The Dream of the Broken Horses (50 page)

"H
e must have done it for Waldo," I tell Mace. "You read Barbara's diary. That's the only explanation."

We're heading back downtown. The sun beats harshly on the streets. A group of children, clustered around an open fire hydrant, play in the stream of water. Mace, driving, stares straight ahead. After a burst of exuberance back at O'Neill's, he's gone morose and silent.

"I know what you're thinking," I tell him. "A sketch based on a fifteen-second glimpse recollected after twenty-six years—any defense attorney could tear that to shreds. And even if Kate Evans looks at my sketch and says, 'Yeah, that's the guy!' it won't do you any good. She already worked with me, so she's contaminated."

Mace grins. "So what am I left with, David? An uncorroborated ID by a sleazy ex-cop who only happened to be there because he was trying to blackmail one of the victims. Two unrelated crimes taking place at the same time. Three if you count what Cody did to the
Steadmans
. Not to mention that Jessup and Barbara were up to their ears in that, too. I tell you, I could really puke. But I'd still like to nail Deval."

He takes me to a dark, working-class pub in Irontown that smells strongly of ale. A Forgers-White Sox game is playing on the TV. A small group of out-of-work laborers sit in gloom at the bar gazing up at the screen. We order beers, carry them to a booth, then stare past one another trying to figure out what to do.

I'm the one who breaks the silence.

"Waldo must have thought he was in an impossible position—his threat to expose Barbara's new affair to Andrew balanced by
her
threat to expose his blackmail schemes. A stalemate based on the prospect of mutually assured destruction. But a stalemate wasn't good enough for Waldo."

Mace scratches his goatee. "So he turns to his flunky, Deval, gets him to be his triggerman. How? What did he have to offer Deval to get him to do a thing like that?"

"Only Deval knows and he won't be telling." I try to cheer Mace up. "The way I feel about it, even if there's never an indictment, there're other ways to bring a guy like that down. Like a wrongful death suit by the Fulraine boys. Rumors, disgrace, all the stuff Waldo was afraid of."

"Yeah, that'd be nice, I guess . . . but me, I'd prefer an indictment."

When he goes to the bar to fetch us two more beers, I turn toward the window. The strong light outside is nearly blinding. Suddenly I flash on a possible motive. When Mace comes back, I try it out on him:

"According to the rumors, when Waldo met Deval he was a hustler on
DaVinci
. Waldo cleaned him up, then sent him to England for a year to learn how to talk. They lived together, Deval acting as Waldo's errand boy. Then there came a time when Deval started getting co-writer credit on Waldo's column. In smaller letters, of course, but still a byline. So I'm wondering—could that be what Waldo had to offer?"

"Kill two people for a byline?"

"Not a bad deal if you're hungry enough. Think about it: Tough Street Kid gets his hooks into Toney Society Columnist. Columnist picks up tab while Kid learns social graces. Then when Columnist feels threatened, Kid exacts his price: He'll do dirty job Columnist doesn't have the stomach for, in exchange for an assured future. He'll receive co-byline on future columns, inherit column when Columnist retires, plus house and fortune when Columnist dies. That's a deal a guy without too many scruples could go for."

Mace nods. "I'll check when Deval started getting the byline. But even if it was right after Flamingo, it won't make for any kind of evidence." He stares at the TV above the bar. "Still, it's nice finally to know, I guess."

T
o finally know may be nice for him, but it's far from enough for me. I want Deval to
know
I know
,
want nothing less than to see him wriggle and flinch.

I drop into Waldo's at 4:00 P.M. No sign of him, but Tony assures me he'll be in soon.

"He stops by every afternoon to drink and finish up his column." Tony sniffs. "Just like Waldo always did."

I hang around the bar working on sketches for Sylvie's book. At 4:30 Deval shows up—slack mouth, shiny pate, crested navy blazer, yellow polka-dot silk ascot draped around his neck.

I watch him as he makes his way across the room, stopping at various tables to pat an important back or whisper into a receptive ear. Finally, with territorial confidence, he sits down at the table beneath Waldo's portrait, orders a drink, places a black leather-bound notebook on the table, whips out his cell phone, leans back, and starts making calls.

I turn on my bar stool to face him, expose a fresh page, and begin to draw.

It doesn't take long for him to notice me. When he figures out what I'm doing, he reacts with a mild look of surprise. Then he summons the waiter, whispers something, and the waiter approaches me.

"Mr. Deval asks if you'd like to join him?" I look at Deval, shrug, pick up my drink, and move to his table.

"If you must draw me, old boy, at least do it up close," he says, showing me his best ironic eyebrow-twitching grin. "To what nefarious purpose do I owe this exquisite honor? For, to be frank, old boy, I've had the impression you've been studiously avoiding me."

I hide my revulsion at the highfalutin way he talks.

"Why Spencer! How could you think such a thing when all this time I've been in awe?"

He grins a little more to show me he's amused.

"What fascinates me is your role as arbiter here," I continue, wanting to puff him up with flattery so he'll be all ripe and juicy for the fall.

"But why draw
me,
old boy? What're you up to?"

Continuing to sketch, I tell him I'm doing drawings for Sylvie's book, and that he, being the local media guru, will be among the more prominently featured personalities.

A skeptical smile curls his lip.

"You wouldn't be intending to do me in, would you? Making me out to be the barroom buffoon?"

Since that's precisely what I'm intending, I show him my sketch. "See for yourself."

"Pretty mean," he says, studying my cartoon. "Got a real chip on your shoulder, don't you, old boy? Truly I don't mind being caricatured, but you needn't deny me my good looks." He grins again.

This is the moment.

"You were a lot prettier in the old days," I say, laying down the sketch I made with Jerry O'Neill.

He gapes at my drawing. "What the hell is that?"

"That's how you looked just after you killed the lovers at Flamingo. That's the expression on your face when you paused like a frozen deer in the parking lot across the street."

He stares at me. I can see he's shaken. "You're even nuttier than I thought. What're you trying to pull, Weiss? Going to let me in on the game?"

"It's not a game," I assure him. "I have this from an eye witness. Barbara was going to spread it around you'd been a hustler, Waldo didn't want that, so he had you kill her."

He feigns amusement. "Go on with your fantasy. I'm dying to hear it all."

"You marched in there and shot them. You thought no one saw you, but someone did. What I'm wondering is what Waldo gave you in return. Was it the byline? Did he promise you his column?"

Now he glares at me, pure fury in his eyes. "Don't know what you're up to, old boy. But if it's nasty you want, nasty's what you'll get."

I laugh. "Oh, gosh—the wicked columnist! What are you going to do? Slay me with your pen? Maybe a threat like that worked back in Waldo's time, but no more, Deval. Now it just sounds silly."

"How 'bout I sue you for every cent you've got?"

"I'd welcome a lawsuit. It'd be a pleasure to put you on the stand and watch you lie."

He snaps his cell phone shut, notebook too, sits back and studies me, weighing his options. Then, suddenly, he regains his composure. His fury abates, replaced by a crafty smile.

Watching the change, I find myself admiring his cool, wondering too what's going on in his mind. I see him clearly now. He's a totally self-invented creature who plays others as if they're instruments. When you don't respond to one tune, he adjusts, tries another.

"We have a lot to talk about," he says. "But this isn't the time or place. Suppose we get together later in the evening? Eight o'clock all right?"

"Sure."

"I'll pick you up in front of the hotel. Then we'll go someplace quiet and have it out."

"Should I bring a weapon?"

He smiles. "You've nothing to fear. But by all means bring one if it'll make you feel more comfortable, old boy."

P
am thinks I'm mad to go out alone with him.

"I know you think he's a coward," she says, "but if he killed those people he's dangerous."

"He
did
kill them. But he won't harm me. If he does you can tell Mace who did it."

"Is that supposed to comfort me?"

I pat her cheek. "Just think of yourself as my insurance policy. I promise I'll check in with you when I get back."

S
pencer pulls up on time in front of the Townsend in a big, black vintage Jag, the grand old kind with beautifully curved panels, finely restored chrome work, whitewall tires, and acres of nice-smelling interior wood and leather. The car, I think, perfectly suits his self-image—rich, luxurious, quintessentially British. A gentleman's car . . . except, of course, we both know Spencer's no kind of gentleman.

"Great Jag," I compliment him, strapping myself in.

"Isn't it? It was Waldo's. He used to call it 'Black Beauty.' "

"Part of your inheritance?"

"You know a lot about me."

"I've been studying you for weeks."

"Well, I'm flattered, old boy. I truly am."

He grins, then pulls into traffic. We drive through Irontown, then he turns into an unlit alley and stops.

"Nothing to fear. I'm just going to pat you down. Must make sure you're not wired, you know."

He asks me to open my jacket. When I oblige, he pats me carefully, running his fingers down my chest, belly, then along my sides and back to make sure I don't have a transmitter taped to my body.

"So far so good," he says. "Now comes the unpleasant part. Or perhaps quite pleasant, depending on your point of view. Be so good as to loosen your belt and slip down your jeans."

I balk. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Up to you. I can drive you straight back to the hotel if you like."

Reluctantly I do as he says, trying not to flinch while he pats me down below. But when his hand grazes my balls, I can't help myse1f, I recoil.

He laughs. "I wonder—does the gentleman protest too much?" He pats me on the knee. "You're clean. Zipper up, old boy. And thanks much for assuaging my suspicions."

As we cross the Calista River via the Stanhope Bridge, I ask him why his vocabulary is so pretentious and his accent so transparently phony.

"People think I picked that up in England," he says, "that I'm some kind of Gatsby type. But truth be known, I'm, well—just a bit affected, old boy."

He steers the big car along River Street, chuckling over the many layers of irony he's laid on. There's something exhausting about him, something in his manner that draws you in then leaves you feeling drained. It's the emptiness, I decide, the hollow core of the man. When you peel away the layers, there's nothing there but the raw hunger.

We follow the twists and turns of the Calista River, covered tonight with mist, then descend to the flat riverbank area where day and night the mills used to roar, belching thunder and eye-stinging cinders which gave the air a sulfurous cast and covered Calista, the would-be Athenian metropolis, with soot.

There's fog down here. The air, I think, has a special aroma tonight, the smell of summer air just before a storm. Spencer drives up to the gates of Fulraine Steel, then stops, waiting for the night watchman to show himself.

"Evening, Mr. Deval," the watchman says, emerging from his shack.

"Evening, Paul. All right if we go in for a while?"

"You're always welcome here, you know that, Mr. Deval. Just give me a minute to open up."

The watchman, a thin, crusty, unshaven old coot, hobbles toward the gate.

"You're known here."

He smiles. "Oh, I am, old boy. I come here regularly to ponder my past."

He gestures toward the watchman now clumsily working the locks.

"Paul was a steelworker. Worked for the Fulraines since he was a boy. Seventy-six now, long past retirement age, but he can't tear himself away. You don't often find such loyalty these days."

"Tell me something, Deval—why are we going in here?"

He grins. "Because it's dark and spooky, a perfect place to dump a body." He pauses, turns serious. "Actually, can you think of a more appropriate venue for what we have to talk about?"

When Paul pulls the gates open, we drive through, then make our way through night fog into the ruins of the steelworks. The broken buildings loom above us like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Spencer drives directly into an old smelting furnace area, roof now reduced to a girder frame open to the sky.