The Dream of the Broken Horses by William Bayer

tablecloths damask. Everything was luxurious, expensive, "best of class."
    The Elms, sometimes called a "roadhouse" in the downtown papers, was the closest thing Calista had to a fantasy nightclub-casino. Its glamorous Manhattan atmosphere was borrowed from The Stork Club and El Morocco, and some of its particulars, alluring singers and back-room gaming parlor, from such Hollywood noir classics as Dead Reckoning and Casablanca.
    Jack Cody, imitating the ironic manner of Humphrey Bogart, always referred to the club as "my joint." Wealthy locals called it simply The Elms and were thrilled to dine and gamble there, not least because gaming was illegal throughout the state. The Elms was entirely Jack's creation. Everything that happened inside, every nuance, was choreographed by him for maximum effect.
    A sure sign that one had become a friend of the house would be a whispered confidence from Jack, a tip, say, on a horse running at a Florida track, or a choice piece of gossip about some sordid event of which even columnist Waldo Channing would be unaware—an adultery or financial scandal, a dope and sex party, a fistfight between gentlemen who'd stepped outside to settle a dispute, or an exchange of slaps in the lady's restroom.
    Such privileged information was not easily shared. Jack kept his distance until one became a regular or lost a minimum of twenty thousand dollars in his gaming room. After that anything was possible: a complimentary bottle of rare French wine sent to one's table; a speeding ticket efficiently fixed; a high-end call-girl introduction discreetly made. People said that due to his wide acquaintanceship there was nothing Jack could not arrange, and, in truth, he did seem to know everyone in town—athletes and entertainers, socialites and judges, politicians, cops and mobsters. It was this last category, Jack Cody's rumored underworld connections, that originally brought Barbara Fulraine within his ken.
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    "A t first we couldn't figure out what she was doing with the guy. Put him in a jail jumpsuit and he was just another cheap crook."
    Mace Bartel , chief investigator for the Calista County Sheriff's Department, is talking as we walk together down the long driveway toward The Elms. At my request, we've met at the ruined gates so that Mace can show me the remnants of the club. Twenty-six years ago when Barbara Fulraine and Tom Jessup were murdered at the Flamingo Court, Mace, then a young detective working County Homicide, was primary investigator on the case.
    "She was such an elegant lady and Cody was such a low-rent creep, we couldn't figure the relationship out. Then we learned she was steered to him because someone told her he could help her find her missing girl."
    As we approach the house, I'm struck by its facade: fine stonework, magnificent arrays of windows and eight turned brick chimneys rising symmetrically out of a complex of intersecting pitched slate roofs.
    "Cody strung her along," Mace continues. "Uncovered all these 'rumors' and 'sightings,' a tale about a pretty little white girl spotted with blacks in the bowels of the Gunktown ghetto. He told her he had 'operatives' working on it, 'informants' who'd been well paid and would sooner or later come up with solid info. It was bullshit, but she was vulnerable so she believed him. After that it wasn't long before he got into her pants."
    Mace sighs. "She must have liked that too, the way she kept coming back for more. Maybe she found Cody attractive because he seemed so dangerous. You know, the old hood glamour bit. And of course he liked her because she was unlike any woman he'd ever had: rich, classy, educated, superbly groomed, even—what's the word?"
    "Demure?"
    Mace shrugs. "Whatever. Point is she wasn't a floozy. Barbara Fulraine was the real thing. Sure, The Elms was a gold mine, Cody was raking in money, but he recognized class when he saw it. Class was what he lacked and what he craved."
    Mace is rail thin. With his granny