Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  “He's very fond of you.”

  “Of course he is.” She purred, honest to God. Then she leaned seductively back against the corner of a tiger's cage and traced a circle around her navel with an index finger. The tiger growled at her. She gnashed her teeth at the big cat. “All male creatures are fond of me.” She ran the same finger down my lapel. “For a lucky few, I am very fond in return.”

  I wondered how the lucky few were selected but decided against asking. Without missing the question, she'd moved on. “Tell me, Blake.” She moistened her lips. “Do you ever interrogate suspects in bed?”

  “I go where the suspects are.”

  “I'm not asking about location. I'm asking if you've ever questioned a suspect while making love?”

  “Sounds risky.”

  “Risk makes sex incredible. Don't you think?”

  “You have a point,” I agreed. Then I shook my head. “But where would I keep my notebook?”

  She was the kind of girl where, if you stared too long, you got ideas. As the only ideas I wanted then concerned murder, I found myself needing to look away. The only thing to look at were animals and I looked. She was the kind of girl who demanded attention. Not happy with what I was giving her, Alida stepped between me and the cages.

  “You're blocking the view.”

  She purred again. “I don't mean to block it; merely to replace it.”

  “Yeah. We were talking about Mickey the Geek, the Bearded Lady, and Alfonso.”

  “You were talking about them, Blake. I have nothing to say about them. I spend my time in the air, not on the midway, and certainly not in the Freak Show. I have my own way of getting freaky.”

  Poor Alfonso. He'd swallowed this baby's lure all the way down to his toes. He hadn't merely been hooked, he'd been boated, gutted, and was already sealed in the can. All that remained was for Alida to open him up with her key and eat him on crackers. Her shapely keister ought, by law, to have been placarded with a skull and crossbones. Everything about her screamed 'Poison.' The mind boggled wondering what exactly the love-struck midget thought she needed protection from.

  The longer I asked her questions, the less interest she showed in answering them. The only thing she wanted me to know was that she had tastes. Like other people's tastes, but more so; lots more so. Alida was a tart. Don't get me wrong; don't think I was being critical. I wasn't. I love tarts. They're delicious. They're sweet and sticky and can do delirious things to your pleasure centers. But, boys, they're no damned good for you. And this one was no good for my murder investigation.

  She may have been a perfect match for The Major, I'd yet to really talk with the guy, but I had no idea what the midget saw in her. Alfonso, wherever he was, was in for disappointment at best and likely a painful fall. Sure, Alida and a bottle of vodka could have turned any slob, including me, into Gene Kelly dancing the horizontal mambo. But the midget's repeated demands she was a 'lady' required rose colored glasses with lenses as thick as Mama Cass.

  And there, in the midst of the circus animals, Alida was still talking drivel. “Do you ever get the urge, Blake.”

  “I'm getting one now,” I replied. I wasn't lying. I had an overwhelming urge to head for the exit. I was ready to cross Alida off my list as being too self-absorbed (and too horny) to concentrate long enough to kill a man. But I was interrupted by a shout that even startled the tigers.

  “You!”

  It had to be the cops – and they had me. I raised my hands and turned to accept my fate. But before I came fully around a keenly sharpened knife whizzed past my bruised head and stuck – with a thwack and a frightening quiver – in the side of the tiger's cage behind me. It missed me by inches.

  Unfortunately, it wasn't the cops. They would only have dragged me to Wenders and chucked me harmlessly into the jug. This was something far more lethal.

  Tommy Dagger stood on the other side of the animal enclosure, glaring, his throwing arm cocked above his head, ready with a second knife. He clutched a half dozen more in his other hand, apparently in case he missed again. I wasn't exactly sure why I raised his hackles but I did. Sandra, his assistant, wearing Band-Aids on her arm and alarm on her face, stood nervously looking on behind him.

  The tiger and Alida were frozen in place, behind me, watching intently. Both smelled blood and, in my mind's eye, I saw both lick their lips. The situation, in my humble opinion, was ripe for getting out of hand. Coupling that with the knowledge I was the outsider, that murder had already been done on the premises, and that my gun was again securely stored in my office safe, it occurred to me that some de-escalation would do no harm. With that in mind, I said, “Hi!” and asked Tommy, “Was that necessary?”

  He lowered the knife. He cocked his head. “Necessary?” He swore, making a hash of the English with his accent (I'm still guessing French). Still I gave him points for passion. “Why do you torment me?” he barked. “Why are you here again? Who are you?”

  I admit, I was getting sick of that last question. The owner had by that time, no doubt, informed The Major I'd be 'snooping' around. He, in turn, would have done well to warn them all. The performers needed a team meeting. That was it; a soiree, during which I could be introduced. Following the dance, one of the attendees could then save the rest of us the hassle and confess to the murders. Case solved. Brandy anyone?

  “What are you?” I demanded of the knife thrower. “Circus security? If so, wouldn't a gun be more intimidating?”

  “Only to the ignorant.” Tommy raised his hand, threatening again. “I assure you, at this moment your life is in my hands. Now who are you? Why are you here again?”

  “Blake. I'm a private investigator.”

  “Investigating what?”

  “When I get to you, you'll know.”

  “You're not investigating me?”

  “I'm looking into several missing employees. Michael Gronchi. Sybil, the Bearded Lady. And I'm looking for one of the clowns, Alfonso. Can you account for any of them?”

  “We mind our own business,” he said defiantly. “You were here yesterday. Wandering backstage where you do not belong. You were here before, during our performance, sticking your nose where it did not belong. You are the one who shall be called to account… for Sandra's injury.”

  “You're too generous, Mr. Dagger, and you're selling yourself short. I created an accidental ruckus, I confess. It was clumsy of me. I've already apologized to your wife. But you're supposed to be a pro. I'm not allowed to shoot a suspect because somebody coughs next door. I'm supposed to know my deadly business. I'm afraid it's on you. You drew blood in your act.” I pointed past him to Sandra. She returned a frown and covered her arm self-consciously. Tommy didn't see her response. He continued to stare at me without giving his wife a glance. “That a habit of yours?” I asked. “Drawing blood?”

  His knife remained unwavering. “Should we put your question to the test?”

  “I'll take a rain check on the knife demonstration. After cutting your partner, you seem a bit shaky.”

  “You are the one who will shake… if you do not stay away from us.”

  “I'm here under Mrs. Callicoat's authority. Will you answer my questions?”

  “You are not investigating me,” he insisted. This time it wasn't a question. It was a command.

  Between you and me, the knife thrower had anger issues. I probably should have been afraid. With two knife killings already on the scoreboard I should have been very afraid. But I'm not smart enough, braggarts bore me, and the danger part is how I earn my bones. So I dove back in instead. “I said, I'm investigating missing employees. Did you know Michael Gronchi? Or Sybil? Do you know Alfonso? Can you account for yourself for the last three days and nights? Your interactions with any of the three? Your whereabouts?”

  “I will not answer.” Tommy jammed the knife into the bunch in his hand, eliminating the immediate threat of my murder, for which I breathed a sigh of relief. Then he screamed, “I do not know you. I owe you noth
ing.”

  Who knows where the situation might have gone had it been allowed to continue? But it was brought to a close in a spectacular circus sort of way. The white Dodge van, painted with splashes of circus ballyhoo, roared into the tent, between the animal cages, and growled to a stop beside us throwing sawdust into the air. The animals ran, paced, panted in wild circles within their cages, growling, meow-ling, screeching, and generally going ape. The Major leaped from behind the wheel, riding crop in hand, growling in his own fashion, “What is going on here?”

  He had apparently, at least temporarily, rid himself of the city detectives and was making one of his 'tours of the grounds' that Alfonso had spoken of with such disdain. He'd come upon us in time to see Tommy Dagger and I at odds. “I asked you,” The Major boomed, “what is going on here?”

  “Your knife thrower and I were having a talk,” I said. “He doesn't like the way I talk.”

  “If you cross me again,” Tommy cut in, yelling. “You will be talking without a tongue.” The threat made no sense. (But then many threats don't.) He must have realized it as he quickly offered another option. “Or perhaps I will give you a second mouth; a wide one from ear to ear.” He passed his fistful of knives across his own throat to demonstrate.

  “I'll handle this, Tommy,” The Major said. “You and Sandra enjoy your day off.”

  Tommy shouted, “Pah!” He grabbed Sandra by her injured arm. She winced, but didn't make a sound, as the knife thrower stormed away dragging her with him.

  “You are too ignorant to understand,” The Major told me. “I may have saved your life. When Tommy is all there,” he pointed at his own head, “he's very good. But he isn't always all there.”

  Done with Tommy and Sandra, he glared past me to his aerial contortionist and, rumor had it, fiancé. His cold stare was loaded with accusation. Alida took it without flinching. He passed the look on to me, got nothing for the trouble, and made one last try on the pixie. He was being bit hard. The many jealous bones in the circus manager's body didn't like the scene his eyes were taking in. Blood wasn't exactly pouring from his tear ducts. But that may or may not have meant anything as the jury was still out on whether or not he had any blood in him. It would be fair to say, without guessing, The Major was unhappy with the personal guided tour I was getting. “You,” he said, pointing his riding crop at my nose. “Let me guess. You are now doing a story for 'Little Girl' Magazine?”

  “No,” I said. “I wouldn't say that.”

  “What would you say?” The Major asked, his face reddening. “Before I lash you within an inch of your life?” He was six feet away, and waving a riding crop instead of the whip he apparently wished he had, but I gave the old boy high marks for intimidation.

  “There's no need for that,” I assured him. “I'm here on business.”

  “Yes? What is your business? Who in hell are you?”

  “You've already got the name, I think. Blake. I'm a private dick on a case. I've spoken with Mrs. Callicoat and have her blessing to inquire. I'm quite certain she has spoken with you.”

  He strode toward us, lowering the riding crop but puffing up his chest. He seemed bent on putting a scare into us (or at least me). Though I wasn't looking at her, I sensed no fear from Alida. I'd already put the little acrobat down in my book as a card-carrying tart. It was no great leap from there to a girl who thrived on conflict and chaos; one of those dames who loved men fighting over her, who couldn't wait to paw the victor. Poor Alfonso. She was a peach.

  But I'd gone off into my head again; a dangerous habit with a jealous lover within striking distance. The Major was growling again. “What does a private detective want with my fiancé?”

  “The same thing I want everywhere. Answers. I came looking for Michael Gronchi.” The Major carved holes through me with his stare. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No. But interesting. Why would anybody on God's earth be looking for him? A homeless booze hound who sweeps for a cot and the price of a bottle. Why would you be looking for Gronchi?”

  “At the time, I was concerned something had happened to him.”

  “What could have happened to him?”

  “Aahh,” I said. “The mind runs riot. Anything could have happened.”

  “Nothing happened. He's here, somewhere, pushing a broom, tipping a bottle, taking a nap.”

  “Is that what you told the cops?” I shook my head. “I said I was concerned; I'm not anymore. Gronchi is dead, murdered, here at your circus.” I watched his face, hoping a reaction would tell me something. If one came, I missed it. The Major merely stared. “You have nothing to say about the death of one of your employees?”

  “Not to you.”

  “Oh,” I said, with a shrug. “Then how about two? Sybil, your Bearded Lady is dead as well. Or did you already know that?”

  “If what you're saying is true, why–”

  “Why is that the first visit you've had with the cops? Why so short and sweet? Why haven't you and your show been swarmed? Okay, let's pretend you don't know. It's because the bodies were discovered elsewhere. The cops and scientists are snapping pictures, bagging evidence, and questioning the wrong people.” I started away. “I'm telling you the signs are there to be read and they will soon get around to questioning the right people.”

  The Major didn't like me. He was mad as hell I'd lied to him the day before and madder yet I'd gone over his head to the owner. Worst of all, he was jealous of finding me with Alida. He apparently knew Alida better than Alfonso did.

  “I have already told the authorities everything I know.”

  “About?”

  “Everything they asked.”

  “But you won't tell me?”

  “Mrs. Callicoat, my partner–”

  “And major shareholder,” I helpfully put in.

  The Major tried to adjust his face. But, unable to decide what to do with it, went on. “My partner has asked me to allow you access to our facilities. I do so. I am under no obligation to speak with you or answer your questions.” He smiled like, I imagine, a cannibal smiles at his dinner. “I say this to you. As you pry, go for a long walk down the Pier.” He pointed east. “Stop when your hat floats.”

  I wasn't wearing a hat. But it was a dandy exit line all the same, so I made my exit.

  I headed west out of the Big Top and through the groggily waking midway. I passed Olive's ticket booth where, I'll be hanged, the kid and Alfonso's dog were together wolfing down an olive and cream cheese sandwich. That was it for me. I wanted my car and to be away from the circus.

  Other than the warm and fuzzy feeling I got from knowing the midget's sad mutt now had two meals in him, and a friend to take him for an occasional walk and pee, I hadn't learned a thing or advanced the investigation one step. Unless you count adding suspects as an advance. From my point of view, I was dead in the water, if not drifting backwards. Then again, I had made a few acquaintances and formed several personal relationships. Despite my status as a complete stranger, Alfonso's pixie acrobat was ready and willing to booger my body bone. Her fiancé, the ringmaster and circus manager, was ready and more than willing to horse whip me with his riding crop. And the knife thrower was ready and eager to spin me on his Wheel of Death and hurl cutlery at me until my working parts stopped working. The morning hadn't been a total loss.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I passed by my office but didn't stop. Make that couldn't stop.

  I'd underestimated Wenders' desire to catch up with me. He had a patrol unit staked out in my lot, watching the place, and apparently intended to grab me the moment I showed my face. It was enough to make me wonder whether or not the lieutenant was serious when he threatened to pin Mickey's murder on me? I decided not to test him and, as I said, drove on by. But I must confess, two near misses in one morning renewed my enthusiasm for finding the real perpetrator.

  A few blocks away I found a delicatessen with a phone booth instead and gave my office a call. Staking me out was one thin
g but he couldn't have been tapping my phone. He'd need a warrant and, “I'm lazy, Your Honor, and need Blake to solve a murder for me,” isn't a legal reason to secure a judge's order. But back to the phone. I wanted to touch base with Lisa and pick up my messages. It wasn't likely but maybe, just maybe, I'd get a shove in the right direction.

  Lisa didn't answer, Willie did. We repeated the idiotic verbal dance we'd done before. Why are you still there? No Lisa! Where's Lisa? No idea! Here's your messages! Why are you taking messages? I'm starving! I hired an office sitter, when did I adopt you? I'll spare you the remaining details and skip to the bottom line: The cops were glued outside my place waiting to drop a net on me. My secretary was MIA. A low-class criminal was guarding my livelihood. There had been one message, from Wenders, and my goodness he sounded annoyed. I was annoyed myself, and worried. Where was Lisa? Had her injury been worse than we all thought?

  Against my better judgment, and without any measurable delight, I called Lisa's home and spoke with her mother. No, Lisa wasn't home. She was out working. Didn't she work for me? Didn't I know where I'd sent her? Maybe I should tell her (Lisa's mother) where Lisa was! I apologized for the trouble. I told her not to worry. I thought Lisa might have stopped home while doing her running. I wished her a good day, got called a “schlemiel,” and heard the slam of the phone.

  I hadn't learned a thing and I'd lost an inch of hide doing it. Lisa told her mother she was going to work, so she was recovered. To what extent I had no idea. She wasn't in the office, so she wasn't working for me. Where was Lisa? What was Lisa working on?

  Pinched for a next move, and not wanting to be pinched by Chicago's finest, I decided the time was right for a return visit to my researcher and snitch, Large. He'd had little time. I didn't expect much. But, like Sinatra's little ant, I had high hopes. And, as the visit might be extended this time, you'll need a quick tour of Large's place so you're comfortable in the telling.

  There were a few blues, jazz, and rhythm and blues clubs on the Gold Coast, where monied Chicago dabblers could get a taste of the old-world bayou culture without getting their figurative hands dirty. And, of course, there were real blues joints on the city's south side where, by leaps and bounds, the majority of the transplanted Louisiana (and Mississippi, and Carolina, and Georgia) blacks made their homes. But if you wanted to hear blues, real “Whoo-eee” Louisiana blues, then Large's 'Taste of New Orleans' was the only place to go. It wasn't a theater or a club. It was a restaurant and, by its looks when you first drove up, only just that.