The Dream of the Broken Horses Read Online Free

car in the hotel garage.
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    3 :00 P.M. I'm driving east along Dawson Drive entering the narrow portion where it passes through elegant, shady Delamere.
    The old suburb has changed since my day. High-rise condominium buildings have sprung up. But many of the old mansions still stand far back from the road behind walls and gates with enormous well-groomed lawns in front. Long, straight driveways lined with evenly spaced trees lead to these stately homes, contrived to remind the visitor of the approach to a French chateau or English country manor.
    The architecture here is European revival: mansard-roofed Normans, brick Georgians, timber-in-stucco Tudors, even a couple of Gothic-style castles with arched windows and crenellated parapets. All were constructed with lovingly lavish detail between the end of World War I and the start of the Great Depression.
    I slow as I approach the Fulraine house. Built in the manner of a Palladian villa, it is perhaps the finest residence in Delamere. I pull over opposite the gate, then peer in, able to catch a glimpse of the entryway at the far end of the gravel drive.
    Here, I know, there's a turnabout where, in the days when the Fulraines gave parties, limousines would pull up and leave off guests. I also know that on the far side of the house, facing Delamere Lake, lies the tennis court where Barbara Fulraine played steamy matches against her young lover, Tom Jessup, while her sons, my classmates, whom Jessup tutored, frolicked in the vast swimming pool further down the slope.
    But it's the gate itself that's burned into my memory. As I look at it now the old television images flood back: Barbara and Andrew Fulraine begging for the return of their kidnapped daughter, Belle, as microphones are thrust toward them and cameras mercilessly strobe their tear-streaked cheeks.
    I feel my own eyes grow wet as I recall those impromptu press conferences. I will never forget something my father said to my mother as we watched.
    "People love this kind of thing. It shows them even the rich and powerful feel pain."
    Oh, yes, I think, Dad was right . . . for what happened before this gate was the very substance of tragedy—the anguished bellowings of great lords rolling in the dust.
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    O nce past the Fulraine Place, I pick up speed, arriving a few minutes later at a cluster of apartment towers where Tremont Park once stood.
    It was one of the great amusement parks of its era, a complex embracing dance halls, lovers' lanes, penny arcades, cotton candy stands, and numerous marvelous rides: Flying Ponies, Flying Scooters, Mill Chute, Roller Coaster, Over the Falls, and the inimitable Laf -in-the-Dark, where, alone in a boat in total blackness on a murky canal, between the barrel of stars and the enormous sliding spider, I imagine Barbara Fulraine and Tom Jessup kissing for the first time.
    My destination today is the Flamingo Court Motel situated on the other side of Dawson. It was shabby then and still is today, but not by any means repulsive—a decent enough place for a family to spend the night or a pair of lovers to while away a hot summer afternoon.
    The two-story powder-blue facade sports a fading mural of pink flamingos caught in mid-flutter between the trunks of lime-green palms. Looming above is a neon sign depicting a flamingo and, beneath that, another informing weary travelers and/or randy lovers that vacant rooms are still available within.
    I pull into the lot across the street between Moe's Burgers and the Shanghai Sapphire Restaurant, then cross the street on foot and enter the motel courtyard. There's a rectangular pool here, its aquamarine interior fading, rust stains on the surrounding concrete, and water that appears less than perfectly clean. Two small boys splash happily at the shallow end. Nearby a woman in the skimpiest possible yellow bikini reads a magazine while taking the sun on an angry orange plastic-strap chaise longue.
    Not many clients at this hour. Perhaps a slew