The Dream of the Broken Horses by William Bayer Read Free Book Online Page A

Mrs. Fulraine.
    He nods. "Yeah, a few, but the one you've got is the best. Pop really caught something there, something perhaps the lady didn't recognize herself till Pop brought it out. You get the feeling from that picture she was truly relishing her role. I don't know much about her beyond that she was a society woman and that she was killed. I doubt she ever thought of herself as a dominatrix, not until Max posed her that way. Then, in that split second, she became one. Not a society lady pretending to be one, but a dominatrix pure and true. Again, there's the art . . . which is why I won't sell any of Pop's Fessé prints or allow new prints to be struck from his negatives. The nude studies are another matter. I've sold off most of those. But not the Fessé shots." He looks into my eyes. "You're lucky to possess one so fine."
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    T onight the mood in Waldo's is not exuberant. It's been a long, dull day at the Foster trial, filled with boring technical testimony and tedious arguments. I sensed that early, knew there would be nothing worth drawing, said as much to Harriet, then left the courthouse to pursue my own interests.
    Judging from the tenor of the room, those who stayed in court wish they hadn't.
    Pam Wells is not in a pretty mood.
    "I would've left too," she says, "if there was anything else for me to do." She studies me. "Where do you go off to anyway?"
    "Oh . . . Memory Lane," I tell her casually.
    "Uh huh." She gives me her cynical reporter's look. "My ass! You're on a story, David. I can smell it. So clue me in, Lover Boy. Unless you're afraid I'll crowd your turf."
    She shows me a tight little smile, her way of warning me I'd be a fool to think she wouldn't.
    "It's an old story, Pam. You like new stories."
    "Sometimes old is new."
    "True enough. . . ."
    I'm rescued by the strutting entrance of Spencer Deval, who joins a group two tables away. Pam squints as she studies him.
    "I don't get it about that guy," she whispers. "He's such a self-important little shit. And that accent! It's so phony. Who is he anyway?"
    I gesture at the portrait of Waldo on the wall.
    "He used to report stories for Waldo Channing. When Waldo died, he took over the column. The two of them were lovers, at least started out that way. Spencer, it's alleged, was quite lovely in his youth."
    "You'd never know"
    "Waldo left him his house and furniture. There're also rumors about something shady in Spencer's past. They say Waldo, who was to the manner born, cleaned him up, taught him manners, even sent him to England for a year to learn how to speak."
    Pam grins. "That explains the accent. I get it now. Pygmalion," she says.
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    I   take her to dinner at Enrico's on Torrance Hill, a quiet, family-owned Sicilian place. It's a weekday night, and there aren't many customers, certainly no out-of-town reporters. Pam is charmed.
    "Candles stuck in old Chianti bottles, red and white checked tablecloths—I love it, David. Right out of the fifties."
    The owner doesn't stand beside our table like a waiter; rather he pulls up a chair, turns it around, then sits leaning over the back in spectator-sporting-event position to take our order.
    When he moves away, Pam gives me a serious look.
    "Please tell me what you're working on, David. And, please, no bullshit about how it wouldn't interest me. Everything interests me. Especially if it interests you."
    "I'm not ready to talk about it yet."
    "Must have to do with those weird drawings taped to your walls."
    I'm stunned. "You've been in my room?" She shrugs. "Aren't you the little sneak?"
    "Curious little bitch is what you mean. You're just too polite to say it."
    "How'd you get in?"
    "Told the chambermaid I might have left a bra in there. Please don't get mad at her, David. She watched my every move."
    "What were you looking for?"
    "David Weiss. Like who are you, David?" She widens her eyes. "What're you up to? What's your game?"
    "What's yours, Pam?"
    "Investigative reporter." She smiles.