The Dream of The Broken Horses

12

Friday, 5:00 p.m.

The Rathskeller's humming with end-of-the-work-week bliss. Business types sip martinis, working stiffs guzzle beer, and the waitresses in their dirndls pirouette from booth to booth blithely balancing refills on their trays.

Chip looks at me, raises his mug, licks head foam off his brew.

"I brought along Dad's fesse proof book," he says, handing it across the table. It's a thick, heavy, black leatherette album with the words Studio Fesse embossed diagonally in silver across its front.

I turn the cover. The first picture shows a handsome woman, imperious in manner, dressed in tight-fitting black leather bustier, sitting on a richly carved wooden chair flexing a riding crop. From the way she presents herself, one would think she was seated on a throne. The shooting angle's low, as if the photo were taken from the level of her knees. She's stout, her features are strong, and her expression's filled with disdain.

"That's Ma," Chip says.

I flip through the pages, transparent envelopes, each containing an 8x10 proof sheet of a woman in a dominant pose. There are quite a few of Chip's mom, clearly Max Rakoubian's favorite subject, but there are also other women wearing boots or shoes with exaggerated high heels. Some look silly, others stilted as if the required poses make them uncomfortable. But there are several in which the subjects appear to relish their roles.

About two-thirds of the way through, I find the sequence on Barbara Fulraine. One proof sheet is identical to my photo, but there are others, not so perfect, including several in which Barbara appears greatly amused.

No flexed riding crops in these pictures. Rather Barbara grins at Max's lens in the manner of an actress breaking up after failing to deliver an absurdly serious line.

This is a different Barbara from the woman I've been imagining, far different from the Barbara I read about in Dad's paper. This is Barbara enjoying herself, Barbara having fun.

"I'm trying to imagine their photo session, Chip – what it was like."

Chip smiles. "I'm sure Dad was pleased. His pictures of Mrs. Fulraine were the most elegantly photographed in the series."

I know what he means, but of course it's not the elegance of Max's artistry that interests me, it's the spirit of his sitter, the enigma of her many moods.

Millfield. A particularly nondescript suburb west of the city, doesn't seem like a place a dominatrix would choose for her retirement. When Chip turns down a curving street called Tidy Lane, rounds a circle at its end, and stops in front of an ordinary ranch house with a basketball hoop attached to the garage, I wonder if he's putting me on. I'm not sure what I've been expecting – urban warehouse district loft, dark apartment in seedy neighborhood – but surely not an ordinary split-level on a middle-class suburban cul-de-sac.

From the front hall, Chip calls upstairs: "Me, Ma! I'm home."

"You brought the young man?" a deep, cigarettes-and-whiskey voice calls back down.

"He's with me, Ma."

A woman in a wheelchair appears in dim light at the top of the stairs, swings herself into a staircase chair elevator, flicks a switch, and the device begins a slow descent.

As she floats down into view, I recognize the woman depicted throughout Max's Fesse album. She looks a good twenty years older now, makeup thick, lipstick heavily applied, hair tied a too-vibrant red. But what's most striking about her is the ruination of her face: a fallen eyebrow on the right, a drooping lower eyelid on the left, creating a disconcerting lopsidedness that, along with deep furrows in her brow, tells me I'm facing a person suffering from severe arthritic pain.

"So this is the young man interested in Max?" she says, looking me up and down."

"His name's David, Ma."

She squints at me. "Hello, David."

"Hello, Ma'am."

She smiles. "Polite too! I like that in a young man! Wheel me into the parlor, Chip, fetch us drinks, then go about your chores."

Chip winks at me, lifts her into a second wheelchair, then wheels her, me trailing, into a front room that amazes me even more than the conventional exterior of the house.

The little room has been done up with great style in ever-so-fancy reproduction Louis Seize – tapestry upholstered gilded chairs and couch, mirrors in gilded frames, faux Aubsson carpet, even a gilded reproduction bombee commode. Such nouveau riche elegance would be laughable, especially in a little tract house like this, but Ma'am so clearly revels in the theatricality of the room that she brings it off as a kind of ironic statement about her former profession.

"So you want to know about Max?" she asks, after Chip, serving us cocktails, retreats into the kitchen to perform his duties. "He was a gent, fine companion, good father. I take it Chip's filled you in on my lifestyle?"

I nod.

"There wasn't anything Max wouldn't do for me, nothing I wouldn't ask him to if I had a mind. He'd clean my garage on hands and knees if I wanted him to. But I don't take advantage of people's kinks, never have. His devotion was enough."

As she continues in this vein, extolling Max for his support and loyal service, I study her face and also the room, committing both to memory. I want later to draw this woman in all her spectacular peculiarity, and though I would love to begin such a drawing now, I'm afraid to broach the idea lest she start posing for me the way she did for Max. For it's not the dominatrix in her that interests me, it's the wounded look of one who once inflicted pain and upon whom now pain has circled back.

"‘Bust-in guy!’ What a hoot!" As the mirth bubbles out of her, I begin to understand her attractiveness. There's a vibrancy in her gestures, an aliveness that shows itself even now that she's crippled and old.

"Max Rakoubian never busted in anywhere. He was much too shy and meek. Which isn't to say he didn't take naughty pictures to hold over people's heads. But he would never bust in, especially not on lovers. He got his candids the old-fashioned way – by drilling holes in walls. H head a bunch of little spy cameras and he build equipment so he could operate them by remote. That's how he got the pictures he took for Walt Maritz. And for all the work he did for Walt and Waldo Channing, he never received more than his day rate. They're the ones who cleaned up on it. Max just did it for the challenge."

I'm having trouble believing what she's just said. "Waldo Channing hired Max to sneak pictures?"

Ma'am laughs. "Waldo and Walt had a neat racket going. Two peas in a pod. Not many knew about that business. They were so different, Waldo so high and mighty, Walt so sleazy and low. They could barely stand one another, but, as they say, ‘beezeness eze beezeness.’ Max was just the go-between. Such was his lot. Some folks are destined to get rich, others just to work and sweat and plow the fields…"

There's something odd about the way she speaks, a strange combination of fancy language and down-and-dirty whore talk. Listening to her, my impressions of several of the players begins rapidly to change: Waldo, whom I've hitherto regarded as a snob gossip columnist, is now revealed to be a blackmailer in league with scummy Walter Maritz; and Max Rakoubian, whom I've been thinking of as guy who kicked in doors, is now revealed as a photographer-sneak poking little spy-camera lenses through tiny holes drilled into bedroom walls.

"Max never cared much for Walt, but he did odd jobs for him. As for Waldo, Max was in awe of the guy. Waldo would throw him a bone from time to time, recommend Max to cover a society wedding or introduce him to one of his rich women friends who needed a portrait done. It was Waldo, by the way, who introduced him to the one you're interested in – everyone's favorite murder victim, Barbara Fulraine.

"Max, sad to say, was taken in by the bitch. Chip tells me you have his portrait of her, the one of her flaunting her titties. Pretty, I admit, but nothing to get that excited about. Still, according to Max, she was a natural dominant. I'm sure he jerked off over her picture. Men are such fools! Except my sons, I brought them up to respect women. Still they're boys, so heaven knows what they do behind my back…"

She's tiring now. Perhaps all this passionate discourse has worn her out.

"Chip says you're interested in those old murders. Wish I could help you, but I can't. Max knew a secret about them, something he wouldn't tell me no matter how many times I asked. I could have tortured it out of him, but I never did stuff like that. It was just a game, you see, our mistress-slave routines. If there was something Max didn't want to share, fine, it stayed outside our game. I always respected boundaries. Without them SM's just assault. Max and I had fun. That's what I miss now, all the fun we used to have…"

Just as she goes silent, Chip reappears. I have a feeling he's been listening through the kitchen door.

"Time for David to go now, Ma. Time for you to rest."

He tenderly extends her legs so she can lie full length on the couch.

"In half an hour, I'll bring you dinner. Lamb chop, salad, baked potato."

"You're a good boy, Chip," she says, closing her eyes. Then to me: "Good-bye young man. I've enjoyed our chat. Come again if you want to hear more, though I doubt I've got more to tell…"

Saturday

3:00 p.m.

I pull up in front of Robin Fulraine's house in Gunktown. The dried dog turds decorating the browned-out yard give off a particularly pungent aroma this summer afternoon, while the old machinery scattered about exudes the stink of gunk.

Robin, wearing just a pair of baggy jeans, greets me at the door. His skin is dark like Blackjack's, his chest is sunken, and his ribs show prominently through his nearly hairless flesh. There's a piercing in his navel and an elaborate tattoo of abstract Celtic design that mounts his right shoulder then descends down his shoulder blade to the center of his spine.

"Since you're going to draw me, I figured I should show some skin," he says.

I set him half-reclining on his decrepit couch, one dog curled at his feet, the other stretched out parallel on the floor. I'll have no trouble sketching his mutts, I tell him, so they're free to come and go. But I ask him to please lie still a while, at least until I've roughed him in.

He's looser today than when I visited him with Mark. Perhaps our exchange of hugs assuaged his guilt over threatening to pulverize my hands. We converse easily. He seems to appreciate my attention.

"I liked you for what you did the other day," he says.

"What was that?" I ask, outlining his shaven skull.

"Turned down my check."

"Oh, yeah, the reparations check. I told you, I didn't suffer serious damage. A little psychological and spiritual pain, that's all."

"That really shook Mark up." Robin grins. "He's not used to people refusing money."

"He should get used to it."

"He thinks we can buy off anyone."

"Isn't that kind of immature?"

"My father was like that too."

"Tell me about your father." I start work on his eyes. I want to get the hollows right.

"He didn't have Mom killed if that's what you're asking. I know that was a theory going around. Sure, he wanted custody, but he would never resort to violence. His method of getting his way was to bring a lawsuit then fight it out in court."

"How did he die?"

"Heart attack. I shouldn’t say this, but I don't miss him much. He was an okay dad, I guess. Not his fault he was the way he was. Mom, on the other hand – I do miss her. Not a day goes by I don't think of her."

"What about your father's second wife?"

"Margaret – she's okay. Their kid, my half-sister Cassie, she's finishing up med school next year. Wants to be an obstetrician. More power to her. About time a Fulraine did something useful in the world."

"I gather you're not all that keen on your family."

His eyes, I'm finding, are uncannily bright today. Perhaps he's high on something, heroin or coke.

"My paternal grandparents were rich snobs. Dad's uptight crap was hard to take. Look, I'm not complaining. Thanks to the Fulraines I've got plenty of money, more than I'll ever need. And I'm grateful to Margaret and Dad for all their efforts. Mark and I were in pretty bad shape. Funny how things worked out. Mark did everything to please them, while I upset them every chance I got. Like flunking out of school – except hard as I tried Hayes wouldn't flunk me. After graduation, instead of going to college, I signed up with the Marines. Got discharged for drug abuse. That's a dishonorable discharge. Sent Dad up the wall. All part of the rebellion, as is living here in Gunktown. That really drives Mark nuts. He shits in his pants every time he stops by. He despises my choices, but he's afraid to confront me, scared that if he pisses me off I'll sell my FSI shares. He knows if I do, he'll last about fifteen seconds. He's a lousy CEO. If anyone else gets control, they'll bounce him out in a Calista minute…"

Listening I get the impression that his choices have been determined more by contempt for his brother than anything else.

"Mark's like Mom in one respect. He enjoys hurting people sometimes."

I tell him I'm surprised to hear that since everyone I've spoken to has praised his mother for her kindness.

"She was kind, but on her own terms, nice with servants, especially gentle with horses. She was a great hostess. Had incredible charm. But she had a mean streak, too. Not that I suffered from it. I was too small, too cute, her darling little second son. Mark bore some of the brunt of it, I guess, and, of course, Dad took it from her full force.

He pauses, glances at me, grins.

"I'll tell you a little secret." Is he finally going to broach the diary? "Concerns you, David. Want to hear?"

"Sure."

"But you won't ask me straight out?"

"I won't grovel for it if that's what you mean."

He smiles. "That's another thing I like about you. You don't kiss ass. Anyhow, here's the secret. I don't think you'll like it much. But you earned the right to hear it the day you fought Mark at Hayes. Remember that mean cartoon you drew of him?"

"Sure."

"It not only infuriated him, which is the side you saw, but when he brought it home and showed it to Mom, he wept."

Even back then my pencil hit the mark!

"He sobbed over it, couldn't take your mockery. Mom tried to comfort him, told him he didn't have to take it. ‘why don't you march into school tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘and poke that little Jewboy in the nose!’"

"She called me that?" I'm outraged.

"Yeah." Robin grins. "See, it was Mom who put Mark up to provoking you. It was like she wanted him to fight you, bloody you up. That Friday night when we came home and told her how the fight had gone, there was this lewd gleam in her eye, especially when she heard Mark won. She followed him upstairs, hugged and kissed him. It was too much. I think even he was embarrassed."

This is too much. I call for a break. When Robin goes into the kitchen to fetch beers, I sit there reeling with anger.

Barbara Fulraine wanted Mark to provoke me! Was thrilled to hear he'd bloodied me up, that her beautiful brave blond boy had beaten her Jew-shrink's son!

By the time Robin returns, I'm calm again, realizing I was but a sacrificial-pawn in the complicated game she was playing with Dad – a realization, however, that does not warm the cockles of my heart.

Robin, beer in hand, examines my drawing.

"You caught me all right."

"Not much more to do."

"Can I have it when you're finished?"

"Of course. I'm making it for you."

"You're a nice guy, David. Hope what I said didn't upset you too much. It happened so long ago."

"It's okay," I tell him, as he resumes his position on the couch. I start shading his face and upper body, working to give the drawing a proper finish.

"I feel we share something," he says, "on account of how we both lost a parent at an early age. Not to mention that our parents were involved."

"When I pointed that out to Mark, he didn't seem to like it much."

Robin nods. "Of course not."

Drawing his torso, I note the scrawniness of his build, the thinness of his arms. No wonder his belly punch didn't hurt me. He's really in lousy shape.

"I think my father was dazzled by your mother," I tell him. "She came to him in pain. He tried to help her. I know Mark doesn't like hearing that because he thinks my dad failed her. But that isn't how those shrink things work."

"Mark's an asshole," he says.

He goes quiet then, meets my eyes. I take the opportunity to finish drawing his.

"The other day I told you I have Mom's diary." He spoke shyly.

Finally! Maybe now we'll get somewhere.

I apply some accent strokes, then put my pencil down. The drawing's finished.

"Why'd you tell me that?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says. "Mark doesn't even know it exists."

"Does it?"

Robin nods. "Mom kept it hidden inside one of her equestrian trophies. After she died, all her stuff went into storage. About ten years ago, Mark and I went to the warehouse to look it over and divide it up. When we got to the trophies, we each took half. I found it in one of mine, a little notebook held closed by a rubber band.

"Of course I immediately started to read it. Then I found I couldn't. Who wants to read about his mother's intimate affairs? I sure as hell didn't, so I put it aside." He shrugs. "I guess I've brought it out a couple times over the years, tried reading it, never got very far. Just too painful. Not the kind of stuff I want to know. But still I could never bring myself to destroy it. That would be like… burying her again. Anyway, there's stuff about your dad in there, David, and a lot of other stuff besides. Surprisingly little about Mark and me. I guess in her busy life we didn't count for much."

He shrugs again. "I wish I could give it to you… but I can't. Like I said, it's too intimate. It's be like showing you pictures of my mom having sex."

"I understand," I tell him, "but if you ever change your mind…"

I detach the drawing from my pad, present it to him, watch him as he studies it.

"This is better than just nice, David. It's excellent. I'm grateful. Thank you."

As we get up I notice a piece of furniture in the corner, a beaten-up Windsor-style chair. It's missing half an arm, with several radiating spokes broken on the back. What catches my eye is a fading Latin slogan and crest on the rear support.

"Is that a Hayes chair?" I ask.

Robin smiles. "Wondering when you'd notice. It's from the Trustees Room. When Dad died they offered it to Mark and me, a memento of the years he served on the board. I call it ‘the hot seat’ because it's where I usually sit when I shoot up."

I glance at him, note the gloat in his eyes, the pleasure he takes in his desecration of the precious heirloom. Perhaps the chair reminds him too of happier days back at Hayes – days of bullying, making other boys cry, and all the wicked satisfaction derived from such as that, the schoolboy schadenfreude we all used to feel.

He walks me out to my car.

"Do you really like living like this?" I ask.

"It's not so bad. I'm comfortable. I wish I had a girlfriend sometimes."

"Why don't you clean this place up, get rid of the dog crap, lay off the drugs, and get yourself in shape?"

"Think that would help?"

"I think you'd feel better."

"I'd probably look a little better but I doubt I'd feel better." He speaks sadly now. "You see, David, the crappy way I live – it pretty much sums up the way I feel."

I fret about that diary on my way back to the hotel, wondering if there's some way I can convince Robin to let me read it. Then, when I walk into my room, other thoughts intrude.

The moment I enter I sense something wrong, that someone's been inside and my things have been touched.

I make a quick inventory. My drawings posted on the walls are as I left them, but those piled on my desk are ordered differently. My drawing of Dad in his car surveilling the Flamingo, previously at the bottom of the pile, is now on top.

I check the closet to see if my briefcase, containing Dad's paper, is still in the bottom of my garment bag. It is, and thankfully, still locked.

I walk back to the center of the room, then turn slowly, looking carefully at everything. Beside the disorder of my drawings, what makes me think someone beside the room maid had been in here? It's the air, I decide. There's a scent. Trying to define it, I come up with the aroma of stale cigarette smoke permeating the fabric of a cheap suit.

I call down to the desk. Five minutes later, two guys from hotel security show up. Soon all three of us are sniffing around the room. To me the scent's obvious, but the security guys aren't sure. They agree there's a trace of something and that's odd since my room is on a nonsmoking floor. Then they point out that sometimes smoke from other units gets circulated to nonsmoking areas through the ventilation ducts.

They examine my door lock, declare it hasn't been touched, but change the code anyway and issue me a new key card. Finally, apologizing for any inconvenience, they advise me to store my valuables in the hotel safe downstairs.

After they leave, I open the room minibar, pull out a beer, sit in my easy chair, and sip.

Yes, Robin ambushed me, but this isn't his work, which can only mean one thing: Mr. Potato Head, the guy who was asking about me at the Flamingo, must be working for someone else.