by Kelly Oliver
Professor Schmutzig was pounding on the door yelling, “This is how to philosophize with a hammer!” Thud, Thud. Thud. The banging got louder. “Go away!” Jessica yelled as the door splintered and wood exploded into the room. When she woke up sweating from her nightmare, someone really was knocking at the door. Holding her breath, she waited for the banging to stop, hoping it would be soon because she really needed to get downstairs to pee. She heard the scraping of a chair on the floor. Then silence. Someone was waiting in the hall. Crap!
Jessica wiped the drool off her chin with Michael’s sweater, hopped off the desk, then fished a Chinese take-out container from the trash, squatted, and did her best to empty her bladder without peeing all over her jeans. The balancing act reminded her of Goddess pose in yoga. Peeing Goddess. Once she disposed of the leaky evidence, she tugged on the butt of her jeans to pull her damp underwear back into place and then attacked her hair with a brush. She inhaled deeply, opened the door a crack, and peeked out into the hallway.
Alexander Le Blanc was sitting in the hallway wearing a pink polo shirt, khaki pants, and Dockers. His concave chest, his nonexistent butt, and a nose long enough to hang an ornament from it, suggested he wasn’t yet full grown. Alexander was one of hundreds of weird angst-filled boys who came out of the woodwork to take Professor Schmutzig’s Existentialism course every year. Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil became their sacred scroll. They were seriously mental. They emulated Dostoevsky’s Underground Man, for God’s sake! Maybe it was just a phase some adolescent boys passed through on their way to becoming investment bankers. Jessica wondered where these guys came from, and where they went after college.
“Alexander, what are you doing here?”
“Mrs. Bush told me you were up here,” Alexander said with an expensive accent.
“What do you want?” Jessica blew on her bangs. “I mean, can I help you with something, Alexander?”
“I want my final paper.”
“The semester ended a week ago, Alexander. You got an A in the class?” Her cheeks burned. She had to get rid of him and get the hell out of Brentano Hall before someone found the professor’s body… and her thesis.
“I got an A-minus. And I want my paper back so I can read Professor Schmutzig’s comments.”
Oh no, he’s going to start grade grubbing! Jessica hadn’t actually read the papers yet. She’d had a hundred papers to grade for that class in just 48 hours, so she’d only glanced at the papers and assigned grades. She’d planned to write comments later but hadn’t had time. It was always the ones with A-minuses who came around to argue about their grades.
“Um. Let me see.” Jessica pretended to look around the room. “I wonder where I put them.”
Alexander peered into the attic, and she tried to block his view as he stared down at the dirty sweater bunched up on the floor.
“I need to get your paper from Professor Schmutzig’s office. But I’m late for an appointment.” She really was supposed to meet Amber at the café in twenty minutes. “Can you come back tomorrow?”
“Can’t you go get it now?” he demanded.
“No, Alexander. I can’t. I have to wait until tomorrow to get the key from Donnette.” Jeez. Sometimes these privileged Northwestern students were so demanding. “I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Did the professor like it?”
“Like what? Oh, he didn’t read it. I graded it.” She was careful to say, “graded it” instead of “read it.”
“YOU graded it? Didn’t the professor read it?” He was wringing his hands.
Jessica rolled her mind’s eye. These rich kids didn’t understand. Their professors were too busy publishing or perishing to read their exams. Instead, poor underpaid grad students read hundreds of exams at a time for less than minimum wage. That way the university could cycle through thousands of tuition paying trust fund brats.
“I was writing it especially for Professor Schmutzig. Based on his last lecture on Dostoevsky.” Alexander was even paler than usual.
Jessica was starting to feel sorry for the kid. “Maybe I can send it to him in New Jersey if it’s that important to you.” She couldn’t tell him that Professor Schumtzig would never read his paper, or anyone else’s for that matter, since he was lying downstairs dead in his bathtub. She shuddered remembering the grisly scene.
“It’s too late for that.” Alexander was getting agitated, even a little scary. “I need to get it back now!”
“Tomorrow. Okay?” Jessica ducked back inside her attic cell, shutting the door in his acne-blotched face. She threw her keys, phone, and wallet into her book bag and slung it over her shoulder. Almost to the door, she stopped, dashed back to her toiletries basket, grabbed a bottle of body mist and sprayed herself all over trying to camouflage the smells of the night before, ode to cannabis with a large dash of terror. In a cloud of vanilla spice, she yanked the door open and rushed out.
Alexander Le Blanc was waiting for her in the hall. “So what did you think of my paper?” he asked, his voice squeaking.
She lurched back and slammed into the door. Now she’d have another wicked bruise on her thigh. “You scared me.” You Little Brat.
“Did you like it?” His nose was twitching.
“Oh right. Yes. I liked it very much. It was well written as always. And your argument was clear.” She hoped that the paper contained an argument. She had to get away from him as soon as possible. Her head hurt; her jeans clung to her bruised thighs like she’d slept in them; and most importantly, she had to figure out how to get her thesis out of Wolf’s office before anyone found it.
“What did you think of my argument that Raskolnikov is an example of Nietzsche’s Übermensch?” He was waving Crime and Punishment under her nose. Now, the little twerp was threatening her with Russian Existentialism.
“Very clever. Yes, very convincing.” As she galloped down the stairs to escape his probing questions about the paper she hadn’t read, she slipped on the landing and caught herself just in time to avoid diving head first down the next set of stairs.
Alexander looked confused. “So you agree that he had a right to do what he did because he is a superior sort of man?”
“Um. Sure. I really have to run. Sorry. See you tomorrow.” She gathered her thick blonde hair into a ponytail so she could see to get out of the building without running into anything else or falling down the stairs. Outside, Alexander was scurrying to keep up, trying to block her path. She swerved right and rushed towards the back parking lot. Surely, he wouldn’t follow her to her car.
Three campus police cars with their lights flashing were pulling up behind Brentano Hall. She froze, staring at them as they approached. When Alexander caught up to her, she blocked his body with the driver’s side door, dove into her car, slammed the door, turned the key in the ignition, put it in drive, and stepped on the gas. The crappy old Impala groaned and complained but wouldn’t start. Great! She tried again. Now she’d probably flooded it. Alexander approached the car like he might try to get in. For heaven’s sakes, what is with this kid? He rapped on the window. She mouthed “TOMORROW.” Finally, the car started, and she took off, leaving him gulping in her exhaust.
Chapter Six
When Dmitry came to in the dimly lit room, the first thing he noticed was a distinctive floral scent of smoky sweet apple, reminiscent of the chamomile growing wild throughout Russia. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he tried to lift his hands to his aching head, but they were tied together behind his back. His feet were bound too, and he was lying on his side in a puddle of something sticky. He wriggled himself up against a wall and into an upright position, leaning his shoulders against the wall. Light flickered in through the thick glass from a window above him. He must be in a basement with high windows onto the street. As his senses sharpened, the sweet chamomile scent turned to sickly mildew rot. His shirt stuck to his back, whether from the dank room or a cold sweat, he didn’t know. He twisted his arms so that his hands we
re above his back right pocket, and patted to see if it was there in its place, the carbide-tipped pocket-scraper he used for woodworking in Brentano Hall. He worked the scraper out of his pocket and then leveraged the tip between the ropes and the wall and rhythmically moved his wrists back and forth to cut the cord.
He had been at it long enough that his hands were cramping when he heard footsteps in the distance. Frantic, he pressed the ropes against the carbide tip. Just as he heard keys jangling in the lock on the other side of the door, his hands broke free. He didn’t have time to cut through the ropes binding his ankles, so he scooted back into the middle of the puddle of blood from his cut lip, and pushed his body over into the fetal position he had found himself in earlier. Squinting, he saw the shadow of a large man approaching, backlit by florescent lights from the hallway. The man was pointing a small revolver at him. He willed himself not to open his eyes any further. The man stood over him and kicked at Dmitry’s feet. “You alive?” Holding his breath, he fought the urge to move, and after waiting for his target to move into range, took his chance.
When the gangster bent down, Dmitry jack-knifed his knees up so the heels of his shoes landed full force on the man’s chin. The brute fell backwards, his gun clattering to the floor and Dmitry lunged for it. The bull moaned, rolled towards him, and, with his arms outstretched, managed to grab Dmitry’s left foot. But by then, Dmitry had the thug’s revolver in both hands. He kicked his foot free, sprung up off the floor, swung around, and cold-cocked the mobster on the back of the head with the butt of the pistol. The bodyguard slumped, face down, into the coagulating pool of blood.
Surveying the room to make sure he didn’t have any more company, Dmitry used his scraper to saw at the thick ropes around his ankles, then used those ropes to hogtie the wrists and ankles of the unconscious gangster, then sneaked out into the bright hallway. At first the florescent lights were blinding, and he stumbled into a wall, banging his already hurting head. As his eyes adjusted, he was relieved to see he was alone, at least for now. But he had no idea where he was, or where he might be going. Following illuminated red exit signs, he staggered outside into an alley. He realized it wouldn’t be long before the Pope’s Krysha were after him again.
As he rounded the corner, the building became a sail waving in the wind, then the street started heaving. He slid along the back of the building clinging to the shadows on the wall, a sailor hugging slippery rigging. When he reached the side of the building, he realized where he was. Gross Point Road was directly in front of him. If he could make it to the corner of the building, he might be able to spot his minivan across the street, provided it was still there.
As he started around the corner, he heard voices and ducked into a doorway. His heart pounding in his chest like a ship in a hurricane, sea sick from the motion of the street, he staggered along holding onto the building. When the voices receded into the distance, he stumbled out into Gross Point Road, dodging an oncoming car that honked as it passed him. He spotted his van parked across the street, and started running full tilt, breathlessly swaying from side to side. Swimming against the current, he finally reached the van. He pulled his keys from his pocket, pressed the unlock button, and dove inside, head first. His right hand was shaking so badly he could hardly get the key into the ignition.
An ear-splitting crash, and the glass of the driver’s side window shattered right onto him, and then a huge fist walloped the side of his head. One of the Krysha had broken the window and his monster arms were reaching inside the van to grab Dmitry by the throat.
“The Pope says you have 48 hours to deliver the money and the paintings, or accidents will happen to your family. Two days or you’ll live only long enough to hear them cry for mercy, súka,” the gangster threatened.
As soon as the bull released his neck, Dmitry gunned the accelerator and swerved onto Gross Point Road right into oncoming traffic. He pulled hard on the steering wheel and the van veered left, just missing a truck. He was being pulled into an undertow; the street was sucking him down. The blood running into his right eye was blurring his vision, but he didn’t dare release the wheel to wipe it off. The whites of his knuckles stood out against the dark steering wheel and he willed himself to focus. Concentrate. Stay awake dammit. As headlights blurred by, his mind drifted back to his father and the horrifying night he had fled for his life. His father must have put out a Bratva A.P.B. on the two missing paintings, but there was no way the Pope could know where they were hidden. Not even Sabina knew.
Chapter Seven
When Jessica got to the café, Amber was already there waiting at their regular booth. Over the past forty years, customers at The Blind Faith Café had gone from slurping grainy diner coffee out of chipped white mugs to sipping cosmopolitans out of frosted martini glasses. Amber’s evolution had followed a similar path, but in a condensed period of time. Hers was human time relative to the café’s geological time, and made Amber seem both younger and older than her twenty-five years on planet earth.
Jessica tossed her satchel onto the seat and plopped down in the booth across from Amber. “Whew, sorry I’m late.” The cool plastic was soothing against her hot back. “Where’s Jack?”
“Jesse-girl, take this to counteract last night.” Rummaging through her monster purse, Amber pulled out a baggie full of brown bark. “It’s Borotutu bark for cleansing the liver.”
Jessica glanced around to make sure no one was watching and snatched up the illicit baggy and slipped it into her jacket pocket.
“I need caffeine,” she said. “I’m still in shock from last night. I can’t believe we found…”
Amber interrupted, “Caffeine is bad for you. When insects eat a caffeinated plant, they’re paralyzed instantly and die.” She bobbed her head back and forth as if to some imaginary funky music in her head. She was in surprisingly good spirits for someone who’d discovered a dead body the night before.
“At least I won’t have any bugs in my gut then. But if it will make you happy, I’ll order Witch’s Brew tea instead.” Jessica scanned the familiar menu, but she wasn’t hungry. Overwhelmed, she slouched over the table and put her head in her hands. Amber slid into the booth beside her, and putting both hands on top of Jessica’s head, started tapping.
“Take a deep breath and hold it,” she said.
People were turning to stare, and that was saying something given the clientele at Blind Faith Vegetarian Café. But she submitted to the tapping rather than hurt Amber’s feelings.
“The energetic circuit of your kidney meridian is blocked. Envision your kidneys bathed in a healing golden light, honey nourishing your organs.”
After drinking a whole pot of Witch’s Brew, she couldn’t help thinking about her kidneys. “Amber, I have to pee.” She pulled out from under the drumming fingers and pushed her friend out of the booth so she could escape to the bathroom.
“Good. That means the EFT treatment is working.” Amber smiled and nodded.
When Jessica got back from the bathroom, Amber was on the phone. While she waited, she pulled her own phone from the pocket of her fringe jacket. As she did, a sharp paper corner poked her finger. Her eyes widened as she pulled the envelope from her pocket, turned it over, and then opened it. Between the whiskey and the shock of Wolf’s dead body (not to mention that messed-up post-dated letter she’d found with her thesis), she’d completely forgotten about Dmitry’s note.
“What’s going on?” Amber asked in alarm.
When she passed the note across the table to Amber, she noticed the brownish fingerprints staining the edge of the paper.
“This is the note Dmitry slipped under the door last night,” Jessica whispered.
“What does it mean? ‘You are not safe here’.” Amber may be spacey, but a threatening note from the Russian janitor brought her back to earth. “Wow. I see why you’re freaked now, but why were you so upset about that letter you found last night?”
“Let’s see, could it be because Wolf, may he re
st in peace, dated it three months from now, and he said my thesis sucks and I’m stupid,” Jessica said. “I’m upset because it means I wrote an entire thesis that took me a whole year, and I still can’t get my degree. And unless I can find another advisor, I’ll probably get kicked out of the program.” She started sobbing.
The shock of last night and weeks of uncertainty and heartbreak ran down her face. She wiped her nose on her sleeve as she headed towards the all-gender bathroom marked “For Humans Only.” She slouched into a stall and unwound wads of toilet paper to dry her eyes and blow her nose.
When she returned from the bathroom this time, Jack was sitting in the booth next to Amber. “We can’t tell anyone we broke into Wolf’ office or we’ll all go to jail.” He looked worse than Jessica felt.
“I saw cop cars pulling up to Brentano when I was leaving,” she said. “Someone must have found him.” She shuddered. “I hope they don’t check fingerprints or anything. What are we going to do? I have to get my thesis back somehow. If anyone reads that letter, they’ll know Wolf wanted to kick me out.”
“That post-dated letter doesn’t mean shit,” Jack said with his mouth full. “It only proves that asshole was trying to sabotage you.” He was eating off of Amber’s plate.
“When I was at the Ashram, he gave a lecture on Existentialism and Zen, and our Guru called him a genius.” Amber was trying to pry dirt out from under her fingernails using the ends of her snaky hair. “So he can’t be that bad.” She started tapping on her own head.
“A genius?” Jack scoffed. “Did your Guru have ‘Wolf’ tattooed on her ass or something?”
“How can you joke about him now that he’s dead?” The note was sticking to Jessica’s sweaty fingers. She peeled it off and slid it across the table. “Jack, look at this.”
