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

EPILOGUE

Freddie Whitcomb contacted me several times after my Saturday night humiliation at the gala fundraiser. In fact, we had a coffee together on the terrace of the Gideon Putnam Hotel the day before he was to leave for Virginia. If I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit that I agreed to meet there in the hopes that his mother might stumble upon us. I even entertained the idea of letting him have his way with me in his room, on the off chance Georgina might catch us in flagrante. But, in the end, I liked Freddie too much to toy with him that way. I preferred to think of myself as a generous soul when it came to forgiving the shortcomings of others, but I knew that I granted few second chances. Especially to men who’d had their wicked will of me. But maybe someday, I thought as I watched him sip his tea on that late-August afternoon. That made me smile.

“So when will I see you again?” he asked as I climbed into my car in front of the hotel.

“How about Friday afternoon?”

“Sure,” he said, positively beaming at me. “I can delay my departure. Where are we going?”

“To services at the Congregation of Israel in New Holland,” I said, thinking of Issur Jacobs and his invitation.

Freddie turned white. Whiter than a ghost. Whiter than a WASP. I patted his hand and said I was only kidding. Then I caught a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror as I drove off. He looked perplexed. And miserable, poor thing. I certainly wished him no pain, even if our affair had ended up hurting me more than he would ever know. I wondered how I would react if I ran into him the following August at the racecourse.

I dragged Fadge along on a mission to Saratoga a few days after the August meet ended. As he zoomed along Route 67, past Tempesta Farm, I asked him how he’d fared for the month.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“How much did you win?”

He frowned. “You’re looking at this all wrong, El. Like I told you, it’s not about the short term. I’m in this for the long haul.”

“You’re not going to sit there and tell me that you lost.”

“Not much. About seven hundred.”

“Seven hundred? You were up three grand on one day.”

“I had a run of bad luck the last week. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

I lectured him for a few miles, even though he’d warned me several times to spare him all judgment.

He shook his head finally. “You don’t get it. Robbie was born unlucky,” he said, referring to his brother. “I’m not wasting my chance.”

And I let it go. For whatever reason, Fadge loved the chase. He wanted to be in the game, and not just for pennies. He was after the big payoff. And I truly believed it wasn’t for the money alone. It was the lifestyle. The sense of purpose. And maybe even for his brother. The pursuit of winning was at least as much of a pull as the money on the other end of the ticket. And even when he lost, as he did that August, he enjoyed himself more than at any other time of the year. Despite my concerns for his financial well-being, I envied him his passion.

As we entered the Spa City, I remarked that the glamour seemed to have faded with the exodus of the out-of-towners after the last race. He had to agree.

“This place isn’t so different from New Holland once August ends,” he said. “A little smaller, maybe. And some nice history. But it’s only the racetrack that sets it apart these days.”

“Still, it’s a world away from New Holland. Might as well be Paris.”

He nodded.

“Turn here,” I said, and Fadge took a right. “That’s the place up ahead. Robinson’s High Life Tavern.”

He threw me one of his perplexed looks. “This is the Colored section of town,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not lost?”

“I owe someone dance lessons at Arthur Murray’s.”

Horace Robinson was behind the bar when we entered. The patrons regarded us with mild curiosity, but soon enough returned to their own business. To my surprise, Fadge and Horace knew each other. Quite well, in fact. Horace, it turned out, was one of Fadge’s regular clockers at the track. One of the guys who shared information and tips for a modest fee or the occasional drink.

“You know this lady, Ronnie?” asked the proprietor, indicating me.

“She’s in love with me. I’ve been trying to let her down easy.”

I poked him in the ribs. Hard.

“Why did you tell me you didn’t know anyone named Robinson?” I asked Fadge.

“I didn’t know, I swear. I only know Horace by his first name.”

Horace confirmed Fadge’s version of events, then turned his attention to me. “And you. I’ve been waiting on you to deliver me my dance lessons certificate.”

“Here it is,” I said, holding out an envelope. “I can’t wait to see your moves.”

“Young lady,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I do my dancing between the sheets.”

I surely blushed.

When I wrote the final story on the Johnny Dornan case, I did something I wasn’t too proud of. I left Lou Fleischman’s name out of the race-fixing scandal. I tried to convince myself that I had no corroborating witnesses to Johnny’s claim that Lou had been in on the scheme. But, in fact, Lou himself had confirmed his involvement. So why did I give him a break?

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Lou as we sat on the porch in front of Grossman’s Victoria Hotel. He was smoking a forbidden cigarette, and I was enjoying a gin and tonic.

“You’re not going to thank me,” I said. “That would imply a quid pro quo. I did what I did for my own journalistic reasons. Not for you.”

He gaped at me, clearly unsure of