Brainy-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  “I can understand that, especially if it’s someone you know.”

  She had a point. I still had bad dreams about the few previous shootings I’d been involved in even though they, too, were in self-defense.

  I wiped my nose. “How much did David tell you?” I asked.

  “As much as he knew, but obviously he wasn’t in the room where it happened, so the juicy details are missing. Anything you would care to share, you know, between us girls?”

  “The man was going to blow us up.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me more.”

  I thought about Carter. “Promise you won’t tell anyone. I don’t want my husband to find out.”

  She zipped her right hand over her lips.

  When I finished telling her about the events, I felt better. She stared at me through her large glasses, which magnified her black eyes. “And there’s nothing else I need to know?” she asked, after coughing into her hand.

  I continued to worry about these stories becoming more dangerous to me and my friends. I needed all the help I could get. “There is one thing. Your friend Alex Zhukov seems to have disappeared.”

  She leaned forward. “He will never be my friend. As I told you before, he handles Alan’s money, if you can call it that. I know him socially.” She sat back. “But you say he has disappeared? And how would you know this?”

  “I’m the one who lost him.”

  56

  Rick returned with his hands full of bottles and jars. He began working on my hair. It took fifteen minutes to tell Marcia the story about my first visit with Zhukov. I didn’t mention the next one to his office with Molly or the last one with Cas. I could have done it faster, but Rick and then David, who began to work on Marcia, kept interrupting with questions.

  “Is this what you wanted to discuss with the Irregulars Friday night before we were interrupted?” Rick asked, when I finally finished.

  “Irregulars?” Marcia said. “Who are they? I thought we were discussing Zhukov.”

  “Marcia, sweetie, the Hamlin Park Irregulars are a group of stay-at-home moms who help Tina research and write stories. We are now part of the group.”

  She covered her mouth and tried to stifle her recurring smoker’s cough. “Is this why you two want to have a kid?” she asked, after she’d cleared her throat.

  “It is one reason,” David said.

  “But only a minor one,” Rick said.

  David began to trim Marcia’s hair. Rick continued to slop chemicals on my head.

  “It’s too bad Alan’s brain blew up,” she said. “He might be able to help you with Zhukov’s story.”

  “Does Alan ever have lucid intervals?” I asked. “If he does, maybe I’ll be lucky and he can tell me something.”

  “He has his moments. Even if he can’t remember anything, he is always a perfect gentleman, and he can be extremely charming.”

  “I would love to meet him. This might be a terrific story even though it might be a little dangerous.”

  “How so?” David asked

  I told them about the Russian Mafia connection.

  “I remember Alan talking about them,” Marcia said. “Disgusting people, according to him.”

  “Did I miss something?” I asked. “How does your husband know so much about the Russian Mafia?”

  “At one time Alan knew a lot about many things, dear. He was a genius.”

  “Dr. Peebler was once one of the top medical diagnosticians in the country,” Rick said.

  “Patients came from all over the world to be examined by him,” David added.

  “I didn’t realize your husband is a physician,” I said.

  “Was. He no longer practices, at least not in the conventional sense.”

  “Does he still see patients?”

  “In a manner of speaking he does. I know this is a bit confusing. You will understand it better after you talk to him.”

  57

  David began to blow-dry Marcia’s hair.

  When he finished, she turned to me. “If I help you with this story, may I become a member of the Hanscom Park Irregulars?” she asked.

  “Hamlin, Marcia dear,” David said. “Not Hanscom.”

  She glared at him, and it sounded like she growled. David jumped back and put his hands up in front of his face. Making her hand into a fist, she drew her right arm back.

  “Marcia,” I said, trying to stop her before she slugged him.

  She unclenched her fist and smiled sweetly. “Yes, dear.”

  “We would love for you to become part of our group.”

  “Splendid,” she said, David’s sin having been forgotten. “We must have a dinner party to celebrate.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  This time I was positive I heard her growl. Rick saved me.

  “A marvelous idea, Marcia,” he said. “Marcia and Alan, when he attends, give smashing dinner parties.”

  Marcia sat forward in the chair. “How many will there be?”

  I counted on my fingers. “There are four Irregulars and their husbands, so that would be eight.”

  “And us,” Rick said. “Ten total.”

  “What about Frankie and Janet?” David asked.

  “And who might they be?” Marcia asked.

  “Janet is a Chicago police detective,” Rick said.

  “And Frankie is, ah, how do I describe Frankie?” David asked.

  “Frankie is Frankie,” Rick said. “A guy with a soul patch and a Glock, who rides motorcycles and loves clothes and interior design.”

  “What about that other detective?” David asked. “The Italian Stallion.”

  “Tony Infantino?” I asked.

  “We must invite him,” Rick said. “He is positively yummy.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled that you two are such admirers,” I said. “But he’ll probably bring a date.”

  “Such a pity, but if he must,” David said.

  “And Eddie,” I continued.

  “He is…?”

  “Eddie Wallace is an ENT doctor friend of mine from my hometown of Omaha.”

  “David, write this down,” Marcia said. “We must begin with a theme.”

  “A theme?” I asked. “For a dinner party?”

  She peered over the top of her large glasses. “Young lady, I would never give a dinner party without a theme. How would I select the flower arrangements and the colors of the tablecloths and napkins, let alone which china and silver to use?” She raised her voice. “My God, if I am to be an Irregular, we must have standards.” She turned to David. “We need addresses for the invitations. Call Larry Carlson and have him select a theme and appropriate color scheme.”

  David began scribbling on a pad.

  “Whom do you usually employ for a caterer, Tina?” she asked.

  “A man named David John used to cook for our group, but he kind of disappeared.”

  “I totally understand. Hired help can be so unreliable, especially builders, but caterers aren’t far behind.”

  “He wasn’t hired. He was one of the Irregulars, and he didn’t disappear exactly. He ran away after he did a couple of things.”

  “Things?”

  “He blew up abortion clinics and then killed a couple of people.”

  “And he was one of the Irregulars?”

  “He was,” I said. “Several years ago he blew up an abortion clinic in Arlington. I was pursuing a story about that and was wounded in the blast, but, in a bizarre twist, we became friends here in Chicago and he saved my life when another man tried to murder me while I was in the hospital.”

  I was able to tell her this calmly because I’d done it before, but way deep in my PTSD-addled brain I was still unnerved by remembering those events.

  “Why were you in the hospital?”

  I took in a deep breath to center myself. “That’s complicated. Essentially, David John hit me in the abdomen with a rifle. Scar tissue ruptured and began hemorrhaging. I went to the
hospital and, while I was there, another man tried to kill me.”

  “But this David John person, who had already tried to kill you two times, saved you?”

  “I told you it’s kind of complicated.”

  She coughed violently and then cleared her throat. “I need a cigarette. Joining the Irregulars might be the most exciting thing I’ve done since I divorced my last husband.”

  58

  Rick finished my hair. “Gone, gone, gone,” he said as he circled me one more time. “No more of those sneaky little gray things.”

  David came over for a closer examination. “Rick, you are an artist. Tina looks terrific.”

  Marcia returned from having her cigarette, her Escada suit reeking of tobacco smoke. “I agree.”

  Standing up, I leaned closer to the mirror in front of me. I pulled the strands of my hair apart in several places but didn’t find any gray. Rick had also done some highlights and lowlights. From a distance it didn’t seem like he’d done anything, but I appeared to be a couple of years younger.

  “Wow,” I said. “Am I glad I found you.”

  “I know you are, sweetie, but don’t get any ideas,” David said. “He’s all mine.”

  “While I was outside I called my secretary, Amanda, and checked on dates,” Marcia said. “How does next Saturday night sound?”

  “Let me check our schedule,” Rick said, scanning his iPhone.

  “I’m sure that will be okay with all of us,” I said. “As a group we don’t go out too often because we all have young kids.”

  “I never had that issue with my boys,” Marcia said. “We had a nanny or two when they were growing up, and I was always busy with other things.”

  “You have children?” I asked.

  “Two sons. Ted is the older one. He’s married and has one grown child. John is divorced, but he fathered one son and a daughter that we know of. We’re not sure if there might be some others out there somewhere.”

  “Are they physicians too?”

  David laughed. “Hardly. The boys don’t work. As Marcia’s sons, they live off of her money.”

  Marcia coughed again. “They are twits, but they are my sons and I indulge their opulent life style.”

  “You said they’re your sons,” I said. “Does that mean Alan isn’t their father?”

  She stared at me before she replied. “You’re smarter than you look to pick up on that, but you’re correct. The boys’ father was Joe Williams, a worthless sot, but he was better than Bob.”

  “Bob?”

  “Manchester, my first official husband. All he did was fool around on me.” She paused. “But, then, so did Joe.”

  “Rumor has it that those two bad boys shared one intriguing trait,” David said.

  Rick held his hands about twelve inches apart. “We hear they both were, shall we say, well endowed.”

  The three jeweled bracelets on Marcia’s right wrist clattered as she dismissed that statement with a wave of her hand. “Old news.” She coughed again. “Since your friend David isn’t available to cater the evening, whom would you suggest? I have no idea what type of food your group likes.”

  “Frankie would be my choice, and I’m positive he would like to do it,” I said.

  “Isn’t he the detective’s husband?” she asked. “I thought you didn’t know what he does for employment.”

  “We don’t, but Janet says he loves to cook. So does Carter, but he’s way too busy at the newspaper.”

  “I can’t wait to meet the Irregulars,” she said. “They sound like an interesting group.”

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  “You have to come by the house as soon as you are finished here. When I left, Alan was having a good day. You need to talk to him while it lasts.”

  59

  Marcia and Alan’s home is located among the other mansions on Chicago’s Gold Coast. Or maybe it’s two homes. When I drove into the circular driveway, it looked like two massive houses of a subtly different style and age had been joined together by a two-story brick structure.

  There were builder’s tools and equipment scattered around the side yard of the house on my right. The landscaping was in total disarray, a mess of dirt and chunks of cement, reminding me of David and Rick’s building project.

  I parked my van by the front door of the other home. A woman wearing a maid’s uniform opened the home’s tall double front door. The smell of cigarette smoke enveloped her and wafted over me.

  “Tina?” she said. “I’m Amber. Please come in.”

  The hallway resembled the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, complete with tall Greek statues on either side of me. Facing me from twenty feet away was a two-story, curving staircase with a landing one story up.

  “Marcia is in the garden room,” Amber said.

  She led me down a long, dark hallway into a sunny, circular room full of white rattan furniture with cushions in various hues of yellow and green. There were fresh flowers in vases, which, unfortunately, couldn’t mask the odor of cigarette smoke.

  Marcia sat at a partner’s desk. A dark-haired woman about Marcia’s size sat opposite her. They glanced up when we came in, and both stubbed out their cigarettes. Marcia waved her hand in front of her in a futile effort to whisk away the smoke.

  “A disgusting habit,” Marcia said, as she stood up. “But it’s the only sin I have left since I gave up drinking.”

  She had changed into a long-sleeved, beige silk blouse and pants with a Judith Leiber belt. Beige hose and classic beige and black-toed Chanel sling-back pumps completed her at-home leisure outfit.

  She nodded toward the woman across from her. “This is Amanda, my secretary. She smokes more than I do, which is why I keep her around.”

  Amanda wore a black power suit, black hose, low-heeled pumps, and an off-white silk blouse. Thank God I had cleaned up for my hair appointment, but I was still way underdressed decked out in black slacks, a black turtleneck sweater, and my black North Face jacket. Marcia eyed me up and down but didn’t comment on my attire.

  “I’ll be right back,” Marcia said to Amanda. “I made an appointment for Tina with Alan.”

  “That will be interesting,” Amanda said.

  “Will it ever,” Marcia said under her breath.

  60

  I followed Marcia down the hallway, across the entry, through a dining room with three circular tables each set for twelve, through two doors, and finally into another larger room. She is short, but she moved quickly in her Chanel heels, almost too fast for me to keep up.

  “Marcia?” I said, hoping to slow her down.

  She wheeled around to face me. “Yes, dear?”

  “This room. This art. It’s amazing.”

  “Have you ever been to the Frick in New York City?”

  “I have.”

  “Then you should recognize this room. It’s an exact replica of the West Gallery. It was Alan’s favorite place in New York City. This room is ninety-six feet long and thirty-three feet wide. The height of the ceiling is a little lower than in New York because of some stupid Chicago building code, but we were able to reproduce the skylights.” She pointed to the end of the room. “This is where Alan initially became upset with Charlie Sullivan, our builder. He simply could not seem to get the arched portals exactly right. That was the first time Alan wanted to kill him.”

  I walked over to a large Rembrandt. “This is amazing.”

  “Frick’s art collection puts mine to shame, but I do have some nice pieces.”

  If having a Rembrandt, a Van Dyck, two Goyas and four Picassos is “nice,” then her collection qualified.

  “As a physician, Alan knew what to expect when he found out he had Alzheimer’s,” she said. “I would never let him waste away in some grimy nursing home, so I bought the house next to us and joined the two houses together. I hoped it would help his memory if he sat in a room that he remembered from all our previous visits. He helped design the room when he still
had all his marbles.”

  “Does Alan live with you?” I asked.

  “In a manner of speaking he does. He resides in his house most of the time. The doors are always locked so he doesn’t wander off and become lost.” She paused. “To be honest, I worry about his safety, and this was the best way to protect him from the outside world.”