Dream of The Broken Horses, The

by Bayer-William

  "How will you narrow the list?"

  "Talk to more people, reinterview a few. There're still lots of loose ends. If Dad had something to do with the Flamingo, I have to know. If he didn't, I need to know that, too."

  She nods. "This is why you're doing all this. this is why you've come home. Now I understand."

  * * * * *

  Pam, up at dawn, asks if I'd like to accompany her to the penthouse gym. Feeling lazy, I decline. After she leaves, I go back down to my room, shower, then finish the drawing I was working on when Deval interrupted me at the bar. It's a moody sketch full of long late-afternoon shadows, with Dad nearly lost in the dark interior of his car and, in the background, the half-closed blinds of room 201 reflecting back brilliant light.

  As I work on Dad's features, seeking an appropriate expression, I darken his face more and more. What was he feeling that day? Anger? Bafflement? Frustrated lust? Or did a look of cunning enter his eyes and turn the corner of his upper lip?

  Unable to decide, I finally render him in silhouette, then finish up with some detail work on his car, a dark blue Volvo, so appropriate for a shrink, so sensible and well-engineered yet so unrevealing of its owner, an analyst's classic ‘empty vessel’ beckoning his analysands to fill as their transference fantasies would permit.

  The Foster trial won't begin for another hour, giving me time to draw the scene in Dad's office, the one described at the end of his truncated paper: Barbara on the couch, one hand thrust beneath her skirt, mouth twisted as she spills out her fantasies, while Dad sits listening with weary patience behind.

  Except, of course, that I only have his word as to how he listened to her.

  I try another version, this time depicting Barbara with her skirt raised to her waist, labia visible as she manipulates herself with her hand. In this sketch, her expression's lascivious, the Great Seductress at work. And Dad: I draw him as a poor schmuck seducee tormented by her ravings.

  These images, each contradicting the other, fill me with despair. Better, I think, to concentrate on setting the scene, rendering Dad's office as best I can recall it — his oriental carpet, reproduction English desk, china vase lamp, dark-stained shelves groaning beneath psychiatric texts, quartet of diplomas clustered in a neat rectangle on the wall. I even work in the collection of primitive masks he displayed opposite his recliner, to which his analysands, in search of self-knowledge, could conveniently free-associate.

  The room phone rings. It's Pam asking if I'd like to walk over to the courthouse.

  "I'm in the elevator. I'll pick you up," she says.

  A few moments later, she knocks on my door. I open it, prepared to slip out, but then she asks if she can come inside.

  "Just for a minute," she says. "I haven't been in here since the day I bribed the maid."

  She goes straight to the wall where I've posted my Flamingo drawings.

  "David, these are wild!"

  I show her the sketches I made this morning. Her first reaction is amazement that I've mounted my head on Dad's body.

  I show her the photo of him taped to my bureau mirror beside my Kate Evans eyewitness sketch.

  "Yeah, you're definitely spitting images of one another." She turns to me. "These drawings, David — they're so bleak and full of shadows. That's how you see all this, isn't it?"

  "Well, it's a pretty dark story, don't you think?"

  * * * * *

  Outside the hotel, it's blistering hot. The short walk to the courthouse raises a gloss of sweat upon our brows.

  "The honchos who flew in yesterday want to pull me out." Although Pam speaks with studied carelessness, I pick up on her stress.

  "Why? You're doing a great job. According to Harriet, you're blowing us away."

  "Your drawings are stronger than Wash's."

  "Big deal! That evens things out."

  "It's not that they don't like my reporting, David. They like it too much. They think I'm wasted here. They want to try me in an anchor position. I've got mixed feelings about that."

  "You'd make a great anchor," I tell her. "Probably triple your income, too."

  "Double's more like it. But that'll mean moving back to New York. And I love reporting. I'm not ready yet to give it up." She stops on the corner. "I told them I'd have to think it over. They didn't look happy. They're not used to being turned down. My agent says if I refuse, they'll regard me with contempt. Like who turns down a big raise and regular national exposure? I'd have to be a jerk to do that, right?"

  She turns to me, hugs me tight. Hugging her back, I feel her small, hard body tremble against my chest.

  "I'm so sorry," she says, breaking from our embrace. "I didn't mean to go squishy on you. Now I've got to get my hair and makeup done."

  "Let's have lunch, talk it through."

  "Sure, lunch!" she says cheerily, striding off toward the CNN trailer in the alley.

  * * * * *

  Today's court session is typically dull until Kit Foster's lawyer, launching into his cross-examination of Caleb Meadows's manager, introduces the notion of a stalker. I find myself electrified. Dad, in Pam's words, “stalked’ Barbara, and several anonymous letters implicit with threat, including one containing a condom, were received by her in the weeks before she was killed.

  Suddenly everything is cutting too close.

  I quickly finish my drawings and hand them off to Harriet, then find Pam on a bench in the corridor finishing up a call. As we walk into Plato's, a lawyers hangout two blocks from the courthouse, she tells me that after we parted this morning she spoke again with her agent.

  "He wants me to come to New York, says it's time to put me into play. I'll do my afternoon stand-up, then take the early evening flight. Starret's got a temp reporter flying in. I'll be gone through the weekend at least."

  "So your agent's going to shop you around. Reporter or anchor?"

  "Either or both. High bidder gets the girl."

  "You'll go with the money?"

  "In this business that's the only way to go."

  Pam's not squishy now; she's tough and on a roll. I think she's right, and I tell her so.

  She reaches for my hand, leans over her plate of spanakopita, and plants a kiss upon my palm.

  "I'm really glad I hooked up with you."

  "We have a lot of fun."

  "Will continue to, I hope."

  "Let's see how thins play out."

  She winces. "I'm not a location-affair-type person, David. I'm a relationship girl." She grins. "Anyway, no matter what happens in New York, I'll be back to finish out this gig. And, if you let me, to stay here with you until you finish yours."

  * * * * *

  With Judge Winterson's decision to devote the afternoon to an evidentiary hearing, I find myself with nothing to draw. Fine with me; my hand's tired. Already today I've executed three dramatic courtrooms sketches plus three fantasy drawings based on Dad's case study.

  As I'm making my way on foot down Spencer Avenue toward Harp, the sky darkens, then suddenly lets loose. Within seconds the street gutter becomes a stream. I run the final block to the Doubleton Building then dash into the lobby soaked and out of breath.

  The black elevator attendant with jaundiced eyes sadly shakes his head.

  "You're one wet doggy," he tells me. "You got a minute, I'll fetch you a towel."

  Nice man. The towel he brings me isn't all that clean, but I use it anyway then tip him a couple bucks. On the ride up to the seventh floor, I use my fingers to smooth down my hair.

  I'm making my way along the corridor toward PHOTOS BY MAX, when I suddenly halt, caught by the words MARITZ INVESTIGATIONS neatly painted at chest level on a pebbled glass door.

  Walter M. Maritz: That was the name of the former-cop-turned-private-investigator hired by Andrew Fulraine to build a dossier on the promiscuity of his ex-wife, the same Maritz who confessed to Mace Bartel that he'd gone straight to Barbara to warn her and sell his client out.

  Calista, a city of over half a millio
n people, must have at least two hundred office buildings downtown. Isn't it a neat coincidence, I think, that private investigator Maritz and bust-in photographer Rakoubian not only worked from the same building but also from the same floor?

  Though undergroomed for an office visit, I knock on the door. A short, dumpy, middle-aged Asian woman opens up. She peers at me through half-moon spectacles.

  "Is the Walter Maritz's agency?" I ask.

  "This is Maritz Investigations," she says. "Mr. Maritz is retired."

  "But this was his firm?"

  "Were you acquainted with Mr. Maritz?"

  "I'd like to talk to him. Can you tell me where he is?"

  "He moved to Florida. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that."

  I show her my courthouse press pass and my Society of Forensic Scientists ID. She studies them a moment, introduces herself as Karen Lee and invites me in.

  No seedy private eye's clutter here, rather a minimalist décor — stark filing cabinets, steel desks, Singapore Airlines calendar on the wall, and a large white formica conference table where three young Asian males, each facing a computer screen, continue whatever they're doing without looking up.

  Karen copies Maritz's Sarasota retirement address on the back of a business card.

  "I bought the agency from him two years ago for the lease and the goodwill," she tells me. "The lease was okay. The goodwill didn't exist." She pauses. "We don't do the same kind of work as Mr. Maritz."

  "What kind was that?"

  "Gumshoe." She snickers.

  "And you?"

  She gestures toward the young men at the consoles. "We locate people using electronic resources."

  "Interesting."

  "Are you looking for someone, Mr. Weiss?"

  "Suppose a woman worked at Merrill Lynch in New York twenty-six years ago. She might be married now, she might not. Could you find her from her maiden name?"

  "If she's alive, we can find her. That's what we do. A search like that will run you two to four hundred dollars, depending on how long it takes."

  I give her Susan Pettibone's name, then write out a check for two hundred as a deposit.

  Karen Lee escorts me to the door. I turn to her as I'm about to leave.

  "Walter Maritz had an associate."

  "Yes, a Mr. O'Neill. He didn't fit in with our concept so we let him go. The business has changed. We don't use any of Mr. Maritz's people. When we find Ms. Pettibone, I'll give you a call."

  * * * * *

  This time the door to the reception room of PHOTOS BY MAX is open. I figure Chip hears me, because a moment after I enter I hear the blowtorch in the inner studio shut off.

  "Someone out there?"

  "It's David Weiss, Chip. Gotta minute?"

  "Sure, come in. Watch the pigeon shit."

  Chip, welder visor up, wearing a grungy, gray tanktop, picks up a broom and makes menacing motions toward a trio of pigeons perched on his windowsill.

  "Shoo! Shoo!" he yells, waving the broom. "Fuckin' rats with wings," he calls after them.

  Though I took in his sculpture during my first visit, this time, I find, I'm unable to pull my eyes away.

  "What do you think?" Chip asks.

  "Strong work," I tell him.

  He smiles; he likes that. "Couple more weeks of welding before it's finished."

  "Then what?"

  "Out to the synagogue for the installation. She'll weather nicely, I think. I'll leave her a little ragged here and there. I'm working for a sense of timelessness."

  "You old man's why I'm here, Chip. I'm hearing stories that don't match up. You told me he was a fine photographer. No one disputes that. But they're some who say he did bust-in work, in flagrante photographs."

  "I don't know what that means."

  "It's Latin for “in the act.’ Say a couple of lovers are making it in a motel room, then suddenly Max bursts in. Flash-zap! He's got proof that can be used against them in, say, a custody battle, or used to make them pay blackmail so the pictures won't be shown around."

  Chris scratches his head. "I heard the old man did stuff like that."

  "Sort of a far cry from gorgeous still lifes of shiny objects."

  He shrugs. "What can I tell you? Dad was an all-around photographer. He did what he had to do to support his family."

  "Did he know Walter Maritz?"

  "The PI down the hall? Sure, he and Walt were old friends."

  "Did they work together on the bust-in stuff?"

  "You know, David, I think you ought to talk to my mom about this. She may be able to help you."

  "I would definitely like to talk to your mom. I'd also like to see your father's Fessé album."

  Chip is fine with both requests. He'll speak to his mother, set up a meeting, and leave word for me at the hotel."

  * * * * *

  There are messages from Mace and Kate Evans at the desk. From my room, I call Mace first.

  "That case study — quite a document," he says. "Puts your dad in a whole different light."

  "Does it put him on your suspect list?"

  "Does it put him on yours?"

  "You know as much as I do, Mace."

  "Yeah. Too bad he didn't finish writing up his case. Too bad he killed himself just at the pivotal point."

  I know what he's thinking — that Dad took his life because he couldn't cope with writing down what finally occurred between him and Mrs. F.

  "What strikes me," Mace continues, "is he wrote this after she was dead. He mentions that she was killed at the start. Obviously he was a very troubled man. It's like he was trying to make sense of everything that happened, but hard as he tried, he couldn't manage it. That makes me feel sorry for the guy."

  Hearing that, I'm gratified. Mace is showing himself to be a lot more sensitive than he lets on.

  "Those footnotes are amazing," he says.

  "Dad's old training analyst says that's where his madness shows."

  "I don't know about madness, but I don't think he killed her."

  "You're not saying that to make me feel better?"

  "I'm saying it because it's what I think. What happened between them may have been crazy, but it wasn't murderous-crazy. Call it a cop's hunch."

  "Well, thank you... because that does make me feel better."

  And I continue to feel good after I put down the phone.

  I pull a vodka out of the room minibar, pour it over some ice, then call Kate Evans.

  "The man who was asking about you, he's been around again," she tells me. "Johnny didn't tell him anything of course."

  She says Johnny will be on duty tomorrow one to five. I ask her to tell him I'll be dropping by.

  "David, about that sketch we did — I wasn't that helpful, was I?"

  "That remains to be seen."

  "He looked a lot like you. I realized that after you left."

  "That happens sometimes, Kate. People get faces mixed up. Or else they forget what someone looked like and end up describing the artist."

  "I don't think I did that — describe you, I mean. But the other thing—"

  "What?"

  "Getting faces mixed up."

  "Yes?"

  "I think that could've been what happened — I got two people confused."

  11

  It's a little past one-thirty when I reach the Flamingo. The area seems quieter than usual. There's some late lunch action in Moe's but the drapes at the Shanghai Sapphire are tightly drawn, suggesting one of those cheerless Chinese places where the cook overused MSG and the cornstarch-thickened sauces are way too sweet.

  I check the pool area. A couple of teenage girls are splashing about in the deep end. I find Johnny in the office behind the reception desk staring at the lounge TV.

  "Howdy," Johnny says. "Kate told me you'd be around. Said you want me to describe that fella came in asking ‘bout you again. Can't tell you much. Like I said before, he had a cop's way about him. You know — a stache and a cheap suit." Johnny scratc
hes his head. "Come to think of it, he didn't have a stache. Just seemed like the type."

  Johnny's eager to have me start on a drawing, but as soon as he begins talking, I realize nothing's going to come of it. Everything he says is too general and ambiguous, much like his statement that the man had a mustache and then that he didn't.

  "I don't know, Mr. Weiss. He was kinda average. No distinguishing marks or features. I'd put his age between forty and fifty, maybe fifty-five. He was medium built, medium high give or take an inch, two, or three. Eye color?" Johnny shrugs. "Didn't catch any color in them. Mouth? Man's mouth. You wouldn't mistake it for a woman's. Skin kinda rough and there were pouches beneath his eyes. Clean-shaven, I know that. Don't know why I thought he had a stache." He pauses. "One thing for sure, though. The guy smokes. His clothes stank of it."

  Johnny looks away. He's embarrassed. As much as he'd like to help, he can't describe the man. It's as if there was nothing memorable about him. I've dealt with witnesses who've had the same trouble, and often it turned out it wasn't their fault. The subject's appearance was so neutral there really wasn't anything to describe. In such cases, however closely I'd follow the witness's description, I'd always end up with the same useless drawing, a nothing blah sketch of a nothing blah face I've come to call ‘Mr. Potato Head.’

  Driving back downtown, I find myself checking my rearview mirror. And even though I don't notice anyone following, I have the distinct feeling someone is.