Bloody Bokhara

by Gault, William Campbell

  She used a word some women might not know. She reached out and took a cigarette from a box on the table in front of us.

  I leaned back against the davenport cushions and closed my eyes. I saw a blot of red, and then it grew darker and the octagons of the Bokhara stood out against the Turanian Red.

  Ducasse dead, Sam dead … Who’ll find your body, Lee Kaprelian? And nights we sleep, Papa had said. I wouldn’t sleep tonight.

  “Tired?” Claire asked quietly. “Sick?”

  “No.” I opened my eyes. “Well, a little sick. Claire, you’re telling me everything you know, aren’t you? What you tell Waldorf is your business, but don’t keep me in the dark, will you?”

  She reached over and took my hand, again. “I’ll never lie to you, Lee. Lordy, I’m scared.”

  Her phone rang, and she jumped. Then she took a deep breath, stood up, and went over to answer it. I closed my eyes, again.

  “Yes — ?” she said, and “Just a moment, please.”

  I turned to look her way as she said, “It’s for you, Lee.”

  “Me — ? Who — ? How — ?”

  She shrugged, and I came over to take the phone.

  It was my father. “Levon, that policeman was just here. I want to see you.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  When I turned, again, Claire was staring at me. “You can’t leave now. Lee, I’m frightened — silly.”

  “Come along, then,” I told her. “I’ll keep the motor running and the heater on. You can sit in the car. My father wants to talk to me.”

  “And I’ll have to wait in the car? Why, Lee?”

  “He’s — old country, Claire. Let’s not fight about that, now.”

  “No,” she said wearily. “That’s right. We’ve enough, without that. I’ll get my coat.”

  It was warmer, but the breeze from the lake was damp. The snow was a dirty gray, turning to slush in the middle of the street. Claire had thrown a short, brown fur coat over her sweater and slack combination, and donned stadium boots over her saddle leather shoes. The informal type, she was, and this was not her kind of town.

  And was it mine? Born here, established here; until I’d met her, destined to live out my life here. But it would never do for her. And that made it not for me.

  All towns are good towns if they’re your town. Here were my people, here were my memories, here were my roots.

  It was a quiet trip, down to the store.

  There, I let the motor idle, and turned the heater on full. “If it gets too warm,” I told her, “you can cut down the heater fan.”

  She nodded. “And if it gets too warm in there, watch your temper, Lee.”

  I pressed her hand. “Check.”

  My father sat behind his desk, staring out the front window. His head lifted as I entered, the chin thrust forward, his dark eyes speculative.

  “Well, Levon — ” he said, and his smile was weak.

  “Hello, Papa,” I said.

  He nodded toward the chair a few feet from him. “Sit down, Levon.”

  I sat down.

  He took a deep breath of air and exhaled it. He folded his hands on top of his desk. “Last night, we fought. About Sam, we fought. Now, Sam is dead. And you have moved to the place where Ducasse was killed.” The clenched hands opened and closed. “The police come here. That Turk was here the other day. Trouble, murder, Turks — Can you blame me for losing my temper?”

  “I’m not blaming you for anything,” I said. “You were blaming me for Sam being in trouble last night. It had nothing to do with me, or Miss Lynne.”

  His smile was bitter. “You’re sure? Everything has happened since she brought that Bokhara into the store; since then all these things have happened. The Bokhara and the prayer rug. I would have to be stupid to think she had nothing to do with any of our troubles.”

  I said nothing.

  “Am I right, Levon?”

  “What did you want, Papa?” I asked.

  “I want you to come home. I want you to have nothing to do with this woman or her rugs.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  For seconds, he gazed at me, neither wonder nor anger in his eyes. Then. “Levon, you are in love?”

  I nodded.

  His voice was a hoarse accusation. “Americatsi.” American.

  I said nothing. The word is not as disloyal as it sounds; roughly it means non-Armenian. It wasn’t an argument I wanted to get into, today.

  “What kind of marriage would that be? How long do they last?”

  I could have pointed out that some Armenian marriages didn’t last, too. And a lot of them that did, shouldn’t have. I could have talked a long time on that subject. But I had, already, through the years.

  His hands were now palm downward, flat on the desk. “Come home, Levon. This thing will pass. Come home. None of them will talk about you, not to us, they won’t. Even Sarkis will understand you had nothing to do with Sam’s death.”

  “He should understand it,” I said. “Because it’s true, and he should know that.”

  “All right, all right. But if you stay with this — this woman, they will all talk. Think of your mother. Think of Ann.”

  “I can’t stop unfair talk,” I said. “And I didn’t come here to fight with you, Papa. But I’m old enough to pick my own company, and my own wife.”

  It was like watching some alchemy, some chemical change, the way his face hardened into a rigid bleakness. His eyes stared through me. “Your own people — turning your back on your own people. What kind of son have I raised?”

  “All people are my people, Papa,” I said gently. “Not just the Armenians or the Americatsi. That’s the American dream; that’s what brought you here.”

  “All people are no people,” he said. “Rootless, you’ll be. Nothing, you’ll be.”

  I didn’t argue. What can words do against those years under the Turks, those first bitter years in this country, not knowing the language, a stooge for every sweat-shop operator and angle shooter? What kind of argument could I give him against the things he’d learned through personal experience? He’d learned but one facet of the American prism, the commercial opportunity view. Could I now take him into the whole light, show him all the colors?

  No. His lesson had come too hard.

  “I’ll keep in touch with you, Papa,” I said.

  “Keep in touch with your mother and Ann,” he said. “My son is dead.”

  How many times had he said things as bitter out of his quick rages? He seemed so quiet and gentlemanly, and yet these words could come from him, and that sad face could harden into stone.

  I turned, and went out, without another word.

  Claire watched me quietly as I got into the Chev. Then, “Well — ?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing, at all.”

  Silence. The Chev’s tappets rattled, and I eased out onto the traffic of the Avenue. The heater whirred, sending the warmth through the car, sending me the expensive scent of Claire’s perfume.

  “What kind of coat is that you’re wearing?” I asked.

  “What brought this on? Mink. What’s — ”

  “Nothing. I was thinking of my father. He knows more about rugs than any man in town. And can’t even buy a new davenport. You get your knowledge of rugs out of a couple books in a couple weeks, and wear mink.”

  “I didn’t get my mink out of oriental rugs. And your father hasn’t got my figure.”

  “All right, then, Lieder and Ducasse, what about them?”

  “Lee, why all the curbstone philosophy? I don’t know your father, but the rumor is that he’s fairly honest. And no honest man is ever going to be rich and no honest man has ever been rich. I learned that in fourth grade.”

  “Some school that must have been. It’s nonsense, you know.”

  A bus went by, splashing dirty slush all over the windshield and my window.

  “It could be nonsense,” she agreed, “but it got m
e the mink. Lee, what happened back there?”

  “My father wants me back home. All the way — wants me to forget you and all those lovely rugs you have piled in your spider web.”

  “And — ” Some chill in the voice, some apprehension?

  “And I said no. Why don’t we eat somewhere? Are you hungry?”

  “Starved,” she said.

  Some emotion in the voice, and did the word connote more than a hunger for food? A Caddy, and starved. Mink, and starved. And what does mink connote beyond the use of its pelt for covering ladies? Vulgar thoughts on a dreary day in a city by the lake.

  We drove over to The Planter’s on Capitol Drive, a spot famed for their barbecued ribs.

  The picture of Sam was back, the torn mouth, the broken teeth, the white, shattered bone of his nose. Three drinks we had, before we began to eat.

  Dykstra, Dykstra, Dykstra…. The name went around in my skull, beating a drum. Dykstra, Dykstra, Dykstra….

  “I’ve tasted better ribs,” Claire said.

  “Not in this town.”

  “No, not in this town.”

  How many towns had she known? How many men had she eaten with, talked with, slept with? Who knew, or would ever know?

  “I’d like another drink,” she said.

  We went into the bar, and had another drink. And some more after that. Dykstra, Dykstra, Dykstra…. What did he look like?

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You said something that sounded like ‘Dykstra.’ What are you thinking of, Lee?”

  “Of Sam, Sam dead.” I could see, in the mirror back of the bar, the paleness of my face and the blankly wild look in my eyes.

  “And what has that to do with Dykstra?”

  “Dykstra? I don’t know. Sam sold him a rug.”

  “I heard about that. Dykstra would be a good man to stay away from, Lee.”

  In the mirror, my face looked pugnacious. “Maybe.” The vision wavered and I felt a moment’s nausea.

  “Lee — ,” she said. “Easy. You almost fell off the stool.”

  “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get some air.”

  The air was damp, and there were puddles in the graveled parking lot. Traffic went by in a steady stream on Capitol.

  “It’s warmer,” Claire said. “Spring is back. Feel that breeze.”

  The lights of traffic on Capitol, flashing. The sing of tires on wet concrete, the warm breeze. The lights wavered, and Claire had my arm.

  “Lee, you walked right through that puddle. Give me the keys.”

  “I’m all right. I’m fine. Quit worrying about me.”

  Her hand in my pocket and the jingle of keys. The handle of the car door was cold, the seat was cold. Some clarity, then, and I opened the window on my side to get the fresh, spring air.

  Dykstra wouldn’t kill out of pure revenge, would he? What’s to be gained by a murder? Gang killings there were, to establish supremacy, but out of pique, out of annoyance? A twenty-three-thousand-dollar sticking wouldn’t mean that much to him.

  But had it been intended as a killing? He’d been worked over. By somebody who relished his job, he’d been worked over. He’d been dumped in front of Claire’s apartment. As a warning? He’d been alive when he got there. Professional killers wouldn’t beat a man to death; there are too many efficient ways to do it.

  Claire said, “Feeling better?”

  “Some.”

  “Would you close the window, then? It’s not that warm.”

  I closed the window. And my eyes. And felt the lassitude settle into my bones, felt the ebbing nervous tension. I must have slept for the mile or so that was left of the trip.

  For Claire was shaking me, and saying, “We’re home, Lee. Can you make it? Are you all right?”

  My legs didn’t want to work. There was an ache in one knee and a lack of communication between my feet and my brain. My feet wouldn’t go where my brain directed them.

  She got me to the apartment; she got me to the davenport. There, Morpheus took me in hand.

  A black-out without dreams, a tumble into a covered well. And then I was awake, completely awake without preliminary awarenesses, and it was a bright morning. It was spring.

  The morning sun possessed the living room, flooding through the bank of high windows to the east, the windows that overlooked the lake. It was like being in another climate.

  Somewhere, a window was open and the spring air moved through the room, warm and persuasive, fresh and soft.

  The music I recognized, this time. This time it was Strauss, the minor league Strauss, Johann. His schmaltziest waltz, “The Beautiful Blue Danube.”

  For me, that was, but where would she get a record like that? Don’t question the girl, not this morning Kaprelian, not even with a question as innocent as that one. This is a morning to believe.

  Coffee I smelled. And then she came from the kitchen and around the end of the davenport, into view. Fresh as the day, she looked, her blue eyes clear and candid, her lovely face without tension.

  “Good morning, Lush.” She smiled at me. “Morning, darling.”

  She wore a dark blue flannel robe, trimmed in white. She wore mules and blue silk pyjamas and the warm smile.

  “Today,” she said quietly, “is going to be better. Yesterday was a horrible day, but today is going to be fine.”

  I nodded. “Have I time for a quick shower?”

  She nodded. “And a shave, if you want. But you don’t have to. I might as well get used to the real you.”

  “Why?” Studying her quietly, wanting to hear her say it.

  “Because this affair has developed a — a permanent aspect. This kind of thing could lead to marriage.” Her face grave, her eyes as watchful as mine must have been.

  Why were we on guard? Why did we have to act like something out of James M. Cain? Weren’t we people?

  “I love you, Claire Lynne,” I said quietly. “I want you to be my wife.”

  Tears, now. Some tremble in her, and a step toward me, and then her face was buried in my chest and she was on her knees beside the davenport.

  “You bastard,” she said hoarsely. “You corny, wonderful bastard. Oh, damn you — ”

  I stroked her hair. I rubbed her cheek. “Cry,” I said. “You need a cry. You need some corn and a few middle-class homilies and the love of a good, all-around loving man. We’re going to get along.”

  She pulled clear, to stare at me. “We are, aren’t we, Lee? We’re going to trust each other and love each other and have a wonderful time.”

  I nodded, and put a hand on top of her shining hair. “And we’re never going to lie to each other, never.”

  “Never,” she whispered.

  The shower, the shave. And the bacon and eggs and toast and orange juice and coffee. And looking out at the lake while we drank our coffee.

  And I said, “There’s another thing we’re going to have. Money, we’re going to have.”

  She said nothing.

  “We’re going into one of those crazy times, again,” I said, “and there’ll be money made, and I want to make some of it, this time. No seventy-eight bucks a month plus twenty percent overseas, this time, not for Lee Kaprelian. We need money to buy you records and gas for that Caddy and new mink for the old.”

  “Right now,” she said softly, “right this second, I could stand being poor — with you. But there’ll be too many seconds ahead when I will think like you do, now. That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a universal wrong, if it is. Nobody wants to be poor, though everybody is. Love and money, that’s what they want. The love I’ve got.”

  “Let’s talk about that,” she said. “This is no day to talk of money.”

  The phone rang, then, and she looked at me. “Answer it,” I said. “Maybe somebody wants to buy a rug.”

  She went to the phone, and I looked out at the lake. The lake was as blue as her eyes, today, quiescent and shimmering un
der the warm sun.

  “Who — ?” Claire said. “Oh, yes — Mr. Saroian. I — am just leaving. Trouble — ? No — well, it’s all taken care of. Thank you for your interest, but I’ll be leaving town in a few minutes. Back? Oh, I’m not sure — I think that — ”

  Selak. I watched her frown, returned the grimace she sent my way, was pouring another cup of coffee when she finished.

  “Migod, what’s got into him?” she asked me. “It was your friend, the one who doesn’t bathe. What’s come over him?”

  “It’s spring,” I explained, “and you know you’re desirable.”

  “Ugh,” she said. She stood by the window, looking out.

  Egan’s face came to life in my mind, and Lieder’s, and the thin face of Ismet Bey and Henri Ducasse’s mobile, alert face. And Sam’s. And the name began to pound again, Dykstra, Dykstra, Dykstra….

  Claire turned and came over to sit down across from me, again. “Why don’t you phone that customer upstate? It would be a nice day for a trip. Maybe he’ll want to see the Chinese today.”

  “I’ve another man to see, first,” I said.

  She frowned, looking at me quizzically.

  “Dykstra,” I explained.

  Her frown deepened. “Why — ? What’s to be gained by that? He’s no man for you to monkey with, Lee.”

  “I wonder if Sam didn’t know something about him,” I said. “I can’t see the beating, otherwise. I can’t see him pull the rough stuff, just because Sam overcharged him on a rug.”

  “Sam — ?” she said. “What makes you so sure Dykstra had anything to do with that?”

  “I’m not sure.

  “So — ?”

  “So, I’d like to know. If I see Dykstra, suggest that I know what Sam might have known — ”

  “Are you insane?” She was motionless in the chair, her face white.

  “A little. Sam’s one of my people, honey. You certainly scare easily for a girl in fast company.”

  Her voice was bitter. “I can’t quite see the bright side to mixing with a man like Dykstra out of some aggravated pique. You constantly amaze me. One day you’re sharp and sensible and the next you’re tilting at windmills. With a papier-mâché spear. When did this Dick Tracy complex hit you?”

  “Last night. You’re pale, Claire. You’re frightened. And just for me. It must be love.”