A Stone's Throw

by James W. Ziskin

  “Not yet. I spoke to her roommates, but they don’t seem to know anything. They’re worried. And a little secretive about their business.”

  “I know you talked to Joyce. She don’t know nothing,” he said in a low voice. “That other one, though, Brenda. I don’t like her. Looks like a lady wrestler. And she don’t like me none neither.”

  “Are you worried about Miche?” I asked.

  “Sure. She’s a good kid who does well for herself. And me, too. Naturally I’d like to know that she’s okay.”

  “Have you tried Lou Fleischman?”

  “He claims he never saw her after supper on Friday.”

  Jimmy Burgh was behaving himself, and I felt in no way threatened by his presence. But still I wondered where Fadge had gotten to. Then I heard a giggle coming from the direction of the counter. I leaned out of the booth to see him holding down a stool with his considerable carcass as he flirted with none other than Joyce Stevens. Jimmy flashed his gold tooth at me in another of his off-putting smiles. She’d come with him, of course. Despite myself, I felt a twinge of anger. It wasn’t Fadge’s attentions to the pretty young thing that I resented; it was hers toward him. I fumed to think that she was leading him on. Not that he couldn’t take care of himself, but I wouldn’t have wanted to see some of his hard-earned winnings go into her purse for an hour of contracted passion.

  “Your friend seems to like Joyce,” said Jimmy. “If he wants, I can arrange something for him.”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “Suit yourself. But your big friend over there looks game to me.”

  “He doesn’t know what he wants,” I said.

  “I think he does. He knows real well what he wants, and her name’s Joyce.”

  I let him have the final word on Fadge’s wants and desires then changed the subject. “Now that I’ve answered your questions, may I ask you one or two?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Why the interest in Vivian McLaglen?”

  “I knew her back when. About eight, nine years ago. She did some work for me from time to time.”

  “And did she ever land in county jail for the work she did for you?”

  “Might have.”

  “I see. And my second question is, why do you care?”

  “I don’t,” he said with his sinister smile. “At least not too much. She wasn’t the nicest girl I ever met. Plenty pretty back then, but surly-like and greedy. Wasn’t going to win any Miss Congenitalia contests. Too bad for her, but life goes on.”

  I thought Jimmy should return his grade-school diploma—if ever he’d managed to cheat his way to one—with apologies for the offense given to his school.

  “The first time we met, you said Johnny Dornan probably deserved what he got. What made you say that? Did you know Johnny?”

  “Not to say hello. But an associate of mine came to me about ten days ago with some dirt on him. It seems Johnny didn’t do all his business aboveboard. He was involved in some shady stuff.”

  “Go on.”

  “This guy tells me Johnny got himself into some big trouble about ten years ago. He was an apprentice rider down south. Some track in Kentucky or Maryland. The guy wouldn’t tell me. He was worried people might figure out who talked.”

  “Doesn’t sound all that helpful yet,” I said.

  “Patience, Ellie. You’re a smart girl, but you don’t take any joy from conversation. Relax and let me tell the story.”

  If Jimmy Burgh was willing to share some useful information with me, I was willing to indulge him his snail’s pace. After all, I knew precious little about the jockey beyond the inadequate descriptions Lou Fleischman and Carl Boehringer had provided. With those meager details, along with the contention by Fadge’s horse clocker that Johnny Dornan was “shifty,” I had next to nothing. Yet someone had felt compelled to shoot him between the eyes and incinerate him alongside an over-the-hill floozy in a foaling barn in the dead of night.

  “In fact, I came here tonight with Joyce to give you a tip,” continued Jimmy. “You see, this friend of mine by the name of Bruce, he told me that Johnny Dornan was riding under an assumed name. If the NYRA knew who he really was, he couldn’t get his boots shined anywhere within a hundred miles of a racetrack. And, for the sum of two hundred bucks, he gave me Johnny’s real name.”

  “Bruce, you say?” I asked. “Not Eddie or Phil or Solly?”

  “Bruce. What’s wrong with a name like Bruce?”

  I let it go. But I could see where this was going. “So you thought you might approach Johnny with the information Bruce sold you and offer to keep it to yourself in exchange for a favor.”

  “A favor or two,” he said with his gold-toothed grin. “Johnny was consorting with gamblers, you see. And once a jockey crosses that line, it’s hard to get back to the other side again.”

  “Clever of you,” I said.

  “As things turned out, no. Johnny went and got himself killed before I even had the chance to speak to him. And now I’m out two hundred bucks. I can’t exactly ask a favor from a dead man.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “I’m a big boy. Some bets pay off; others don’t.”

  “So why tell me this? Why would you share this name with me?”

  “I thought maybe I could recoup my losses.”

  I certainly didn’t have that kind of money to throw away on a tip. And I was sure that paying for information amounted to crossing into murky ethical territory.

  “Jimmy, I don’t have two hundred dollars,” I said.

  “I figured as much. But maybe you could scare up fifty bucks. To soften the sting of my loss.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you fifty dollars or even five. There’s the question of journalistic principles.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said again. “Me, I don’t have the luxury of principles.”

  Then, placing both hands on the table, he slid himself out of the booth and rose to take his leave.

  “Jimmy, wait,” I said. He stopped and glared at me. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Is Micheline worth fifty dollars to you?” I was appealing to his personal decency if not his business sense.

  His face hardened. Gone was the creepy gold-toothed grin, replaced by an even more menacing glare. He retook his seat in the booth opposite me.

  “Sure she is.”

  “Then please tell me Johnny Dornan’s real name, and I’ll track down his past, who killed him, and . . . what happened to Micheline.”

  Jimmy stared me down for a long moment. “You’ve got nerve, I’ll say that.”

  Sensing a crack in his resolve, I decided to push my luck. I asked him for another favor. “Do you know anyone named Robinson?”

  Johnny Dornan started his riding career under the name John Sprague. It came as a surprise to Jimmy Burgh that Johnny was Canadian, and he’d never heard of anyone named Robinson. At least none who came to mind.

  I spent an hour nursing a drink and chatting with the Bell Canada operator from my apartment. Using a 1956 Rand McNally road atlas to navigate around Manitoba, I checked off city after city, wondering how many pages my telephone bill would add up to the next month. I figured a jockey would most likely come from a rural area, and so I avoided Winnipeg for the first thirty minutes. Then the operator, who by that point was all in on the sleuthing exercise, suggested we look at the capital and, bingo, we landed on a John Sprague Sr. at an address near the Assiniboine River, a stone’s throw from an oval marked “Polo Park” on my map. I slapped my forehead. It was a racetrack.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was nearly midnight but, with the time difference, an hour earlier in Manitoba. Awfully late to be phoning, but, shameless, I decided to brazen it out. And good thing I didn’t wait till morning; the disoriented man who picked up the receiver on the ninth ring probably agreed to answer my questions only because he’d taken the trouble to climb out of bed, tie on a robe, and shuffle to the ki
tchen to answer.

  “Who did you say you were?” he asked, voice heavy and full of sleep. I was sure he was in the habit of retiring—and rising—with the sun.

  “Actually, I didn’t say. My name is Eleonora Stone.”

  “I don’t know any Stones except Edgar Stonecipher in Selkirk. Are you one of the Selkirk Stoneciphers?”

  “I’m not a Stonecipher at all. I’m just a Stone, plain and simple.”

  He fussed down the line from a thousand miles away and confessed he didn’t understand what I wanted.

  “I apologize, Mr. Sprague,” I said. “I’m a reporter from the New Holland Republic. We’re a newspaper in New Holland, New York.”

  “You’re Dutch?” he asked.

  “No, I . . . I’m calling to ask you about Johnny Sprague. Is he your son?”

  “Who are you again?” he asked, impatience testing his civility. I sensed he was ready to hang up the phone.

  “Mr. Sprague, I have news for you,” I said, thinking that might stay his hand. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d answer a few questions for me.”

  He seemed to weigh my request. And even without saying a word, he made it clear that this was not a conversation he wanted to have.

  “We don’t speak of him around here. Not anymore.”

  His voice betrayed his pedigree. This was a hardscrabble, plain-talking, working man. His bitterness bled through, like a growing bruise.

  “Oh,” I said, then waited a healthy ten seconds before he spoke again.

  “I haven’t seen him in nine years. Nor spoken to him. Not since he left for Maryland.”

  “What can you tell me about that?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He stalled, squirrelly, as if searching for an escape. Or maybe he wanted to find the right words to tell a complete stranger—one who’d admitted to being a newspaper reporter and who might well take liberties with a story about his son—that his boy had disappointed him.

  “About Maryland? Nothing to tell.”

  “I see. What about Mr. Robinson?”

  “Who? I don’t know any Mr. Robinson.”

  I lay back on my sofa, receiver to my ear, and held the five-and-a-half-by-eight photo of Johnny Dornan at arm’s length, stretching it toward the painted tin ceiling. Gazing up at it, trying to extract his secrets from the smiling eyes, I said nothing, though a sigh of contentment escaped my lips as I put my stockinged feet up. My new shoes—a pair of stacked heel pumps I’d found at the Paris Shop on Main Street—were stylish but tight. I thought I’d drop them off at Giuffre’s Shoe Repair in the morning to have them stretched a bit. John Sprague called me back from my reverie. I tossed the photograph onto the end table and turned my attention to the matter at hand.

  “I don’t understand why he didn’t stay here in Winnipeg,” he said. His voice oozed regret and reproach. “We’ve got Polo Park a few blocks from our house. A fine track. He was an apprentice, training there. He could’ve had a full career right here close to home.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” I examined my nails from my reclined position. Definitely time for a manicure. Of course, I wasn’t happy with the job Doreen from Francine’s Beauty Parlor had done the last time, so naturally I wondered whether I should try New Wave Beauty or the old standby, Mr. Paul’s Salon. Mr. Paul was a sweet old fellow whose hands never once grazed your bosom, even when he was brushing you off after a styling. His tastes were said to run to handsome Spanish boys.

  “But he wouldn’t listen to me or his mother, no,” said Mr. Sprague at length. “Even Mr. Spears—Robert James Spears, no less—wanted him to stay and ride in Canada.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who Robert James Spears is.”

  Sprague nearly choked. Then he huffed that Spears was the father of Thoroughbred racing in western Canada. “He built Polo Park,” he said. “And Whittier and Chinook, too, in Alberta.”

  “And he couldn’t convince your son to stay?”

  “He’s no son of mine.” His tone was the sharpest since we’d been speaking. The pump was primed, and he went off like a hand grenade. “Johnny disgraced himself. Brought shame to his family and his country. And to the sport of kings. His blessed mother, rest her soul, died of a broken heart. That boy is no good, and he’s dead to me.”

  I swung my feet to the floor and sat up straight on the sofa. How should I break it to him that his son was indeed dead? And not only to him, But to me. To the world. To everybody.

  “Mr. Sprague, I have some news about your son. I’m afraid it’s not a happy ending.”

  After an understandably lengthy pause to collect his thoughts and emotions, he cleared his throat and asked if I meant that Johnny was dead. I answered yes.

  “I blame it all on that tramp. That woman who turned his head.”

  “A woman? Who was that?”

  “The one who lured him to Maryland with all kinds of crazy ideas in his head.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Vivian,” he said, almost spitting his disgust. “Vivian Coleman was her name.”

  After my scare at Tempesta that afternoon and the curious timing of Jimmy Burgh’s visit at Fiorello’s, I was feeling jumpy. Every noise—the creaks, thumps, and footfalls—from downstairs or from the street below sent me to the kitchen to investigate. Even with the sturdy new storm door that Mrs. Giannetti had installed a year and a half earlier after my fleeing aggressor somersaulted down the stairs, straight through the glass, and onto the sidewalk, I worried that someone would try to gain entry.

  At half past midnight, I truly fretted for my safety. New Holland was a small town, after all. If someone wanted to find you, someone could. I checked the kitchen door again, found it securely bolted, then poured myself a couple of ounces of courage. I set my drink down on the end table in the parlor and selected an LP to play—softly so as not to disturb Mrs. Giannetti downstairs—and eased myself back into the sofa cushions. The first strains of Schubert’s incidental music to Rosamunde washed over me, relaxing me as if by an incantation. Then, just as I was putting thoughts of marauders out of my head, the door buzzer sounded, startling me enough to send half of my drink down my blouse and into my lap.

  I glanced at my watch: 12:44 a.m. Who could be calling at that hour? I doubted it was Fadge. I’d watched him from my bedroom window closing up the store at least forty-five minutes earlier. And then I’d heard his Nash Ambassador backfire twice, sounding like two reports from a howitzer, before he roared away down Lincoln Avenue. I dashed to the kitchen and armed myself with the longest knife in the drawer. If someone intended to do me harm, he was going to pay dearly for the privilege. The door buzzed again.

  This was silly, I told myself. Whoever was downstairs was still on the wrong side of a locked storm door. And what self-respecting marauder rings the bell? Congratulating myself on my pluck, I drew back the bolts, and, barefoot, I slipped out onto the landing, my thumping heart and rapid breathing contradicting my delusions of bravery. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I couldn’t quite see the whole door at the bottom, which only heightened my unease. I descended slowly, taking each step with care and dipping my head to the side in attempts to make out who was calling at a quarter to one. A pair of men’s trousers rose into view. Then a jacket, checked, and an open collar. It was Freddie.

  I bounded down the last few steps to let him in. He made a feeble attempt to appear sheepish, but my arms around his neck and my lips on his rather obviated the need for apologies. I wasn’t sure if it was entirely out of attraction that I was overjoyed to see him. There was also the question of my fears of an unwelcome midnight intruder interrupting my sleep with a pillow over my face.

  I didn’t unload my worries on Freddie. At least not right away. A while later, as we caught our breath and pretended such exertions were normal for people of our short acquaintance, I told him about my visit to Tempesta that afternoon.

  “That’s spooky,” he said, settling back into the pillow. He reached for h
is cigarette case on the bedside table, popped it open, and held it out to me.

  I shook my head. “Spooky doesn’t quite describe it.”

  “And you’re sure it was yesterday’s paper in the caretaker’s house?”

  “Do you recall two Russian cosmonauts orbiting the earth at the same time before this week?”

  “I see your point. So someone was in that house this week. Maybe he was up to nothing more nefarious than catching up on the news.”

  “Did I mention there was a pistol on the floor?”

  “A pistol? Where is it now? What did you do with it?”

  “It’s in a safe place,” I said, knowing I couldn’t tell him. Not that Freddie would have turned Fadge in to the postal police, but he didn’t need to know the exact location.

  “What about the newspaper?” he asked. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Hand it over to the sheriff.”

  “What for?”

  “Fingerprints, for one. Newspaper ink is wonderfully messy. Or maybe whoever was reading it wrote something inside.”

  “Of course if you hadn’t taken the gun and the paper, whoever’s hiding in that house wouldn’t have known you’d been there.”

  “He knew already,” I said. Freddie seemed confused. “I visited the farm two nights ago and left my car unlocked as I snooped around. When I got back, the glove compartment was open. Someone rooted through my car.”

  “If I were you, I’d get rid of that newspaper as soon as possible. Give it to the sheriff. I’ll do it for you if you want.”

  I rose from bed and crossed into the parlor where I grabbed the bottle on the end table. Back under the sheets, I poured a drink for each of us. Freddie stubbed out his cigarette, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me roughly against him, effectively putting an end to our conversation.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 17, 1962

  In the morning—a couple of hours later, actually—I told Freddie more over a pot of coffee.

  “Did you know that Johnny Dornan is an assumed name? Changed it nine years ago. He was born John Sprague Jr. in Winnipeg, Manitoba.”