The Horse You Came in On (22 page)

“You'd take hell.”

“You better believe it.”

The shop was called Nouveau Pauvre.

The name was painted in an unravelling web of spidery black cursive on a white oblong sign screwed into the red brick. Beneath the wrought iron steps that formed a canopy above him sat a bearded man of uncertain age, bundled into a heavy coat fastened around the middle by a rope. His hands buried in his sleeves, he appeared to be dozing. Above him another sign was hand-lettered: “
MILO
'
S GRATE. DON
'
T EVEN
THINK
ABOUT IT.
”

“About what, I wonder?” asked Wiggins.

A dog, also of uncertain breed and also apparently dozing, lay with its head on its paws beside a white plastic Hardee's cup with some token change in it. The dog had the baleful face and long ears of a basset.

When Jury and Wiggins stopped there on the pavement, both man and dog sprang awake, the dog whining and thumping its tail, the man holding out the cup beside him in a blind side-to-side movement of his hand. “Quarter! Got any change? Quarter!” It was more of a demand than a request It was certainly yelled rather than spoken.

“You're Milos?” asked Jury.

No answer.

The man's barked request had momentarily made Jury forget Milos was deaf.

Milos shot out his hand and commanded, “Write it!” He pointed to his palm, then drew his forefinger along it in a simulation of script.

Jury sketched “MILOS”—with a question mark.

“No. Madonna.” With a look of absolute disgust, he lifted the hand with the cup and indicated the sign behind him.

Jury took the hand again, tried to work out some simple way of identifying himself, could think of nothing. He traced his name; Milos frowned. He traced the word “COP.”

Milos snatched back his hand. Then he retreated into his Buddha-like doze, hands snuggled back into frayed coat-cuffs, head inclined.

Even the dog snarled, as if it wanted to know if they made fun of hound dogs, too. Then it tucked its snout into its paws.

Frustrated, Jury touched his arm.

“Fuck off.”

“They could do,” said Wiggins, as he and Jury climbed the staircase, “with a bit of smartening up.”

 • • • 

The youngish man who had tented the book he was reading on the counter was in no need of smartening up. He bore a strong sartorial resemblance to Marshall Trueblood, though dressed in colors far less ripe and blinding. His oyster-colored trousers ballooned slightly at the hips, and the cuffs were both turned up and nipped in at the ankle; his creamy-rose cotton jacket was deconstructed enough for Trueblood and Armani; and also, like Trueblood, he wore a silk scarf, but neatly tucked into the open neck of his shirt, and of a pale, pale yellow.

At first Jury thought the shop dealt in art deco stuff, given the prevalence of blue glass, prism-cut mirrors inset with blue and black triangles, and nubile pewter maidens on tiptoe holding white globes for lamplight. But then he decided this was simply the shop's decor, not its speciality.

The speciality, if the cardboard cutout of Donald Trump was any indication, was a rather eclectic representation of hard times and bad luck. In the bushelful of apples that constituted the “Trump Dump” was a sign telling the customer to “Watch Out for Worms.” Wiggins sniggered.

Indeed, it was a Wiggins-ish place, definitely the sergeant's milieu, an atmosphere he could embrace: Wiggins was always on the side of the disenfranchised. For the sergeant, the cup was half-empty, the cloud lead-lined; and if tomorrow was another day, he assumed it would be just as germ-laden as this one.

Nouveau Pauvre appeared to be a celebration of ruin, a paean to poverty, a chorus of swan songs. Little signs graced the glaringly white walls:

DOWN-AND-OUT
?

DOWN AT HEEL
?

DOWN ON YOUR LUCK
?

DOWN-IN-THE-MOUTH
?

they asked, suggesting the condition might be alleviated and sorrows drowned if the customer would buy one thing or another from the stock of Nouveau Pauvre.

As the youngish man drifted toward them like a big petal, Jury studied a lovely rosewood dining table in the center of the room. It was covered
with a cloth of Irish linen and set with gold-rimmed china. On china and stemware were tiny crowns, a hotel logo; and the napkins were embroidered and emblazoned with intertwined initials.

“Helmsley Palace,” the beautiful fellow informed them. “But these are the old ones, I should tell you. The napkins they use now are pink and plain.” When Wiggins looked puzzled, he added, “You know, the Helmsley Palace—Leona's place, poor thing. She went inside April fifteen a year ago.”

“Inside?” asked Wiggins. “Inside where?”

“Ah, you're British. Not up on local gossip? They did her for tax evasion. Inside whatever upholstered pink prison they reserve for millionaires. Looking for something special?” He wore a tiny gold ring in his ear and hair shoulder-length sixties-style, but very well tended. “Gift for a friend? Lost his job? Stocks fell?” He smiled, as if such circumstances needed only a bottle of champagne to make them complete.

“No, not exactly. We're looking for Alan Loser.”

“I'm your man. Actually, the name's pronounced ‘Low-zher.' But I've given up correcting people; and it goes with the business.”

Jury's eyes swept over the room, snagging on a blow-up of Maggie Thatcher exiting from 10 Downing Street, suitcase in hand. “You're certainly in an unhappy one, Mr. Loser.”

“Call me Alan,” he twinkled, and looked from Jury's ID to Wiggins's and gasped with evident delight. “Scotland Yard? Why on earth? I don't understand.”

“We're interested in one of your former employees. Beverly Brown.”

“Beverly. Oh, God.” His sigh was deep; he looked away and indeed seemed stricken. “Horrible. But I've talked to one of the city detectives—”

“I know. He told us we could question a few people who might know something.”

“Let's sit.” He pulled out the chairs around the rosewood table and the three of them sat down. Wiggins took out his notebook.

“We won't keep you long.” Jury looked around the room. “You know, I'd imagine you'd have to have money to take a chance on something like this, original as it might be.”

“Marketing of bad luck, you mean? Grubbing around for the leavings of somebody else's bankruptcy?” When Jury nodded, Loser simply laughed. “You'd be surprised at how popular it is. Actually, I've come to believe nothing is more saleable than somebody else's misery. My favorite saying is that comment of Gore Vidal: ‘It is not enough that I succeed, but that you fail.' He's probably right; it's one of humankind's nastier traits. Wouldn't you like a Ross Perot mug to take back to England?”
Alan flashed a smile as he held up the white mug by its big ear-handles. “One of the sad leavings of last November.”

“Beverly Brown worked here, is that right?”

“She did, but only a few hours a week. Over in the Hard Knocks.” When Jury raised his eyebrows in question, Alan said, “That's our cafe. Nouveau did so well that when the row house next door became available, Patrick decided to buy it and turn it into a restaurant. Only open until five o'clock—that's an hour before the shop closes. Lunches and teas. We close off the lunch service at two-thirty and set up for the teas at three-thirty. The teas are especially popular. I thought of Hard Knocks because of the fame of the Hard Rock Cafe; it's all the rage in London. Perhaps you'd like some tea.”

Jury said “No, thanks” to the tea, ignoring Wiggins's look, which strongly resembled that of the hound. “When was the last day Miss Brown worked here?”

“I told the police that. It was January nineteenth. She finished up in the cafe about five-thirty, stuck her head in the door”—he nodded toward a door on his left, above which was a sign, “Hard Knocks Cafe”—“and said goodnight. Seemed just the same as always.” Loser shrugged.

“Did you know her well? I mean, more than in a business way?”

“Oh, yes. Although Patrick knew her better than I.”

“Patrick?”

“My stepbrother and business partner. My idea, his money. For him, though, it's a hobby.”

“How much better, then, did he know her?”

Alan Loser appeared to be reflecting on his answer. Then he shrugged. “Well, I don't think it was any secret that they were sleeping together. But it wouldn't have been popular on the Hopkins campus.” Then he picked an aluminum cup with an odd handle from a table. “Popular item: the Power Cup. Handle's a portable phone, so when the guy who's out of a job is out on the street, he can keep in touch.” Alan smiled. “Milos has one.”

Wiggins frowned. “But he's
deaf,
sir.”

“He can always phone
out
Does, too.”

“What do you think Beverly Brown was doing in the churchyard that night?” asked Jury.

He shrugged. “I'd guess it's the Poe birthday syndrome. That's why I remember the date, the nineteenth. People go to Westminster Church to get a look at the fellow who takes the flowers to the grave. Beverly was a lit grad and she wanted to do her thesis on Poe.”

“And this manuscript she claims to have found—did she mention that?”

“Yes, she was incredibly excited about it. Mentioned it to everyone, if you ask me.” He rearranged the Helmsley Palace place setting, moving the spoon a bit to the right. “I understand she let one of her professors keep the original. Her name's Ellen Taylor—she teaches in the writing seminars program.”

“You know Ellen Taylor, then?”

“Oh, yes. Ellen comes in now and again. She was here just the other day, wanted a little gift for a friend. Swell person, fine writer—though I'm no judge of fine writing,” he said, with a self-deprecation that Jury thought he didn't really feel.

“It would be,” said Jury, “a very valuable document, that manuscript. Assuming, of course, it's genuine. Do you think it's genuine?”

“Well, I simply have no way of knowing.”

“Was she honest?”

Loser opened his mouth in a soundless laugh. “Do you mean that in a Hamlet sort of way? If you do, no, I certainly wouldn't think so—not Beverly, no.”

Wiggins looked up from his notebook.

Jury smiled. “I expect I meant it in a literal sort of way.”

Alan Loser shrugged. “Not especially. But then, with her looks and brains, I imagine it's too much to expect her to be virtuous, too.”

“Would her looks or lack of virtue get her killed?”

“Hell, I certainly wouldn't be surprised. Patrick—” He stopped.

“You mean Patrick Muldare?”

Alan Loser nodded.

“Where is he, then?”

“Could be at Hopkins, I suppose. Teaches the occasional seminar there. Could be a number of places. Patrick's got a lot of pots and a lot of fingers. Patrick's filthy rich.”

Jury detected a hard note underlying the breeziness of this statement. “How did he get that way? Filthy rich, I mean?” Jury smiled.

“Family, mostly. He comes from a long, long line of entrepreneurs. Father, grandfather, great- and great-greats. They all had the Midas touch and the temperaments to match. Well, I guess you don't get far in business without being testy, do you? The great-great-great got so angry with the relatives he not only changed his will, he changed his name. Just to let them know where he stood.”

“Mr. Muldare is temperamental?”

“Well, ye-
ess,
you could say that. He's certainly
obsessive
about things. Some things. Like football. It's almost childish, in a way, this flea he's got in his ear about the football franchise. You wouldn't know about that, not if you're not from Baltimore or one of the other cities that's angling for
it. The NFL is handing out franchises this year or next. Patrick really can work himself up into a fine passion—Hey, wait a minute.” Loser smiled, but somewhat uncomfortably. “I don't mean to imply . . .” He hesitated.

“Imply what?” asked Jury mildly.

“Nothing.”

Jury looked at him.

“Patrick might have been in love with her, that's all.”

“And how do you think she felt about him?”

“Oh, I imagine she saw him as a stepping stone to something else. Money, power, reputation.” He smiled, but there was an edge to the voice, an altered and somewhat pugilistic posture as he leaned forward to take one of Jury's cigarettes. Jury struck a match. “Patrick has them all.”

Something in the tone tempted Jury to add “And you don't,” but he was silent.

Jury's experience of quads and spires was limited, but he could still appreciate the difference between this wide, expansive American campus up whose long drive their car moved and the dreamy and rather secretive enclosures of the ancient British universities. When he thought of Oxford and Cambridge, Jury saw beautiful old buildings rising high above windy squares where black-robed students and tutors hurried.

Here at Hopkins, the students seemed to saunter a bit more, to amble along pavements crisscrossing the snow-covered grass and joining the mixture of white-columned and more modern glass-and-steel buildings. With their book bags and in their jeans and down jackets, they dispersed amongst classrooms and car parks.
Acres
of cars, Jury noted, surprised that penurious students (or so he imagined them) would have so many cars. And not enough parking spaces, either, he realized. Wiggins drove the rented car around and around and finally opted for a slot clearly marked for a dean. Without even blinking, Wiggins took out a police identification tag and slapped it on the windscreen.

Students were coming out of the building on their left holding styro-foam cups, sandwiches, slices of pizza. This building must be the source of these comestibles, Wiggins decided, and he asked if they could just slip in for a cuppa, reminding Jury that he'd refused Mr. Loser's offer of tea in the cafe. “I'm really parched.”