Dream of The Broken Horses, The

by Bayer-William

  I'm scanning the list of his Board of Directors, when an attractive young woman with a shag cut approaches with a smile.

  "I'm Jane Bailey, Mr. Fulraine's assistant. He's free to see you now."

  As she leads me through the door to the executive suite, she chatters on about how excited Mark was when told I'd stopped by.

  "Soon as he heard, he cut short his meeting and had me clear his calendar for lunch. You'll be eating in our executive dining room. Chef wants to know what you'd like. Lobster, steak, or chicken?"

  I tell her chicken will be fine.

  The floors are plushly carpeted, the furnishings all made of steel, there are abstract designs engraved on steel plates encased in steel frames and abstract steel sculptures scattered about exhibited on steel pedestals.

  Mark greets me from behind an oval, matte-finished steel desk.

  "Dave Rubin!" He grasps hold on both my hands. "Hey, you're looking great, pal!"

  Before I can answer, he's off on a riff about our classmates, some of whom I only vaguely remember.

  "Jock Sturgis is FSI general counsel. He and I roomed together at Yale. Norm Carter's doing great. He's exec v.p. over at Hallowell Paints. Whatever happened to your old buddy — Glickstein?"

  "Jerry Glickman."

  "Yeah, what's Jerry doing these days?"

  "He's professor of orthopedic surgery at Harvard Medical School."

  "I'll be damned! Hope he holds his scalpel steadier than he held the old basketball!"

  He claps my shoulder. "Real glad you stopped by, David. You left so suddenly in the middle of seventh grade. Then your dad..." He shakes his head. "Things work out all right for you in California?"

  "I still live out there. San Francisco now."

  "You went to Stanford, right?"

  "Pratt. That's an art school in New York."

  "Sure, great place! One of our design guys went there. Got kids?"

  I shake my head.

  "I'm sending mine to Hayes, but they'll finish up at boarding schools in the East. My older boy's headed off to Groton in the fall. Get him some of that, you know, Eastern polish."

  All this hail-fellow-well-met stuff makes me want to puke. Also I'm angry with myself for allowing him to lay down the field of play. I decide to cut the bullshit short.

  "I gave my name at the desk as David Rubin," I tell him, "but now I'm David Weiss. When my mother remarried, I took my stepfather's name."

  He stares at me. "I think I heard about that. Can't remember who told me... anyway..."

  Silence. It's brief, last just a couple seconds, but it's deep enough to express the gulf between us, the gulf we could never bridge even when we were kids.

  On the way to the FSI executive dining room, I tell him how I happen to be in town.

  "Courtroom sketch artist, huh? I remember at school you were always drawing up a storm."

  "As I recall you didn't like one of my drawings very much."

  He laughs. "Hell of a fight we had. Do any boxing these days?"

  It's an absurd question, but I politely shake my head.

  "We got a gym downstairs. Occasionally I work out on the light bag. No sparring. Haven't done that since Hayes. Just as soon not get my face messed up. Wife wouldn't like it." He beams.

  We study each other over lunch.

  "We never liked each other much, did we, Mark?"

  He smiles. "I wouldn't put it like that. But, yeah, I know what you mean."

  "Why do you suppose?"

  "Just one of those things, I guess."

  "Still there's a connection, and not just our years at Hayes. We each lost a parent when we were young. You know about the connection between your mother and my dad?"

  He looks uneasy.

  "Dad was a caregiver. "Your mom needed help and my dad tried to give it to her. Later I learned she approached him the same day she met Mr. Jessup."

  He shakes his head. "I don't really want to talk about this, Dave."

  "David," I correct him. "Okay, I understand. But thing is, Mark, since I got here I've been looking into the Flaming killings in my spare time. People seem to know about that. Someone's been around the motel asking about me, and last night on Riverwalk I was attacked by three thugs. It was a warning to lay off."

  He raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

  Studying him, I can't tell a thing. Either he had nothing to do with it, or he's one very cool CEO.

  I describe the attack. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

  He shrugs, but of course he knows exactly what I'm talking about: the very rough Hayes School version of "Capture the Flag." There was a twenty-acre wood on school property where we played. In the Hayes version, when prisoners were taken they could be worked over for information in accordance with certain highly prescribed school rules. You couldn't beat a prisoner to make him talk, but you could haze him in various ways. One way was to blindfold him, then tie him to a tree, then touch hi with something scary like a garden snake. Often just the threat was enough to make a younger boy spill his guts. Another specialty from the list of school-sanctioned tortures was bagging — tying a bag around a prisoner's head, then pushing him around and twirling him till he fell down dizzy and confused. The object was to break your victim, make him cry, then divulge the whereabouts of his team's secreted flag. You couldn't inflict physical injury, but terrorization and humiliation were considered fair. Later, if a student's parents complained, the standard school response was that it was just a form of play, akin to football or murderball, and that such play was essential to instill ‘manliness’ in boys, the highest of all the moral virtues implanted by a "Hayes education."

  "So what's your point?" Mark asks when I remind him of ‘bagging.’

  "Isn't it obvious?"

  He stares into my eyes. "Are you accusing me, David?"

  "Do I have reason to?"

  "Of course not!"

  "Okay, I take you at your word. So, what's Robin up to these days?"

  He shakes his head. "That's a sad story. What happened was terrible for us both. Still I managed to get through it. Robin didn't. You wouldn't recognize him. He takes drugs, shaves his head, wears earrings and tattoos, lives in a ratty house on the edge of Gunktown. Never bothered to fix it up... and believe me, he can afford to. He owns two million shares of FSI."

  I look at him. "Maybe it was him who ambushed me last night."

  "Is this why you're here?"

  "I'm here because I thought it was you."

  "That's not how I'd have handled it. I wouldn't have pulled my punches."

  I laugh. Sure doesn't take much to skim the gloss off of him, I think, ‘that old Eastern polish,’ or whatever the hell he calls it. Apply a little stress and the old money varnish comes right off.

  Maybe he realizes how ridiculous he appears or perhaps he wants to regain his self-respect. Whatever the reason, he meets my stare, then suddenly breaks into a grin.

  "Really had me going there, didn't you?"

  "I'll tell you, Mark, I don't like being bagged and pushed around, reminds me of days I'd just as soon forget. I particularly don't like being threatened with having my hands broken. I make my living with my hands."

  "It won't happen again."

  "That's a guarantee?"

  He nods.

  "Not good enough, Mark. Fist I want to make sure it was Robin. Second, I want to set him straight. By assuring me it won't happen again, you implicate yourself. So where do I find the little fucker?"

  A pause. He looks away. "I'll take you to him," he says.

  * * * * *

  We don't talk much in the limo. Even here in his plush car, Mark appears smaller to me than in his office. Perhaps it's the lack of props, the corporate art collection assembled to glorify the divine might of steel, or maybe it's because of all the obscene Fulraine family secrets I learned from Dad's case study.

  Gunktown's an ugly name for a district that was once one of the glories of Calista, the place you'd automatically think to go if you nee
ded something built by hand. Say you invented a device and needed a prototype to show people how it worked, you'd take your drawings and go to one of the machine shops in Gunktown and they'd make it up for you fast and for a fair price. Machinists there could make anything, people said.

  They called it Gunktown because of the oil and grease that coated everything and stank up the air. The name stuck even when the machine shop days were past. Then, when blacks moved in, the word took on a cruel twist. Gunktown came to mean the people who lived there, ‘gunks,’ people of color, and though it seemed shameful for white folks to even say the word, black leaders flung it about with pride: "Down in Gunktown we don't think much of your honky justice!" Or: "Don't come around Gunktown with your phony liberal bullshit!"

  Our limo pulls up in front of a decaying Victorian house set forty or so feet back behind a grill fence. It looks strange beside its neighbors, which are all built flush to the street. The wood siding was once bright gray; now the peeling paint's the color of dirty steel. And what was once a small front yard is now a patch of brown strewn with discarded rusty machinery and weeds. There's a BEWARE FEROCIOUS DOG sign on the gate beside a profile of a dog's head displaying gnashing jaws. The main part of the house is two stories high surmounted by an off-center turret. The effect is lugubrious, like one of those weird old houses in Charles Adams cartoons.

  Mark turns to me. "Let me talk to him first."

  I watch him as he makes his way through the labyrinth of junk to the front stoop. He pauses at the door, then enters. Unwilling to sit in the car, I start a drawing of the house. Ten minutes later, as I'm finishing work on the turret, Mark steps back into the car.

  "Yeah, it was Robin with a couple of his buddies. This is by way of apology." He hands me a check.

  I look at it. It's signed by Robin, made out to me for five thousand dollars. I hand it back.

  "I don't want this. I want a real apology."

  He seems surprised. "He's very ashamed, David."

  "So now he's trying to buy his way out. Is that how he thinks the world works?"

  "He's not the most stable individual—"

  "He sounded pretty stable when he threatened me last night. I want to see him. With you or without you, I'm going in."

  Mark studies me. He's embarrassed. I meet his eyes and show him I'm serious. Then, to clinch the matter, I tell him that no matter how well meant, Robin's check could be construed as a bribe.

  "To do what?"

  "Stop me from filing an assault charge. Maybe get me to stop looking into the Flamingo killings, too."

  "Just can't leave that alone, can you?"

  "No, sorry, Mark — I can't."

  Together we enter the gate. There are piles of dried dog crap scattered about, and the way the old machinery is cast makes it look like someone emptied one of the old Gunktown shop in the middle of the yard.

  Ascending to the stoop, I'm hit by an odor of uncollected garbage. Mark doesn't ring or knock, just walks straight in. Standing in the center of the front hall, he call upstairs.

  "David's here, Robin. He wants to talk to you. Come on down, okay?"

  After a few moments, I hear the scurrying of animals and then the clump of human feet on the second floor.

  "What's the deal?" Robin yells. "I told you I didn't want to see him."

  "He won't take your check. He wants to talk. He's pretty offended by what you did."

  "Offended, huh?" Robin appears at the top of the stairs along with a pair of mangy black mongrels. He's barefoot, wears baggy sweatpants and a soiled gray T-shirt. He sports an earring on his left ear and his hair's shaved down to his scalp.

  "Hey, Dave!" he speaks shyly.

  "Hey Robin! I'd say ‘long time no see,’ but last night wasn't that long ago."

  "Real sorry about that, Dave. Something weird got into me."

  "David not Dave."

  "Sorry."

  "Seemed pretty well planned to me, Robin. Also like you wanted me to know you or Mark was doing it."

  "That wasn't my intention."

  "I think it was."

  "He doesn't know what he's doing half the time," Mark whispers.

  "Come down, Robin. Let's talk."

  "I'd rather talk from up here, okay?"

  "Okay. Who told you I was ‘nosing around’?"

  Robin's eyes moved to Mark. "Just something we heard."

  I look over at Mark. "We?"

  Mark looks away. "A friend mentioned it at a dinner party. He heard it from Spencer Deval."

  Him again!

  I gaze into Mark's eyes. "So last night Robin wasn't acting on his own. You were both involved."

  "That's about it," Robin confirms.

  "You guys must think I'm pretty stupid."

  "Look," Mark says, "we've both been through a lot. First our baby sister, then our mom. We don't need all that dredged up again."

  "Don't you want to know who killed your mom?"

  "Cody did it. Everyone knows that."

  "Nobody who knew Cody thinks he did it. There are other suspects. Don't you care?"

  "I do," Robin says.

  I turn to him. "Then help me, Robin. You're not going to feel good about yourself till you clear this thing up."

  Robin, enticed by my plea, clumps down the stairs followed by his mutts.

  "Hey, David!" He offers me his hand. "I'm real sorry, man. Mark said call you, warn you off. The ambush was my idea. I thought it'd be fun, like those games we used to play in the woods."

  Up close he looks cadaverous. There are big circles under his eyes, multiple piercings in his eyebrows, and I notice what could be track marks amidst the crude tattoos on his scrawny arms. Like his brother, he has his father's squared-off jaw and powerful brow, but unlike Mark his features are softened by his mother's seductive eyes and sensitively modeled lips. His skin, too, is darker than Mark's. Like Blackjack's, I think.

  "Forget about it," I tell him. "No serious damage. I've got a slightly cut lip and a sore set of ribs which I could've gotten playing football. Remember what coach Lafferty used to tell us. ‘Just ignore the pain, boys — it's part of the game.’

  Robin laughs. "What an asshole he was!" After a moment, Mark starts laughing too.

  We adjourn to the living room — if you can call it that. It's a mess: a ratty old dorm-style couch with exposed stuffing and easy chairs with broken springs; piles of discarded newspapers strewn about; clusters of crusted Styrofoam coffee cups; unwashed glasses with strangely colored residues adhering to their bottoms.

  When we're seated, I turn to Robin. "What're you trying to cover up?"

  Mark leans forward. "There's nothing to cover," he says.

  "Shut up, Mark! I'm talking to your brother."

  To my surprise he obeys.

  "Mark's right. There's nothing." Robin speaks softly.

  Listening to him, I realize that despite his unkempt appearance and the grubby way he lives, he's a much more interesting person than Mark, more vulnerable, more likeable too.

  I look over at Mark. He meets my stare.

  "Even if there was, it wouldn't be any of your business," he says.

  "David's dad tried to help Mom," Robin reminds him.

  "Not all that well, considering what happened."

  I turn back to Robin. Mark, I understand, cannot be reached. He's the same cold WASPy son of a bitch who hit me a low blow in lower school. But Robin's accessible. Sure, he's screwed up, but he's also got some heart. I like his face, the hurt I see in it, would like to draw it if I get the chance. Mark's smooth, American aristocrat's face doesn't interest me at all.

  Deciding there's nothing more to be gained by sitting around, I suggest it's time for me to leave. Mark springs to his feet. It's obvious he hates this house and can barely stand his brother. Robin and I shake hands, then he spontaneously grasps me in a hug.

  "You're a good guy, David," he says, holding me tight. "I'm sorry. I really am."

  As I hug him back, I catch a smirk on Mark's
face. Then just before Robin and I disengage, Robin speaks into my ear in the same raw whisper he used last night: "Mom left a diary and I've got it. Call me."

  An awkward moment as the three of us stand silent beside the door. Then Mark and I leave, the brothers not touching or even bothering to say good-bye.

  * * * * *

  Mark drops me at the Townsend. From the lobby, I step into Waldo's for a beer.

  At the bar, Sylvie Brown, the black reporter, catches my eye.

  "How they hangin’, David?" She picks up her glass, moves to the stool next to mine. "Deval's telling everyone you're a rude boy."

  "I probably am."

  "At the risk of inciting more rudeness, would you be willing to do some drawings for my book? Portraits of the principal media types sitting around in here. You know, different cliques at different tables. Also couples like you and Pam who met and paired off during the trial. Might be fun for you, chance to do a job on certain folks."

  I know just the kind of portraits she has in mind. Listening to her, I can see the finished drawings in my head. She's right, they would be fun to do, and Waldo's would make the perfect setting.

  "Intriguing notion," I tell her. "I'll see what I can work up."

  * * * * *

  On my way upstairs. I pick up my messages. After a quick shower in my room, I start returning calls.

  Jürgen Hoff tells me his lady friend is game to pose.

  "She's excited about it. The way I imagine it, she'll be sprawled out on her bed."

  "Then the bed should be unmade," I tell him. "Think of Manet's Olympia. I see rumpled sheets."

  We arrange to meet at the lady's apartment Sunday evening when Jürgen's restaurant is closed.

  Next I return a call from Chip Rakoubian. He tells me he's spoken with his mother and she's agreed to talk to me. Since she's crippled, confined to home, he suggests I meet him at the Rathskeller at five tomorrow afternoon. He'll drive me over to the house, introduce us, then leave us alone.

  "She's got a little quirk," he tells me. "I think I mentioned she used to be a professional dominatrix. Thing is she still enjoys the role... so it'd be nice if you'd be extra respectful and address her as ‘Ma'am’."