A Stone's Throw James Ziskin (no david read aloud txt) 📖

outfit. “Go put on something flowery, summery, will you? You’re going to the clubhouse, not a pool hall.”

Mildly insulted by his insinuation about my dress, I nevertheless resisted the urge to ask him which way to the bandstand. Instead I ran across the street and pulled off my work clothes and searched my closet for something appropriate for the social set. Several competing factors prevented a simple choice. For one, some of my dresses were at the cleaners. For another, much of my wardrobe was several years out of date, at least for the crowd we would encounter in the clubhouse at Saratoga. And some of my nicer things were better suited for fall or winter. On top of that, I was expected to live up to Fadge’s sartorial splendor and not embarrass him. What about him embarrassing me?

I’d already packed my evening gown for the gala fundraiser, a green fitted bodice and flowing chiffon skirt that I’d only worn once—for a New Year’s Eve date—and not for very long at that. But now I needed a daytime outfit. Rifling through the clothes on the rod, sliding the hangers back and forth and losing hope by the second, I remembered a shirred white skirt with bluebells. It was three years old, but it might do for a day at the races. That satisfied Fadge’s requirement for flowery. Now for something summery. I found a sleeveless pale-blue blouse that matched the skirt nicely, but there was a large red-wine stain at the waist, the enduring memory of an eager date who’d attempted to fold me in a passionate embrace just as I raised a glass of Burgundy to my lips. The wine ended up in my lap. He, alas, did not. Paint me old fashioned, but I believed the dinner table was an inappropriate setting for amorous exertions. I dug a wide white belt out of the closet, and it covered the offending stain with barely an inch to spare. A pair of white gloves completed my ensemble, and I was ready to match Fadge thread for thread.

Twenty minutes later, we were racing down Route 67 single file in our respective cars. Fadge led the way, driving quite fast, occasionally cutting across the double-yellow line to straighten out the gentle curves of the road and shorten his journey by a couple of feet. Even as a driver, he was lazy and careless.

Traffic was snarled and aggressive in Saratoga, but we managed to find parking on the most expensive lawn in town. We nabbed the last two spots at ten dollars apiece. I nearly wept at the price as I parked my car. But Fadge, big shot that he was, didn’t blink. Once he’d pulled the brake, though, he realized there was no room for him to dismount from the passenger side due to the tight quarters. I rolled my eyes and climbed back into my car to switch spaces with him. Still, it was a tight squeeze for him to get out, and by the time he had, he was sweating buckets in his striped coat.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said without irony, and we made our way across Union Avenue to the racecourse.

After Fadge had placed his wagers and stuffed a stack of betting slips the size of a deck of cards into his jacket pockets, we took our seats in a clubhouse box, located about halfway down the homestretch.

“How did you swing this?” I asked.

“I had a pretty good day Monday. And yesterday, too,” he said, peering at the starting gate through a pair of binoculars. “Three and a half grand buys a lot of box seats, even on Travers Day.”

“Why is there no one else in this box with us? How much did you spend on this?”

He told me not to worry about it.

“You bought the entire box just for us,” I said to accuse.

The subtle blink and pursing of his lips confirmed my suspicions. I despaired for his profligacy. He’d better keep winning, I thought, or he was going to end up in the poorhouse.

He didn’t win the first race. A horse named Brass did and paid $4.30 to win. And Fadge didn’t win the second race either. In fact, he was on a losing streak that stretched to the fourth race. He didn’t seem concerned. I remembered Freddie telling me that betting on the horses required patience and discipline, two qualities not normally associated with Ron “Fadge” Fiorello.

Fadge was absorbed in his Racing Form, making the final tweaks to his fifth-race betting strategy, so I scanned the crowd, taking in the ladies’ dresses and hats. Everyone looked happy and rich. No one in the clubhouse was risking the rent payment on the next race. These folks had plenty of money. For them, the horses were more a social function than a gaming one. Next door in the grandstand, the dress code was more relaxed, but not the atmosphere. The bets may have been lower on the other side of the railing, but the stakes were so much higher. Too many of those people needed to win. Losing was a luxury reserved for the rich.

Back in the clubhouse, my eyes came to rest on the pretty blonde I’d seen with Freddie the day before. She was about twenty yards away, but I could see that she’d done some sunbathing since. Her tanned cheeks and arms gave her a glow of beauty and health that I envied. Especially when I spied Freddie sidestepping into the box bearing two tall drinks—gin and tonics, if I was any judge of liquor. And I was, even at twenty paces. Freddie handed one drink to the girl then took the seat next to her. They clinked their glasses, turned to face the track below, and sipped their refreshments.

Not far away, a familiar greasy head of hair and scalp was bowed over one of those mimeographed tip sheets that the handicappers sell at the front gate. It was George Walsh. A goo of