Matters of Doubt

by Warren C Easley

  Semyon turned around, put a hand on the fresh abrasion on his forehead, and smiled. I said, “Had enough?” It never hurts to ask.

  He didn’t seem to appreciate my little joke. Instead, he snorted again in Russian and charged me with both arms outstretched like a mad Russian bear. I knew that once he got his hands on me, I was finished. I stood upright as if I were going to take his charge, then at the last moment, ducked under his grasp, crouched down low and came up with everything I had in my quadriceps. It was definitely not a Marquess of Queensbury maneuver. My dad, who’d taught me to box, would have been ashamed, but I really didn’t want to die in some stupid fight on the street.

  I heard a sickening crunch as my head met the underside of his chin and saw a brilliant flash of light before everything went black. Again.

  I don’t know how long I was out, but the next thing I heard was Archie barking and scratching on the other side of the door. I sat up and gingerly touched the growing lump on the top of my head. The sidewalk I was sitting on took a familiar, nauseating half turn.

  Semyon was sitting next to me, holding his jaw and groaning. He looked at me, focused his eyes, and said through clamped, bloody teeth, “Yew roke ma ja. Yew roke ma ja.”

  “Yeah, well, you broke my skull. We should definitely call it even now.”

  He doubled up in pain. “Aw, shi, dis hurts like a son ofa bitch.”

  I clawed my cell phone out of my front pocket. “You probably need to get to a hospital, man. Hold on. I know somebody who might be able to help us.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I called Anna, and she picked up on the eighth or ninth ring. She’d dozed off reading a book, she explained. I told her we had a little medical situation that needed attention and wondered if she could drop by Caffeine Central. She wanted more information, but I told her it was a long story. I was in no shape to chit chat. I turned to Semyon. “I have a friend who’s a doctor. She’s coming right over to take a look at you.”

  Still holding his jaw and moaning, Semyon used the door knob to pull himself up. This set Archie off again. I gathered up my keys, which were lying next to me on the sidewalk, held them out to him and said, “Here, let my dog out, would you? He’s giving me a headache.”

  He shook his head, refusing to take the keys. Archie broke out in another chorus of barks.

  “It’s okay,” I insisted. “He won’t hurt you.” I extended the keys again. “Go ahead, let him out.”

  Semyon took the keys and cautiously opened the door, then quickly stepped back. Archie looked at me first, then at Semyon, and as he did, lowered his ears, bared his fangs, and growled with such menace that it even scared me. He wasn’t an aggressive dog, but it was clear he meant business. Semyon shot me a shouldn’t-have-listened-to-you look, made a guttural throat sound and took a couple more steps back.

  I looked at Arch and shot a hand up like a traffic cop. “It’s okay, Archie. It’s okay. Come here, boy.” My dog raised his ears and came over to me with his tail wagging tentatively, looked me over, and tried to lick my bloody head. I struggled to get up. Semyon came over, extended a hand, and pulled me to my feet. Archie positioned himself between us, but it was clear the hostilities were over. We were like a couple of gladiators who’d fought to a draw, but I’m sure the Romans would have given us both a thumbs down for our performance.

  We stood there in awkward silence until Semyon met my eyes. “I’m sori bou Bambi. Jessca tol me to rufer up alil. I didn’t mean ta hurter like dat. I never it a woman bafor.”

  “Bambi would be glad to hear that. You should tell her in person. Maybe one day she’ll be able to forgive you.”

  Semyon nodded, and something shifted in that moment. I won’t say we became friends, but at least we were no longer enemies.

  Anna pulled up in her Volvo and got out, straining to see in the dim light. “Cal, is that you? Oh, my God, what’s happened now?”

  “Anna, this is Semyon. He’s, uh, got a problem with his jaw. Maybe you could look at it?”

  She looked at Semyon, then back at me. “Is he the Russ—”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay now. We’ve declared a truce.”

  Anna gave Semyon’s jaw a cursory examination. The right side along the jawline looked like he had a roll of quarters inside his cheek. The bulge was already turning a cloudy purple. She had him try to open his mouth, and he made a strange, wounded bird sound. Anna said, “Your mandible’s badly broken, and you’ve chipped a couple of teeth. You need to go to the ER immediately.” Then she turned to me. “Are you okay?”

  I pointed at the top of my head, accidentally touching the lump, which caused me to flinch. “Bumped my head.”

  She took my head in her hands and gently bowed it. “Oh, that’s a nasty bump, Cal. And the gash is going to need stitches. So, your head hit his chin? Is that what happened?”

  I nodded. “Accident.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “How do you feel?”

  “Whoozy.”

  She went to her car and returned with a flashlight from her glove compartment. After checking my response, she said, “You might be mildly concussed. Who do you think you are, an NFL quarterback?”

  I chuckled, and Semyon chimed in with a couple of clinch-jawed grunts.

  Semyon wanted to drive himself to the hospital, and I offered to drive him, but Anna was having none of it. She drove us both to the Good Samaritan Hospital over on Twenty-second at the base of the West Hills. I’d been back in the waiting room for an hour, sporting five new stitches, when Semyon emerged with his jaw wired shut and the prospect of a liquid diet for the next several weeks.

  There wasn’t a lot of small talk on the way back from the hospital, but Semyon and my truce seemed to be holding. However, when I finally walked him to his car near Caffeine Central, he declined to shake my offered hand. That was okay with me. If we couldn’t be friends, I’d settle for being his non-enemy.

  When I returned, Anna was still in the driver’s seat of her Volvo. “Get in. You’ll need close observation tonight.”

  “Lucky me,” I replied.

  On the way back to her condo, Anna said, “Two fights with this guy, Cal? There was no way to avoid this? He could have killed you.”

  I exhaled a breath and shook my head. “Nando had just dropped me off. Semyon came out from the side of the building. I wasn’t expecting it. I tried to talk him down, but he wasn’t listening.”

  “So, you stood and fought. You’re a male. It’s in your DNA, I guess.” She fell silent for several moments, seeming to mull her statement over. “I wonder what I would have done in a situation like that? Sometimes, I wonder whether I’m principled or just a physical coward.”

  “The survival instinct’s built into everyone’s DNA. You might surprise yourself,” I replied.

  I had no idea how prophetic that statement would be.

  The next morning, Anna dropped me off at Caffeine Central on her way to the clinic. Once again, I was given strict orders to take it easy, although I felt a hell of a lot better than after the last time I encountered Semyon. I spent most of the morning on the phone with clients and also my bookkeeper, Gertrude Johnson, who called to tell me she needed to move some cash from my savings account to my business account to cover the bills. “All this publicity about that homeless kid and the suicide of that lobbyist could kill your business, Cal. When are you going to wrap things up in Portland and get back to focusing on your clients in Dundee?”

  “It’s going well here, Gertie. I should have things wrapped up in no time.” I didn’t want to worry her, and I didn’t need the lecture I was sure to get if I told her the truth.

  She paused for a long time before saying, “Uh huh. Well, I hope you’re not shining me on, Cal. You can’t afford it.”

  That bit of news did nothing for my appetite, but sometime after one that afternoon I went int
o the kitchen, sliced an apple along with a chunk of Gruyere cheese, added a handful of walnuts, and poured myself a chilled glass of Argyle chardonnay. I had just sat down with The Oregonian spread out on the table when Nando called.

  “The madam has deigned to grant you an audience tonight. You are to present yourself at the Happy Angus around ten to discuss issues of mutual interest.”

  “Thank you, Nando. You can tell the madam I’ll be there.”

  “Done. By the way, I did not raise the issue of the mad Russian with her, but I am concerned he might try something when you leave the restaurant, even if you and she come to some sort of arrangement.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think he’ll pose a threat.” I went on to explain what happened the previous night.

  After I finished, he chuckled. “Speak low but carry a large club. That is you, my friend.” His voice grew serious. “But even though you say the Russian carries no grudge, which I find difficult to believe, you must be careful tonight. Perhaps it would be wise if I dropped in for a drink to even up the odds?”

  “Yeah, I’d feel better if you did. But don’t crowd me. I want Armandy to feel free to talk.”

  At 10:10 that night, I climbed the broad spiral staircase to the bar at the Happy Angus. A silver haired man in banker’s pinstripe was coming down the stairs with a young beauty draped on his arm. The man was jingling his keys, and the girl was laughing at something he’d said.

  It seemed a quieter crowd that night. A soft buzz of conversation lubricated by expensive booze floated up from tight knots of couples, mostly men with women who could be their daughters, but they weren’t. The women belonged to Jessica Armandy, perched at her corner table like a general observing a field of battle. She wore a tight, flaming red dress with a scoop neck that revealed an ample portion of cleavage decorated with a multistrand gold necklace. Her face was air-brushed perfection.

  We exchanged greetings, and when I sat down she noticed the shaved, bandaged patch on top of my head. She wrinkled her brow and raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve banged yourself up. Funny thing, my driver Semyon has a shattered jaw. Said it happened while he was sparring. You didn’t happen to be his sparring partner, did you, Claxton?

  I shook my head. “Had a squamous removed. Too much sun up here in the Northwest.”

  She gave me a thin smile and took a sip of her drink without offering me anything. “Well, you’ve become quite the celebrity here in Portland. I hope you’re not investigating any more of my clients. I can’t afford to lose another one.”

  I looked around the room. “Business seems to be pretty good.”

  “It could be better, but it’s hard to get good help these days. You know how it is.”

  My turn to smile.

  She narrowed her eyes and leaned into the table, her cheeks filling with color. “Goddamn it, Claxton, have Bambi call me. She’s got a good business head, and I’ve got a great offer for her. We’re planning to expand.”

  I shrugged. “I could pass the message on, I suppose, but there’s no guarantee what she’ll do. Bambi thinks for herself.”

  She flicked her hand dismissively and shot me an annoyed look. “I know that, damn it, that’s why I like her. Just ask her to call me. Tell her I want to discuss a business opportunity.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it, but I need something from you first.”

  The annoyed look returned as she drained her drink. She raised a finger and a waiter appeared. “Fill me up and bring him a Mirror Pond,” She glanced at me. “That’s your beer, right?”

  “It is, provided I get to drink it, not wear it.”

  She laughed, a kind of lusty bark. “Not to worry. Seth’s not here tonight. I made sure of that. He’s a bit of a hot head, but who could blame him? He worshipped his stepbrother. Now, tell me, what is it you want from me?”

  I leaned in, placing both arms on the table. “You and most of this town are rushing to judgment about who killed Mitch Conyers. I’m here to tell you you’ve got it wrong. Danny Baxter didn’t do it.”

  “Oh, please. Not that happy horseshit again. If Snake Boy didn’t do it, then who the hell did?”

  “Think about it. It was someone who wanted him dead, someone who saw the perfect opportunity to blame it on a young homeless man.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know of anyone else. All I know is that kid hated Mitch’s guts.”

  “Oh, so Conyers was Mr. Congeniality. Come on, Jessica, you can do better than that. Let me spell it out for you. Who was Conyers blackmailing?”

  She tried to look indignant but didn’t quite pull it off. “Oh, that again. If he was blackmailing someone, he sure as hell didn’t tell me about it.”

  I straightened up in my chair. “You don’t seem so sure. Maybe you thought of something after we talked last time, something you didn’t think was important? I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk about it. It doesn’t put your friend in a very good light.”

  She paused for several beats. “Why should I talk to you about this?”

  “For openers, I’m not a cop. Sure, I’m trying to keep an innocent kid from being thrown under the bus, but I’m trying to find out who killed your friend, too. It’s a package deal.”

  She sighed heavily and took a sip of her cognac. “Well, Mitch always seemed to have more cash than I thought he should, especially around the end of the month.” She laughed. “At one point, I thought he might be skimming from my operation, so I had a client of mine who’s an accountant go through the books. Didn’t find anything out of line, so I dropped it. But I always wondered.”

  “Let me guess. You started noticing this around June or July of 2005, right after Nicole Baxter disappeared.”

  She turned her head slightly, as if in thought, then turned back. Her eyes narrowed and a blood vein in her neck appeared like a faint purple river. “What if I did?”

  The lawyer in me screamed don’t tell her too much! But I had to get her talking. I said, “When Nicole Baxter disappeared that May, she was working on a damaging exposé about a well known man in Portland. Conyers was practically living with Baxter at the time. I believe he found the article and all the supporting evidence after she disappeared and used it to extract hush money from that man. Conyers had plenty of leverage. The exposé would have ruined the man’s reputation and sent him to jail.”

  “You talking about Weiman?”

  “No, it wasn’t Hugo Weiman.” Her question disappointed me. She apparently didn’t know the person being blackmailed.

  “Then who the hell is it?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Then you don’t know shit,” she scoffed.

  I took a swig of beer to give myself time to think. Should I give Vincent up? I decided it was worth the gamble, that if she heard the name, she might make a connection. I said, “I know who the exposé was being written about, but I can’t link him to Conyers yet.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Larry Vincent, your favorite radio personality.”

  She sat very still for a moment. The color in her cheeks seemed to bleed away. “You’re sure of this? Vincent?”

  “I’m sure Vincent was Baxter’s target. I need you to help me link him to Conyers. That would give him a whopping motive for murder.”

  She nodded her head slowly, as if in deep thought. “Okay, I get the picture. Now, suppose I can help you. Then what happens?”

  “The guy who brutally murdered your friend and business partner gets put away, and a young man gets his life back.”

  “But it also comes out my friend and business partner was a lowly blackmailer. That, too. Right?”

  I shrugged. “Small price to pay from where I sit.”

  She smiled, and I was reminded of an arctic winter. “I’m going to talk this over with Seth. I’ll get back to you, after I hear from Bambi.”

 
; Chapter Thirty-three

  As I walked by the bar, I nodded to Nando, who’d come in twenty minutes earlier. He laid a bill on the counter and followed me out.

  “How did it go?” he asked when we reached the street.

  “I definitely got her attention, but I don’t think she knew exactly who Conyers was blackmailing. She’s going to talk to Seth Foster. I have a feeling Foster might know, or that between them they can connect the dots. I told her more than I wanted to, but I decided to risk it.”

  “Then this is good, yes?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they’d just as well have Picasso take the fall, so it doesn’t come out that Conyers was a low life blackmailer.”

  “Or maybe they killed Conyers. I’m sure you’ve thought of that possibility.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that. But I like Vincent for it better. I’ll take the chance.” Then I laughed. “Armandy’s dying to get Bambi back. They’re planning to expand the escort service, and apparently Bambi has management potential.”

  Nando chuckled. “Will you talk to her?”

  “I guess I’ll have to. Otherwise, I won’t get anything back from Armandy. But I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

  When I got back to Caffeine Central that night, I leashed up Archie and headed for the river. I left the Glock behind since I no longer had a beef with Semyon. The moon was a dull silver coin behind a gauze of thin clouds. Not a breath of wind stirred. The lights on the piers of the Morrison Bridge—a rainbow of primary colors—shimmered on the river in perfect reflection. I’d heard somewhere that you could select a color scheme and have it displayed on the bridge for a hundred bucks a night. The city was always looking for new sources of revenue. I sat on a bench next to the river imagining what colors I’d choose. Archie sat on the ground next to me, sniffing the cool air as I absently stroked his fur.