Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery Page 6

  It would be inaccurate to say I woke up. I hadn't been asleep, I had been unconscious; knocked colder than a big daddy cat at the Delta Fish Market (without the dreamy blues jams). Believe me, sisters and brothers, the two were not the same. I guess the best way to put it was, I came to, to discover I was no longer in an alley.

  I didn't move. It took a few minutes to get my bearings, to figure out I wasn't dead, to recall what had happened during my last seconds of consciousness, to put two and two together and guess where I was now. I let it. Ooohh. I was on my back, being swallowed by couch cushions that had all-but given up the ghost, in a gloomy living room. It was late afternoon or early evening; muted amber rays of an approaching dusk were stealing in through carelessly closed blinds and curtains. My vision was foggy from the blow I'd taken and partially blocked by a plastic bag of ice balanced on my beak. Instead of a blues combo, there was an army of percussionists in my head, shivering from the cold, fighting their way through a confused arrangement of Fleetwood Mac's Tusk. The walls of my noggin throbbed to the beat. I moved my bottom lip to groan only to find it was split, as big as one of Charo's boobs, and caked in dried blood. My teeth were bloodied too. My mouth tasted of iron and felt like cotton. I'm not a doctor, but if I hadn't already had a concussion when I'd arrived, I had one now.

  “Wait,” someone anxiously declared. “Look. He is awake.” The observation proved two things. One, I hadn't regained consciousness in the middle of a Mensa meeting. And two, the speaker was a foreigner, Russian probably, eastern European certainly. He had a screwy accent with his w's sounding like v's, his o's like u's. (“Vait. Luke. He is a-vake.”) That's the last time I spell it for you. You know what Russians sound like and these two were, put it in yourself.

  I turned to the speaker and the ice bag toppled from my face. I paused, pretty much regretting I was still alive, and slowly opened my eyes. A matching pair of gorillas hovered above me. I didn't know them from Adam but a silly wild-assed guess told me they were Nicholas Nikitin's brothers. I would soon discover I had been made a guest, of sorts, in their clean but sparse two-story home.

  It will stun you to realize that between this and my last bout of laying battered in the dirt I had actually found a moment or two to do some investigating and to chat with my snoops. Digging into the Department of Corrections, Large had come up blank on Nick Nikitin (he'd never been convicted of anything here). Digging elsewhere, my immense informer had snagged a lot of ancillary details about his family, including corroboration that Mike, the middle brother, and John, the eldest, were co-owners of the house on Racine where I was currently laid out. I called in chits from several other associates that know a lot about some things and a little about everything, gathering facts and rumors as time allowed. Nothing startling surfaced. Nikitin's older brothers kept a low profile. They were union iron workers, and looked it. The only real difference between them, I was led to understand, other than a calendar year, was their tempers. Mike was supposedly a reasonable human being while John, it was said, was a prick. Lying on their couch I couldn't tell them apart but, it occurred, if I got under their skins they would quickly show me which was which.

  “Who are you?” one of them asked.

  I made an attempt to sit but the old pain in the back of my head, coupled with the new pain in my nose, attached to the other pains running from my hair to my knees, was excruciating. (Oddly, for once, my feet didn't hurt.) I settled back into the couch wallow and took a breath. The place was okay for a couple of bachelors; nothing special, clean carpets, recently painted walls dotted with framed pictures of these two apes and young Nicholas on a beach, in a gym, at a lake, in the snow…

  The question came again, demanded in a growl. “I said, who are you?”

  I gritted my teeth and, despite the pain, tried again and kept at it until I was sitting. I'd been right. Everything hurt but my feet. I took another breath, inhaling deeply, held it as long as I could, and then exhaled. The one barking at me was wearing a green polo shirt. “You first,” I said, returning his stare.

  His reddening face clashed with the shirt. “We are asking the questions.”

  The other one wore a yellow button-down. “You have forty different identifications here,” he said calmly. “Do you mind telling us which one you are?”

  “Mind hell!” Green shirt growled. “Who are you?”

  Voilà, kids. Have you located the prick yet?

  I turned from John's livid eyes to Mike's curious ones. Mike pointed with his Landjäger finger to a worn coffee table. There the contents of my pockets; keys, receipts, a stick of gum, a wad of money (a small wad, mostly singles), and my wallet, and its contents; a PI's license, driver's license, and FOID card in my name, two dozen IDs ranging from attic insulator to zoo guard with my picture and a grab bag of phoney names (I never know who I'll have to be), and the hastily scribbled phone number of a cocktail waitress at the Cape Cod Room on the Gold Coast who talks naughty when she's horizontal, lay spread out and gone through. I frowned. “I feel so violated.”

  “What is your fucking name?”

  Hearing the F-bomb in a Russian accent was precious. Then again, maybe it was just the effect of the yelling on my headache. “Blake. I'm a private dick on a case.”

  John grunted. “Not much of one by the car you are driving.”

  I screwed my eyes up wondering what he was talking about. Then it dawned, I'd come in Willie's crap Ford. John was a jerk but I couldn't argue with his acute assessment of automobiles. That being the case, I changed the subject. “You got a tissue?”

  Mike lifted a box of Kleenex. I took one and dabbed at my nose. He tossed the box on the table in front of me. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “With you; nothing.”

  John grunted again. “He thinks he is Arnold Schwarzenegger.” He was wrong. Whoever Arnold was, I'd never heard of the guy. But I digress. John was still growling. “He wants another ass whipping, yes, smart guy?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I'm real satisfied with the last one.” I slowly started to push my cards back into my wallet. It was tougher than you'd think on account of one minute there was one wallet and the next there were two. Blinking helped a little.

  “You are looking for Nick?” Mike asked. I nodded. “What do you want with Nick?”

  “That's between me and Nick.”

  “We should kill this smart son of bitch.”

  I'm telling you, precious. But not impressive. To show it, I gave John my coldest stare; both of him. Then I blinked until there was only one. Trust me, one Iancu Nikitin was enough. I cracked my neck (The sound always gets them and, to be honest, my neck needed it). “You don't look like the killing type to me,” I told him and added, “Then again neither did Nick. Unless I'm wrong?”

  Mike jumped in, excited, “Nick did not kill anybody!”

  “Then I'm not wrong!” Oohh. My yelling wasn't helping either. “So how about we three tough guys let the tide go out on the testosterone, huh? Let's figure out what's going on.”

  “You say you are private investigator? For who?” John was shouting again. “Who hired you?”

  “The names of my clients are confidential and –”

  “Who hired you?”

  I took a deep breath and started over. “The names of my clients are confidential and completely beside the point, John. Or do you prefer Iancu?” I turned to the other. “And while we're at it, is it Mikhail or Mike?”

  “How do y-you…” he stammered. “How do you know our names?”

  “I told you, I'm a private investigator.”

  “Then why did you ask who we were?”

  “It's the first rule of being a detective: ask questions to which you already know the answers. It's a quick way to find out if you're talking to a liar. Now can we skip the lessons? I already told you, I don't think your brother killed anybody. That's why I need to talk to him.”

  The reasonable one, who did go by Mike by the way, asked, “Are the police looking f
or Nick?”

  “They don't know about him yet. They'll have his prints and eh samples of his work but, with no police record, those will lead nowhere for the time being.”

  “What are you talking about?” John bellowed.

  “Forget it. The cops are investigating the Delp murder and Nick's name will eventually surface. That's why he should stop running and talk to me. I'm looking for the real killer. If that isn't Nick, and I don't think it is, I might be able to help him. Running is a miserable way to prove he's not guilty.”

  We talked for a while longer but, sadly, didn't end the conversation with any great meeting of the minds. The brothers Nikitin were more worried about Nick than they were trusting of me. Nothing I said altered that to any great extent. The best I managed was a promise from them that they'd talk to Nick and, maybe, get back to me. I left them a card with my real name and number. Then I departed in Willie's smoke-belching rattle trap with a brand spanking new set of aches and pains. All in all, it had been a mostly fruitless but memorable visit. As far as I could see, the only thing I'd gained with any certainty was more brain damage.

  *

  Aware that I was fresh out of bandages and alcohol, both isopropyl and distilled, I did some quick shopping (ignoring the alarmed stares of my fellow consumers and the cashier's helpful suggestion, “Ya' better put somethin' on that, man,” as she grimaced at my face). I'd had every minute of that day I could stand and decided then and there to skip a stop at the office. To soothe my conscience, I found a phone booth and called Lisa, who stopped chewing long enough to assure me nothing was happening. Relieved, I told her I was headed home and that she could lock up and go play. I wasn't hungry but, as I hadn't eaten, knew I'd better put something in my gut. To prove I'm never too sore or tired to make another bad decision, I cruised the drive-through of a greasy spoon. My teeth hurt all the way to my heels so I ordered a cup of soup and told them to hold the crackers. They wouldn't open the window because of the smoke from Willie's car and, aching as I was, I had to park and walk inside to be handed my drive-through. Yeah, another rare day. I dragged back to my apartment with my soup, fully intending to give myself indigestion just before I died.

  No sooner did I set the soup down than the wisp of an idea struck me. I could tell right away the notion was going to nag until I did something about it. I left my supper go cold to start searching. Failing to find what I was after in my apartment, and determined to pick at the thread in my brain, I ventured into the hall and started rapping on my neighbors’ doors. The details of the next few minutes aren't important, just the results, and they were; one slammed door, one “Go away” shouted through a door that never opened, three silent glares of varied description and uncertain meaning, one invitation to tea and whiskey from a woman old enough to be my mother (It couldn't have been my mother; she doesn't share her whiskey) and, finally, one unabridged copy of The Holy Scriptures. Before you laugh too hard, just know, that's what I was after. Yeah, I needed a Bible. I hadn't been able to find mine, assuming I still had it there someplace, and needed to borrow one. I probably could have done better, faster, had I not forgotten I'd just come from my meet and greet with the Nikitin brothers. Next time I visit my neighbors, I'll wash the dried blood off my gob first.

  Later, leaning over my bathroom sink, being watched by the frightening reflection in the mirror, I polished my lip with rubbing alcohol and screamed like a colicky baby. Having caused as much pain there as I could, I moved on, dabbing my nose with a washcloth. That was fun too. Finished and satisfied I'd live, I headed down the short hall.

  Melodic choir song (yeah, you heard right), the sound of a singing church choir filled my small living room, over-stuffed with books, a computer with accoutrement, television and video equipment, and rumpled clothes. Atop the island, separating the living room from the economy kitchen, sat a glass of gin and, already open, the Bible I'd borrowed from the neighbor. I don't think I'm overstating it to say that, when the idea hit me, a light went on in my battered brain. What could I do but follow it to the end of the tunnel? I scooped up both on the way to the couch. I sat, gently, studying the scripture text, sipping my gin, and mulling my notion.

  I paused, thinking (if you can believe that), then turned my attention to the television screen. There, a small group of people, surrounded by an impressively large audience, occupied a platform beneath a boldly colored banner reading: Temple of Majesty. That's where the choir music was coming from. Behind the speakers’ dais, sitting in the center of a row of folding metal chairs, yet in no uncertain terms standing out from the others around him, was the undeniably handsome (or as Lisa would have it, kinda hunky) Conrad Delp. A young Latin couple sat immediately to his left looking distracted, to say the least, and not at all a part of the wide-smiling joy being exhibited by the others. On Delp's right looking, I had to admit, absolutely smashing, was Gina Bridges. (Confessions of a sad sack private eye, though it hurt my lip, I smiled too when I saw her.) The chorus finished on an inspirational high and Gina rose from her seat. She laid a friendly (maybe more, or was I reading into it?), hand on Reverend Delp's shoulder then approached the dais and the microphone.

  “Praise God for that joyful noise,” she said. The crowd laughed pleasantly and applauded. “It's wonderful to be back home,” Gina continued, “and it's wonderful to be a party to bringing you something… someone very special. It is my privilege to say, ladies and gentleman, the Reverend Conrad Delp.”

  They traded places. Gina, and the others on the platform now standing, joined the audience in thunderous applause as Delp, all quiet dignity, took to the microphone. He cleared his throat. Then his voice rang out with a tenor that would have humbled Cecil B. DeMille. “There has been a tremendous outpouring for me in my grief. Many personal gestures and much love sent my way; and I appreciate them all. There are those astonished by my determination to go on with this service. There are those in awe that I stand before you tonight. My grief weighs heavy on my heart. My pain runs deeper than you can know. All I can offer as an explanation for my ability to carry on is the 9th chapter of Luke, verses 59 and 60.” And he quoted, “ `He said to another man, 'Follow me.' But the man replied, `Lord, first let me go and bury my father.' Jesus said to him, `Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God.' ”

  That was it for me. I gave a fleeting thought to Lisa's mother gushing over that self-aggrandizing schmaltz and shook my head. I didn't have anything against the scripture. It didn't sound pompous coming from Jesus, but Delp gave it a twist… Okay, I didn't know the guy from Adam, and maybe he was all that to those in on the joke, but he sanded me against the grain. I shut the television off. I hit Stop on the video recording I was making, then Eject and pulled the tape from the machine. I weighed it in my hand, thinking harder, then tossed it on the coffee table. It had been an interesting, if not particularly informative, first day on the Katherine Delp murder case. My head was throbbing (front and back). I gulped my gin and, frowning, refilled my glass.

  Chapter Nine

  The Bible and I had been strangers since the Sunday School classes of my youth went into storage in the seldom visited halls of my memory. There may or may not be a song in that but it was true all the same. My notion, as mentioned, to wander back into scripture after all those years surprised me as much as it could have anyone. I'm relieved to report the exercise did not appear to have been in vain. My reading had shown a light unto my path which, in turn, stirred additional late night activity on my part; the kind of activity that often spurred new questions. The next morning found me pulling back into the parking lot of Delp's church intent on getting some answers.

  I should, I imagine, give you just a brief description of Reverend Delp's Temple of Majesty. You've already been there once without it but, now I've settled into the telling, it might help. But how to go about it? How does one briefly describe the treasures of Egypt? The Hope Diamond? The Holy Grail? I could tell you it was impressive but that would miss the mar
k. It was imposing; overwhelming. It would have been awe-inspiring were it not for the first rule of detecting: always remain fresh out of awe; it's healthier. Still, that's why I saved this until the second visit, to help you feel a little of what I felt every time I stopped. The eye was immediately drawn, no matter the direction of your approach, to the looming skyline. Unlike every other Christian church in the city, the Temple did not have a spire or bell tower, it had a dome as if it belonged in the center of power in Washington and, towering over this, three spires. The combination was an architect's recreation of Calvary with the dome standing in for the hill outside of Jerusalem's wall. The tallest spire, at center, represented the cross upon which Christ was crucified and the shorter outer spires those of the two thieves who died at his sides. Below, the campus was a landscaper's dream of what the garden of Gethsemane might have looked like (had the Jerusalem city council had hundreds of thousands of dollars to piss away for construction and up-keep); sculpted marble statues, benches, columns, a lawn mowed in alternating stripes of shamrock and pine green, ash trees and lilacs (Chicago isn't exactly temperate enough for olive trees to thrive). You made your way from the sprawling parking lot along a wide and winding flagstone pathway through the garden. As you neared the church entrance you were made to pass, and wonder at, a huge dark gray boulder. I wouldn't know a Middle East import from Lake Michigan rip-rap but a shiny fixed plaque insisted this represented the Rock of the Agony where the Lord prayed, and his disciples failed him, before his arrest. Certainly beautiful… and even more certainly, for me, all a bit much.

  My presence was decidedly incongruous as I coaxed Willie's car into the manicured lot. Once again I was on my way to his mother's house, making an attempt to return the damned thing, when I veered off to the home of the Delp ministries with an itch to get those earlier mentioned questions answered. Perhaps it was a metaphor for my soul, or a prelude to any attempt I might make to pass through the Pearly Gates at some distant time; sleek white marble overlooking gold-paved streets, soothing harp music and pious serenity… Then I'd crash the party, sputtering and belching fire.