Bloody Bokhara

by William Campbell Gault

  Seven stores in town sold oriental rugs. Six Armenians and one Syrian. Plus Henri Ducasse and Carl Lieder, who sold all over the state and out of the state, wherever suckers lived. But they bought from one of the legitimate dealers, at a discount, so they were less competition than the others. And Henri was now out of business.

  It didn’t matter how many stores sold them; what mattered was how many people bought them. And what hurt was how long they kept them when they did buy them. Some of our customers had used a rug for thirty years and then sold it for more than they paid for it. Great turnover.

  This was the business to which I was supposed to give my future. Outside, people kept going by.

  From the washroom, Selak came into the shop. “Lumensa,” or something in that line, is what he said. It means “I’m finished.”

  “Who isn’t?” I asked him, and then smiled. “Okay, we’ll be going home, soon, Selak. Be sure you’re dry; it’s getting cold, out.”

  Even at this distance, the odor of his perspiration was rank and heavy. How he worked, how he perspired.

  He looked at the floor and up at me. His smile was the smile of a child. “This morning, mad I was, yet. But I know you are my friend. And Berjouhi is your girl.”

  “Not any more,” I said. “She just gave me the gate. Be sure you’re dry, now, Selak. You’re not careful enough about that.”

  He nodded, smiled, and went back to the washroom. Outside, a few flakes of snow were drifting down. Yesterday, it had been 78; today it was snowing. I love this middle west.

  The big hands of the clock above the desk formed a straight line and I cranked the alarm system, and got the answering buzz. I went back and Selak was waiting in the washroom, his eyes blank.

  Papa had left the truck instead of the station wagon. The windshield was fogged, and I wiped it with a rag from the glove compartment. The odor of Selak’s sweat was heavy on the air.

  I thought of Claire and the big urge began to blossom; pressure in my loins. That pile of rugs and that firm blonde with the Caddy. Rugs that needed careful selling and I’d never have to look at snow, again. We could go some place where it never snowed. There were other rugs like that a man could pick up around the country. This wasn’t 1912, but there were still collectors.

  Or I could stay with Papa, marry Berjouhi, and in thirty years, when our furniture looked shabby, Berjouhi and our daughter could make slip covers for it.

  In the window, a Sarouk … It is not a work of art?

  Who can establish a fair trade price on a work of art? Maybe Dykstra thought he could, and Ducasse had paid it. When I sold those rugs of Claire’s, I had better be wary of customers with guns — or heavy objects.

  We drove past the store of Sarkis Sabazian and Son — Orientals — Carpeting — Domestics — Cleaning — Repairing — Credit. The store was closed. There was a cream-colored Chinese rug in the window, a big one.

  The snow was wet and sticky; the windshield wiper made a semi-circular swath in it. The rest of the windshield was packed with it. It’s an old truck, with one wiper.

  When I stopped to let Selak off, I saw his sister framed in a front window. She was holding the curtain back with one hand, watching for her brother. The curtain fell back into place as Selak started up the wooden walk that split the small front yard.

  At home, Ann was reading the evening paper. The front of it was toward me, as I entered, and I saw the picture of Henri Ducasse on the first page.

  “Can I have that first section?” I asked her.

  She handed it to me with an absent smile, intent on the society pages. Not that she knew any of the names there.

  The police had a theory that Ducasse hadn’t been killed where he’d been found. There was no blood on the rug under his battered head. A Bokhara will bleed, but not blood it won’t bleed, Levon.

  Ducasse was identified as a connoisseur of rugs and tapestries — and a bon vivant.

  I asked, “What’s a bon vivant, Ann?”

  “Oh, a — lover of good living,” she answered. “A man who likes fine foods. Thinking of taking it up, Lee?”

  “Not until business gets better,” I told her. And then looked over to find her regarding me thoughtfully.

  “Henri Ducasse was one,” I said. “Sam and I found his body.”

  “I wonder who’ll find yours,” she said, and went back to the society page.

  After dinner, I took a shower. Papa had the tavlu board set up when I came from the bathroom, but I shook my head. “I’m late now,” I said.

  “Berjouhi?” Smiling.

  “Business.”

  He clicked his teeth.

  Ann said, “I’ll play you a couple games, Papa. But we use the cup, remember.”

  When I was dressed, I went out through the dining room, toward the back door. Mom was in the dining room, a mouthful of pins in the middle of her placid face. Some figured sailcloth, marked for cutting, was spread on the dining-room table. Slip covers.

  She made a face at me as I went through, and I winked at her.

  The seat covers in the Chev were in bad shape; maybe she could make me a set. The snow had stopped and very little of it was on the ground. It had melted into slush. The Chev went coughing down the alley toward the street.

  Blood on the Bokhara, but none on the Kerman under Ducasse’s head. The prayer rug, Sam claimed, had formerly belonged to Ducasse. There were some things I had to know, some questions to be asked.

  Claire was in black. Looked like chiffon. Her hair high, showing the lovely curve to the back of her neck. When I closed the door, her body was pressed against mine, and her thighs rubbed gently sidewards against mine.

  Her lips were moist and open. I kept my mouth closed and my body rigid.

  She pulled away and regarded me, her head tilted to one side. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I should hope. Ducasse murdered. I understand he formerly owned that rug in the safe.”

  “Is that so? And who told you that?”

  “Never mind. Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. Lee, pull out if you want. I’ll get somebody to sell those rugs. If you haven’t any faith in me, we can forget the whole deal.”

  I studied her gravely. “Should I have faith in you?”

  “You’ll have to decide that. Mrs. Cooke phoned right after you called. She doesn’t want you to bring the rug until tomorrow afternoon. She doesn’t trust artificial light.”

  “I wasted a trip,” I said. “Why didn’t you call back?”

  “If I’d known you were going to be like this, I would have. Lee, it wasn’t my idea to bring you into this deal. But after I saw you — after — last night, I’m glad you’re in.” Her chin lifted. “But I’ve no strings on you.”

  Not much, she hadn’t. From her tootsies to her shining hair, she had all kinds of strings. I smiled at her. “Just a social evening? I’m not permitted any questions?”

  “All I can answer. Sit down. I’ll fix us a drink.”

  We sat on the davenport near the front windows with our drinks. Her legs were up under her, and she was leaning back into the L of one corner of the davenport. The arc of her back threw her breasts into more than usual prominence and the light from the other end of the room put half her face in shadow, as she faced me.

  “Some day,” I said, “or evening, wear a suit of armor when I’m due to call. Then I can get all my questions straight in my mind.”

  “That would do it, for you, wouldn’t it?” she asked. “It’s all body, with you.”

  “A body like yours is difficult to overlook. You know it, too. But about Ducasse — I went up there with a friend of mine to talk about that rug. This friend knew Ducasse very well, and told me that Ducasse was willing to buy the rug, that he once owned it. Is that true?”

  “I told you before — I don’t know. The rug was brought here by Carl Lieder. I don’t know where he got it.”

  “All right. I’ll buy it, for now. As this friend and I stood over Henri’s body,
a little man with a hooked nose came in. Wore a black derby. Had black eyes, round and small. Know him?”

  “Not in those clothes. I think it could be a man who usually wears a turban when he’s working. A Turk named Ismet Bey.”

  “And what’s his pitch?”

  “He has a cult, out in the town of cults, in Los Angeles. It’s part Mohammedan and part voodoo and part pseudo-science, I guess. It’s a great town for crackpots, and this was one of the better-paying cults in town.”

  “And what’s he doing here?”

  “He wants that rug, that prayer rug. It formerly belonged to him.”

  “It was stolen from him?”

  She shook her head. She leaned down to pick up an imaginary thread from the davenport, and then straightened, again. Great stuff. She said, “Ismet went out of town for a while with — one of his disciples, and the law stepped in. It seems this disciple was young enough to make it statutory rape and her papa was willing to risk the publicity. Ismet was out on bail when he took off. His temple furnishings were sold at auction.” She shrugged. “Carl was at the auction.”

  “And that’s where he picked up the rug.”

  It hadn’t been exactly a question, but she answered it. “If we’re to believe Carl. I don’t believe everything he says, though, do you?”

  “No.”

  She pulled her legs out from under her and stretched them along the davenport, toward me. Her back was against the arm, at the end, now. Straight, slim legs, smooth and firm.

  “And now,” she said, “who was your friend? What’s his name?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Another dealer.”

  “Well, I’ve told you what I know. Believe in me, Lee?”

  “If I know you another day,” I said, “it won’t matter if I do or not. You have one hell of a lot of attraction for me, Miss Lynne.”

  “It’s mutual,” she said. “Why don’t you put some records on the player, and mix us another drink?”

  “In a minute. If this Bey wants to buy the rug back, what are we stalling for?”

  “For a price. Let him simmer for a while.”

  “And one more thing.” I stood up. “Ducasse wasn’t killed in his apartment. He was killed somewhere else. There wasn’t enough blood in his apartment. I keep thinking of your Bokhara.”

  I went over to mix us another drink. I went over to the record player and put on some Gershwin, and came back to the davenport. She was lower in the thing, now, the arm about even with her shoulders.

  “Temptation,” I said, “in black chiffon,” and handed her her drink.

  “I’m testing your will power,” she said, and made a face at me.

  When I sat down, I saw she had taken her shoes off. She nudged me with one toe. I tickled the sole of that foot, and she jerked it abruptly toward her.

  I made a motion for the other foot, and that joined the first. Her knees were up, now, the dress falling away from her legs above the knees. Rhapsody In Blue came from the record player.

  “While I’m still vertical,” I said, “how about the blood on that Bokhara?”

  “I don’t know a damned thing about it, Lee. Did you have it analyzed?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t be sure it’s blood. A Bokhara will bleed when it’s washed.”

  “Who told you that? How did you know that?”

  She paused for only a second before saying, “Carl Lieder.”

  “Oh. How did the subject happen to come up?”

  “I don’t remember, Lee.” Her voice was weary. “Maybe this was a mistake, your coming here, tonight.”

  “Maybe,” I said, and stood up. I started toward the door.

  “Lee — ” she said.

  I started for the door but never got there. I switched off the lights, one by one, and came back.

  I came back in the dark, and could feel no chiffon. Only the taut, rounded eagerness of her tanned body.

  “You don’t wear a hell of a lot, do you,” I asked. “That was quick work.”

  “Enough,” she whispered. My coat was off and her fingers fumbled at my shirt buttons.

  I couldn’t wait; the pressure threatened to blow off the top of my head. My face buried in the hollow of her shoulder, my hands pressing the small of her back, my —

  The door chime sounded.

  I stopped, and she said, “They’ll go away. It couldn’t be anything important.”

  “Is the door locked?”

  “Gosh, no — I — oh, Lee — damn it!”

  The chime sounded again.

  “You’d better go, Lee.”

  “Me? No, no. You go. Tell ‘em to go away.”

  “Lee, the door’s unlocked. Please, Lee — ”

  I went. I snapped on the light as she slipped into the chiffon. I opened the door.

  The man standing there had a too-tight blue serge suit on and his coarse hair plastered flat to his skull with some odorous grease. The shirt was almost clean, the tie frayed and bright. In his big right hand he had a bunch of violets.

  Selak.

  Chapter Four

  I DIDN’T laugh. He didn’t even smile.

  “Who is it, Lee?” Claire called.

  “One of your boys,” I called back. “Come to pay his respects.” I held the door wider. “Come in, Selak. We were discussing some business, but we’re finished, now.”

  She sat on the davenport, staring at him. She said quietly, “Migawd.”

  “Easy does it,” I said, and put a hand on Selak’s massive shoulder. “The flowers are beautiful, just the kind I bring to Berjouhi.”

  He stared at her; she glared at him.

  “Gracious hostess,” I said. “Smile, lady, smile. He’s one of my people.”

  She stood up. She smiled and came forward to take the flowers from Selak’s hand. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. — ”

  “Saroian,” I supplied. “Miss Lynne, I’d like to present Mr. Selak Saroian, one of my associates.”

  Selak held out his hand. She stared at it a moment before taking it. “How do you do, Mr. Saroian. Lee has often spoken of you. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Sure,” he said. He sat down on the davenport. He smiled at both of us.

  Claire whispered to me, “Who the hell is Berjouhi?”

  “One of my girls. Maybe we could play rummy. How would that go, Selak.”

  He nodded.

  “Dandy,” Claire said caustically. “I’ll get some cards.” She left the room.

  “Selak,” I said seriously, “in this country, you call a girl before you come up. Give her warning. Call, first.”

  “Borom — ?” he said, frowning. It means “I should holler?”

  “Not that kind of call,” I explained. “On the telephone, you should call. Like we do to customers. Phone them, first.”

  He nodded his grease-laden head.

  “You took a bath, I hope,” I said.

  His looked was puzzled. “To play cards, I should take a bath?”

  “Every time you’re going to see a girl, you should take a bath. You never know when you might get a break.”

  “Bath,” he said. “Okay. Next time.”

  “And phone first, next time.”

  “Sure.”

  Claire came back, then, with a deck of cards and a pad of paper. “Shall we play in the dining room?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re a good kid, Claire. I kind of like you. Selak’s the boy who discovered the blood in your Bokhara.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all he ever discovers,” she said. “And that Berjouhi subject is not closed, Mr. Kaprelian.”

  “Yes, dear,” I said. “No cheating, now.”

  Believe it or not, it was fun. Claire’s fun. Claire can adjust. And what a card sharp. I’d always fancied myself as a rummy player, but she was every bit as good, if not better. I gave Selak nothing; she gave me nothing. Selak discarded with complete indifference.

  Selak won.


  She made sandwiches and coffee, then, and there was some cake, and we talked about rugs, and Selak talked about the old country and how, sometimes, a whole family will take months to weave one rug and get a few cents a day for their combined efforts.

  When we left, she shook hands with both of us, in a gracious display of impartiality, and said, “Don’t forget tomorrow afternoon, Lee, and Mrs. Cooke. We’ll discuss this — Berjouhi, then, too.”

  “Sure,” I said, “you can help me pick out her ring.”

  Let her sleep on that. Do her good.

  On the way down to the car, Selak was quiet, his brown eyes dreamy. Was he dreaming of the old country, and girls he’d known?

  In the car, he said in a throaty guttural, “Imis, imis, imis — ”

  Mine, mine, mine … Was his voice husky with wonder, or was it the growl of a dog with a bone? Was it a dream or a threat?

  “Just don’t forget to phone, first,” I said. “Where did you get the violets?”

  He didn’t answer; he was lost in the dream.

  I didn’t catch Papa’s door closing, tonight. I slept well and late; he was gone when I ate breakfast in the morning. Ann was gone, too.

  My mother sat down at the table to have a cup of coffee with me. “Your father’s worried about you,” she said. “And Ann. Strangers you’re running with, Lee?”

  “Business, Ma,” I said.

  “What kind of business?”

  “New davenport business, money business.”

  “That means something? What kind of talk is that?”

  “Take a look around you, Ma. I’d like us to have it better.”

  “I’ve seen it worse,” she said. “In Sivas in a mud house. The Turks taking our virgins, killing our brothers, our children. Don’t tell me to look around, Levon Kaprelian. I look around and thank God. Americans — ” She shook her head. She’d spit that last word.

  “You’re American, Ma,” I said. “All of us are.”

  “Am I? Gimme, gimme, gimme — that’s Americans. Lee, you be careful with Americans.”

  I tweaked her nose. I said, “Okay. I’ll be ready for ’em. Don’t you worry about me.”

  She smiled, and pulled my ear. “I guess not. I guess you’re an American, too.”