William Bayer - The Dream of The Broken Horses

Mace nods. "I'll check when Deval started getting the byline. But even if it was right after the 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."

To 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 leatherbound 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 grim. "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 a 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 the 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."

Pam 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."

Spencer 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 myself, 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.