A Stone's Throw

by James W. Ziskin

  I wrote a second article on the chief suspect in the murders, Bruce Robertson. Basing my story on the interview he’d so graciously granted, I painted the picture of a career petty criminal and gambler, who denied all involvement in the killings. I even detailed the alibi he’d offered to the Saratoga County sheriff and district attorney, to wit that he’d been breaking commandments with a prostitute on the night in question. In deference to the sensibilities of the Republic’s readers, I omitted the number of times he’d claimed her as an alibi.

  Then I slipped another piece of carbon paper between two fresh sheets of paper and rolled them all into my portable typewriter. My third story dealt with the fire that had claimed the Tempesta caretaker’s house. I hoped my photos of the blaze would turn out well.

  I struggled to justify including my observation that someone had been squatting inside the house before it was razed, because I was the only witness. Yes, I had the one frame of Wednesday’s Republic in the second-floor room as evidence, but, if I was honest with myself, I had to admit that it was hardly indisputable. It might have been taken anywhere. In the end, I wrote the article without mentioning it and resolved to ask my editor for guidance.

  I phoned Charlie Reese at home and of course got his wife on the line. After a cold, lingering silence, she passed the receiver to her husband and we reviewed my three stories. He gave me some notes, and I made the changes.

  “I’d really like to find this Dan Ledoux,” I said. “Somehow I think he’s right in the middle of this whole thing. He was Vivian McLaglen’s lover, for one. Second, he helped his boss, Mack Hodges, fix the race nine years ago. And last, he was in on the scheme to lure Johnny Dornan into the plot.”

  “Any idea where he is?”

  “Not yet.”

  I asked him about including the squatter in my story, and he thought it better to leave it out. At least for now.

  “Not enough supporting evidence,” he said. “We don’t want your piece to sound like a ghost story.”

  I agreed. Then he congratulated me and asked if I needed any other help.

  “Maybe you could answer your phone once in a while. Your wife really hates me.”

  Feeling drained and exhausted from lack of sleep, driving all over creation to interview coroners, sheriffs, and self-described thrice-a-night fornicating murder suspects, I dropped off my film and stories at the paper around nine thirty. Seeking succor and perhaps a dirty joke—anything to make me laugh—I dropped by Fiorello’s at ten. The place was quiet late on a Sunday night, even if it was August. Fadge was studying his Racing Form as Candid Camera blared from the television behind the counter. I asked him for a Coke, and he mumbled for me to get it myself.

  “If this is any indication of the attention I can expect, I’m never going to marry you,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. Help yourself.”

  “Are you going to the track tomorrow?” I asked once I’d settled in next to him on a stool at the counter.

  “Of course. This coming Saturday’s the last day of racing. Only six days left in the meet, and I’m only up twenty-one hundred bucks. I’ve got to make this last week pay.”

  I felt green but said nothing.

  From the television, Allen Funt was prattling on with a toothy smile about some prank he was preparing to spring, and Fadge interrupted to ask if I could do him a favor the next afternoon. He was expecting Mr. DeGroff, the television repairman, to fix his Sylvania HaloLight television at his place on Philips Street.

  “That thing’s a relic. When are you going to get a new set?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. Why would I buy a new one?”

  “If there’s nothing wrong with it, why do I have to meet the repairman at your house tomorrow?”

  “I’ll take you out for pizza, and we can eat it in the car at the drive-in at Vail Mills. They’re showing that new movie Paradisio next week.”

  “No thanks. I’m not going to some nudie movie with you at a drive-in.”

  Just then Bill emerged from the back room, his hands and forearms dripping dishwater. Despite the wet, he was pinching the stub of a green cigar between his right thumb and forefinger. Fadge yelled at him to watch the soap. Someone might slip on it.

  “I was wondering if cheapskate Ellie was treating us to pizza tonight,” said Bill with a grin.

  I objected to his characterization of me as a cheapskate, but had to admit that Fadge did most of the paying when we went out.

  “Yes, pizza on me,” I said, figuring our usual music appreciation night would have to wait another week. Ten minutes later we were off to Tedesco’s.

  Our late supper was fun. We left all talk of dead jockeys and jezebels at the door. We ate too much and drank a little too much, too. Jimmy Tedesco wanted to close up the place, but as long as we were spending, he was willing to indulge us. Fadge played the jukebox—Buddy Holly—and Bill stuffed his face with pizza, washed down with beer. We teased him about his mother, whose fondness for Polish food turned the conversation to scatology, which was Fadge’s long suit. Bill didn’t say much. Probably didn’t understand. But apropos of nothing, he informed us of the price of sweet corn. Ten ears for twenty-nine cents.

  We laughed and exchanged stories with Jimmy Tedesco until 2:00 a.m., when Bill fell asleep in his chair and started snoring. Reluctantly, Fadge said it was time to go.

  “I’ve got to be sharp tomorrow,” he said, suddenly serious and responsible when it came to the horses.

  I rolled my eyes and paid the bill.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 20, 1962

  Norma and I phoned newspapers, libraries, and even the racecourse at Hagerstown, searching for some kind of record of the fateful day Johnny Dornan threw a race nine years earlier. They tried to help us—at least the newspaper and library did—but without a date, name of a horse, or some other information to narrow the search, they said they’d do their best but could promise nothing. The operator who answered the phone at the racetrack sounded defensive and, after much pressure, told us that someone would call us back later. We weren’t holding our breath, especially with expensive long-distance rates in the mix.

  Charlie Reese stopped by my desk at ten and informed me, long face and all, that he wanted to see me in Artie Short’s office. The publisher was there, glowering behind his desk like a displeased monarch, and to his right sat the court jester, George Walsh.

  “Miss Stone,” said Artie without preamble or good morning. “I want you to share all information and background research you’ve got on these Tempesta murders with George here.”

  I stared at him but said nothing.

  “Did you hear me, Miss Stone?”

  “I did, and . . .”

  “She heard you, Artie,” broke in Charlie, throwing me a frightened glance meant to still my tongue. “We’ll work with George, of course, but you should know that Ellie has done a wonderful job on this story under the most difficult circumstances.”

  Artie chuckled. “Difficult circumstances? Like attending a black-tie gala fundraiser dinner Saturday night? Or betting on the horses every day at the track?”

  “Yes, Mr. Short,” I said. “I bet on one race and won thirty cents. How much did you and George lose Saturday at the Travers Stakes?”

  His eyes grew and face flushed crimson, presumably in reaction to my effrontery. Or maybe, possibly—hopefully—he was actually suffering an apoplectic fit. Either way, I would have paid for a front-row seat to witness the spectacle had I not provoked it myself.

  “How dare you speak to me that way?” he blubbered. “Remember I own this paper, Stone, and you work for me.”

  “Take it easy, Artie,” said Charlie. “She was only joking. She’s a regular clown, our Miss Stone. Isn’t that right, Ellie?”

  I smiled brightly. Then I crossed the Rubicon. “Yes, that’s right. Clowns work at the circus, after all.”

  Charlie whisked me out of Short’s office, quite red in the face himself, and, dragging me by the arm, scolded me in
the most forceful tone he’d ever used with me. But I have a temper, too. Girls are raised to behave. Grow up to be a lady, keep your knees together and your mouth shut. Look pretty, by all means, dear, but fetch me another cup of coffee. And, while you’re at it, Georgie Porgie, here, is going to take credit for all your hard work.

  I stopped in my tracks and wrenched my arm from Charlie’s grip. He wheeled around only to receive my gale-force fury face-first.

  “I am not sharing anything with George,” I said. “Except maybe a swift kick in the seat of the pants.”

  Charlie’s attitude changed. Sometimes when people realize the leash has broken and the mastiff is free, they take a different tack. He tried to calm me, encourage me to lower my voice and listen to reason.

  “Take a breath, Ellie,” he said. “I can fix this. But if you don’t work with George, Artie will fire you today.”

  “And who’ll finish the story? Georgie Porgie? He doesn’t even know who the sheriff of Saratoga County is. And what about Bruce Robertson? You think he has any idea who that is? Or Dan Ledoux? Mack Hodges? Where did Johnny Dornan come from? What’s his real name? Who was Vivian McLaglen’s first husband? He doesn’t know any of it, and I don’t have time to teach him just so he can steal the credit when he finally reads the ending in some competitor’s newspaper. Does Artie Short know that the Gazette, the Times-Union, Knickerbocker News, and the Saratogian are all hot on this story?”

  “Please, Ellie, calm down. I’ll talk to Artie and put things right.”

  “Tell him this, Charlie. If he fires me, I’m driving straight over to the Gazette offices and offering my services to them. For free if necessary.”

  Charlie’s red face had turned white. He gently urged me into his office where he closed the door and offered me a seat. I felt eerily calm. The catharsis had done me good. The ball was in Charlie’s—and Artie Short’s—court now, and no matter what they hit back at me, I was resigned to accept the consequences for my outburst. It’s a liberating sensation to know that you’ve finally told a dancing bear where to get off.

  Charlie’s phone rang.

  “Reese,” he barked into the receiver.

  I could hear the metallic, strangulated yammering coming through the earpiece, and I knew it was Artie Short, chewing out Charlie and demanding my head. I watched with alarm as the color returned to my editor’s face, rising out of his neck and filling his cheeks like red mercury climbing a thermometer.

  “Listen to me, Artie,” he said. “Fire Ellie Stone, and you fire me too. I’m the editor of this paper, and I’ll make the assignments according to my best judgment.”

  I gasped. Charlie listened some more, then asked Artie if he really thought he could run a newspaper without him. After a couple of more exchanges, the pitch of the whistling tea spout sank to safe levels, and Charlie showed signs of returning calm.

  “All right, then,” he said and replaced the receiver in its cradle with the care of a mother putting a babe down for a nap.

  “My God, Charlie,” I said with a gulp. “What did you do?”

  “I saved your job,” he answered in a hoarse voice. Then he wiped his dry mouth and sat down. “Artie says you stay on the story. For now.”

  “What do you mean for now?”

  “He’s trying to save face.”

  “And you were really willing to lose your job over me?”

  He pursed his lips around a cigarette, which he lit with a trembling hand. “Of course not. One just needs to know when and where to pick one’s battles.”

  “I’m going to find this Dan Ledoux,” I said, standing to leave. “And when I do, Artie Short better not try to give the credit to his son-in-law.”

  “So you think he’s the one behind all this? This Ledoux fellow ?”

  “I think that when I find him, this case will be solved.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The afternoon edition of the New Holland Republic featured my three stories—two on the front page—along with photos of the Micheline Charbonneau murder scene and the caretaker’s house fire. Sheriff Frank Olney looked fierce in a grainy picture I’d snapped roadside, and the blazing building came out better than I had hoped. Dramatic, with leaping flames and broken windows visible, the photo made me appear to be a better photographer than I was. Still, my double scoop thrilled me, even more so when I noticed that George Walsh’s only piece in the paper that day was another in his series of “Walsh’s Witticisms,” which consisted of groaning jokes and riddles that a fourth grader could solve. The caricature of George that accompanied the byline of this embarrassing column was priceless. I’d made a habit of cutting it out of the paper each time it appeared and drawing different mustaches and beards on the cartoon figure of George. Sometimes I’d add a balloon caption with a “witlesscism” befitting the newspaperman who thought double agent Kim Philby was a woman.

  “Let’s see,” I said aloud as I considered the caricature in my usual booth at Fiorello’s. “Maybe some muttonchop sideburns today for Georgie Porgie.”

  I drew them on, extra bushy, then shaded the lenses of his thick spectacles to make him look like some kind of pervert on the prowl. But the pièce de résistance was the pigtails I drew sprouting out of the side of his head, just below his bald pate, replete with tiny polka-dot bows. And I blacked out three of his teeth to give him some of that Dogpatch charm. I decided to frame it and display it proudly on my desk the next morning.

  “Who are you talking to, Ellie?” called Zeke from the soda fountain. He was filling in for Fadge who was at the track yet again.

  “Myself. Mind your own business.”

  The phone rang, and Zeke answered it. I noticed how easily he fit inside the booth compared to Fadge, who needed a running start and some 3-in-One oil to squeeze through the folding doors.

  “Fiorello’s,” he said into the receiver. “No, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

  Zeke listened, then scratched a message onto the pad of paper hanging inside the booth. I went back to admiring my picture of Georgie Porgie.

  Jim DeGroff showed up on time and set about inspecting Fadge’s ancient Sylvania HaloLight. I heard some grunting and swearing under his breath before he finally came to me in the parlor to say he’d have to take it into the shop.

  “I gotta order some tubes,” he said. “Why doesn’t he just spring for a new set?”

  “I’m afraid he collects things, Mr. DeGroff. I’ve tried to convince him.”

  “Tell him I’ve got some new Zeniths down at the shop. I’ll give him a nice deal on one.” Risking a hernia and a tumbling header down the stairs, Mr. DeGroff hauled the heavy set down to his truck on Philips Street below. I took a minute to sweep up the dust he’d disturbed moving the television, then grabbed Fadge’s keys, stepped out onto the landing, and locked the door. I paused.

  I opened up again and let myself back inside. After tossing the keys onto the coffee table in the parlor, I made my way through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. Fadge lived on the second floor of a modest duplex on the west side of town, not far from Tedesco’s. I occasionally spent the odd evening swilling drinks and listening to jazz records with him in his apartment. That afternoon, I stood on his porch staring at a dozen or so listing piles of newspapers at least seven feet high each, wondering where to begin.

  It was just about four thirty, long before the sun would set, but the back of his house was dark. I punched the light switch. Nothing. I knew Fadge had paid the Niagara Mohawk bill, since the television had lit up, if not dispatched its duties, a few minutes earlier for Mr. DeGroff. So the problem clearly was Fadge’s sloth. He hadn’t replaced a burned-out bulb. I rummaged under his kitchen sink, then in a cupboard in the pantry before finally finding a fresh bulb to screw into the socket. Once light had been restored, I climbed up on a chair and pulled a paper from the top of the oldest-looking pile. Time and weather had taken a toll on the newsprint. It was from 1956. Fadge seemed to have no system for organizing his a
rchive of the Racing Form. I cursed him as I pulled copy after copy from the stacks of papers, searching for something from 1953. Finally, about three and a half feet from the bottom of one of the middle piles, I located an edition from 1954. Farther down, I hit pay dirt, so to speak, when I found a January 1953 Racing Form. Ten minutes and three pounds of perspiration later, I unearthed April 1953. Then May and March. August and December were in the stack on the end, and February, June, July, October, and November were shuffled together as if by a giant card dealer. September had slipped down the back and was hidden behind the most recent editions Fadge had hoarded.

  Each month of papers measured approximately six to eight inches high. I lugged them inside, stacking them neatly on and around Fadge’s cluttered kitchen table. Then I fetched the bottle of White Label I knew he kept for my consumption, poured myself a modest one, and sat down at the table to examine the pile of newspapers.

  There was no evidence of Hagerstown Race Track in the Racing Form. At least not for the first twenty minutes I was searching. I’d started with January, until I realized that Maryland was probably too cold for racing at that time of year. I soldiered on, until I finally found a section dedicated to the small track in the middle of October. I slowed my pace now, scanning each race result for any clue to point to Johnny Dornan or even Mack Hodges. And, as a matter of fact, I came across Hodges’s name a couple of times, my heart skipping a beat, but nothing came of those sightings.

  I took a sip of my whiskey and, realizing it was nothing but watery slush, ditched it in the sink and fetched some more stale ice from the freezer. Then I poured with great largesse a second drink for myself and retook my seat at the table. I flipped through several more editions of the paper, sure I was tilting at windmills. There were plenty of races, some involving horses owned by Mack Hodges, but no Johnny. And then there it was. I spilled my drink on the Racing Form.