by Chris Orcutt
“Ah, yes,” he said, sneering at the cover, “haven’t read it since Professor Green’s class. Remember him and his Phi Beta Kappa key on the watch chain? Quite a pip. As for Moby”—he thumped the book—“it doesn’t hold up to a second read unfortunately. An interesting study about the whaling industry in the nineteenth century; however, as far as a novel goes, it’s dreadfully slow. But never mind that. Where were you last summer? Our ten-year reunion. Did you not receive an invitation?”
“No, I did,” I said, “but I was working that weekend.”
“And what is your line of work, Dakota?” Stanley gestured with the thick novel. “I’ve heard all sorts of rumors over the years—FBI, CIA, NSA. There’s even one that you moved to Alaska and became a bounty hunter. So which is it?”
“Until recently, FBI,” I said. “Now I’m in private practice.”
“Ah, a regular gumshoe then. Like Sam Spade.”
“Mm, more like Phillip Marlowe,” I said, “but yes, a private detective.”
“And what brings you to Harvard?” he asked. “Study?”
“No, a case,” I said. “But it’s confidential. What about you, Stanley? Are you working here now?”
“Yes, I’m the special events liaison for the university. Half-babysitter, half-goodwill ambassador for important guests.”
Stanley explained that his job was to act as a buffer between the administration and the often high-maintenance visiting celebrities, athletes, politicians and artists. His latest charge was a champion chess player.
“Have I heard of him?” I asked.
“Her,” Stanley said. “Depends on how well you know chess.”
“A woman?” I said.
“Yes, an international grandmaster, and you should see her,” he said. “Gorgeous and brilliant. The woman speaks three languages. Been wiping the floor with the men in her exhibition tournaments all week long. Hm…I seem to recall your playing a bit in college.”
“Yeah, but I sucked then, and I suck even more now,” I said.
Stanley checked his watch. “She was supposed to meet me here. She’s late, but I have an idea where she is. Care to join me? She’s something to see—a wonder of the world, I assure you.”
I had planned to infiltrate Sally’s dorm and search her room. But, never one to pass up a chance to meet a gorgeous woman, I opted to tag along.
“Sure,” I said.
“Splendid.” Stanley led us down the steps and along a path that headed to Harvard Square. He checked his watch as we strolled past a horde of undergrads. They looked shell-shocked, like they’d all just failed an exam.
“By the way, Stanley,” I said, “what’s this woman’s name?”
“Svetlana Krush.”
“Wait,” I said, “you’re telling me this woman is a chess player and her last name is ‘Crush,’ as in she crushes her opponents?”
“Sorry,” Stanley said, “mispronounced it. First off, her surname is spelled with a ‘K,’ not a ‘C.’ Also, she uses an umlaut over the ‘U’—you know, those two little dots—so it sounds like ‘crewsh.’ ”
“Svetlana Krüsh,” I said. “Got it.”
Outside the brick wall that surrounded the Yard, Stanley nodded at the plaza in front of the Au Bon Pain café across the street.
“That’s where we’re headed,” he said. “See the hubbub? You can bet she’s the cause of it.”
A throng around the café tables said something was going on. At a lull in the traffic, we crossed the road.
The crowd was an odd assortment of businessmen, students and homeless men. There were no women among the onlookers that I could see. Spunky sparrows pecked at crumbs around the crowd. Through gaps in the crowd I glimpsed a tall woman who was the doppelgänger of a predator-eyed supermodel I’d seen in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. As we wended through the onlookers, I heard the snap of chess clocks interspersed with the clip-clop of boots on the brick courtyard.
“Make way, please!” Stanley said. “Pardon us. We’re with Miss Krüsh.”
There was some grumbling, but gradually the men moved aside and we were in the inner circle of the crowd, gazing down a long row of café tables. Hunched over chessboards on one side of the tables were ten men of various ages and socioeconomic backgrounds. On the other side, a woman moved a piece, pressed a button on a chess clock, and slinked to the next table.
It didn’t seem possible that a woman chess player could be blessed with such talent and beauty; I’d always imagined them to be sickly pale, hirsute brutes. That did not describe Svetlana Krüsh. Her hair was glossy and shoulder-length, flipped up at the ends so it flounced on her jacket collar. The jacket, a black old-fashioned frock coat that draped nearly to her knees, made her look like a woman gunslinger.
When she reached the next table, she paused to contemplate her move, putting a finger to her pillowy lips. Deep in thought, she pushed the jacket off her hip, exposing a long and denimy thigh. They were runway legs, trim and confident. Light makeup accentuated her delicate bone structure. Her eyelashes were Norwegian ski jumps. Beneath the frock coat she wore a cream silk blouse, and the fact that it was undone a couple of buttons seemed to be premeditated; whenever she dipped forward to make a move, her opponent’s eyes strayed from the board.
And there we stood, Stanley and I, for half an hour while, one by one, her opponents tipped over their kings. A couple of curmudgeonly holdouts played down to pawns. Kibitzers chatted and gesticulated about the various games, but Miss Krüsh silenced them with her gaze. The woman had a pair of almond-shaped, widely spaced eyes that seemed to be continually sizing up everything in their purview as prey.
When her one remaining opponent finally resigned, Miss Krüsh stood fully erect, snapped her frock coat taut and glared around, daring someone else to challenge her. Her eyes landed on me. I could tell she was accustomed to people withering in the heat of her stare, but I had a pretty good stare myself. After a short staring contest, she averted her eyes and walked gracefully down the row of tables toward Stanley and me. The sparrows and awed spectators moved aside to make room for her. Indeed, the very air seemed whipped up by her approach: a sudden gust rustled the albizzia trees overhead. When she reached us, a college boy thrust a vinyl roll-up board and a black Sharpie at her. Hastily autographing the board, she shoved it back at him. He darted away to show his buddies.
“Svetlana Krüsh—this is my college roommate, Dakota Stevens,” said Stanley, introducing us.
She held out her hand with the wrist firm but bent, so I wasn’t sure if she expected me to shake her hand or kiss it. In the end I opted to shake it. Something about her—her excellent posture, her unflinching eyes, or the deadly serious brain behind them—something told me this was not a woman to be trifled with. Normally relaxed around women—a bit too accustomed to gorgeous creatures materializing in my life like manna from heaven—I found myself nervous in this one’s presence. Our handshake probably only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed like it went on for hours, both of us with faint smiles on our lips. It was as though we sensed that meeting each other was a destiny moment for both of us, and neither of us wanted it to end.
“I require a double latte, Stanley,” she finally said, letting go of my hand. “And…un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plaît.”
“Certainly,” Stanley said. “That will give you two a chance to talk. Dakota, want anything?”
“Just a black coffee, Stanley. Thanks.”
While Stanley went inside, I led Miss Krüsh to an empty table beneath a tree. I was about to sit down when Miss Krüsh hesitated at her chair. Caught in the awkwardness of the moment, I walked over and held the chair for her while she sat and crossed her legs. Then I pushed it in for her.
“Can I do anything else for you, madam?” I said. “Run a lint brush over your jacket, perhaps?”
She gave me a piqued sidelong glance. I sat
down.
“So, Mr. Stevens,” she said, “what is your profession?”
“I’m a private detective.”
She shook her head minutely and shrugged.
“A private investigator,” I said. “People hire me to solve crimes and problems for them. Haven’t you ever seen a PI movie or TV show?”
“Ah, yes. Magnum, P.I. is one, correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m not as whiny when Higgins won’t loan me the Ferrari.”
She didn’t even smile, which annoyed me; anyone familiar with the show would have found my line hilarious.
“Does this work attract undesirables?” she asked.
“Often.”
She nodded again, without expression.
“But, hey”—I nudged her boot under the table—“what’s life without a few undesirables around?”
The corners of her mouth flickered in a short-lived smile.
“So,” I said, “when you’re not jet-setting around playing chess, where do you live?”
“Manhattan.” She said this curtly, as if with disdain for every other city in the world. I decided to have some fun with her.
“Manhattan, Kansas?” I said. “Really?”
“Of course not, New York Ci—”
“Relax, I’m joshing you. I’m on the Upper West Side myself. Seventy-seventh and Amsterdam. Where’s your place?”
“Eighty-two and a half East Tenth Street,” she said.
“And a half?”
“That is correct.”
“The East Village,” I said. “Nice.”
“Where is your office located, Mr. Stevens?”
“I’m without an office space at present. You could say I’m in the market.”
“Our meeting might prove fortuitous, Mr. Stevens,” she said. “The basement level of the building I own is available. It is zoned for commercial use and has a sidewalk entrance. Perhaps you would like to see it when we are both in the city.”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
Stanley arrived with a tray of food. He placed coffee and a pain au chocolat (looked to me like a simple chocolate croissant) in front of Miss Krüsh, and a black coffee in front of me.
“Dakota,” Stanley said, “perhaps you’d like to come to Svetlana’s tournament tomorrow night—a twenty-board exhibition. Afterward, the three of us could go to dinner on the university. What do you say?”
“I’m game.”
“Svetlana?” Stanley said.
“A nice meal and some adult conversation would be a welcome distraction,” she said.
“Shoot,” I said, looking at Stanley. “Does that mean I can’t bring my book of knock-knock jokes?”
Stanley laughed, but Miss Krüsh cracked a smile, which I considered the greater accomplishment.
“Then it’s settled,” Stanley said. “Where are you staying, Dakota? I’ll send a ticket over.”
“The Charles,” I said.
“Fine,” Stanley said. “Tomorrow night, seven o’clock.”
“It’s a date.”
I glanced at Svetlana, then checked my watch. Sally was at class for another hour, which made this an ideal time to search her dorm room. I picked up my coffee and stood.
“You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m on a case and I need to get back to work.”
“Oh, of course, Dakota,” Stanley said.
“Mr. Stevens?” Miss Krüsh said.
“Yes?”
“I hope you do not encounter any undesirables today.”
“So do I, Miss Krüsh.”
“Until tomorrow then.”
I shook hands with both of them and wended through the café throng with a buoyant feeling in my chest. Somehow I sensed that my life was about to get better, and that Svetlana Krüsh would be a part of that.
5
BDSM
From Harvard Square I wandered down J.F.K. Street toward the river, looking for Sally Standish’s dormitory on Memorial Drive. She lived at Banister House. According to her class schedule, she was busy until the mid-afternoon. This would give me time to snoop in her room.
I had no idea whether Sally had a roommate, or if she’d be there. Regardless, I was confident I could pull it off. Having watched the TV show The Rockford Files since I was a boy, I’d picked up more than a few of PI Jim Rockford’s tricks.
I couldn’t get Svetlana Krüsh out of my head. Her posture projected total self-confidence, and her charisma was palpable. There was an air of superiority, too, but I supposed if one were an internationally famous chess genius, it might be difficult to be humble.
It started to sprinkle when I walked into the Banister House courtyard. A pack of male students in designer prep wear brushed past me on the walkway, boisterously singing a song I didn’t recognize. There was a security desk inside the main entrance, but I wasn’t going in that way. Cutting across the lawn, I circled the building to the loading dock. A couple of women in chef’s outfits were standing under the overhang, smoking.
When I was with the Bureau, all I had to do in situations like this was flash my badge. Private practice, however, required stealth and subterfuge. Recalling how Jim Rockford routinely handled these situations, I pulled out my clipboard with the legal pad and a pen, clipped my ID to my jacket, and went up the stairs and under the loading dock overhang. Just then, the light sprinkling rain turned into a downpour. The women looked at me. I jutted my head at the rain.
“Boy, that was close.” I pointed at my ID. “Harvard Fellow. Efficiency audit.” I gestured at the door with my clipboard. “This the way in?”
They nodded wearily.
“Thank you, ladies.”
I continued inside and through the kitchen, looking around with my pen and clipboard poised, nodding superciliously. I emerged into a large parlor.
A piano trio—pianist, cellist, violinist—played something by Beethoven. At least it sounded like Beethoven. A small audience of students and adults frowned at me as I crossed in front of the trio, heading toward the lobby. I put away the clipboard and pen. Beside the door was a table with tea, coffee and a platter of sandwiches. Turkey club. Not my favorite, but one makes do. With the audience facing the other way, I grabbed a sandwich and gnashed into it. The cellist, a slender spinster type, scowled at me as she played. I winked at her in reply, causing her to flub a few notes. I took another bite of the sandwich and left the room.
Having dated a Renaissance literature major who’d lived here, I remembered the Banister House layout well. It helped that they hadn’t changed it. I walked through a TV common room, the dining room, a computer lab and the library before reaching the main hall.
Dominating the room was a grand staircase that led to the residence rooms. The security desk and main entrance were through a doorway on the side of the main hall. As soon as the security guard was facing outside, I ran upstairs.
At the top I paused to eat my sandwich and to read a sign announcing the Annual Connect Four Championship. It was tonight, in the Banister House Grille. A championship for an obscure ’80s board game? Until now, I’d forgotten something: While most Harvard students are undeniably smart, many of them are about as socially adept as Venus flytraps. Sally’s room was on the third floor. Wolfing down the sandwich and dusting my hands, I continued upstairs.
The third-floor hallway was surprisingly dim. Considering the astronomical cost of this university, you’d think the facilities people would spring for more light bulbs. A cacophony of rock music wafted out of open bedroom doors. Walking along, noting the room numbers as I went, I heard someone playing a car racing video game, smelled marijuana, and spied two girls scurrying across the hall in their underwear. Their panties, I observed, had cartoon cats on the front that read, “Hello Kitty.” As far as I recalled, when I was in college, girls’ panties didn’t have messages or cartoons o
n them. A wave of existential angst crashed over me. Although youthful and in excellent shape for my age, I was a decade older than any of the students in this building, and I would never be that young again. Sigh. I let this thought sink in before continuing down the hallway.
Finally I found Sally’s door. Inside, a television played. Feeling frisky, I knocked “shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.” A second later, the door flung open and I was staring at a female hardbody in an electric blue sports halter and gray Spandex athletic shorts. She had short blonde hair. I was forced to improvise.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is Sally in?” I said.
“No.” Her back was bowed, such that the crown of her head and the marble curve of her butt touched the doorjamb. “Who are you?”
This girl had a stomach you could literally wash clothes on. In my younger and more vulnerable years, I could imagine myself persuading her to try such a thing.
“Dr. Dakota Stevens, Harvard Fellow.” I showed her my ID. “Pardon me for barging in like this, but Dr. Cantor—that’s Sally’s ‘Psychopaths and Psychopathy’ professor—he said she needed some extra help.”
“Extra help, huh?” She sniffed. “Sorry, Harvard Fellow Guy, but she’s at class. If she comes back, it won’t be for another hour.”
“May I use your phone?” I said.
She fanned the door open and waved at a phone on a desk. “Sure.”
“It’s a local call,” I said.
“Call Bangladesh for all care,” she said. “It’s Sally’s phone.”
I stepped inside. It was a typical dorm room—two beds, two bureaus, two bookcases, two desks, two closets—with each girl’s things on one side of the room. Above the headboard of the right-hand bed was a framed photo of a women’s racing scull crossing a finish line, the rowers’ arms raised in victory. A brass plaque on the bottom of the frame read, “Megan Archambault — Head of the Charles, First Place.”
“So…Megan,” I said, “you’re on the Crew team.”
“How observant of you,” she said. “Yeah, I row. Look…hurry up and make your call. ”
