’s worth of music from the jukebox. I scanned the catalogue before finally settling on “Rockin’ Good Way,” a sexy little duet between Dinah Washington and Brook Benton. I glanced over to the counter where Fadge was packing a quart of butter pecan ice cream for Mr. McAndrews who lived next door to the store. The big fellow was struggling to chisel the rock-hard ice cream out of the tub for a man whose guts he hated. And I admired him in that moment. Admired him for his hard work and his taste in music. I was sure no other jukebox in the city had such great selections.
I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the cooler and retook my seat in the booth. Reading through some notes on Johnny Dornan, I became aware of a shadow hovering nearby. I glanced up expecting to find Fadge eclipsing the sun, but it wasn’t him at all. It was a young woman. I didn’t recognize the blonde beauty standing there until she spoke.
“I need to speak to you, Ellie,” she said as the song came to an end. “About Miche.”
It was Joyce Stevens.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Brenda doesn’t know I’m here,” she said in a low voice.
Fadge appeared above us. Clearly impressed by the attractiveness of my companion, he turned on the charm as if opening a fire hydrant and asked Joyce what she would have. She said she didn’t want anything. Normally Fadge would have thrown her out. He had no tolerance for stragglers who bought nothing. But as strict as he was about his buy-something-or-get-out policy, he was also a man and a fool when it came to pretty girls. He flashed his sweetest smile and withdrew.
“I’m worried about Miche,” said Joyce.
“I thought she was in Montreal.”
“That’s what Brenda says, but I’m not so sure. She had a boyfriend a while back who was very controlling. She broke it off with him, but he kept coming around. So we came up with a standard lie that she was visiting her mother in Canada.”
“When did you see her last?” I asked. “The truth this time.”
“Last Friday afternoon.”
“Had she packed a bag for a trip?”
“No. She was getting all dolled up for her date.”
“Her date with Johnny Dornan,” I said to clarify.
She averted her eyes, glancing at her hands. “Yes.”
“Did she know Johnny already, or was he just another appointment set up by Jimmy Burgh?”
“Yeah, she knew Johnny. But only through Jimmy. She thought he was fun. She met him last year when he was racing at Saratoga. And this year she saw him once before last Friday.”
“What about you? Did you ever meet him?”
“Once. He was okay. A little full of himself and too short for my tastes. But he had cash and was willing to spend it on Miche.”
“Did he ever tell you where he was from? Or how he got into racing?”
“No, but Miche once said he was a fellow Canadian.”
That was news to me. I made a mental note to check into the Manitoba angle again, this time asking for Johnny Dornan’s name.
“Did she say where they were going Friday night?” I asked.
“Just that it was another date with him. I knew what that meant.” She paused, possibly going over some tragic scenario in her head. “Do you think it was Miche in that barn?” she asked at length.
“The sheriff’s still not sure. And I think it’s someone else altogether. Where might Micheline have gone?”
“That’s just it, Ellie,” she said, her eyes pleading with me for help. “I don’t know. I’ve asked at the Safeway, her old boyfriend, even Jimmy. No one knows where she is.”
“How well do you know Jimmy Burgh?” I asked as Fadge materialized again, this time bearing a small hot-fudge sundae.
“For the pretty young lady,” he said to Joyce. “On the house.”
I gave him my most disapproving shake of the head. Where was my ice-cream sundae? “Pathetic,” I mouthed to him. He harrumphed and delivered the treat to Joyce, who smiled appreciatively at the big lug.
“Forget about Jimmy for a moment,” I said, once her knight in spattered apron had pushed off. “Tell me about Robinson.”
Her face twisted like a screw. “Who’s Robinson?”
“You don’t know anyone by that name? Maybe an acquaintance of Micheline’s?”
Joyce insisted she didn’t. “Sounds like a Colored name. I don’t know any Negroes.”
I almost asked her if that was by choice or happenstance, but I didn’t have the time or patience to explore Joyce Stevens’s prejudice. Instead I asked if Micheline had a car.
She shook her head. “Brenda has an old DeSoto if we absolutely need a car. I borrowed it to come here tonight. But Miche and I take the bus mostly. Or cabs, if someone else is paying.”
“Someone like Jimmy Burgh?”
She averted her eyes again. “Yeah.”
“So here’s my question to you. If Micheline isn’t the woman in the barn—and I’m almost certain that she isn’t—how is she getting around without Brenda’s DeSoto?”
I called my editor from the phone at the back of the store and filled him in on my Johnny Dornan story. He approved it and said he’d arrange things with Composition at the paper.
“I want this on the front page,” he said. “Upper-right-hand corner.”
“What about the cosmonauts?”
“We’ll find room for the Red space monkeys somewhere else.”
I agreed to meet Fadge at Scafitti’s restaurant on East Main Street after he closed the store. In the meantime, I rushed to the office and handed in my stories and photos to old Mr. Rayburn, the Linotype operator.
“Is Mr. Reese okay with these?” he asked, peering through his horn-rimmed glasses.
He still wasn’t used to the girl reporter. Probably thought I was the worst thing since lady drivers. Or women voters.
“I spoke to Mr. Reese twenty minutes ago, and he approved them both. In fact, Composition is redoing the first page for the fire story.”
“I haven’t heard anything about that.”
Just then the aptly named Norm Belcher from Composition rolled into the room like a freight car. “Hiya, Ellie baby,” he said, his voice rattling with characteristic mucus somewhere deep beneath one of his several chins. He’d recently taken to making suggestive comments about my posterior whenever his boss wasn’t around.
“Where have you been hiding that sweet little derrière of yours? I haven’t seen anything that round since the last full moon.”
He cackled and slapped Mr. Rayburn
on the back, presumably to invite him to share in the laugh, but instead knocking the glasses clean off the old man’s head and into the guts of the Linotype machine. It took Belcher three minutes on his hands and knees to extricate the spectacles. I took advantage of his disadvantage to snap a couple of photos of his sofa-sized rear end on full display. I intended to make several prints and post them around the office in the morning.
“Charlie wants us to redo the front page,” Belcher said sheepishly to Rayburn as he handed him back his spectacles. Then he scurried off without another word to me.
Old Mr. Rayburn rubbed his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and shook his head. “That man is an ass.”
Over drinks and a pizza at Scafitti’s, Fadge asked me about my attractive friend.
“Where’ve you been hiding her?”
“Park your tongue, you pig,” I said. “She’s a roommate of the girl who spent the night with Johnny Dornan before he burned to a crisp.”
“I won’t hold that against her. She’s a pretty one.”
“And you could surely have her. For the right price. And I’m not talking hot-fudge sundaes.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, your crack about ‘the pretty young lady’ didn’t include me. . . . If you think you can get me into bed, by all means go ahead and fatten me up with ice cream. But Joyce Stevens is going to cost you. I’m sure you could secure her services with a portion of your winnings from the other day.”
Fadge gaped at me with his bulging eyes. “What are you saying ?”
“She’s available at popular prices through Jimmy Burgh.”
“Who’s Jimmy Burgh?”
“Someone I met in Schenectady the other day. An impresario of sorts. A manager. I could put you in touch with him.”
“Are you saying he’s a pimp? And that girl you were talking to in the booth tonight is a prostitute?”
I touched my nose with my right forefinger and pointed to Fadge with my left.
He shoved half a slice of pizza into his mouth and chewed on my words for a moment. “That pretty girl tonight was a . . .”
A Stone's Throw Page 14
